Part Sixteen:THE SCATTERING WINDS OF SPRING

After the chip pan fire the house had more people coming and going than had been the case during the whole of the previous decade. Josef's nephew had called to say that the house would be closed while the old man was indisposed and until repairs could be effected.

Officials from the Fire Department were picking over the remains of the kitchen and a couple of police officers had shown up seeking a few words with Buster but he had been unavailable.

One sniff of a police uniform and Driscoll had dropped all thoughts of atonement like the proverbial hot potato. Atonement was all right if the backside was hanging out of your breeks and you had nowhere to go. Let's face it, atonement was mandatory in a situation like that but, if you had options, well then, you had options.

Right now Driscoll's main concern was one of logistics. In short, how was he going to hump all that money around securely? He had only one account which he was sure that the authorities didn't know about but he could not put too much cash into that one at any one time without raising somebody's suspicions.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. If he bought some smart new togs up in town he could he book into that "fancy Dan" hotel at the end of Princes Street and hand them one of those smart leather zipper bags, with the padlocks, stuffed with cash and they'd obligingly bung it in their safe for him, no questions asked, same as they did for all the other toffs. He felt a certain moral justification in the thought that there would be far bigger crooks than him passing through that particular hotel lobby every day of the week.



Buster sat on the bench at the top of the hill in his beloved Botanic Gardens, studying the view in front of him in minute detail. He took in every tree, every bush and bed of flowers in a grand attempt to commit it all to memory.He knew that some day when he was especially blue and life was dealing him more than his share of hardships he would want to remember what he could see before him now. It would be a good protection against hard times.

The world had turned again and there was nothing he could do about it. A few short hours ago he had had nothing to worry about. He had been enjoying the adventure of Spring in a strange city but now everything had changed. He had made a mess of things yet again. He hadn't meant to. He had never intended to hurt anyone.

It didn't matter though. Now people would be angry with him and shout at him if they caught up with him and people in uniform would have a part in it somewhere, you could be sure of that. They might even put him in jail, you just never knew.

Just as Buster trembled at this prospect he was aware of someone watching him. She was about three years old with long, fair and curly hair and she was dressed in a crimson matinee coat. She laughed suddenly and Buster smiled, forgetting his own predicament for a moment. She put her hands over her eyes and peeked out from behind them, first to her right and then to her left.

Buster fumbled in his pocket for a boiled sweet and, purely by chance, pulled out one almost the very colour of her coat. Tickled by this coincidence, he held the sweet out to her.

The child hesitated for a moment with her hand outstretched toward Buster's gift. Then she looked over her shoulder at her approaching mother who, deciding that the little man was harmless, nodded her approval.

As mother and child continued on their way Buster felt cheered again. He took a deep breath, picked up his suitcase and strode off down the hill. He felt brave now and sure that the world would soon turn his way again.



No sooner had Driscoll boarded the London train than it juddered into life. His heart jumped with excitement. A few more minutes and he would have left Auld Reekie behind, hopefully forever. There was nothing here for him now except a certain lengthy incarceration.

He was just about to pull the door shut behind him when his heart jumped again. That fat wee eejit who had nearly set No17 up was running for the train. He was red in the face and looking as if he was about to explode any moment but he did not look as if he was going to give. Not him.

Driscoll's grip on the door handle tightened as Buster drew level and looked up pleadingly. The train started to pick up speed. Buster was covered in sweat. He looked as if he was about to have a heart attack.

"Poor, stupit wee bastard" muttered Driscoll before holding out his hand and, with every last ounce of strength at his disposal, yanking Buster and his suitcase aboard.



It had been a good week for Miss Laird, the first in her new position. The new "arrangement" was working very well.

At five o'clock she shut up shop and headed off in the direction of the "new" New Town flat. She didn't hurry. She wanted the chance to savour the pleasures of her new situation.

Lachlan would probably be out anyway. He was out most nights. She marvelled at the brilliance of his social life. The people he knew!!!!!!! All those elegant and artistic young men. Actors. Antique dealers - all very glamorous.It was obviously what kept him looking so young.

She didn't mind being on her own in the flat. Her end of the flat was more or less self contained anyway and, although it was nice to chat to Lachlan over a coffee on one of the rare occasions when their paths met, she didn't feel lonely when he wasn't there. Besides it was such a lovely flat - an entertainment in itself. And when he was there he always had so much to talk about. He was always fizzing with ideas. He was affectionate and solicitous too. He was a joy really.

The situation was a joy. Her job was a joy and it would all continue to be a joy as long as she was a sensible girl and didn't ask for too much.

She remembered how it was when she was a little girl looking for shells along the beach. She would start out looking for something beautiful and ornate and exotic but, really, she would be happy enough with anything that caught her eye - even a piece of sea worn green glass from some long forgotten gin bottle thrown overboard far away.

She would pick up all these little gems and store them away safely. She knew that none of these small treasures would ever be lost. They would be there whenever she had need of them. In this way she could keep loneliness at bay for ever.

Part Fifteen:THE HIGH PRICE OF CHIPS

At 6p.m. sharp Miss Laird kicked off her shoes and sat down to enjoy "Your Hundred Best Tunes" on the wireless, as she still insisted on calling it.

"The Autumn Leaves" and "Moon River" worked their magic as they soothed Miss Laird's qualms about seeing Lachlan face to face at the start of the working week but, halfway through "The Very Thought Of You", her reverie was interrupted by a wild yell from the kitchenette next door which was followed by what sounded like a baby elephant running back and forth along the landing outside her door and a shrill hysterical voice shouting "Danger", "Help" and "SOS" in strict rotation.

Miss Laird, who had been hovering on the verge of sleep, shook herself awake and tried to make sense of the din but, before she could do so, there was a mighty hammering on the door of her room.

Buster was babbling away at her before she had a chance to open the door. Reading between the lines, she learned that he had decided to treat himself to a plate of chips and forgotten to dry off the excess moisture on them before he had thrown them in to a pan of fat so hot that there was blue smoke rising from it. Still in something of a daze, she let him lead her to the door of the kitchen.

Miss Laird had endured a lifelong terror of fire. She had seen all the safety adverts that she ever wanted to about chip pan fires and knew exactly what they could do. She had been appalled to learn that nearly half of all domestic conflagrations started because some greedy beggar wanted chips with it.

At the kitchen door Miss Laird froze. What had, a few minutes before been a kitchen implement was now the base of a blazing inferno. "Oh, sweet heaven", she said to no-one in particular.

She was aware of Buster, the greedy beggar in question, squeezing her hand. She looked down at him. His shocked, remorseful eyes were big enough to drown in. They pleaded with her silently, but eloquently, to pleeeeeeeese find a way of delivering the house and its occupants from the danger he had placed them in.

Miss Laird fancied she could hear a thundering heartbeat but was not sure whether it was his or her own but, either way, a wave of pity washed over her.

