Free Come to Harm by Catriona McPherson

frames, up over the roof, unprimed and on top of the dirt. He worked on until his paint ran out and then burnt the tins on a bonfire the next morning, the women right up that side of the main street whipping in their Monday wash to get it away from the smoke and fumes.
    And still none of them had seen it coming.
    They were looking right at it now, though. As Keiko dried her tears and Byers enjoyed the quiet, up in the Covenanters’ sat the same people around the same horseshoe-shaped table, which looked shabbier in the daylight, clothless, covered in folders and coffee cups, phones and elbows. Byers was the business of the day
    Mr. McKendrick ran his hands through his hair.
    â€œI’ll talk to him,” he said. “Again. There’s no reason whatsoever for him to be hanging on to that site.” Fancy was waving at him. She had arrived late and unexpected. “Miss Clarke?”
    â€œDon’t we already own the site?” she said. “Aren’t we only trying to buy the buildings?”
    â€œIs that a point of information or a question to the chair?” asked a sharp little woman sitting to Mr. McKendrick’s left, scribbling minutes.
    Fancy sighed. “Sorry, Miss Anderson, it’s a point of information. Mr. Chairman, can I remind the meeting that the Traders own the land and only need to buy out the buildings and the business.”
    â€œThank you, Miss Clarke,” said Mr. McKendrick, blandly. “I stand corrected.”
    â€œBusiness!” said Mrs. McLuskie, jaunty today in a golfing sweater and check trousers and without her provost’s chain. “What business? He’s running it into the ground, the lazy beggar.”
    â€œLive and let live,” said Miss Morrison from the charity shop.
    (Mrs. McLuskie didn’t think a charity shop selling old clothes and odd china was a business either and so Miss Morrison, in her opinion, didn’t belong in the Traders.)
    â€œI’d let him live if he wasn’t killing it for the rest of us,” Kenny Imperiolo said. “Of course, we’ve got our loyal regulars, but you need passing trade too. Fresh blood.”
    â€œMeat,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Fresh blood would be a new business in competition with us. It’s fresh meat we’re after.” No one answered. “To turn to happier news,” he went on, “our international initiative has come to fruition.”
    â€œAh, how is the wee lass?”
    â€œHow’s she settling in?”
    â€œI saw her sitting there working away at her books last night.”
    â€œShe’s loving it,” said Fancy. “She’s—”
    â€œNo report on Miss Nishisato’s arrival is scheduled, Miss Clarke,” said Miss Anderson, without raising her head.
    â€œBut I still don’t see—if I’m honest, Jimmy,” said Mr. Glendinning, “what she’s doing here.” There was a sound somewhere between a rumble and flutter, with some clear voices breaking through:
    â€œYou and me both, pal.”
    â€œGood question.”
    â€œNo harm to the wee soul, but …”
    Mr. McKendrick’s voice rose above all of them.
    â€œSeveral of our target funding sources look kindly on international reach,” he said. “And cultural exchange.”
    â€œBut why a Japanese?” said a voice. “Why not the likes of Canada or New Zealand or somewhere? My Auntie Margaret’s boy Stewie would have—”
    â€œOh aye, some big cultural exchange that would be, your Auntie Margaret’s boy Stewie!”
    â€œ If we can move on?” said Mr. McKendrick. He looked over the tops of his spectacles, sweeping a look around the room until it fell silent. “I’ll speak to Byers again unless there are other volunteers.”
    â€œI wonder if maybe Mrs. Poole might have a word with him.” People craned round to see who had spoken. Sandra Dessing, Mrs. McLuskie’s buxom