‘That’s what I said.’ If Finlay had any patience left, that would have torn it entirely. ‘I havenae a strong magnet up at the cruive to fix it with.’
‘I can see to this,’ McIntyre offered.
‘No,’ Murray said firmly. ‘If he says I broke it, I’ll happily fix it.’
This was just what Finlay wanted. An admission. Action. So why did he still feel so riled?
‘Will you?’ McIntyre was asking his son, a dubious note in his voice.
‘Aye, I will. It just needs a…’
‘Strong magnet,’ Finlay and McIntyre said in dry chorus.
‘Precisely.’
Finlay looked down at Murray’s outstretched palm awaiting his precious compass. It suddenly felt very hard indeed to part with the thing.
He had to hold in his feelings as he watched Murray carrying it off to a workbench and muttering, ‘How hard can it be?’
‘Careful with it now!’ Finlay followed close behind, not wanting to take his eyes off his compass. ‘It was my grandfather’s. Never had a problem with it before now.’Before you!Finlay thought. ‘What’s that you’re doing now?’
Murray turned to show him his phone screen. ‘It’s a YouTube tutorial.’
Finlay had to run a hand down his face, stopping at his mouth to prevent the words coming out. If Murray would just hand the magnet over he’d do it himself in an instant and be on his way. Instead he stood next to the man, watching the demonstration too.
‘Seems easy enough,’ Murray remarked as the video ended. ‘I just need to find…’
McIntyre, who’d been rummaging in one of the many storage tubs around the shed, had returned, bringing the metallic block with him.
‘…Thanks, Dad. Right…’
Finlay watched on as Murray positioned the magnet in his left hand, the compass in his right, shifting his weight, flexing his neck like a magician building up to a big trick.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Finlay urged, wanting to get on, and simultaneously unable to draw his eyes from Murray’s hands. Desk job hands. Indoor hands.
‘All right, all right,’ he was saying, taking his time, bringing the magnet to the face of the compass with slow caution, passing it over the face in a controlled glide. The needle juddered and resisted, jumped and shifted, until ever so slowly it submitted to the lodestone’s pull, swinging the one hundred and eighty degrees into obeyance and staying there.
‘There!’ Murray said, Finlay reckoned more in amazement than in satisfaction. ‘I did it!’
He reached for it immediately. The way the compass fit his palm settled his agitation a little. He ran a thumb over the glass. The needle pointed directly towards Murray’s chest. North.
‘Right, well. Very good.’ He wished he could be less grudging, but this whole needless exercise was one huge inconvenience.
Murray was looking at him with those green eyes shining like he was waiting for something.
‘Uh, thank you,’ Finlay tried.
‘I’ll just need your number.’
‘My number?’ Finlay had to look down to where his boots met the ground. Was the earth shifting again? What was going on?
‘Or an address?’ Murray said as he dashed to the triage desk, bringing back a printed pad. ‘For the repair docket?’
‘Oh, uh, right. Of course.’ Finlay took the pad and hurriedly filled in his details. ‘I’ve got a phone,’ he felt compelled to say. ‘For rescues and mountain alerts.’
The awareness of Murray’s eyes upon the pen, watching as Finlay wrote the address of the cruive, deeply conscious of his poor handwriting, made him strive to do it nicely for once. All the while he could hear his mother complaining, ‘Oh, Finlay! What a scrawl!’
Murray was saying something. ‘You live in that tiny lower slope cottage on the edge of the auld wood, don’t you?’