She put her hand on his shoulder and said gently, but with some urgency, "Go and tell MR. Straczynski that there is a fire in the upstairs kitchen. Hurry, now!"

Buster looked doubtful.

"You don't have to tell him you started it, just at the moment" she added, reassuringly.

Buster took off down the stairs like a scalded cat. He was no longer an arsonist. He was a fireman now.

At the moment he was banging on Josef's door, Elizabeth was gingerly attempting to move the chip pan away from one curtain, at whose hem the fire was already licking, and on to another hob. It was as much as she dared do, for, even with her head held back as far as physically, possible she could still feel the heat clawing at her face and a brief, but terrifying, vision of her with her hair on fire passed before her eyes.

Remembering that damp towels were the thing required by this sort of situation, she looked around for one but, after locating it, she forgot, in her state of panic" to wet it.

The fire devoured the towel in a couple of seconds and turned its attention to the other curtain. Before long the smoke that was building up in the small room was beginning to catch at Elizabeth's throat and she feared that the thing was beyond her already and that she could no longer keep her terror of this voracious element in check and so she beat a thankful retreat, closing the kitchen door behind her.

She felt a momentary spasm of shame at her own perceived cowardice but now it was as if some trigger had been pulled inside her catapulting her into muscular and decisive action. She raced along to Driscoll's door and thumped on it with the heel of her hand shouting "Fire. Fire. Get out now." and felt very foolish when it was obvious that he wasn't in.

Then she raced down the half lit stairway at break neck speed awed by the new strange state she was in. Nothing seemed to matter any more: not the job, not Lachlan, not even her recent humiliation. Nothing mattered except making sure that every living soul got out of the house in one piece

She barged into the old man's room and found him sitting in his leather armchair, phone in hand, trying to tell the emergency services operator what she needed to know but it was obvious from Josef's facial contortions that he was having difficulty making himself understood. All the time Buster stood at his side covering his eyes and shifting from one foot to another in his agitation.

"Heaven help me", said Miss Laird out loud, "I've got a couple of infants on my hands".

She held out her hand and Josef obediently handed her the receiver. She was surprised at how cool and authoritave she managed to sound.

"Yes I'd like to report a chip pan fire at No. 17 Stockwell Street. I really did try to put it out but I'm afraid that its beyond me now. Yes, I understand. No, I won't, thank you".

Only then was there a hint of panic in her voice, "But hurry please."

The old man allowed himself a thin smile. Miss Laird, the efficient business lady who he had always admired and respected, was in charge. Everything would be fine. No need for worry. He had seen worse things than this, after all. And Buster stood still now and took his hands away from his eyes and beamed at them both.

The mad lady would lead them all out of their current predicament - he had already half forgotten that he was the cause of it - and all would be well. He took a step forward and patted her gingerly on the shoulder.

Miss Laird, however, was oblivious to this sign of new born trust. Her mind was on her next move. She had just remembered the old black Daimler parked on the other side of the road. All the time that she had been living at No 17 she had never seen it move from that spot but, now and then, when she had been either coming or going, she had seen the old fellow sitting at the wheel and staring out through the windscreen as if he was looking down some long road to a happier past.

Well, at least, he will feel safe enough there for the time being she reasoned and, grabbing his heavy black coat from the hangar on the back of the door, she bustled the old man and Buster out of the house, across the road and into the back of the car and then settled herself in the front behind the wheel.

Nothing to do now until the Fire Brigade arrived, she mused out loud, running her hand admiringly over the wall nut fascia.

"This IS a lovely car Mr. Straczynski". She could sense him beaming with pride behind her. She looked at her watch, squinting to read the face in the orange glow of the street lamp. Probably about five minutes since she had phoned, she reckoned, not much more. Time was a funny thing. In the house it had flown and now.........

Suddenly aware of the pressure of silence, she looked around to check on her two "charges" and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. In the half light, sitting side by side, they looked, for all the world, like a pair of comic puppets left on a shelf long ago by some child grown too old to appreciate their strangeness.

Josef studied Elizabeth's face for a long moment before leaning forward to whisper his concerns for his collection of photographs.

She feared that he might be in shock so, laying her hand on his, she said as gently as she could, "No, darling, safer to stay here. The fire isn't in your room. I'm sure that they'll put it out before it gets to your room."

It was no good though. She could see his eyes moisten at the thought of the second destruction of the old world, whose memory had kept the very breath in his body all these long years. His hand trembled and she knew that her logic was not going to satisfy him.

Buster who had been silent up till now chose this moment to add his "fourpence worth". He sucked in his breath and poked at Miss Laird's arm with a grubby forefinger and gabbled something about a lady in a wedding dress with black curls. Miss Laird shushed him impatiently but Josef, who had heard all, spoke the bride's name and Buster repeated it reverently.

The silence and the sadness and the thought of the old man losing his memories was too much for Elizabeth. She turned to Buster with a determined glint in her eye.

"Look after Mr. Straczynski and stay in the car or.....or......heaven help you". Buster, who had read the look in her eye as a sign of her returning madness, nodded vigorously.


The blaze still being confined to the floor above, there was time to gather up all the old photographs and put them into an old suitcase which she had found in a cupboard.

Mission accomplished, she closed the door behind her and was just about to leave the house when that very thing that killed the cat tugged at her sleeve.

She could not see much evidence of the fire from where she stood and, because of badly blocked sinuses, she could not smell anything. Terrified as she was of fire, she felt herself drawn closer and closer like a child steeling itself to see whether or not there really is a monster in the cupboard.

How far had the fire advanced? What else had it consumed by now? Would the rest of the house be saved?

As if under some malign hypnosis she kept climbing the stairs, step by step, stopping once, in a moment of sanity before daring herself to carry on, wanting to know all the answers to the questions she had just asked herself but terrified of finding out.

She could now see the kitchenette door still firmly shut and remembered reading somewhere that if you shut the door on a fire it could buy you a little time.
Then Buster's voice came crashing into her trance.

She was about to give him a telling off for disobeying her but, turning too quickly, she caught her heel in the ratty old stair carpet and, clawing uselessly at the air, she tumbled down the full length of the stairs.



If she made a bit of an effort she could just see the tree outside her window It was a fine sturdy oak. She thought idly, that it would look wonderful in Summer and more so in Autumn.

She was surprised that she no longer felt any fear for her future. Some of that was undoubtedly due to the painkillers but she was sure it was more than that. Something had happened. Something was different. A door had been opened and she had been let out of that horrible, sad little room and into broad daylight. She could breathe again. Strange how one accident could lead to so many good things.

Another wave of dopeyness passed through her. Oooh those painkillers were strong. The warm glow they gave was delicious but then she started to feel as if she was floating and she did not think this quite proper so she tried to fight the feeling by gripping the sides of the mattress as tightly as she could.

This, unfortunately, had the effect of bringing back all her doubts. Lachlan hadn't been in to see her after all, had he? She had imagined the whole blessed thing. He hadn't offered to put her up rent free and indefinetely as a belated token of his gratitude for the money she was making him. He wasn't going to look after her at all.He didn't care about her.

