Page 107 of Playing By Ear

Jamie bit back an Ow and didn’t rub the spot. Then he turned his face to the side window so his dad wouldn’t see him smile.

According to the Gentle Walks of the Great Trossachs Path leaflet Martin had printed out, they had taken a “very gentle” trail: tarmac, with the slightest of inclines. It was an ideal recovery stroll for Jamie after his weekly long run the day before.

As the path through the forest narrowed, he walked behind his dad, evaluating Martin’s gait as one of the neurology nurses had taught him. He was dragging his left foot more than he’d done the previous week, but he wasn’t stumbling, thanks to his walking stick.

Soon, according to the somber doctors, their father would need a cane to move about. Then a walking frame. Then a wheelchair. Then, as his core muscles weakened and he could no longer sit upright…

Jamie rued his reluctance to come along today. Martin needed every chance to enjoy his freedom and mobility while it lasted. How many more rainless Saturdays did his life contain?

“Here we are,” Martin said as they came out of the trees. Loch Achrey spread before them, glittering even under the meager sunlight.

“Nice.” Jamie stopped at a trailside bench.

“Benches are for old men,” Martin growled as he trudged onward to the shore. “I’ll never be an old man.”

So they sat together on the loch’s grassy bank. The view was miles better than the back of Jamie’s eyelids, he had to admit. On the loch’s far side, low clouds caressed the hills, which had turned a soothing shade of green now that the back half of cruel April had arrived.

Sprouting edgeways out of the turf where they sat were dinner plate–sized slabs of granite, looking like crude headstones erected by an ancient race of dolls. Moss and lichen carpeted the rocks as well as the roots of the nearby gnarled tree. Its bare branches made fearsome silhouettes against the cotton-gray sky.

Martin opened the carrier bag he’d brought and drew out a pair of Irn Brus along with four packets of crisps. “Google said this was a good place to spot otters.” He pointed to the binoculars case he’d had Jamie carry. “Have a look.”

Jamie took out the heavy binoculars. As he adjusted the focus, a large white house came into relief on the loch’s far bank. Did someone live there year-round or only on holiday? It could have been a retirement home for Martin, a place where Lucy could come on a weekend, maybe take a wee boat out onto the loch. Not that Martin was the sort to retire to the countryside—or retire, full stop.

“Nae otters yet,” he reported.

Martin clicked his tongue. “Should’ve fetched you earlier. They’re more active first thing.”

Jamie kept scanning the far shore, spying another large house, then a secluded cove with a reedy bank. If he was an otter, that’s where he’d live.

“You write songs or just play them?” Martin asked through a mouthful of crisps.

Jamie barely blinked at the change in topic. His dad had always asked questions out of nowhere, sometimes to catch people off-guard and sometimes because his quicksilver mind traveled far beyond the current conversation.

“I’ve written a few,” Jamie said. “Only music, no lyrics.”

“Like Mogwai?”

“No, not instrumental on purpose. I just…haven’t found the words.” No words he dared to share, at least.

“I’d hear them,” Martin said, his tone almost offhand. “At some point.”

Jamie nodded, then added, “Okay.” He’d started this habit around Perry, never answering solely with body language.

“And if you know any old songs,” his father said, “I’d hear them, too.”

I’d hear them was an odd turn of phrase. Neither entreaty nor demand, just a statement of fact.

“I know loads of songs from all eras. And I do take requests.”

“Even from old sods like me?”

“Especially from old sods like you. They’re the best tippers.”

Martin’s lips flashed a smile. Jamie hated how good it made him feel.

“Did you ever see me when you were busking?”

“What?” Jamie jerked his head to gape at him. “See you? Like, in my mind?”