Iain Banks - Whit

'Our Faith has had,' I said eventually, 'our share of sadness, I suppose.'

Uncle Mo watched the view, nodding. I refilled his glass with the last of the four miniatures.

'The loss of Luskentyre,' I said, 'my parents' death and Grandmother's death, and one might even say the loss of your mother, my Great-aunt Zhobelia, who is supposed still to be alive, but is lost to us all the same. All these thi-'

'Ah, you see!' Uncle Mo sat forward, taking my arm in his hand again. 'I know things there; things I am sworn to secrecy on.'

'You are?'

'Indeed. For the good of all…' He sneered. 'So I am told. Then I hear what is supposed to have happened…' He looked as though he had thought the better of saying any more, and took a long swallow from his tumbler instead. He finished his drink and looked around the bottle-strewn table.

'Shall I get us some more refreshments, Uncle?' I asked, quickly draining my beer.

'Well,' he said. 'I suppose… but I am drinking rather quickly today. I don't know. Perhaps I should have a sandwich or something. Maybe…'

'Well,' I said, holding up my empty plastic tumbler. 'I think I'll go and get another beer anyway, so if you…'

'Oh, very well. But I must slow down and have a sandwich or something. Here,' he said, digging inside his jacket for his wallet. He felt around inside, then had to open out his jacket with his other hand and look within to guide his seeking fingers, before finally taking out the wallet and carefully extracting a twenty-pound note from it. 'Here.'

'Thank you, Uncle. How many would you like- ?'

'Oh, well, I shall slow down, but best to stock up in case they run out. Say…' He waved his hand weakly and shook his head. 'Whatever that will buy. And whatever you wish, of course.'

'Right you are!' I said perkily. I tidied the table, shoving some of our debris into the little brown paper bag. I included my beer can, which was still half-full. I lifted out the can when I deposited the rest in a litter bin on my way to the buffet car.

I had kept a little of the change from the last order. I kept all the change from this one, wolfed down a sandwich at the bar, and came back swigging beer from the same can I'd taken away.

'Here we are!' I said, plonking down another rattling brown paper bag onto the table.

'Ah! There, now. I see. Well, there we are. Ah, you fine child,' Uncle Mo said, his hands waving like tendrils towards the bag's little folded paper handles.

'Allow me,' I said.

Outside, Lindisfarne, the Holy Isle, slid past beyond undulating meadows and long shallow dunes of golden sand and gently waving grass. Between the land and the island were empty acres of sandy tidal flats which in places were already inundated by the rising tide. A car was risking the crossing on the causeway across the sands, waves lapping at the roadway. A small castle rose dramatically in the distance on the island's only piece of high ground, a smooth, linear swell of rounded rock towards the isle's southern limit. Beyond, on the land facing the island, two huge obelisks rose before the miles of low dunes, and visible on the seaward horizon bulked a hazy prominence that - if I remembered my maps correctly - ought to be Bamburgh Castle.

'Did you get any sandwiches?' Uncle Mo asked plaintively, as I emptied the bag and poured him a drink.

'Oh, did you actually want a sandwich? I'm sorry, Uncle Mo; shall I-' I started to rise from my seat again.

'No, no,' he said, motioning me to sit down. 'Never mind. It's not necessary,' he slurred.

'Look; I got some ice in a separate glass,' I said, putting a couple of lumps into his drink.

'You are a good child,' he said, raising his tumbler and slurping at his drink. Dribbles ran down his chin. 'Oh, my goodness.' I passed him a napkin and he dabbed at his chin. He put down the glass, spilling a little, but did not seem to notice. He fixed me with his bleary, diluted, dilated gaze. 'You are a very good child, Isis. Very good.'

Not that good, I thought to myself, and had what I hope was the decency to feel guilty for my mendacity, and for my cynical use of Uncle Mo's weakness for the drink.

I sighed. 'I often think of Great-aunt Zhobelia,' I said, innocently. 'I hardly ever think of my mother and father, because I was so young when they died, I suppose, but I often think of Zhobelia, even though I can't remember her very clearly. Isn't that strange?'

Uncle Mo looked like he was going to cry. 'Zhobelia,' he said, sniffing, head bowed, looking into his drink. 'She is my mother and I love her as a dutiful son should, but it must be said she has grown… cantankerous with age, Isis. Difficult, too. Very difficult. And hurtful. Most hurtful, also. You wouldn't… No. But there you are. Terribly hurtful. Terribly. I think now she likes especially to hurt those who love her most. I have tried to do my best for her and been the good steward for her charge…' He sniffed sonorously and dabbed at his nose with the napkin I'd given him. 'There is some… I don't know. I think they were always… I think those two knew more than they let on, Isis. I know they did.'

'What two, Uncle?'

'Zhobelia and Aasni; my mother and my aunt. Yes. There you are. They knew things about… things; I don't know. I would catch things they said to each other when they weren't talking in the old country's language, or the island language, which they also knew something of, you know, oh yes. Indeed. I would catch a look or a start of a sentence or phrase and then they would switch into Khalmakistani or Gaelic or that mixture of those and English they used which nobody else could understand and I would be lost, but… Oh,' he waved a hand at me. 'I am ramp… I am rambling now, I know… I… I'm sure you think… I'm just an old man but I'm not, Isis. You know, at the last Festival, when I asked, well; didn't really, but thought of asking… well; did ask, I suppose, but not such that… that… but… you…' He shook his head, his eyes full of tears and his lips working in a strange, fluidly disconnected way. 'Flippink dreams, eh, Isis?' he said, sniffing hard again and looking at me. He shook his head, looked into his tumbler again and drank.

I gave him a while to compose himself, then I got up and - taking my Sitting Board - went round to sit next to him, putting an arm round his shoulder and holding his other hand.

'Life can seem cruel sometimes, Uncle Mo,' I said. 'I know this now, though you have known it longer. You are older and wiser than I am and you have suffered more, but you must know in your heart, in your soul, that God loves you and that They - or He, your prophet's God, if you will - that God can be your comfort, just as your family and friends can comfort you, too. You do know that, don't you, Uncle Mo?'

He put down his drink and turned to me in the seat, putting out his arm; I leaned forward so that he could put his arm between me and the seat. We hugged each other. He still smelled of cologne. I hadn't realised how slight he was; shorter than me, and somehow packaged, bulked out with his fine clothes to look more substantial than he actually was. I was aware of his wallet pressing into my breast and, with my left hand, could feel what was probably the hardness of a portable telephone in another jacket pocket.

'You are such a good child, Isis!' he assured me again. 'Such a good, good child!'

I patted him on the back, quite as though it was he who was the child, not I.

'And you are a good uncle,' I said. 'And I am sure you are a good son as well. I'm sure Zhobelia must love you and must love to see you.'

'Ah,' he said, shaking his head against my shoulder. 'She has little time for me. I cannot get to see her as often as I would like anyway, Isis; they keep her up there, away from me; ha! I have to pay; my savings, you'll notice; mine. My money from my savings and the few parts I get and the restaurant money. It is a fine, good restaurant, Isis; I don't actually own it, you probably guessed that, if I ever gave that impression I didn't mean… didn't mean deceiving, but it is the best in the city, a most estimable place where one might lavish oneself and I am the maître de you see, Isis; I am the first public face of the establishment and so most highly important and influential with the minds and hearts of the diners, you see. We have a most extensive wine list and I was a fine wine waiter, a fine wine waiter I tell you as well and still can fill in… in the most exemplary manner.'