Her eyes moistened and prickled. She felt the warmth and security and the first vulnerable shoots of contentment draining away like Spring rain into the soil. She felt an overwhelming tiredness. She closed her eyes and relaxed her grip on the mattress. She surrendered. Floating away was not to be feared anymore. She wanted to float away.

The funny little man in the tatty raincoat and hobnailed boots too big for him handed her the balloons. They were all different colours and they were wonderful as they bobbed aabout in the bright air. She looked up at them, open mouthed and spellbound but soon the balloons began to tug at her hand. She gripped them more tightly but the balloons tugged harder and harder as if they wanted to be free of her.

She looked over to the Balloon Man for reassurance that all that colour and light would always belong to her but she could tell by his expression that she was meant to let go. She tried to hold on a little longer but it was useless. As her hand unfurled and the balloons drifted upward the little man smiled and nodded at the obedient child and she knew she had done the right thing, even if the choice was not hers alone.

And he was right too. The shabby little man was right. He must have been for clearly he was happy too and the face that shone at her in the half dream was one that could only belong to a simple, happy soul.

She drifted upwards now as free as those precious balloons and a peace, as gentle as it was great, came to claim her.


In a ward at the other end of the hospital the old man lay, a small creature adrift in a sea of white, dreaming with eyes wide open. Now the future was no longer a threat to the past and as he dreamed the afternoon away, the ghost of a smile was just visible above the covers.

The sound of laughter and music on the other side of the door confused him at first but then a slow, sure understanding flowed through him. Unafraid, his heart singing, he opened the door and entered.

Part Fourteen:LOVED AND UNLOVED

Buster tried reading an old magazine that some previous inhabitant had left in the room but he could not get beyond the second paragraph of any of its articles.

He paced back and forwards across the threadbare carpet. He hummed and hawed, sighed and rolled his eyes in theatrical exaggeration.

He stared forlornly out of the window like a fat, bald Rapunzel waiting for a rescuer. He flounced down on the bed, whose springs registered their distress loudly, closed his eyes and wished that he could doze away the couple of hours until his next meal was due. It was no use. He could not even settle to dozing.

The splendours of that wonderful Garden had spoiled him for this gloomy place. The memory of its light and colour rebuked the shadows contained between these four walls, but outside the sky was still blue and the clouds scudding across it were still as big and fleecy and Buster could stand the confinement no longer.

He grabbed his coat, for it was still only Spring in Edinburgh, and his little blue transistor radio, and rejoiced at the sound of his room door slamming shut behind him.


Outside the Spring breeze was still fresh in the street. He sat down on the step, leaned against the handsome, black New Town railings and turned on his radio.

Across the street a cat dozed on top of a wall. Buster wondered,idly, if it was his acqaintance of the previous evening and thought it might feel nice to go over and stroke it but then he thought better of the idea. Cats had to get their forty winks where they could. They were up all night after all.

In the living room, just behind him, the old man was also drifting in and out of sleep and between two worlds. He could hear music coming from that beloved older world which, as his years grew more advanced, he found easier and easier to return to.

He knew the music well. It was fiddle music. Wedding music. Strangely, though, he was beginning to hear it even when he was fully awake.

"Surely not", he muttered to himself. This was wedding music and it belonged to that other time - not this moment.

It made him think of his bride, now far beyond the shadows and so, free of them, and he looked upon her again with the eye of the young man he once was.

The fiddle music only got louder. "Surely not", he said again. And yet the music persisted. Now Josef was fully awake. It was real music. There was no doubt. So where was it coming from?

He raised himself unsteadily on to his feet and hobbled over to the window, too impatient for an answer to bother looking for a walking stick.

When he saw the scene in the street outside he laughed. He could not help himself. His strange little guest just seemed to have that effect on him. Josef was sure that the Greeks had a word for this phenomenon - or was it the Romans? It didn't matter. He grinned like an idiot who could not help himself as he watched Buster with the little blue radio clapped to his ear, swaying back and forth in time to the music.

Josef tapped on the window.



There was tea and cakes as before. And shortbread. There were the old man's memories and the gallery of family and friends looking out from their silver frames, all as before.

This time, though, Buster had already been introduced to them and so, in his book, they were now his friends too. After tea and cake, when the old man had momentarily tired of talking and lay back in his chair staring at the ceiling,Buster thought that it would not be disrespectful to, once again, visit the faces to pay his respects.

He worked his way along the line of photographs until he came to one of a delicately featured young woman whose mass of black curls spilled out from under her Wedding Headdress. Buster fell instantly in love. He clasped the picture to his bosom and stared soulfully out of the window and up to the blue infinite. His emotions were too overwhelming to be constrained by this room.

The old man studied him, smiling indulgently. He did not begrudge the little man his moment. He was not at all offended by Buster's handling of the photographs. He meant no offence. He was welcome "at the table". Why should not a little of joys remembered lap over his guest. There were enough of them to share.

When at last Buster had composed himself, he crossed the room and reverently placed the picture in the old man's lap. Josef, picking it up, looked at the long lost bride for whose benefit the music had been played and then at Buster whose eyes were now a pool of unspoken questions and motioned him to sit down.

The old man knew how to tell a story all right. His words may have been halting, and sometimes barely audible, but they soon began to work their magic on Buster who sat with his hands folded on his lap, his eyes tight shut and a beatific smile plastered all over his silly face.

And Josef's words swirled around him and into his consciousness and deeper and deeper and before very long and, with a sense of helpless wonder, the old man's words became vision in Buster's mind's eye and, before much longer, concentrating hard with eyes still screwed tight shut, he could feel the room around him and smell the wedding flowers and feel the very presence of the guests at the wedding.

He knew full well that he could stay in this gathering just as long as he remembered to keep his eyes tight shut and for as long as the old man kept on talking.

Now he fancied that he was walking the length of a long banqueting table set with a table cloth of the finest white lace and filled with candle light that danced across the silver tabkleware and recorded its glow in the faces of the guests who turned to smile benevolently as he passed by the backs of their chairs.

There were no uniforms here, the little man noticed. There was no-one shouting at him either or nudging their neighbour and sniggering as he passed by. He was the only one on his feet. He stood out like a sore thumb but he did not feel in the least self conscious. He did not feel like a stranger here.

Near the head of the table, where the bride and groom sat, there was an empty chair. He took his place, bowing and smiling to as many of the members of the wedding as he could see, not wishing to leave anyone out.

Looking down at his plate, he noticed that there was some delicacy which he did not quite recognise set before him and also a glass of wine, the colour of rubies, to hand. For a brief moment he was beguiled by the effect of the candle light on the colour of the wine but, for once in his life, it was not food or drink that interested him.

He looked up from the plate and the wine and the first gaze that met his was that of the bride. Black curls peaked out from under her headdress just as they had in the photograph but now here she was in the flesh almost close enough to touch, close enough to smell her scent and she was regarding Buster with the sort of affectionate expression appropriate to a much loved old friend on such a happy occassion as this.

