Slipping my phone, a hair tie, two lip balms and a packet of Polos into my pocket, I gave him a questioning look. ‘The Clach?’
‘The Clachnaharry,’ he explained. ‘My local, back in the day. It’s not so far.’
My questioning look transformed into a suspicious squint.
‘How far is not so far?’
‘Down the lane and along a bit. What Mal would call a wee bimble.’
‘Then I’m game,’ I agreed, glancing proudly down at my virgin hiking boots. Now was their time to shine. ‘As long as it’s not too cold.’
Tucking his gloveless hands into his pockets, Callum smiled as I passed through door, avoiding bodily contact at all costs.
‘Practically summer out tonight,’ he assured me. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘I literally hate you,’ I declared as Callum opened the door to the pub, trying not to laugh. ‘No hyperbole, no exaggeration. If you were drowning and I had a length of rope, I would use it to make a scratching post for my neighbour’s cat before I tossed it to you.’
It turned out Callum’s interpretation of distance and temperature was wildly different to my own. Walking three miles in sub-zero temperatures was bad enough but I’d also been forced to learn the hard way about the perils of breaking in brand new hiking boots. Hobbling over to a wooden chair by the fire, I almost wept with joy as I collapsed into a chair, taking the weight off my poor, burning feet.
‘Will you forgive me if I get you a drink?’ Callum asked, standing over me.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘But get me one anyway.’
‘Anything in particular?’
Grasping the tops of my woollen mittens with my teeth, I peeled them away from my hands, eight fingers and two thumbs cramping inside.
‘Cup of tea and some crisps and some nuts and anything else they’ve got that’s edible.’
‘I’m not asking for tea in the pub.’
Callum balked and I fixed him with a hard stare.
‘If I don’t get a hot drink, I’m going to tell your dad we both want to watch his holiday videos every single night until we leave,’ I replied. ‘And I’m going to pause it to a question every fourteen seconds.’
Shaking his head but smiling again, Callum left me at the table, heading to the bar with his orders. As the roaring fire burned the chill from my bones, I watched him cross the room, long legs and easy grace. It was a stark contrast to the way he’d moved around his family home, so tightly wound, like he was afraid to make a sound. Here, he seemed so much more relaxed, drawn up to his full height, a ready smile on his face for anyone who crossed his path on the short walk to the bar. Callum might’ve grown up in Balmaclay but he stuck out like a sore thumb. No, more like a sore middle finger, taller and more pissed off. Even when the uneven ceiling sloped so low he had to stoop, Callum fit right in at The Clach. Dark wood and wine-red leather, cardboard coasters bearing the logos of brands and breweries. Warm, familiar and easy.
I loved a good pub. It was the one thing I’d shared with my dad, Thursday nights down at the Three Legged Stool for the weekly quiz. Whether or not a thirteen-year-old should be at the pub every Thursday was neither here nor there but the Christmas decorations at The Clach reminded me of home, antiques in their own right. A silver tinsel tree that had seen better days sat in the window, angels made from the cardboard inner tubes of toilet rolls and dated doilies lined the fireplace and someone had tied repurposed string between two mounted stag heads to display their Christmas cards like clean washing. The thought of the white-haired man behind the bar going into a cupboard or an atticto bring them out year after year made me smile. Everything about this place was welcoming, everything was a comfort. Even to a southern jessie like me.
Once I had defrosted well enough to manipulate my fingers again, I picked up the small handwritten menu that lay on our little table. Beer-battered haddock and chips, mussels in a cream and garlic sauce, Scottish sirloin steak, langoustines with homemade bread, haggis bhajis and cullen skink. My stomach growled with hunger and I knew I’d gratefully take whatever could be ready the fastest, even cullen skink, whatever it was. My only Cullen frame of reference was vampiric and this didn’t look much like aTwilight-fan pub.
‘This is the best I could do.’
Callum reappeared carrying a steaming glass mug and two tumblers full of what looked like whisky.
‘James behind the bar says this’ll warm you up. Coffee first then a glass of Old Pulteney.’
I took a cautious sip from the mug, fumes igniting inside my nose. The coffee had been spiked with whisky. Or someone had diluted a mugful of whisky with coffee, it was hard to tell.
‘And I’m drunk,’ I announced, eyes watering. ‘Irish coffee?’
‘Scottish coffee.’ He folded himself into the chair next to mine, eyes twinkling. ‘Because it’s made with Scottish whisky, and because James said so. Don’t think he won’t turn you back out in the cold if he hears you talking like that.’
I wanted to argue but as the feeling came back into my defrosted feet, they began to throb in the very specific way only women who had stubbornly tried to walk in ill-fitting shoes could ever understand. I wouldsay whatever anyone wanted as long as it meant I didn’t have to walk anywhere again for the foreseeable.
‘So.’ I rested back in my chair, gloves off but still bundled up in my hat, coat and scarf. Callum peeled off his thin woollen coat, nothing but a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans underneath. ‘This is your local?’
‘Used to be,’ he nodded, smacking his lips after taking a sip of the whisky, holding his glass up to the light like Indiana Jones beholding a rare artefact. ‘The Clach is about the only place you can get to without a car from Balmaclay and I was never allowed to borrow the car.’
