Page 90 of Scotlander

‘Aye, she did as well, you snotty old so and so,’ the camerawoman shot back. ‘She was poor and needing money.’ Her voice rang with pride as she continued, ‘She used to ride out on the buses during the tattie hols. Earn her ten pound and all. Right up through the eighties. And for the record, the pickers aren’t bampots. They’re called howkers.’

‘Eh,’ he said. ‘Well.’ He gave his head a scratch, finally having the grace to realise he’d been a presumptive asshole. ‘I didnae ken.’

‘Well’ – she gave him a short, sharp nod, then popped her camera on to her shoulder – ‘you ken noo.’

‘Hey!’ Finn jogged up to Willa. Her heart grew wings and began flapping around her ribcage.

He’d changed. He was kitted out in his workman’s kilt, ghillie and his weather-battered wax jacket. His flat cap was tipped back, exposing those thick, shiny tufts of straw-coloured hair. His blue eyes were bright, lit from within. This was a man in his element. It was the happiest she’d ever seen him.

She jogged towards him, meeting him a few metres away from the crew.

‘Everything alright, Willa?’ He glanced at the TV crew. ‘Do you want me tae give these jokers the boot?’

She grinned. ‘I think using them to your advantage might a wiser use of your time. Maybe tell them what you’re doing here?’

He flicked his thumb over his shoulder to where people were still pouring into the fields, taking up places behind slow-moving tractors now backloaded with enormous crates. ‘I don’t think it’s much of a secret any more.’

‘No, but . . .’ She held up her phone and showed him the constantly changing numbers on the Crowdfunder page.

He gave her a double take. Then took her phone. Rather than jump for joy, which would have been the normal reaction – the movie reaction, anyway – he went pale.

‘Finn? Are you okay?’

‘Aye. Yes.’

He definitely wasn’t.

‘Finn. You’ve practically got the funding for a brand new harvester if you want it. One or two more days . . .’

‘Yeah,’ he said in tone more suited to a terminal diagnosis. ‘I know.’

Willa ducked her head so she could catch his gaze, desperately trying to divine what she was missing here when all of the sudden it hit her. ‘You like it this way, don’t you?’

He nodded, his shoulders relaxing as if she’d just released a great tension. ‘My dad would’ve loved this.’ They turned and looked out to the fields, the people, the chatter, the songs, the celebrities (Andy Murray had shown up with his wife, and his mother Judy had almost instantly turned the picking competitive. Tickets to Wimbledon were on offer. And a pair of Andy’s old rackets. She even got them to perform a stadium-wave every twenty minutes, standing up row by row with their hands in the air, so that no one got lower back ache. It was beyond awesome).

‘Well.’ Willa held out her hands. ‘On the basis that I have never in my life heard more people describe something as “pure dead brilliant” there’s no reason why you can’t keep it like this.’

He squinted at her. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘Run with the immersive farm experience. Instead of buying the harvester which would exclude people, use the Crowdfunder money to buy restoration materials for the farm and castle. Or set up apprenticeships to revive dying arts. Hire some proper craftsmen. Thatchers. Stonemasons. Blacksmiths. I bet there’s loads of old people who’d love to make sure skills they learnt as children are passed on to new generations. Do whatever you want! Hold an annual retreat for architecture students and name it after your father!’

Finn grinned. ‘My dad would have adored that.’

She beamed back at him. ‘You could put up some of those yurts everyone’s in love with for people to stay in until rooms in the castle are restored.’ She swung her arms around. ‘There are countless things you could do. All you have to do is imagine them.’

Finn laughed. ‘I think you’re forgetting not everyone has your imagination, Willa.’

‘You can dream up whatever you want to, Finlay Jamieson. You just haven’t given yourself the chance to believe in yourself as much as I do.’

Finn swallowed, his energy concentrating around just the two of them. ‘Is that what all this is? Your belief in me?’

The question hovered between them . . . a boomerang that didn’t know whether it had been a rhetorical question or if Finn truly sought an answer.

She wanted to answer. She really did. But telling him what was in her heart would make saying goodbye impossible.

‘We should get you over to the television crew, yeah? See what comes up in the interview?’

‘What are you afraid of, Willa?’ he asked, catching her arm as she turned to go.