Buster was very sure that he had done nothing to deserve this attention and tried to look away, embarrassed, but her gaze held him in thrall and the smile melted all his awkwardness away and soon it felt as though his tired old skin had melted away too, to be replaced by a new one that would serve to protect him from all the vicissitudes that life might throw his way.

If people laughed at him in future what of it? If they shouted at him, or scowled or were cruel with their tongues........well none of that would penetrate this new skin.

He felt completely at ease in this new skin. The weariness of all his travels, all the miles and all the strange places and different rooms and all the rainy days and cold nights and loneliness that lay behind him slipped from his shoulders. Oh, if he could stay here forever, safe among those happy faces would that not be the most wonderful thing. If there were no more cold station platforms, or strange beds or unfriendly faces would that not be .......heaven.

His eyes were still tight shut and somewhere, in the background he could still hear Josef's voice. The air in this world was heavy with the scent of roses and velvet with the glow of candlelight and ringing with the sound of laughter and, when he dared to look again, the bride was still smiling at him from under her black curls. She seemed to be holding him safely in the bosom of this gathering and Buster smiled shyly back at her, glad that there would be no more cold nights or strange beds.

But, just at the summit of his happiness the bride's smile started to fade and the features of her face seemed to move around in front of his eyes and try as he might he could not will them to reorder themselves and it was then that he realised that he could not hear the old man's voice anymore.

When Buster opened his eyes again he saw that the landlord was fast asleep in the big leather armchair. The room was silent and the music and laughter from that other world, which, at this moment, still seemed much more real to Buster, had gone to silence itself.

He lifted the framed photograph from the old man's lap and replaced it in the spot he had picked it up from. Then, one by one, he bade farewell to all the other faces in all the other photographs and left the old man to his dreams.




As he climbed the stairs Buster envied his friend, for the old man could return to that world any time he wanted to, but he, himself, would have to be invited.



Driscoll lay propped up on his bed chain smoking. He was convinced now that, notwithstanding the commercial transaction that ended it, his recent encounter had been some sort of "visitation" - a judgement on the cruelty of his younger self.

He had made on honest attempt to sort out the "whys and the wherefores" but it had just made his head spin and now he was casting around for distractions that might make him just forget about the whole thing.

He was not having much success. The radio was no help.. it was tuned in to one of those programmes where husbands request songs for wives that "mean the whole world to me" and wives laud husbands for being "a loving and caring and wonderful father to our three smashing kids". Sons put mothers on pedestals and daughters doted on dads.

Driscoll sneered and sniffed at every mention of fillial devotion and every wittering from uxorious husbands. Eventually, it was too much, too high a price to pay to fill the silence, and he switched off with such force that the knob almost came off in his hands.

It was understandable, particularly in his case. No-one likes to be reminded of the things that life is currently denying them, still less the fact that they once had those things and threw them away or let them slip through their fingers.

There was always whisky of course, he thought. It never let you down. Skilled men in distilleries throughout Scotland were paid good money to make sure that it didn't. No, whisky was a reliable companion that gave comfort on demand without argument or condemnation.

Driscoll looked around the room for the half bottle he thought he still had before remembering, with a jolt of disappointment, that he had finished it off shortly after his "ghost" had left with his cash.

He sighed at the inevitability of his situation. There was no doubt about it. It all kept returning to the question of the money. If it had been just enough to keep him bowling along for another few days things would have been different. It would have been simple enough to find another no hoper and put the whole bundle on that. The plan was bound to work a second time. Not even a haunted embezzler could be unlucky enough to win twice in a row on a 100 - 1 shot.

But it was not a little money. It was a lot of money and it was only now dawning on him just how much. It was enough to get him out of the country, perhaps to somewhere warm where his bones didn't ache for most of the year. Maybe even.........he looked at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror as if for confirmation of the possibility...maybe even a chance to start over.

His grizzled reflection held Driscoll in its gaze and seemed reluctant to let him turn away just yet. It seemed to be asking the question Driscoll had been trying to bury: "Do you really think you deserve a new start when you haven't paid for the past yet?"

Somewhere, deep down in Driscoll's soul, the need for punishment and atonement was stirring.

Part Thirteen: TEA AND EMPATHY

Miss Laird had regained her composure and put the affair of the missing eggs into its proper perspective.

In her prayers at Church that morning she had remembered to ask for forgivenness for her cruel outburst. Her repentance had been as strong as her character and it had greatly improved her frame of mind, as had an above average sermon from the Minister which had managed to be both stern and comforting at the same time. Yes, it was safe to say that all but perhaps one, or two, of the laughing imps were some distance away at the moment.

Nevertheless, she could not deny a small pang of melancholy as she sipped her tea for, all around her, in the Botanic Garden Tea Rooms were couples and parents with children and here she was, another Spring and still on her own and still at No.17.

She was supposed to be enjoying a different life by now. Circumstances had forced her far from the course set by herself and, instead of blaming the metaphorical reefs that lay just under the surface of life and upon which she had certainly come to grief not a few times lately,she did that typical Scots Calvinist thing and blamed herself. It was all her fault. She should have seen things coming. She should have listened to her mother. She should have smelt a rat with the Todd thing that was for sure.Her siblings had sorted themselves out, why couldn't she.

To be honest, she wasn't sure in what way her life would be different but she was quite sure that it would not involve stale smelling rooms, threadbare carpets and strange fellow lodgers.

Lodgers! How she hated that word. Surely, if any single word in the English language conjured up the idea of failure - it was "lodger".

This alternate life, only ever seen through mists of wishful thinking, would not have involved being alone either. She took a deep breath, as though it would clear these morbid thoughts out of her system, and another sip of tea and remembered the morning's sermon. Yes, indeed, despair was a sin - and it was also very tiring.



A little girl in a red matinee coat stood a few feet away studying her with the intentness of those for whom the world is still a minute by minute adventure.

"Hello poppet", said Miss Laird, glad of the distraction, "what's your name?"

The child laughed and hid her face behind her hands and, for the first time since Lachlan's call, Elizabeth Laird, 42 and still spinster of this parish smiled too.

She was still smiling when she happened to glance over in the direction of the counter and saw Buster staring back at her with the expression of a terrified goldfish. Miss Laird's smile vanished like snow on a griddle and Buster vanished, as best he could, behind a portly lady just ahead of him in the queue.

He had only come in to the tea room because he had not realised that squirrels lived in the Botanicals too and he had nothing for them in his pockets. Besides, he was feeling peckish himself and he had decided to kill two birds with one stone. It seemed, to him, a bit thick that, so often, when you tried to do a good deed for others, you landed up in the soup yourself.

