beheaded male red deers, perched so high up on the oak-panelled walls that attempting to utilise them for their only conceivable practical purpose in such a location - hanging coats, scarves, jackets, etc. on their impressively branched antlers - only exposes them as the venue for a kind of non-returnable sport rather than a sensible amenity. Rather more prosaic brass hooks, like smooth unsuitable claws beneath the glass-eyed stares of the stags, accepted our garments in their stead. My much be-zippered black leather pretend-biker’s jacket seemed a little out of place amongst the sober wools and furs; Verity’s snow-white skiing jacket looked ... well, just sublime. I stood and stared at it for a second or two longer than was probably fit; but it really did seem to glow in the dark company. I sighed, and decided to keep my white silk Möbius scarf on.
I entered the hammer-beamed Solar of the castle; the great hall was filled with a quietly chattering crowd of McHoans, Urvills and others, all nibbling canapes and vol-au-vants, and sipping whisky and sherries. I suspect my grandmother would have preferred pan-loaf sarnies and maybe a few slices of ham-and-egg pie, but it had, I suppose, been a kind gesture of the Urvill to ask us back here, and one should not carp. Somehow the McHoan home, still bearing the scars of grandma’s sudden, unorthodox and vertical re-entry into the conservatory following her abortive attempt to de-moss the gutters, seemed unfitting as our post-cremation retreat.
There! I caught sight of Verity, standing looking out of one of the Solar’s tall mullioned windows, the wide grey light of this chill November day soft upon her skin. I stopped and looked at her, a hollowness in my chest as though my heart had become a vacuum pump.
Verity: conceived beneath a tree two millennia old and born to the flare and snap of human lightning. Emerging to emergency, making her entrance, and duly entrancing.
Whistling or humming the first phrase of Deacon Blue’s Born In A Storm whenever I saw her had become a sort of ritual with me, a little personal theme in the life lived as movie, existence as opera. See Verity; play them tunes. It was in itself a way of possessing her.
I hesitated, thought about going over to her, then decided I’d best get a drink first, and started towards the sideboard with the glasses and bottles, before I realised that offering to refresh Verity’s glass would be as good a way as any of getting talking to her. I turned again. And almost collided with my Uncle Hamish.
‘Prentice,’ he said, in tones of great import and sobriety. He put one hand on my shoulder and we turned away from the window where Verity stood, and away from the drinks, to walk up the length of the hall towards the stained-glass height of the gable-end window. ‘Your grandmother has gone to a better place, Prentice,’ Uncle Hamish told me. I looked back at the vision of wonderful-ness that was Verity, then glanced at my uncle.
‘Yes, Uncle Hamish.’
Dad called Uncle Hamish ‘The Tree’ because he was very tall, moved in a rather awkward way - as though made out of something less flexible than the standard issue of bone, sinew, muscle and flesh - and (so he claimed, at any rate) because he had seen him act in a school play once, and he had been very, well, wooden. ‘Anyway,’ my dad had insisted when he’d originally confided this private piece of nomenclature, only half a decade earlier, on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday, when we’d got drunk together for the first time, ‘he just lumbers about!’
‘She was a good woman, and did little that was bad and much that was good, so I’m sure she has gone to a reward rather than a punishment, living amongst our anti-creates.’
I nodded, and as we strolled amongst them, looked around at the various members of my family, the McGuskies (Grandma Margot’s maiden-family), the Urvill clan, and sundry worthies from Gallanach, Lochgilphead
I entered the hammer-beamed Solar of the castle; the great hall was filled with a quietly chattering crowd of McHoans, Urvills and others, all nibbling canapes and vol-au-vants, and sipping whisky and sherries. I suspect my grandmother would have preferred pan-loaf sarnies and maybe a few slices of ham-and-egg pie, but it had, I suppose, been a kind gesture of the Urvill to ask us back here, and one should not carp. Somehow the McHoan home, still bearing the scars of grandma’s sudden, unorthodox and vertical re-entry into the conservatory following her abortive attempt to de-moss the gutters, seemed unfitting as our post-cremation retreat.
There! I caught sight of Verity, standing looking out of one of the Solar’s tall mullioned windows, the wide grey light of this chill November day soft upon her skin. I stopped and looked at her, a hollowness in my chest as though my heart had become a vacuum pump.
Verity: conceived beneath a tree two millennia old and born to the flare and snap of human lightning. Emerging to emergency, making her entrance, and duly entrancing.
Whistling or humming the first phrase of Deacon Blue’s Born In A Storm whenever I saw her had become a sort of ritual with me, a little personal theme in the life lived as movie, existence as opera. See Verity; play them tunes. It was in itself a way of possessing her.
I hesitated, thought about going over to her, then decided I’d best get a drink first, and started towards the sideboard with the glasses and bottles, before I realised that offering to refresh Verity’s glass would be as good a way as any of getting talking to her. I turned again. And almost collided with my Uncle Hamish.
‘Prentice,’ he said, in tones of great import and sobriety. He put one hand on my shoulder and we turned away from the window where Verity stood, and away from the drinks, to walk up the length of the hall towards the stained-glass height of the gable-end window. ‘Your grandmother has gone to a better place, Prentice,’ Uncle Hamish told me. I looked back at the vision of wonderful-ness that was Verity, then glanced at my uncle.
‘Yes, Uncle Hamish.’
Dad called Uncle Hamish ‘The Tree’ because he was very tall, moved in a rather awkward way - as though made out of something less flexible than the standard issue of bone, sinew, muscle and flesh - and (so he claimed, at any rate) because he had seen him act in a school play once, and he had been very, well, wooden. ‘Anyway,’ my dad had insisted when he’d originally confided this private piece of nomenclature, only half a decade earlier, on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday, when we’d got drunk together for the first time, ‘he just lumbers about!’
‘She was a good woman, and did little that was bad and much that was good, so I’m sure she has gone to a reward rather than a punishment, living amongst our anti-creates.’
I nodded, and as we strolled amongst them, looked around at the various members of my family, the McGuskies (Grandma Margot’s maiden-family), the Urvill clan, and sundry worthies from Gallanach, Lochgilphead
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