Free The Cone Gatherers by Robin Jenkins Page A

about admitting happiness, all the hindrances had vanished one by one, like the early mists over the loch. Now in the warmth and splendour he sang softly the sad Gaelic song that had been his mother’s favourite: it was about a girl who, though without tocher or dowry, still did not lack sweethearts. He sang it in Gaelic, although his knowledge of that ancestral language was grown meagre and vague.
    Among those hindrances to happiness had been the big gamekeeper. He could not forget Duror’s quiet inconceivable hatred; and all last night he had felt that his and Calum’s argument over the trapped rabbit would in some way be sensed by the gamekeeper, strengthening his vow to have them driven from the wood. In the morning sunlight, however, that fear of their desperate pity being detectable in the dead fur and glazed eyes seemed ridiculous. Duror would come to the ride, pick up the rabbit, and put it into his bag, without even thinking of them. Indeed, according to what Mr Tulloch had said, the gamekeeper had enough to worry him in that his wife had been an invalid for many years. If they kept out of his way, they would not be troubled by him; and how much more out of the way could they be than at the top of this ninety-foot larch?
    Another hindrance had been the constant sight of the mansion house chimneys, reminding him of their hut, which to him remained a symbol of humiliation. But thismorning he remembered what Mr Tulloch had said about the lady: she was rich and high in rank, but she was also generous and just; and her son, the thin boy in the red cap, had waved to them and shouted in a friendly voice. Those people represented the power of the world, and so long as he was humble it would be benignant. He and Calum would be humble. In spite of his bitterness, humility and acquiescence in public had always been his instinctive defence: so far it had been successful enough.
    The greatest and most persistent obstacle to his happiness was, of course, the fear of what would become of his brother if he were to die. Though he was a healthy man, except for his rheumatism in wet weather, he could meet with any of a number of likely accidents: a fall from a tree, for instance; a wound from axe or rutter, followed by lockjaw; pneumonia after a day’s soaking on the hill; even an adder bite. Once, when suffering from a suppurating finger caused by a splinter from a fence stob, he had been chaffed by Mr Tulloch for looking so solemn and frightened over what, by manly standards, was a trivial injury. He had confided in the forester, who had listened with a smile of sympathy, and had assured him there was no need to worry about Calum, who would always find a place at Ardmore. Neil had learned that even kindness made promises it could not fulfil; but he had been grateful to Mr Tulloch, and afterwards his heart had been lighter. In the larch tree this morning, when he had examined that promise anew, he found it fresh and sound.
    Therefore he was able to sing and look forward to Saturday’s visit to Lendrick. They would go by the red bus which came all the way from Glasgow. The afternoon would be spent in shopping: groceries would have to be ordered, so that the van next week could leave them by the roadside; their rations of cigarettes and sweets would have to be got from old Mrs McTavish; and Calum needed a new shirt. If the herring drifters were in, perhaps they would stroll along after the shopping to visit the Aphrodite , whose captain and crew were their friends. Then they would have tea in the café overlooking the harbour, and would exchange news with Ardmore workmates whowould have cycled in by that time. Afterwards they might go into the hotel bar for half an hour or so. After the loneliness of the wood, Neil would enjoy sitting in a corner and smiling out at the noise and bustle of the crowd. His pint of beer in his hand would be the token of his membership of the community. When anything funny was said he