Now he just wanted to get the things he had come in for and to get out again sharpish. He certainly did not want any more trouble. So far, Edinburgh seemed to have had more trouble in store for him than was normally the case and it was bad enough to get a dressing down when you were the only one in the room but it would be a thousand times worse if this mad lady lost her rag in front of all these people. Just as he was reflecting on the form his humiliation might take, the portly lady was served and his cover had gone.

"Yes, dear?", said the motherly woman at the counter.

Buster shot Miss Laird a nervous glance before giving the woman his order along with a polite request that she place them in two separate paper bags.

Whether it was to do with the Rev Mackie's sermon, or the strain of holding on to bitterness for too long, but Miss Laird found that her anger toward this unfortunate had completely leeched away and she was now wondering what the "poor soul" was doing wandering about without any supervision.

Buster grinned nervously as the woman behind the counter made a great display of putting ginger biscuits and Dundee Cake into two paper bags. She was a kind lady and she was trying to make him feel important but he just wished she'd hurry up and he hated himself for it.

Meanwhile the memory of the words spoken in the kitchen surfaced again and Miss Laird cringed with guilt as she wondered how she could make amends to prove to herself that her repentance was real and not merely a matter of polite form.

Buster paid for his purchases just as Miss Laird rose from her chair in that semi-automatic way that people do at Fundamentalist Meetings. She had to get this off her chest and she would make a start by buying the eccentric lodger a cup of tea and taking the opportunity to tell him how sorry she was. She took a few steps toward Buster, her face etched with a mixture of concern and contrition.

Unfortunately for her, Buster turned away from the counter just in time to see Miss Laird bearing down on him and he, not the most skilled at reading facial expressions, thought that his worst fears had been confirmed and that he was about to be "torn off a strip" in public by a woman not fully in control of her emotions.

Once more, he fled from Miss Laird's clutches, leaving her standing, open-mouthed, in the middle of the tea room. Suddenly, the poor woman was aware of many eyes burning into her flesh. She slipped back to her table, picked up her handbag and tiptoed out of the tea room studying the floor every step of the way.

Part Twelve: SUNDAY MORNING ECHOES OF THE NIGHT BEFORE

Miss Laird had slept only fitfully through the night. By the morning it seemed as if she had not slept more than an hour at any one time and this, she thought, was worse than not sleeping at all.

During her periods of wakefulness, which accounted for most of the night, the phone conversation repeated itself over and over again like a record with a needle stuck in the groove. She flushed with embarrassment that she had ever thought that Lachlan could be interested in her in that way.

What HAD she been thinking of, for goodness sake? Of all the silly schoolgirl nonsense. She would have hoped that Bill Todd had cured her of all that and she was sick with herself that she had not seemed to have learnt her lesson - not even after all the pain that "sly Todd" had caused her.

She was supposed to be working hard to repair her fortunes after that "basket" had fleeced and jilted her - not jeopardising her current livelihood, for goodness sake. What a fool she had been. What a bloody little fool. What would her dear Mother make of all this? Then, as was the pattern of the night, after a brief, intense burst of self flagellation, she would drift off to sleep again only to repeat the whole dreary performance again in less than an hour.

Eventually, about 8a.m., tired of this demented roundabout and the effort of trying to ignore the shabbiness of her room - it always seemed more depressing in the morning - Miss Laird decided to have a bath. There was always the chance that all the little imps responsible for her shame and self loathing would shrivel up in the steam and never bother her again.

Certainly, some of them succumbed as she wallowed in the hot bath water but enough survived to keep Elizabeth at least an arms length from piece of mind. Slowly, though, as the steam subsided, the sheer power of sour resentment came to her rescue.

Here she was, living in conditions which, to her sensibilities, were little short of Dickensian, and yet she, and she alone, was the reason that Lachlan was making so much money out of that little hat shop in the West End. She was pretty sure, too, that it was one of his more profitable ventures - apart from his flats anyway and, lets face it, she thought, driping vinegar, any idiot could make money out of flats in Edinburgh these days. It didn't exactly take much imagination or flair. Certainly not as much as she needed to run that little shop which, by the way, regardless of what he might think, didn't run itself.

And you had to have an eye for colour and style - and price! Let's not forget about price. The whole thing was you had to be able to deal with people and that was never Lachlan's strong suit. Lets face it he needed her more than she needed him, if it came to that.

She bit her lip, poisoned by her own venom. She was not by nature angry or vicious and this spate of the aforementioned unattractive traits had exhausted her.

A tear rolled down her cheek. She was making Lachlan a small fortune and getting peanuts back in return. The man couldn't even make a simple dinner arrangement and stick to it. It was hard not being appreciated. It was hard not having the ownership of your own success.

The tears flowed freely now and a veritable volcano of anger was churning in her belly. She pounded the water with both fists.

"Bloody Lachlan," she shouted out loud, not caring who heard her. "Bloody dinner. Bloody Todd. Bloody threadbare carpets. Bloody tatty wallpaper."

She paused just long enough to get her breath back. "Bloody life. My bloody, bloody life!"

Somewhere, out of reach of the steam, a choir of imps were laughing themselves silly.



No17 struggled to greet another day. The sun tried its best to bring illumination to the establishment but there were some places where the sun would never shine. There were just too many shadows in that house for one sun to conquer.

Driscoll sat on the end of his bed sucking on the first Capstan Full Strength of the day and trying not to think about his recent "haunting". In fact he was hoping that he could spend the whole day on "automatic pilot" as far as the thinking went.



The sound of old Josef having a coughing fit carried up the stairwell.Miss Laird smoothed down her skirt and wondered if she should go down and check on the old chap but before she had time to make a decision the coughing stopped and she was suddenly aware of how much anger can whet your appetite. Besides, she thought, if living well really was the best revenge, then surely a good breakfast would set you off in the right direction.

She settled on bacon, eggs and fried bread and a mug of tea. She remembered that she'd got some good bacon from that nice little grocer on the corner and those lovely local eggs of his.

She was not to know that the house's latest arrival had also been thinking of his stomach.



As she walked into the kitchen the first thing she was aware of was Buster's cavernous open mouth about to bear down on a fried egg sandwich. The second thing was an open carton of eggs, with two missing, sitting on the kitchen table. The third thing?........They were her eggs, her bloody eggs!!

"Excuse me", she said, suddenly furious at the impotence of those two words.

Buster froze in the act of mid mastication. The two eyed each other like alleycats in a territorial dispute. Miss Laird was about to launch into the Riot Act when there was a flurry of activity in the region of Buster's jaw as he chewed away like a maniac then swallowed hard.

Mouth empty, he launched into a pre emptive defence. Mr. Straczynski wassogenerouswhatwithbuyinghimthatbigbitofcheesecaketheotherdayandgivinghimgaribaldisanddundeecakeonhisfirstnightthathethoughtthattheoldmanmeantthatallthefoodinthehousewasfreehewaseversosorrybutitwasanunderstandablemistakewasitnotyoucouldn'tblamehimcouldyou.....couldyou?

Buster only fell silent when he had run out of breath. He studied Miss Laird's twitching features and hoped against hope that his eloquence had won the day.

