‘Do you mind if I ask… the other day, you were late for the meeting at the surgery. What kept you? I thought you might have decided not to come, then changed your mind at the last second.’
This needled Finlay, who didn’t enjoy explaining himself, having been asked all his life why he did things the way he chose to. ‘I’d nae intention of being late. If you must know, I was on my way when I came across a daft lad who’d crashed his drone into the top branches of a Scots pine at the foot of the western face. Had to go for ma ladders and retrieve the thing.’
The truth was Finlay had educated the offending boy on the reasons why drones were not permitted in the area and how the next time he was caught disturbing raptors with his flying camera, he’d be reported to the wildlife police. He’d let him have one of his safety leaflets and sent him on his way, only to realise he’d wasted a full forty minutes on the delinquent. Then he’d run cursing the whole way into town, not that Murray needed to hear about any of that.
Murray McIntyre had evidently made up his mind to think the worst of him, just like all the others. Something Finlay was used to.
Better to let them think what they wanted than stoop to explaining himself and begging for understanding when people so rarely wanted to think of him as what he was: generally well-intentioned if a little ‘unfortunate’, as his mother would have said.
‘Go on. Oot you get. I’ve no’ got all day to waste,’ he’d said when they pulled up outside the mill house, and Murray hopped out, not thanking him, then spending an annoyingly long time retrieving their purchases from the back of the truck.
When he was done, he’d come back to the window and, peering inside, looking at the bag of shrimps that still lay untouched on Finlay’s lap. Murray shouted through the glass, ‘A wee birdy told me you liked sweet things.’ He’d been grinning smugly, knowing he’d pinpointed Finlay’s weakness.
Finlay had shaken his head in dismissal and set the truck in motion, turning it round as Murray waved him off from the pavement.
As he hit the mountain road, glad to be alone again, Finlay found his lips wanting to twitch into a smile.
When he got safely back inside his cruive, he bolted the door shut and tore open the bag, devouring the soft pink sweeties without even tasting them, replaying the conversations of the entire bizarre morning. He was startled to realise he had actually referred to the project as ‘our garden’, his and Murray’s. What had possessed him? He’d said it while complaining about those ridiculous garden centre heathers artificially dyed with lime green and gaudy red colouring.
He let his shoulders slump at the memory, wondering why he’d said it, only glad that Murray hadn’t seemed to notice. Dejectedly, he crumpled the sweetie bag, somehow already empty, as though he could also crush the memory.
15
That same Saturday it was Alice’s first day off after a busy first week. A sign read ‘triage’, just like a hospital. Unlike a hospital, though, the Cairn Dhu Repair Shop smelled amazing: wood shavings, oil and metal, like the garage at Alice’s grandad’s house where, having retired young, everything was orderly and clean and he’d sand down old furniture and shine his vintage Jaguar XJ for hours at a time.
In addition, this place also smelled of warmth, coffee and baking. It was shortly before lunchtime and there was a good smell of toasties in the air too. She glanced with a little pang of longing at a group of women huddled on sofas, chatting around the stove fire, clutching steaming mugs. It would be so nice to sit there with a friend and hear the ordinary little details of their life, a friend who knew nothing whatsoever about medicine so couldn’t talk about it. She didn’t really have any of those back home, let alone here.
‘You’re the new doctor,’ said a man, and without waiting for confirmation, he extended a hand. ‘I’m Sachin.’
‘Alice,’ she told him. ‘I was wondering if the repair shop fixes medical equipment?’
‘I cannae say we have in the past.’ Sachin scratched his head. ‘But there’s nothing McIntyre cannae fix, in my experience.’
She looked along the rows of repairers at their desks in the big shed. ‘Which one’s McIntyre?’
‘Oh, he’s no’ in right now. Let’s see…’ Sachin scanned the room, eyes landing on the guy from the meeting. Murray, was it? The one who’d been in charge of the funding side of the garden project. Murray was watching a loud repair demo on his phone and occasionally looking worriedly at a set of electronic kitchen scales on his desk. ‘I maybe wouldnae look to Murray for help…’ Sachin said. ‘You can try Cary?’
Alice’s eyes followed Sachin’s towards the man who’d given her the apple, and there it was again, the great big grandfather clock with the door in its long chest opened up, its pendulum and chains showing, and Cary’s head practically inside the cavity. An older woman stood next to him, peering inside as well.
‘Go on,’ encouraged Sachin with a jolly burst of mischievous laughter. ‘The doctor will see you now.’
Alice thanked him and tentatively stepped deeper into the darker recesses of the shed where Cary remained in deep conversation with the woman, or rather the woman was talkingathim, saying, ‘The case wascertainlymade at a later date and in a style influenced by the Glasgow Art School and Charles Rennie Mackintosh but…’
Cary stood straight as a sentry when he noticed her approaching.
‘We meet again,’ Alice said awkwardly.
‘Hmm?’ The spectacled woman turned to observe her through startlingly thick lenses. Cary only smiled apologetically for what was to come.
‘The, uh, grandfather clock,’ explained Alice. ‘I’ve seen it before, I was just saying…’
‘Ah, now that’s a common misnomer,’ the woman said, lifting one large pair of spectacles to the top of her head to reveal a second pair underneath. ‘This is in fact a long case clock and rather an intriguing one at that, the mechanism being of Barbadian origin, possibly mid-nineteenth century. Its being manufactured in the Caribbean is in itself noteworthy.’ She turned back to admiring the inner workings of the thing.
‘It looks nice,’ Alice tried, unsure what else to say. ‘Got a nice… face.’
‘Dial, you mean,’ the woman corrected, without even a glance over her shoulder.
‘Are you repairing it?’ Alice asked Cary.
