September

farming of some sort or other, or else commercial forestry.'

'Is planting trees such a bad thing?'

'It's a touchy subject. The Scots pine is our indigenous tree, not

Sitka spruce from Norway, nor lodge-pole pine from North America. And it depends on how well the woodland is husbanded. But a tightly packed stand of Sitka spruce destroys the breeding ground of upland birds because they won't nest within nine hundred yards of it. It harbours too many predators-foxes and crows. And I'm not simply talking about grouse but redshank and golden plover and curlews as well. And other forms of wildlife. Bugs, insects, frogs, adders. And plantlife. Harebells, cotton-grass, rare mosses and fungi, bog asphodel. Properly cared for, the moor is a power-house of rational ecology.'

'But isn't the image of the rich guy on the grouse moor blasting away at the birds the subject of some ridicule?'

'Of course it is. The chinless aristocrat loading his gun with ten-pound notes. But I believe that image is fading, as even the greenest of politicians becomes aware th^t the link between country sports and conservation is of immense importance if the basic ecosystem of the Highlands is going to survive.'

They fell silent. Stealthily, that silence was filled with small sounds, as seeping water will fill a void. The faint piping and drumming of the wind. The whisper of the distant burn, running in spate. Across the glen, scattered over the side of the hill, sheep grazed, moved, bleated. And as these sounds filled the quiet, so Conrad, at ease with his companion, found himself pervaded by tranquillity, a peace of mind that he had forgotten even existed.

Maybe this was wrong. Maybe after what had taken place last night, he should be suffering agonies of remorse and guilt. But his conscience was dormant, even self-satisfied.

'I feel like shit,' he had told Virginia, 'because I want you.'

And he had felt guilty, aching with the physical need to make love to another man's wife, behind that other man's back, and in that other man's house. But he could do little to quench his desire, and even less when it became perfectly clear that Virginia's need for comfort and love was just as great as his own. It had been, for him, a night of joyous release after months of enforced celibacy. And for her, perhaps an assuagement of loneliness and a last impetuous taste of lost youth.

Last night, coming to Balnaid, she had become shy, keeping

Conrad at arm's length with her hostessy busy-ness, aware as a young animal of potential danger. But this morning, she was composed. He had woken late, having slept more deeply than he had for months, and found her gone. Dressed, he made his way downstairs and discovered Virginia in the kitchen cooking breakfast, perking coffee, talking to the two spaniels. She still looked pale, but far less strained, and greeted him with a smile. Over bacon and eggs, they talked of trivial matters, and he respected her reticence. Perhaps it was better that way, with neither of them indulging in heart-searching analysis, nor trying to rationalize the events of the previous evening.

A one-night stand. For Virginia, perhaps, that was it. Conrad could not be sure. For himself, he simply felt deeply grateful to the fates that had flung them together at a time when both were vulnerable, bereft, and deeply in need of each other. Matters had taken their own course in a natural progression as basic as breathing.

No regrets. For Virginia he had no real worry. For himself, he only knew that twelve years ago he had been in love with her, and now he could not be too certain that anything had changed.

A movement caught his eye. A buzzard appeared, floating in the sky, then began its descent, spiralling in flight. A second later, another covey of grouse burst from the heather half-way down the hill and flew southward, at amazing speed, with the wind on their tails. The two men watched them go.

Archie said, 'I hoped we'd see more birds. We're shooting this glen tomorrow. Driving over the butts.'

'Will you be there?'

'Yes. It's about all I can manage, provided I can get myself to the bottom butt. It's one of the things I really regret, not being able to walk the hill any longer. Those were the best days; walking up with a few friends and half a dozen dogs. Now just a thing of the past.'

Conrad hesitated. The two men had spent most of the day in each other's company, but Conrad, not wishing to appear curious or impertinent, had deliberately not brought up the subject of Archie's obvious disability. Now, however, it seemed a sensible opportunity. 'How did you lose your leg?' he asked casually.

Archie watched the buzzard. 'It was shot off.'

'An accident?'

'No. Not an accident.' The buzzard hovered, dived, swept back up into the sky, its prey, a small rabbit, dangling from its beak. 'An incident in Northern Ireland.'

'What were you doing there?'

'I was a regular soldier. I was there with my Regiment.'

'When was this?'

'Seven, eight years ago.' The buzzard had gone. Archie turned his head to look at Conrad. 'The Army has been in Northern Ireland now for twenty years. Sometimes I think the rest of the world forgets how long that bloody conflict has been going on.'

'Twenty years is a long time.'

'We went to stop the violence, to keep the peace. But we haven't stopped the violence, and peace still seems a long way off.' He shifted his position, laid down his glasses, leaned on his elbow. He said, 'During the summers, we have Americans to stay, as paying guests. We give them beds, arrange diversions for them, wine them and dine them, and make conversation. During these conversations, the subject of Northern Ireland is frequently raised, and inevitably, some joker comes out with the opinion that Northern Ireland is Great Britain's Vietnam. I have learned swiftly to change the subject and talk about something else.'

'I wasn't going to say that. About Vietnam, I mean. I wouldn't be so presumptuous.'

'And I didn't mean to sound aggressive.' He eyed Conrad. 'Were you in Vietnam?'

'No. I've worn glasses since I was eight years old, so I was labelled medically unfit.'

'Would you have fought, without that legitimate let-out?'

Conrad shook his head. 'I don't know. But my brother went. He joined the Marines. He flew a gunship. He was killed.'

'What a flaming, bloody, useless war. But then, all war is flaming and bloody and useless. And Northern Ireland most useless of all because the troubles have their roots in the past, and nobody is willing to pull those roots up and throw them away, and start planting something decent and new.'

'By the past, you mean Cromwell?'

'I mean Cromwell, and William of Orange, and the Battle of the Boyne, and the Black-and-Tans, and the young men who went on hunger strike and died of starvation. And I mean long and bitter memories, and unemployment, and segregation and no-go areas and religious intolerance. And worst of all, the impossibility of being able to apply logic to the situation.'

'How long were you there?'

'Three months. It should have been four, but I was in hospital when the Battalion came home.'

'What happened?'

'To me, or to the Battalion?'

'To you.'

Archie's response to this was a deep and reluctant telling silence. Looking at him, Conrad saw that once again his attention had been caught by some distant movement, far away out on the opposite hill. His profile was gaunt, seemingly frozen in concentration. Conrad sensed the other man's reluctance to talk, and swiftly retracted from his question.

'I'm sorry.'

'Why sorry?'

'I sound curious. I don't mean to be.'

'That's all right. It was an incident. That's the euphemistic term for bombings, murders, ambushes, general mayhem. You hear the word every other day over the evening news. An incident in Northern Ireland. And I was involved.'

'You were operational?'

'Everybody was operational, but my actual job was Officer Commanding H.Q. company.'

'One reads of such incidents, but, still, it's hard to imagine how it must be out there… I hear it's a very pretty