His adversary's expression bore a strong resemblance to a haddock's just after it had been landed and lay gasping for breath on the deck of a trawler and, after she composed herself, Buster knew there would be no escape.

"As if it weren't bad enough that you think you can commandeer the bathroom with a complete disregard for the convenience of others, you now feel free to purloin other people's groceries."

She was aware of her finger wagging, involuntarily, in front of her and this ludicrous little creature eyes being focussed on it like a hypnotised, cross eyed rabbit.

"I shall certainly be having words with Mr. Straczynski about this. You've gone too far this time. I know some rather strange people have crossed the threshold of no. 17 but I thought he would stop short of giving house room to an obvious mental defective.........."

The minute the words had passed from her lips she pulled herself up short. It was too much. It was just too cruel. She had been thoroughly provoked but she should not have used that word.

She was not a cruel person. It was not the way she had been brought up and something deep inside her, like a long forgotten admonition from a parent, told her that she had crossed one of those invisible, but all too real, lines that should never have been crossed. Still the word could not be "unsaid" and she was not yet ready to apologise to someone that she had just caught stealing from her.

She needn't have worried quite so much though, as Buster did not actually understand the word. He understood anger though and sat shaking while he wondered what she would do next.

Long seconds passed and still Miss Laird remained silent as she stood staring at the egg carton.

Suddenly, a light bulb switched on inside Buster's head. He was sure he had thought of a way to repair some of the damage that had been done. Gingerly, he edged the carton toward her, mentioning as he did so, that there were enough eggs left if she still wanted a sandwich for herself.

Miss Laird looked at him eyes, blazing. The match had lit the touch paper and it seemed to Buster as if the woman had expanded to twice her normal size.

"Get out. Get out of my sight you wretched little man".

Buster didn't need telling twice. He dodged past her in wild eyed terror, heading for the stairs, the main door and the open road.

Miss Laird leaned over the bannister to deliver her parting shot. "And you can be sure the landlord will find out about your thieving ways."

Part Eleven: ALL THE WARMTH OF THE PAST VISITS THE UNWORTHY DRISCOLL

When Driscoll switched the light on in his room the bulb blew and somehow he was strangely relieved. He did not want the evidence of his decay to be seen by anyone and particularly not this will o' the wisp creature who might fly away, like some exotic butterfly, at the slightest upset.

He had intended to make a cup of tea for them both but the woman, who was now bathed like some wraith in the light of the full moon streaming in through the window, had started taking off her clothes, folding them neatly and laying them over the back of a chair at the foot of his bed.

Driscoll watched the scene with a depth of compassion he no longer thought that his shrunken heart was capable of. She must be exhausted, he thought, but he was not thinking about the possibility of sex, because, even now, he did not think that there WAS any possibility.

He noticed again the clues to a hard life evident in her clothing; the frayed hem of her dress, the ladder high up one stocking, the button about to fall off the little matching jacket, the whole in the sole of one shoe.

Finally, she slipped out of a pair of worn, ivory coloured drawers with a detached and silent grace and slipped bewtween the covers with a grateful sigh and lay her head down, before remembering Driscoll who was still standing with the teapot in his hand.

"Aren't you getting in then?"

She had a nice voice. It was clear and well modulated but he could not think of which part of England it belonged to.

"Come on. You can't stand there holding a teapot all night." There was a matter of fact mirth in her tone.

He nodded towards another chair. "I'll kip in that".

She studied him for a long moment, touched by his awkwardness.

"Come on. Get in." she said in mock schoolmistress tone.

He was too tired to argue and besides it had been a long time since he had experienced genuine concern and he was superstitious about such things and felt that a rebuff to any kindness, however small, might mean that that was the last of any he might ever see.

So, he settled down with her and as he placed a nervous hand on her belly and as they were now the only two people left in an empty moonlit world, he decided this WOULD be his Margaret for as long as the sun kept its distance.

"What a pair we are" said Lesley drowsily.

"A couple of Lipton's orphans" replied Driscoll.

Lesley laughed. "The Start Rite Kids before they started".

Driscoll reached out tremulously to encompass one small breast with his hand. He was not sure of her reaction, even at this late stage in the proceedings, but she was already asleep.



Sometime in the early hours of the morning he was awoken by Lesley massaging his chest, moving her hand round and round in circles and working lower and lower. He opened bleary eyes to see her smiling down at him. She looked younger and even more vulnerable.

He put his hand on hers and she stopped what she was doing to look down at him quizzically.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He was groping for the appropriate words when, once again, he decided against rebuffing tenderness. What if something like this never happened again in his life. He took his hand away. She continued.



Once the Old Ceremony was over they lay exhausted in each other's arms. Driscoll glowed. He had stepped out of the shadows again. Now he was more than just a memory in other people's lives. He was , for however briefly, part of someone's life but, just to reassure himself, he placed the tip of a finger gently under her left breast. Yes, there was another heart beating alongside his own in this newly blessed dark. Outside the full Moon was still riding high and mighty in his kingdom and the reborn Driscoll was safe for now.



The two refugees from the day lay in bed bathed in moonglow talking of their lives in generalities as if they feared that being too specific about anything would turf them out of the warmth of this bed, and its companionship, and back to the reality of the cold streets again. When the spell cast upon you matches your desires you will do anything not to break it.

They commisserated with each others difficulties, as far as this non specificality would allow, and offered cliched advice and support for a future which Driscoll fervently hoped could be held at bay forever.

He would have been only too happy for this moment, this very one, to be his past, present and future all rolled up together. He knew that all too soon that arrogant ball of fire and gas would come raging over the rooftops looking for him. It would peer into every nook and cranny, illuminating each shabby, mishapen thing that was better left to the shadows. Burdened by that knowledge, he struggled heroically to stay awake till his moment of peace was wrenched from him by force.



In the event, he woke just after dawn, hoping for a last embrace to send him out into his solitary future, but he was already alone in his bed. A noise by the door made him look up.

Lesley was neatly putting back his wallet into his inside jacket pocket. She saw him observing her with his old familiar and unkind eyes but she showed no sign of fear or a guilty conscience as she held up three £10 notes splayed out like a fan.

"That's fair, isn't it sweetheart. I mean you did have a good time, didn't you?"

Part Ten: A BRIEF, BUT TENDER, HAUNTING

As he made his way back to his lodgings, the events of the day buzzed around Buster's head like a swarm of industrious bees.

There was the altercation with uniformed authority in that forbidding and mighty Hall of Culture and then there was the unpleasantness at lunchtime when all he had wanted was a good feed, but there were many other things "singing" in his head too.

There was the young man sitting on the bench in Princes Street who had begged his love not to leave him, who had laid his heart bare for her and told her that his world would have no meaning if she was no longer in it. She listened in silence as though she had already left and Buster had tried all day to get the sound of the pain in the young man's words out of his head and only now were they fading.

