Eileen Campbell - Barra’s Angel

‘Away y’go,’ Hattie murmured, but she, too, was smiling.

Barra jumped up, and reached for his bicycle. ‘Yep! I’d better get going,’ he said. ‘Mam’ll be at me for dawdling. Again!’

There was no need to say goodbye. Hattie wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Barra looked up the driveway leading from the cottage to the big house. ‘Where’s Murd the day?’ he asked.

As if in answer, a dog began barking and Murdo Macrae appeared from the back of the big house, Gallus running at his heels.

‘Hi, Murd,’ Barra shouted across the distance between them.

Murdo raised his walking stick in salute and bawled at the dog to stop barking, at which the little white Westie sat stock still and gave a melancholy howl.

‘What a sense o’ humour he’s got,’ Murdo called, bending to give Gallus a few fond strokes.

‘He’s great,’ Barra agreed. ‘How’s Mrs Macrae?’ he went on, as Murdo and Gallus neared.

‘Fit to be tied, Barra. Fit to be tied.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Och, we had word the young master’s coming up, and …’

‘But I thought she liked Mr Cunningham,’ Barra interrupted.

‘Aye. Aye, she does. Of course she does. But he’s bringing herself with him.’

‘Mrs Cunningham?’ Barra was pleased. Marjorie Cunningham had visited the family home only once before, and he’d not had a chance to meet her. It would be a fine thing to have a new face around.

‘The very same. And you know Helen,’ Murdo answered. ‘She canna be doing wi’ Sassenach ways.’

Barra grinned. There had been comments made about Mrs Cunningham’s ‘Sassenach ways’ after her last visit. But then she was from London. You couldn’t expect her not to have Sassenach ways. In fact, Barra was most interested in finding out just what ‘Sassenach ways’ were.

Murdo placed a hand on Hattie’s shoulder, making her jump.

‘Sorry, hen,’ he said quietly. ‘But I’m thinking he’ll no be coming now. Not today.’

Hattie sighed, and lowered her head again. ‘D’you no’ think so, Murd?’

‘No, hen, I don’t.’

‘But I finished my work early, and Mrs Macrae might no’ be needing me now.’

‘Och, I’m sure she can find a wee job t’ keep you occupied. Go on up ‘n’ have a wordie wi’ her. She’ll no’ be minding,’ Murdo assured Hattie.

Barra and Murdo watched as Hattie trudged up the driveway, Gallus zig-zagging in front of her.

‘She’s a poor cratur, right enough,’ Murdo said.

‘But she’s no’ really bonkers,’ Barra said. ‘Y’canna’ blame her for wanting to be whisked off by a film star.’

Murdo remained silent; silent and thoughtful.

Barra couldn’t let the opportunity pass. Maybe Murdo could enlighten him.

‘It’s no’ why they call her Mad Hatters, though, is it?’ he enquired hopefully.

‘No-o-o,’ Murdo sighed.

‘I mean, it was an awful thing that happened to her – to be accused o’ murder. And her own mam at that.’

‘Aye.’ Murdo sighed again, heavier this time. ‘It was awful, right enough.’ Then he clamped his mouth shut, grimly jerking his beard upwards as he reflected on the trial. Few even remembered it now, but those who did recall that dreadful time shared Murdo’s feelings, and were glad that Hattie had been allowed to walk free.

Murdo shook his head. It wasn’t the kind o’ tale you’d want to burden a young mind with – especially such a fertile mind as Barra’s. God, wasn’t it enough that they all had ‘the waiting’ to contend with now?

Barra’s waiting, too, had come to its usual fruitless end. In the face of Murdo’s silence, he was forced to swallow his disappointment, realising that he’d not be learning anything new this day.

He sniffed loudly, shaking Murdo from his reverie.

A firm command brought Gallus careening back towards his master. Murdo smiled his approval, then turned to confide in Barra. ‘I canna’ imagine where she got the idea that she’d be off at Easter wi’ thon actor laddie, but … Well, y’just never know.’

‘No, Murd, y’just never know,’ Barra repeated, his voice as solemn as Murdo’s own.

Murdo hid a smile. ‘Are you off home, then?’ he asked.

‘Aye, I’d better,’ Barra answered, cycling out on to the road. ‘See you later,’ he called, some strenuous waving almost causing him to topple.

Murdo waved back. Smiling still, he bent to scratch the wee dog’s ears. ‘He’s a fine lad, that,’ he told Gallus. ‘A fine lad.’

Gallus rolled on his back and waved his stubby paws in the air. It was his highest form of compliment.

Barra hadn’t intended to stop at the Pascoes’ house, but Jennifer was working in the flower-beds and her husband was sitting in a chair by the doorway, enjoying the day. It would have been rude to pass without a greeting.

‘Yir flowers are bonny,’ Barra remarked, cycling up to the fence and resting against it. ‘Hi, Mr Pascoe,’ he called.

‘Aren’t they?’ Jennifer Pascoe replied, while her husband nodded a smile in Barra’s direction. ‘Would you like some lemonade?’ she asked, straightening from her labours.

‘No, thanks. I’d better get home.’ Barra grimaced at having to refuse. He loved getting into the Pascoes’ house. Everything was so modern and new-looking. He especially admired their green Mini, and had greatly enjoyed getting the occasional lift to Craigourie and back in it.

Of course, Mr Pascoe had been well enough to drive then.

‘He’s looking fine,’ Barra said, quietly enough, he thought.

‘And I’m feeling fine,’ Jim Pascoe called out, making his wife smile. ‘Sorry, Mr Pascoe.’

‘You’re an awful boy for “sorry”,’ Jim said. ‘What’ve you got to be sorry about?’

‘Nothing really, I suppose. It’s a habit.’

‘Aye, well, it’s a bad habit, young feller-me-lad.’ Jim leaned forward in an effort to look fierce, but the movement pained him and he groaned.

Jennifer was up like a shot and by his side. He held up a hand to let her know it had passed, and she took a deep breath and stroked his head.

‘He’s like an Easter chick,’ Jennifer said, looking at Barra. ‘Don’t you think so, Barra?’

‘Aye.’ Barra grinned. ‘It’s good his hair’s coming back though, isn’t it?’

‘Fluff.’ Jim smiled. ‘I wouldn’t call it hair exactly.’

‘It’s what he wants for his birthday, Barra,’ Jennifer said. ‘A good crop of hair.’

‘When is it, your birthday?’ Barra asked.

‘Easter Sunday this year. Eighteenth of April.’

‘And how old will you be?’

‘Were you always this nosy?’ Jim asked, as though he didn’t know.

‘Aye. Always.’

‘That’s good then. I’ll be twenty-five, in answer to your question. What next?’

‘What next?’

‘What next do you want to know?’

Barra grinned. ‘That’ll do,’ he said, pushing off from the fence. ‘See you.’

He hadn’t gone far when he shouted back at them, ‘You’ll have some hair for Easter. What ’yis bet?’

Jim looked up at his wife, grudging the sadness he knew he would find in her eyes. ‘I may have to refuse that wager.’

‘No,’ she answered, taking his hand. ‘I won’t let you.’

The road was clear all the way to the Whig. Barra was singing at the top of his voice – ‘Always something there to remind me. Da-dah-da-dah-da’ - when Olive Tolmie stuck her head out of the shop door to see who was making all the racket.

Had Drumdarg ever needed a town crier, Olive would surely have been first choice. There was little that passed in the village, or indeed in Craigourie itself that Olive wasn’t aware of. Indeed, it was regularly said of her that what she didn’t already know, she would soon find out.