I smiled. ‘You have two sons, somebody said.’
‘Aye. There’s Stuie, he’s the younger, and his brother Graham’s doon in Aiberdeen.’
‘He’s a student, isn’t he, at the university?’ I was trying to remember what the woman at the post office had told me.
‘Ach no, quine. He’s nae a student, he’s a lecturer. In History.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners with good humor. ‘They’re naething alike, ma twa sons.’
I tried to imagine Stuart Keith attending classes, much less teaching them, and failed.
‘Graham taks efter his mither, God rest her sweet soul. She loved her history, loved tae read.’
Which would have been the perfect opening for me to tell him what I did, and why I’d come to Cruden Bay, but at the moment, with the warm fire at my feet and in the comfort of the armchair, I felt no sense of urgency to talk about my work. He’d find out soon enough, I reasoned, from his son. And anyway, I doubted that a man like Jimmy Keith would take an interest in the sort of books I wrote.
We sat companionably in silence as we watched the game on television—Scotland playing France. And after several minutes Jimmy asked, ‘Ye were coming fae France, weren’t ye?’ and when I told him yes, he said, ‘I’ve nivver been. But Stuie’s aye ower there these days on business.’
‘And what’s his business?’
‘Geein me grey hairs,’ said Jimmy, straight-faced. ‘He disna stick at onything fer lang. It’s computers the noo, but I cwidna say just fit he does wi’ them.’
Whatever he did, I decided, he must do it well, to be able to afford the Lotus. And his clothes had an expensive cut, for all that they looked casual. But when he came back later with our fish and chips in paper, the salt wind—no doubt with the help of a pint from the Hotel’s bar—had rumpled him enough to make him lose the city slickness, and he looked at home, relaxed, as we three sat and watched what they would have called ‘football’.
Not that I actually saw much of the game. My lack of sleep the night before was catching up with me, and with the warmth and heavy food and Jimmy Keith and Stuart talking on to one another in their deeply lilting voices, it was all that I could do to keep my eyes from drifting closed. I fought the urge as best I could, but I was nearly gone when Jimmy said, ‘Stuie, we’d best get the quine tae her cottage afore it gets too dark tae see.’
I forced my eyes full open. It was darkening outside, the daylight giving way to that grey, colder gloom that marked the start of evening, in the winter.
Stuart stood. ‘I’ll take her, Dad. You sit.’
‘Na, na.’ The older man stood, too. ‘I widna send ony quine oot on her ain wi’ ye, at nicht.’
Stuart looked down. ‘I’m not really that bad,’ he assured me, and reached a hand to help me up.
But I was glad to have the two of them for company, as we walked through the swiftly falling darkness up the hill along the rutted path that was in places inches deep with melted snow. Not just because they gallantly carried all my luggage and the heavy briefcase holding my computer, but because I felt an unexpected twisting of unease deep in my chest, there on the path—a sense of something at my back that made me scared to look behind.
If I had been alone, I would have run the whole way to the cottage, suitcases or no, but as it was I simply shook the feeling off and looked instead toward the sea, where I could just make out the running lines of white that were the waves, advancing in their rhythm to the shore. The sky was thick with cloud, and veiled the moon, so that the dark line where the sea met the horizon was not easy to make out. And yet I looked for it, and searched it without knowing what, exactly, I was searching for, or what I hoped to see.
‘Mind yersel,’ said Jimmy’s voice. His hand came out to steer me, fatherly, back to the path. ‘Ye dinna wish tae fa, yer first nicht here.’
We’d reached the cottage. It was dark as well, but not for long. A scrape of the door on the floor tiles, a flip of a switch, and we stood in the bright, shabby cheer of the main front room, with its worn Persian rugs and the armchairs and long, scrubbed wood table pushed up to the wall, and the coal-fired Aga snugged tight in its small kitchen alcove.
Jimmy swung the door shut behind us, checked to see the latch was working properly, then handed me the key. ‘That’s yers, quine. Ye’ve got coal in the back fer the Aga. Ye’ve usit coal afore? Weel, dinna worry, I’ll show ye.’
I watched him very carefully, then tried my hand at doing it, arranging the coals in the way he instructed and swinging the Aga’s cast iron door shut with a competent clang.
‘Aye, that’s richt, ye’re deein gran,’ said Jimmy. ‘Ye’ll hae this room fairly warm in nae time ata.’
Stuart, not so encouraging, said, ‘There are electric fires, too. One in here, and one in the bedroom, if you need to switch them on. Just don’t forget to feed the meter.’
‘Aye, ye’ll need yer siller.’ Jimmy put a hand in one pocket and pulled out a fat roll of coins in brown paper. ‘There’s ten pound, tae start wi’.’
I traded him a ten pound note for the coins, and he thanked me.
Stuart watched me tilt my head back to examine the black box above the door, with all its spinning dials and knobs, and with a grin he reached above me to explain. ‘This shows how much time you’ve got left, you see? And there’s the meter—that’s how much electricity you’re using. If I turn another light on…there, see how it’s going faster? So you have to keep an eye on it, and make sure when the needle on the gauge gets down to here you plunk another coin in, or you’ll find yourself sitting in the dark. Let me fill it for you, then you’ll have a little while before you have to worry.’