There was the little girl clutching her dolly and sitting alone on the grass in the Princes Street Gardens while her peers played a few yards away, ignoring her completely.

Buster had been on the point of going over and giving them a good talking to. Why did she have to be left out of the fun? He had then thought of going over to the little girl and offering her one of the boiled sweets, he was never without, to cheer her up but his Guardian Angel had tapped him on the shoulder just in time and then he remembered that his betters did not appreciate that sort of thing and, in his case at least, were very likely to misunderstand his motives. The world was always looking for monsters and bogey men and he was not going to give anyone the satisfaction of casting him as one. The little man had, reluctantly, left the child alone with her doll and walked away biting his lip.

Then there was that other young man, the one with the face of a beautiful boy who had run towards him, arms outstretched and then stopped, just feet away, throwing his head back to gaze up at the sky in rapture.

He looked as if he had just seen something too wonderful to put into words. Buster had looked up too but, he could see nothing but blue sky and the odd small cloud and yet he knew there must be something because its presence shone across the young man's face and the little man was still wondering what it could have been when he entered the eastern end of St. Stephen Street.



Archie, beloved companion of Miss Agnes Reid, 64 St. Stephen Street, sat in the doorway of a florists staring up at the man in the moon. The celestial gentleman with his fat smiling face was too far away for stroking and cuddling purposes but his presence was still comforting.

Archie certainly needed comforting tonight. He could still feel the impression of the fishmonger's boot on his backside and that particular violence had been visited on him a good many hours ago now.

Also, he had nearly been run over by a child on its bike and, just to round off a pig of a day, he was shut out of his very satisfactory billet because old Agnes had fallen asleep in front of the T.V. and so couldn't see him as he pawed at her ground floor window and yowled his head off.

He had just accepted that he was alone in all the world when he became aware of another presence in the street.

Buster liked St Stephen Street and was glad that it was on his way home. If the truth were told he would even have taken a detour, if necessary, for the pleasure of walking along it yet again. He liked the fact that, along with the fishmonger, florist, newsagent and all the other sensible shops, there were also establishments that sold old brass candlesticks and accordians and boxes of photographs of worlds vanished long ago and dusty old books which, he suspected, contained lots of useful stuff that the big wide, whirling world had forgotten that it needed to know.

Tonight, as usual, he was not dissappointed for, halfway along the street he saw something glinting in an antique shop and went to investigate. An oval table mirror wth a heavy silver frame entwined with long, tangled flowers, picked out in relief, sat in pride of place in the middle of the window.

Buster liked mirrors - entwined with flowers or not - and he leaned forward grinning and eager to run through his usual repertoire of funny faces before experimenting with some new ones.

His great moon face grinned back lit by the reflection of the street lamp behind him. What a handsome fellow he was, he thought with proprietorial pleasure. He was proud of his rubber features and their ability to provide amusement. He just wished that there was someone else to enjoy this show and he remembered the little girl in the park.

Just then Archie made his presence felt by coiling in and out between Buster's legs and purring loudly.

Buster's wish had been answered and he bent down, beaming. The purring grew louder as the animal luxuriated in this stranger's attention and as he studied the fat moon face Archie's heart beat a little faster. Had the man in the moon taken pity on his miserable and humble admirer and come down to offer what comfort he could?

Archie's hero held him to his heart and kissed his forehead, cuddled him and crooned into his twitching ear and waltzed around the cold night street with him.

His feline fan was ecstatic. So the moon - the beautiful, distant and silvery moon had deigned to come down and dance with him and comfort him in his hour of despair. One thing was certain. Archie would never - pardon the pun - see the moon in the same light again.

The warmth of Buster's embrace and the soporific effect of his crooning had anaesthetized the animal to the day's sorrows, and he had quite forgotten his throbbing backside, but all good things end too quickly. Buster, suddenly remembering that he had a warm bed waiting for him and feeling that his own eventful day was now catching up with him, kissed Archie on the forehead, placed him gently down on the cold pavement and bade him a fond farewell.

After watching Buster turn the corner at the end of the street, Archie wandered back to the florist's doorway, resigned, once more, to his solitude.



Lesley was much more than merely upset. She was at the end of her tether. She was defeated. She sat on her stool, head drooping, as silent tears ran down her face. Out of a mixture of compassion and embarrassment Driscoll bought her a large brandy and ushered her over to a cubicle in the far corner of the bar where he listened as patiently as any priest to her story.

It was his turn to pat her hand now. She did not flinch.She did not acknowledge his touch but she did not flinch. She just stared silently into the middle distance as Driscoll continued with his clumsy attempts to comfort her.

She looked so vulnerable, he thought. She looked at once older and younger than her years. She looked like...........he took a large draught of whisky in a vain attempt to wash away the thought but the squirrel lodging in the attic of his memory kept scratching.........and she would have been about that age when he walked out on her.........and she would have been........vulnerable! There was no whisky left in the glass and, without his "anaesthetic" to hand, Driscoll let out an audible sigh of pain.

Lesley looked up suddenly. She slid along the seat and lay her head on his shoulder. Driscoll froze for a second and then looked wildly around him as if for guidance as to what to do next and found that every eye that met his seemed to be daring him to brush her away.

Instead, he put his arm around her and drew her closer into him. He had not been this close to another's vulnerability for a long time. He had not been this close to anyone, in any way, for a very long time. It occurred to him that this might be the moment to make some small atonement for that long ago act of treachery.



In the chip shop she leant on the counter as she studied the items on the wall menu. Her face looked pinched and drawn under Vito's unforgiving strip lighting and Driscoll felt that the Fate that he had insulted a few short hours ago was retaliating with a challenge.

"Well, Thomas, are you going to repeat that old wickedness. Are you going to abandon her again?"



They sat on a pavement bench outside one of the New Towns Private Gardens. Lesley looked around, obviously impressed. She smiled.

"How the other half live, eh?"

Driscoll thought that with a smile on her face she looked the very spit of Margaret a quarter of a century ago. If he had been sober he would have thought he was being haunted. Now he just felt that the squirrel had moved from the attic into the pit of his stomach.

"Do you live around here Tommy?"

"Not far but its just a wee place. Don't let your grub get cold now."

She opened up the brown paper parcel licking her lips theatrically. Driscoll enjoyed the moment.What can be more satisfying than feeding the hungry?

She wolfed down the food with a relish bordering on desperation and he wondered how long it had been since she had had a square meal and at the same time he was certain that she had nowhere to lay her head for the night.

After finishing her meal, Lesley sat back with a contented sigh.

"That fill the inner woman, then?" asked Driscoll, trying for the avuncular approach.

Lesley smirked. "Oooo you cheeky sod, whatever did you mean?"

Her new protector blushed and stammered and tried to explain. She dug him playfully in the arm with her elbow.

"I was only joking. You're awfully serious to-night Tommy".

He felt a strange satisfaction at her use of the word "tonight".It implied that they had known many nights together and that she knew what was going on in his head. It was something that used to irk him all those years ago but, right now, it was like a warm fire on a cold night. She had breached the awful solitariness of his thoughts.

