He was never very good at expressing himself aloud, although he did well enough in his own head, and with the murmured singsong understood by the horses and dogs. Touch, however, was another matter altogether. The lightest grip on the reins told him what a horse was thinking, let him communicate his wishes to the beast; the delicate quivers on a rod and line translated to him the language of fish, the deep, slow rhythm of the salmon, the quicksilver music of the trout.
“It canna be helped, Auntie Jan,” he said now, knowing he sounded surly, and that it would aggravate her even further. “I’ve something else to do.” He reached down automatically to stroke Murphy, his black Labrador.
“Something more important than keeping this stable on its feet? You know we’ve had this weekend’s riding
party booked for months—and how did you think I would manage without your help?”
“Ye can take the party yourself,” Callum offered. “Let Dad drive the van.”
Janet greeted this with the snort of contempt it deserved. “That would be a fine thing, your father in the jail for drink driving and all the tourists’ baggage along with him.”
The MacGillivray stables were a family concern, but Callum’s father, Tom, had for years been more a liability than an asset. Tom MacGillivray drank, and not even decent whisky but gin, a cheap habit learned during his days in the army. This meant he could be counted on for helping with the morning round of chores, but by midday he was uselessly maudlin and had to be kept out of sight of the customers. By suppertime they had to pry him out of his chair in order to feed him, after which, somewhat re-vived, he would meander down the road to the pub until closing time.
The stable visitors who did encounter Tom were apt to find him quaint, with his worn tweeds and flat cap, unless they got close enough to smell him.
“Aye.” Callum agreed with his aunt reluctantly. “That’s true enough. But I still canna take out the riding party.”
Tomorrow morning they were expecting a group of six for an easy ride along the Spey valley, with an overnight stop near Ballindalloch. Although the stables still taught the occasional riding class for novices, most of their business had come to depend on the trekking trade. Guided by Callum, a dozen sturdy hill ponies carried riders on jaunts that varied from overnight to a full week, taking in local scenery as well as historic sights. Janet had ongoing arrangements with a number of bed-and-breakfasts that provided accommodation for the guests as well as sta-
bling facilities for the horses, while she ferried the baggage from place to place in the stables’ large, green van.
It was a division of duties that she and Callum had perfected, and for a number of years they had worked together as a smoothly oiled unit, a partnership. She stared at him now in consternation, squinting a little against the evening sun. In the merciless light, he could make out new lines around her eyes, and the smears of stable muck on her old jacket.
“Callum, lad,” she said more gently, “are ye no feeling well? Is there something wrong with ye?”
He felt ashamed at her concern, but there was no way he could possibly confide in her. “No, Auntie, I’m well enough. It’s just that I have some . . . personal . . . things to see to.”
Janet’s stubby hands balled into fists again. “If by personal, ye mean that blond trollop in Aviemore—”
“It’s naught to do with Alison, and she’s no a trollop,”
he snapped back at her, his own temper rising. “And I’ll thank ye to keep your opinions of my friends to yourself.”
They glared at each other in a standoff until he sighed and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Och, I don’t blame ye for being angry with me. I’ve put ye in a difficult position. How would it be if you took the party out, and I drove the van?” That at least he could manage, without abandoning his own plans. “It’d do you good to get a wee bit fresh air,” he added, daring her to smile.
Janet snorted and shook her head at him. “You’re in-corrigible, lad,” she said, with exasperated affection.
“You’ll drive some woman mad, you mark my words. All right, I’ll take the ride tomorrow, but you can finish up the evening rounds on your own.”
“I don’t mind,” Callum said honestly. “Thank ye, Auntie Janet.”
He watched her fondly as she stumped off towards the house, then he went into the barn to finish giving the horses their evening feed. Murphy settled in the straw with a groan of contentment, and the horses rustled in their stalls, watching him expectantly. Dust motes sparkled like glitter in the slanting sunlight; the air smelled of warm horse and fresh hay, with a faint note of dung and the syrupy ripeness of feed. To Callum, the combination of scents was heaven and had been as long as he could remember.
When he had finished the chores, he went out into the stable yard and stood, gazing at the copper ball of the sun as it dropped beyond the river. Smoke rose lazily from the farmhouse chimney and a light glowed in the kitchen window. Beyond the barn, the ancient cow byre he’d con-verted into a cottage cast a long, low shadow, and farther still, the pasture sloped gently to a row of birches that shimmered at the water’s edge. As he watched, a heron took flight from the reeds.
It was a small world, and for twenty-nine years he had thought it perfect and complete. He’d felt no lack of companionship; he had listened to the guests he guided chatter of children and spouses and lovers with an amused detachment, and he’d taken the wee cuddle when it came his way with nary a thought of commitment. More fool he, he thought now, his lips curving in a wry smile.
