‘Oh, me? I’m great, I’m great, I’m firing on all cylinders, I am. Alan’s the same. Well, he had a wee heart thing last year and took a while off work but he’s fine now. Hardly slowed down at all. Taken up golf. Doctor told him to. Practically an order. I said, Can you get the green fees on prescription, then? But of course that’s just me having a wee joke, I’m no that daft! Anyway, here’s me stopping you enjoying your meal, I just wanted to pop over and say it’s great to see you again, so it is, it really is, and you’re looking lovely! Don’t you mind me saying that now, because you have, you’ve turned into a very handsome young man, you have. And it’s just a lovely thing to see. And I just wanted to say that I’m awful sorry about what happened. I’m not making excuses for anybody, I would never do that, but if it hadn’t been for those bloody cameras — excuse my language, but those bloody cameras — it might all have been totally different. It could, couldn’t it? And I’m not, like I say, I’m not making excuses for anybody, but we all know we’re none of us perfect and I thought it was very harsh on you, very harsh, that’s all I’m going to say. I’ve said to Alan umpteen times we should never have done that — who wants to look at a load of kids’ photies anyway? But of course he says it was actually our Katy’s idea and she says it was one of her daft friends — oh, we’re a terrible family for passing the buck, we are! — but it was us paid for the bloody things and Alan who showed those stupid photographs on the big screen and I know he’s felt bad about it ever since, even though he didn’t know and it was just bad luck. He’d apologise himself but he’s too embarrassed. No me; I don’t embarrass easily at all, but that’s what I wanted to say, is that okay? So I’m sorry, honey, you get on with your lunch there and I’ll just make myself scarce, okay? Those wee sausages are just the best, are they no? Must have had a dozen! Right, I better go. You look after yourself, Stewart, say hi to your mum and dad.’
‘Yeah, be seeing you,’ I manage, with a sort of strangled heartiness, as she retreats, waving.
Mrs Linton. Mother of Drew, of Drew-and-Lauren fame, the couple at whose wedding reception Jel and I slightly anticipated the happy couple’s traditional wedding-night activities, five years ago, in — why! — this very hotel.
Shame she didn’t think to have a natter with me or Jel on that occasion; we’d never have found the time to get up to our extracurricular misbehaviour.
‘He had this story about him and his pals coming back from the pub in Inioch each Sunday night. This was back when you had to be what they called a bona fide traveller to get a drink anywhere on a Sunday, like? And—’
‘Eh?’
‘No, seriously, you couldnae get a drink where you lived; you had to go to the next village or town or whatever, if it was a Sunday. It was the law. Anyways—’
‘Jeez.’
‘Ah know.’
I’ve drifted towards a crowd of people standing near the bar. The Murston brothers are reminiscing about old Joe, and Murdo has decided to tell a story.
‘Anyways,’ he says, supping quickly from his pint, ‘Joe and all his mates would hoof it over Whitebit Hill from — where was it, Fraze?’
‘Logie of Hurnhill.’
‘Aye, Logie—’
‘Probably The Ancraime Arms,’ Fraser adds. ‘That’s where they’d go to, probably.’
Murdo nods. ‘Right. Aye. Anyways, so they’d go past the old Whitebit Hill cemetery, which was fu even then and no really used, an it’s got this big wa all roon it and this pair a big iron gates right on the road — an there’s nothin else there, like, no back then, like, no buildins or nuthin, just the cemetery an some trees. And one o old Joe’s mates had this sorta tradition thing he’d always do when they all went past the cemetery; he’d stick his hand through the cemetery gates and he’d offer to shake hands with any ghosts or zombies or undead wandering aboot the place or whatever, right? Just for a laugh, right? An like he’d shoot oot, “Come on, ghoulies, ghosties, shake ma haun,” aye? And they’d all have a laugh at this, every week, cos of course they’re all pished, aye? Anyway, this one night, old Joe leaves the pub before the rest, saying he’s no feelin too good, like maybe he’s had one too many or eaten a bad crisp or somethin an needs the fresh air, so he’s like oot the door ten minutes early an awa doon the road. Only what he’s done is, he’s been an louped over the cemetery wa earlier in the day with this bucket o watter and he’s left—’
‘Naw, I think he tolt me he just foon the bucket there, Murd.’
‘Norrie, d’you mind? Anyway, he’s got this bucket of watter at the side of the gates, on the inside like, so he’s ower the wa, hunkered down there, inside the cemetery, waitin for his pals, and what he does is, he sticks his haun in the bucket o watter? Like, rolls up his sleeve an sticks his mitt in there up to like the elbow or whatever, like? An he’s like this for five minutes or ten or somehin.’
Norrie whistles. ‘That’d be fucken cold.’
