If he was any other man, Finlay might have patted him on the back or offered some soothing words, but despite knowing that’s what heshoulddo, Finlay couldn’t help but maintain his usual irritated stiffness and formality.
‘Here,’ he had said begrudgingly, taking his ration tin from his backpack. The man would never know this was the most caring thing Finlay could ever do.
He’d surrendered his provisions to the shaken young man, then watched in horror as the other lads fell upon the goodies too.
Finlay had tried not to watch as they made short work of his clementine shortbread, his very last chocolate-dipped rock bun, and the sweet scraps of tablet. They’d barely chewed them.
So now here he was, underprepared for an expedition to town, passing through the wide gap in the high wall that enclosed the McIntyres’ historic mill house, where the old water wheel churned the clear, reedy burn that flowed through McIntyre land. He shielded his eyes from that awful floodlight overhead, crunching across the gravel towards the big barn.
Banging sounds increased as he made his way closer. He wanted to shove his fingers in his ears. ‘Noise pollutionandlight pollution,’ he grumped, as he hauled one of the double doors aside and stepped into the pink glow of the workroom.
The warmth hit him first, followed by the good smell of –Sweet Scottish Jesus, preserve me!– cranberry jam tarts, and was that – he sniffed – marzipan? Could there be Battenberg cake?
Senga Gifford was at his arm in an instant –dang her!– pulling him inside, fussing, commenting on ‘those mucky boots’, but not allowing him time to wipe his feet on the mat. She’d all but dragged him towards her café at the back of the shed.
‘Well, well! More sweeties!’ Senga clucked, sweeping behind the counter where the glass domes covered the last of the Saturday offerings. ‘There’s no’ much left, mind, but what’s here, you can have. Half price for you.’
‘Right, thanks,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the goodies. ‘What’s that thing?’ he couldn’t help asking, lifting a finger to the glass protecting a glossy red orb with a diamond of something crystalised and sugar-sparkly on top.
‘Thatis my chocolate and cherry mousse bauble.’ Senga’s chest swelled with pride under her pinny.
He nodded in gruff acquiescence.
‘Oh, you’ll deign to try it, will you?’ Senga sounded fierce but her eyes were gentle, reminiscent of Finlay’s Great-Aunty Shelagh. She’d been a good baker too.
‘And some Battenberg slices, please. And any walnut tablet you’ve got back there.’
She’d already set two of her cranberry jam tarts in the bottom of his provisions tin without him having to ask. He held it out in both hands for her while she worked, feeling like Oliver Twist.
Rhona, who wasn’t permitted to do very much in her sister’s café dominion, rang it all up on the till, making sure to apply the discount.
‘How’s things on the mountain?’ she asked gently.
‘Treacherous,’ Finlay replied, quick as a flash, trying to put them off attempting a visit. Though they didn’t look much like hikers. Senga was shuffling about in her furry slipper-boots; safely a town-dweller.
‘Nine fifty, please,’ Rhona said, reaching for his ten-pound note.
‘Are you going along to this meeting at the GP’s surgery on Monday?’ Senga said, eyeing him.
‘Eh?’ he replied, distractedly snapping the lid down securely upon his goodies and wondering where the paper-wrapped tablet block had got to, scanning the shelves behind the women.
He forbade himself from asking what this meeting was. He wasn’t interested. And he’d learned not to ask questions. That’s how they inveigle you in their schemes. Or they try to.
‘Tablet! Right enough,’ said Senga, jumping to attention and passing him the package. ‘That’s the last of the tablet till I make some more. It’s about… what’s it about, Rhona? The meeting?’
‘Oh.’ The younger sister thought hard while counting the change out of the till as slowly as she could. Both sisters knew he’d flee as soon as the coins hit his pocket. ‘Sociable prescriptions, is it?’
‘Social prescribing,’ corrected Cary Anderson in his unassuming way as he washed his empty cup at the sink behind the women’s counter. ‘A new thing we’re trying, with the doctor’s surgery.’ Having registered Finlay’s utter disinterest, Cary went back to sanding the runners on a child’s snow sled at his carpentry bench.
Seeing there was no hope of piquing the interest of the mountain man, Senga too gave up, and pointed to her chalkboard.
‘Pay it forward?’ she said, indicating the chalked sketch of coins dropping into a teacup.
‘Eh?’
‘Do you wish to buy a future customer a cuppa?’ she clarified. ‘Paying forward your own good fortune to benefit someone else who maybe can’t afford a coffee that day for whatever reason.’
Finlay thought about this. ‘My good fortune?’
