“I think he followed me in.”
The woman grimaced. “Oh, that sort. Pathetic, isn’t it?
They’re just pathetic.” She sipped at her drink. “Do you want 1 9 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h me to have a wee word with him? I get those types in the taxi.
I know how to deal with them.”
Isabel declined the offer.
The other woman seemed taken aback. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I don’t want a confrontation.”
“Don’t let them get away with it.” The advice was given with feeling. “Just don’t.”
For a while they sat together in silence, Isabel grateful for the company but engrossed in her own thoughts. And then Ian arrived, unobtrusively; suddenly he was beside her, a hand on her shoulder. This was the signal for the other woman to push her empty glass away and get up from her bar stool. “Remember, hen,” she whispered. “Remember. Take nae nonsense.
Stand up for yoursel’.”
Ian sat down on the vacated stool. He was dressed less formally than he had been when Isabel had seen him on previous occasions. His sweater and moleskin trousers were in keeping with the clothes of the drinkers in the bar. He looked relaxed.
“This is a bit of a surprise,” he began, looking about the room. “I used to come here years ago, you know. Hamish Henderson often sat over there. I heard him sing ‘Farewell to Sicily.’
It made quite an impression on me.”
“I heard it too,” said Isabel. “Not here. At the School of Scottish Studies once. He sang while standing on a chair, as I recall.”
Ian smiled at the thought. “That great, shuffling figure.
The teeth all over the place . . . You know, we took them for granted then, didn’t we? We had all those people amongst us, those poets, those Scots
1 9 7
ney Goodsir Smith, Hamish himself. And you could see them in the street. There they were.” He looked at her. “Do you remember ‘The lament for the makars,’ Isabel?”
Isabel remembered: warm afternoons during the summer term at school, sitting on the grass with Miss Crichton, who taught them English and who loved the early Scottish poets.
“I have that entire poem in my head,” Ian said. “It’s such a striking idea—just to list all the poets, all the poets who have gone before. And then Dunbar says that he’s probably next!
He caught the eye of the barman and pointed to a whisky.
“Taken out of the country, Isabel. Such clear good language.
The barman passed him a small glass of whisky and he raised it, giving the Gaelic toast. “Slainte.”
Isabel raised her own glass in acknowledgement.
Ian looked at her enquiringly. “Why have you asked me here, Isabel? Not to discuss poetry.”
She lifted her glass and looked into the whisky, which she was not enjoying. It was too strong for her.
“That man I told you about,” she began. “Graeme. The man I found.”
His expression changed; he now became tense. “You’ve decided on something?”
Isabel lowered her voice. “He’s here. Right here. But I’ve found out something. He’s got nothing to do with the person who donated for you. Nothing!”
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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h He did not look round immediately, but stared ahead, at the bottles of whisky on the shelf. Then, very slowly, he turned his head and looked towards the back of the bar.
“Where?” he muttered. “I can’t see anybody . . .” He stopped, and Isabel saw his bottom lip drop slightly. His right hand, resting on the bar, was suddenly clenched.
Graeme was sitting on a bench at the back. He had a newspaper unfolded on his lap. In front of him, on a small table, was a half-empty glass of beer.
“Is that him?” Isabel asked. “Is that the man you keep seeing?”
Ian’s eyes were fixed on the figure at the other end of the bar. Now he turned back to face Isabel. “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “I feel very strange.”
“But it’s him?” Isabel pressed.
Ian looked over his shoulder again. As he did so, Graeme turned his head, and Isabel saw his glance come in her direction. She stared back at him, and they looked at one another, across the room, for almost a minute. Then he turned back to his paper.
