Still, it’s all I’ve got, and — assuming that Murdo isn’t trying to fuck me up here, believing I’ve got nothing and so expecting me to embarrass myself — maybe this invitation to take part in the rolling familial obituary for the old guy is sort of like a peace offering. Maybe.
So I clear my throat and say, ‘Yeah, he said something once about …about how one of the main mistakes people make is thinking that everybody else is basically like they are themselves.’
‘That right?’ Murd says.
Joe really did say something like this, and even at the time I thought it might be one of the more useful bits of geezer lore he’d offer up. Not that we really expect to hear any great wisdom from the old these days; things move too fast, and society, reality itself, alters so rapidly that any lesson one generation learns has generally become irrelevant by the time the next one comes along. Some things will stay the same — never call on lower than two tens, men tend to be unfaithful — but a lot don’t.
‘Yeah,’ I say, looking around, talking to the whole group now though still glancing mostly towards Murdo. ‘He said that conservatives — right-wing people in general — tend to think everybody’s as nasty — well, as selfish — deep down, as they are. Only they’re wrong. And liberals, socialists and so on think everybody else is as nice, basically, as they themselves are. They’re wrong too. The truth is messier.’ I shrug. ‘Usually is.’ I spread my arms a little, and smile in what I hope is a self-deprecating manner. ‘Sorry; not as good a story as Murdo’s there.’ I sort of raise my glass towards Murdo, hating myself for it.
There’s a gentle breeze of sympathetic laughter around the group.
‘What was that story about them in that cesspit at the farm that time?’ Norrie says, and I’m able to slip away as people refocus on the three brothers again.
‘Aw, aye,’ Murdo says as the crowd clusters back around him once more, and he launches into another story.
‘Katy, isn’t it?’
‘Hiya.’
‘Hi. I’m Stewart.’
‘Hi…Oh. Yeah, of course. Hi. How you doing?’
‘I’m fine. Can I refresh that for you?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘The white, aye?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Lucky I happen to have a bottle right here, then.’
‘That’s very prepared.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Stewart,’ Jel says.
I’m back at the buffet tables, looking at the puddings and trying to decide if I’m remotely hungry or just being greedy. My organs differ in their opinions; however, I think I’m going to go with whatever one’s telling me I’m already completely full up.
‘We’re going,’ she tells me, putting one hand on my forearm, ‘but there’s a few people been invited back to the house later. Feel free, okay?’
‘Thanks. I might. How…how exclusive we talking — all invited?’
‘Well, no randoms, but otherwise bring who you like.’ She looks back into the room. ‘Saw you with Katy Linton there,’ she says, one eyebrow raised. ‘Little young for you, isn’t she?’
‘Young, but she knows things.’
‘Does she now?’
‘You’d be amazed.’
‘You think? Takes a lot to amaze me these days.’
‘Anyway, she’s twenty, twenty-one. But I wasn’t thinking of her when I was asking who I could bring.’
‘Ellie?’ Jel says, and her voice drops a little even as she tries to look unconcerned.
‘I was thinking more of Ferg.’
‘Okay. I’ll make sure the more valuable booze has been padlocked.’
‘I’ll call if we’re coming.’
‘Do. You back down south tomorrow?’
‘Yep.’
‘Let’s try meet up, like, anyway? Before you go? See you.’ She dives in with a small cheek kiss, turns and goes.
I’m at the bar, getting a pint for myself, plus one for Ferg and a large whisky too — he’s been keeping an eye on the bar over the last hour and he’s worried the thousand-pound float might be about to run out.
‘Stewart,’ Ellie says, slipping in beside me at the bar. She puts some empty glasses down, instantly catches the barman’s eye and adds a mineral water to my order.
‘Hey, Ellie.’ She’s looking at the three drinks. ‘Two are for Ferg,’ I explain.
‘Of course. Let me give you a hand.’
I smile at her, trying — out of the corners of my eyes — to see where Donald might be, or any of the Murston brothers. ‘We okay to be seen together?’ I ask.
‘I’m making it okay,’ she says, and lifts the whisky glass.
We wind our way through the press round the bar, heading for Ferg, back in prime position in the centre of the giant bay window.
‘So. How did it go for you guys?’ I ask Ellie.
‘Bearable,’ she tells me. She glances at a slim black watch on her wrist. ‘I’m taking Mum back home in a minute. Let me get out of these sepulchral threads.’
‘You look great. Black suits you.’
‘Yeah? Well, I feel like one of those sack-of-potatoes Greek grannies you see on the islands who look like they were born widowed.’
‘I guess comfort trumps being drop-dead gorgeous at a funeral.’
‘Steady.’
‘What are your plans after?’
