The Burry Man's Day by Catriona McPherson

glass and guided the drinking straw towards the Burry Man’s mouth, finally looking at his face, into the gaps in the mask before his eyes. For a moment they were frozen there, a tableau once again, before her face blanched, she gave a tiny cry and the glass fell. Then she spun around and bolted through the door to the back while the three men watching let their laughter go at last, whooping.
    ‘She’s always been the same,’ her father said to us, chuckling and shaking his head in the direction Joey had fled. ‘Petrified of him.’
    ‘You’re a bad devil, Shinie,’ said one of the helpers.
    ‘Ach, it’s a bit of fun,’ said the other.
    We could hear Joey’s voice from far away in the back: ‘Father, please. Please!’
    The Burry Man, silent, pushed up and away from the bar, picked up his flower staves and gripped them tightly, the knuckles showing as white as clean bone, then he lumbered round to face the door again. Not wanting to get entangled and, on my part at any rate, rather sickened by the cruelty underlying the little joke, the four of us bumbled out ahead of him.
    ‘Hip, hip, hooray,’ sang the children outside, jumping to their feet as they saw him swaying in the doorway. He slowly got to his place at the head of the crowd and the children jostled into some kind of order behind him, then the whole caravan began to move again.
    We watched for a minute or two and had just turned away to set off towards the parking yard when the door of the pub behind us swung open so violently it banged back off its hinges and Shinie the publican hurried out to speed after the procession, a brimming glass of whisky in his hand.
    ‘Ye’ve not had yer nip,’ he said, standing square in front of the Burry Man and barring his way. The Burry Man’s hands remained on his staves. Then the publican made as though to put the glass to the mouth space himself, but at that the Burry Man reared backwards away from it. For a long moment Shinie, breathing heavily, stood peering into the shadowy face, then he dashed the contents of the glass into the gutter with a contemptuous flick of his wrist and turned away.
    ‘How simply too torrid for words,’ said Buttercup once we were under way again.
    ‘Positively operatic,’ I agreed.
    ‘He’s an awkward customer, Dudgeon, isn’t he?’ said Cad. ‘I wouldn’t have dreamed it until last night and again just there . . . a very awkward customer indeed.’
    ‘Hmm,’ said Daisy. ‘Village feuds, village squabbles, you’ll learn to ignore it. And there are far more serious matters at hand.’ She faced Buttercup sternly. ‘You neglected to tell us, darling, that this shindig came in two parts. Races tonight and fancy dress tomorrow, and I for one have only one suitable hat with me.’
    ‘Gosh, me too,’ I said. ‘Heavens, I’ve only got one frock, I was going to wear lounging pyjamas tonight. What are we to do?’
    Cadwallader tutted ostentatiously and strode ahead and we trailed after him plotting how to dole out Buttercup’s fox furs and sailor collars between the two of us to cover our shame.
    Promptly at five minutes to six, we were once again puttering down the Hawes Brae, in convoy this time – Cad and Buttercup ahead, Daisy and I following in the Cowley – in case some of the party should tire before the others. I slowed to turn into Faichen’s parking yard, but Buttercup turned and kneeled on the seat of the car in front, waving and shouting over the sound of the engine.
    ‘Last chance,’ I heard her bellow. ‘Straight on.’ ‘What?’ shouted Daisy back at her, but Buttercup merely waggled her thumbs at us and plumped back down into her seat.
    Obediently we kept going and at the Sealscraig corner, where we were forced by the crowds to stop for a moment, my high seat in the motor car afforded me a view over the cafe curtains of Brown’s Bar. I looked in, interested to see if Miss Brown had recovered her sangfroid. By now, capped heads two and three deep at