September

'No, that's all right, provided she doesn't make too much noise. You'd better see she's got some warm clothes.'

'I'll lend her my green wellies and my Barbour.'

He drank whisky. Yawned. He was tired.

'How was the shopping? Did you get my cartridges?'

'Yes. And the champagne, and the candles, and enough food to feed a starving army. And I got a new dress for the dance.'

'You bought a new dress?'

'No, I didn't buy it. Pandora bought it for me. And it's perfectly beautiful, and I wasn't allowed to know how much it cost, but I think probably an arm and a leg. She seems to be dreadfully rich. Do you think I should have allowed her to be so extravagant and generous?'

'If she wanted to give you a dress, there's no way you could have stopped her. She always loved giving presents. But it was kind. Am I allowed to see it?'

'No, not until Friday, when I shall astonish you with my beauty.'

'What else did you do?'

'We had lunch in the Wine Bar…' Isobel, squeezing water from her sponge, considered telling Archie about Pandora and the reserved table, and then decided against it because she knew that he would disapprove. 'And Lucilla bought a dress off a stall in the market.'

'Oh God, it's probably full of fleas.'

'I made her leave it at the cleaner's. Somebody will have to go to Relkirk on Friday morning to pick it up. But the most exciting bit of news I've kept to the end. Because Pandora bought -you a present as well, and if you hand me my towel I shall get out of the bath and show it to you.'

He did this. 'A present for me?' He tried to imagine what on earth his sister had brought back for him. He hoped not a gold watch, a cigar cutter, nor a tie-pin, none of which he would use. What he really needed was a new cartridge belt…

Isobel finished drying herself, pulled off the bath-cap, shook out her hair, reached for her silk dressing-gown, knotted the sash around her waist. 'Come and look.' He pulled himself off the lavatory and followed her through to their bedroom. 'There.'

It was all laid out on the bed. Tartan trews, a new white shirt still in its cellophane wrapper, black satin cummerbund, and his father's remembered green velvet smoking jacket, which Archie hadn't set eyes on since the old man died.

'Where did that come from?'

'It's been in the attic, in moth-balls. I hung it over the bath to get the wrinkles out. And the trews and the shirt are from Pandora. And I've polished your evening shoes.'

He gaped. 'But what's all this for?'

'Friday night, you goop. When I told Pandora you wouldn't wear your kilt, and you'd go to Verena's party in a dinner jacket, she was horrified. She said you'd look like a part-time waiter. So we visited Mr. Pittendriech and he helped us choose these.' She held up the trews. 'Aren't they heaven? Oh, do try it all on, Archie, I can't wait to see how you look.'

The last thing Archie wanted to do, at this particular moment, was to try on a lot of new clothes, but Isobel seemed so excited that he hadn't the heart to refuse her. And so he put his glass down on her dressing-table and obediently began to shed his old tweeds.

'Leave your shirt on. We don't want to open the new one in case you get it dirty. Take off your brogues and those smelly old stockings. Now…'

With her help, he pulled on the new trousers. Isobel dealt with zips and buttons, tucking in the tails of his blue country shirt and generally fussing around as if she were dressing a child for a tea-party. She fixed the cummerbund, laced his evening shoes for him, held out the velvet smoking jacket. He put his arms into the silk-lined sleeves, and she turned him around and did up the frogged fastenings.

'Now.' She smoothed his hair with her hands. 'Go and look in the mirror.'

For some reason, he felt like an idiot. His stump ached and he yearned for a hot bath, but he limped obediently over to Isobel's wardrobe, where her full-length mirror was set in the centre panel. Observing himself in mirrors was not his favourite occupation, because his reflection nowadays seemed such a travesty of his former handsome self, so thin and grey had he become, so graceless in his shabby clothes, so awkward with his lumbering, hated aluminium leg.

Even now, with Isobel's proud eyes upon him, it took some effort actually to face himself. But he did so, and it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. It wasn't bad at all. He looked all right. Great, in fact. The trews, long and slim-legged, immaculately cut and sharply creased, had a crisp and almost military dash about them. And the marvellously rich and lustrous velvet of the jacket provided exactly the right touch of worn and gentlemanly elegance, the faded green picking up the thread of green in the tartan.

Isobel had smoothed his hair, but now he smoothed it again, for himself; turned to see other aspects of his reflected finery. Undid the jacket to admire the satiny sheen of the cummerbund, sleek around his skinny middle. Did the jacket up again. Caught his own eye and smiled wryly, seeing himself preen like a bloody peacock.

He turned to his wife. 'What do you think?'

'You look amazing.'

He held out his arms. 'Lady Balmerino, will you waltz with me?'

She came to him, and he held her close, his cheek resting on the top of her head, the way they used to dance long ago, smooching in night-clubs. Through the thin silk of her gown his hands felt her skin, still warm from the bath-water, the curve of her hips, her neat waist. Her breasts, soft, unrestricted, pressed against him, and she smelt sweetly of soap.

They shifted gently from foot to foot, rocking in each others' arms, dancing, as best they could, to music which only the two of them could hear.

He said, 'Have you, at this moment, got anything pressing that you have to go and do?'

'Not that I can think of.'

'No dinner to cook, no dog to feed, no bird to pluck, no border to weed?'

'No.'

He pressed a kiss on her hair. 'Then come to bed with me.'

She was still, but Archie's hand moved on, stroking her back. After a little, she drew away from him, looked up into his face, and he saw that her deep-blue eyes were bright with unshed tears.

'Archie…'

'Please.'

'The others?'

'All occupied. We'll lock the door. Hang up a 'Do Not Disturb' sign.'

'But… the nightmare?'

'Nightmares are for children. We are too old to allow dreams to stop us loving each other.'

'You are different.' She frowned, her sweet face filled with puzzlement. 'What has happened to you?'

'Pandora bought me a present?'

'Not that. Something else.'

'I found a guy who would listen. At the top of Creagan Dubh, with only the wind and the heather and the birds for company, and no person to obtrude. And so I talked.'

'About Northern Ireland?' •

'Yes.'

'All of it?'

'All of it.'

'The bomb blast, and the bits of body and the dead Jocks?'

'Yes.'

'And Neil MacDonald? And the nightmare?'

'Yes.'

'But you told me. You talked to me. And that didn't do us any good.'