"Aye, well. Too cold to sit here all night."

Obediently, silently, she got up, straightened her dress and, meekly putting her arm in his, they walked downhill through the moonlit New Town.

She chattered away about nothing in particular as they went and as she did so one small compartment after another in the embezzler's heart came back to life rejoicing at the retreat of that perpetual silence which had ruled his world for so long.

Part Nine: A GHOST OF A SMILE.

The Gladstone could not exactly be described as the best feature of the elegant Georgian Square in which it sat.It's heyday as a smart Edinburgh Hotel, had been over for a good couple of decades now but there were still some echoes of its pre - war elegance.

Once it had been the haunt of Edinburgh's legal eagles, senior civil servants and even the "India Men" who had returned to the old country after a lifetime of service on the sub continent but, nowadays, you were more likely to find double glazing salesmen and shifty Edinburgh Councillors propping up the bar.

Driscoll, however, had a sneaking admiration for the place although he had seldom frequented the establishment, except for the odd occassion when he was in the vicinity and an excess of alcohol had helped him to overcome his deep seated inferiority complex. Funny isn't it, how bombastic, lifelong bullies will let themselves be intimidated by the little things.

To-night was different though. To-night he was every man's equal for had he not just "put one over" on fate itself?

The alcohol imbibed in various bars in Stockbridge had imbued Driscoll with a surface veneer that was shielding him from the realities of every day life. Even the mirrors in the bathroom kept the truth from him. He had arranged a temporary, charmed existence for himself.

He splashed his face in the sink and the face that he saw looking back from the mirror no longer had the familiar mottled complexion of the lifelong toper. Thirty years, at least, had been stripped away and now he felt a young man's optimism as far as the night ahead was concerned. It was Saturday night, after all, and nothing like the mean and desperate Saturday nights of his recent past either.

As he slicked his hair back he remembered his glory days when Saturday nights were simply a matter of donning your best bib and tucker and a confident smile. After a few drinks anything was possible and he had already had more than a couple of drinks.

After his ablutions were over he settled himself on a stool at the end of the bar and proceeded to do what he had always wanted to and could only now afford, which was to work his way through the malts from left to right along the whole length of the bar's gantry.

After the Balvenie, he bought himself a cigar. It was an appropriate night for a cigar, he thought. It was certainly an expensive cigar but Driscoll, who did not know much about such things, also did not know that this particular item was long past its best.

Still, he took an exaggerated pleasure in rolling the large object between his fingers and watching the progress of the beefy smoke rings as they rose high above him. Then he moved on to the Glenmorangie and after that the Lagavuillin.

Driscoll was pacing himself though. He may not have accrued much knowledge in his journey through this "Vale of Tears" but he knew and respected the malts and would never insult them by guzzling.

He also knew that, given the amount of booze he had already consumed, he stood no chance of getting to the end of the gantry, or even half way, but that was not the point. The point was that he was free to embark upon the adventure. The point was also that his new money, wrenched this very day, from fate's thorny paw would keep him from the aggravations of the world for the forseeable future and, then again, the real bloody point was that he had found a "cosy corner" here in the dear old Gladstone and he would hang on to the effect for just as long as he could.



"I like to see a man enjoy a good cigar".

Driscoll turned from his reverie to see a woman, probably in her mid thirties, and blonde, but not in a particularly provocative way. Her hair was shortish and straight and it framed the delicate features of a face which, if it hadn't carried a hint of weariness, would generally be considered pretty. She held out a slim hand.

"Lesley", she said, simply.

Driscoll stopped rolling the cigar. He was confused. Even in his inebriated state he knew that women like Lesley didn't talk to men like him. Men of his age were invisible to women under forty. It was some sort of unwritten, universal law.

Nevertheless, he looked her up and down while at the same time trying not to let her see him looking her up and down. Besides, he thought slyly, were not all the usual rules set aside for to night?

To night was a universe complete unto itself. The normal mean limitations of the day to day life of an ageing embezzler could not lay so much as a bony finger on this night. Perhaps his new found affluence brought some sheen of suavity to him that could only be picked up by the female of the species. This last thought chased another five years from off his shoulders.

If the haze of alcohol was kind to him, it was also kind to her. It hid her weariness from him. It hid the fact that her sleeveless but demure cocktail dress was frayed around the hem and that there was a small run on one of her black stockings just behind the knee.

None of that mattered though because Driscoll couldn't see it and, anyway, he had already decided that she was a bobby dazzler, a wee honey, a classy dame and so forth but he was still a little mystified, and even suspicious, of her sudden interest in him. It had been a very long time since any woman had even acknowledged his presence in the world and there was something about Lesley that was, at once, distant and tantalisingly familiar. He nodded at her glass which was still half full.

"Will you take a drink lass?"

She was easy to talk to and because of this Driscoll's puzzlement at her interest in him soon faded.From the little that she said on the subject of herself she was a business lady of some sorts up in Edinburgh to close some deal,or other. Driscoll didn't care about the details. She was pretty, she was breathing and she was talking to him in a way that made him feel that, as far as the opposite sex was concerned, he had not quite fallen off the edge of the world just yet.

She sat through his tales of Army life, his struggles to build up a good going business, loss of the same (though he was light on the details here) and his noble struggle to rise Phoenix like from the ashes.

With every twist and turn of this saga, which Driscoll nimbly edited as he went along, her face carried the appropriate expression and when it came to the point where his self serving monologue reached a particularly dramatic high, she thoughtfully laid her slim hand on his and stroked it sympathetically.

Driscoll felt his throat tighten and also a slight prickling behind the eyes. After all, here was a man who, for the best part of a decade, had barely been visible to the world. Here was a man who would have been of little interest to the world even if it could see him. Here was a man who eked out his days as a shadow in a dusty bedsit or a dingy pub lounge and now someone had shone a light into the darkness and her slim hand was, even know, coaxing him out into the world of the living.

He studied Lesley with new eyes but not with lust. He was drunk but he wasn't daft. He knew that the train had left that station a long, long time ago. Sex, as far as Driscoll was concerned, occupied the same amount of space in his head as Greek Mythology. No, he was merely assigning her a place in his own personal small gallery of saints for what she had already bestowed upon him to night.

When he "snapped to" again Lesley was rummaging in her handbag.

"What's the matter sweetheart?"

"My purse. I was going to buy you a drink."

"Don't worry, doll", said Driscoll, the veritable knight errant, "I've got it."

"No but my purse..........and my keys". There was a hint of a wail in her voice which unnerved him.

She looked like a child about to cry and Driscoll noticed her weariness for the first time and suddenly she seemed oddly familiar to him. He felt as if some squirrel was scampering through the attic of his memory, kicking up dust without finding what it was looking for and he was overcome with compassion for this shopworn angel.

"Well, don't fash sweetheart", he said sounding more genuine than he had all evening, "We'll sort something out."