One of the kilted men raises his hand so quickly he nearly spills the beer of the man next to him, who shoots him a dirty look. The kilted man hurries towards the stage.
“Grand. Up with you.” Angus helps him up.
His twin raises a hand.
“Aye?”
“Got a need for a set of bagpipes up there too?”
“No!” Stavros lurches forward. “We have discussed this. You are banned. Banned! There will be no bagpipes from you. Not after what you did to poor Phyllis’ hearing aid.”
“Ach. She were nae harmed.” The bagpiper is twice Stavros’ size, looming over him like a trunk over a twig. “And I’ve been practicing hard, and I thinned out the blades as well. Not nearly so sharp, eh.” He pats the smaller man on the shoulder. “Now, pop out of the way, there’s a good barkeep.”
Stavros sputters, but when no one else comes to his defence, he raises his hands in surrender and steps aside.
“Do you know ‘McPherson’s Rant’?”
They both nod, and the bar settles as the fiddle player counts them in quietly under his breath. The first notes are uncertain, unsettled, but as the bagpipes join in, the sound grows more confident: a buoyant melody that set toes tapping across the room. Priya and Lila sway in their seats, wearing matching smiles, while Ewan is still gaping at Angus as the big man brings his mouth to the microphone.
His singing voice is like warm caramel, soft and rich and round, and he carries himself with a confidence I didn’t expect. Angus’ eyes lock with mine and he winks.
It’s as if he’s singing for me.
Quickly the toe tapping turns to foot stomping, as folk around the bar sway on their feet, taken by the lively notes. Even Stavros has backed down, returning to the bar to lean sullenly next to Bonnie, who’s watching with a face like she’s swallowed a lemon. I suppress a chuckle and catch Angus’ eye again.
His face is soft, vulnerable in a way I haven’t seen before. A few strands of his hair fall over his eyes. He brushes them away. With his lips curled in a smile, he’s lighter, his movements looser, all his attention focused on the song – and me.
Because there’s no mistaking it.
He’s not looking at anyone else.
That low heat burning in his eyes is only for me.
Too soon, it comes to an end. Angus drops off first, softly repeating the refrain, and then the bagpipes silence, and the fiddle player lets his bow drop. The crowd erupt with applause, stamping their feet and crying for them to go again, again. But Stavros is already ushering them all off-stage, wagging his finger at the bagpipe player who – to his credit – hasn’t played a single sharp note.
Angus slinks back to the table, various well-wishers slapping him on the back, and slips into his seat, a rueful grin on his face.
“You didn’t bloody tell us you could sing.” Ewan sounds affronted. “What is that, then?”
Angus takes a long, thirsty swallow of his pint. “Didn’t ask, did you,” he says with a laugh. “Nice try though.”
“Nice try at what?” I ask, confused.
“Angus!” Priya interrupts. “You were really good. And you even remembered to smile. That’s important, you know. The audience likes it better when you smile, don’t they, Mum?”
“That’s right, baby.” Lila casts Angus an appraising look. “I’m surprised you don’t sing more. You’ve got a lovely voice.”
Angus ducks his head. “Thank you. Glad I could entertain. But that’s enough about me, right. Look! They’ve got another band on.”
The ensemble taking to the stage look as if they’d be more at home at a festival, all top hats and shimmering leggings and more instruments than they can possibly play, but soon they strike up such a lively tune that they have half the room dancing, and the other half slapping their thighs in appreciation.
Ewan fetches us another round of drinks, and we watch the band perform a few more songs, each ruder and more raucous than the last. After them comes a tiny woman with the voice of an opera singer, whose ballad has me choking back tears, and then she’s followed by a folk duo who bring the house down with an acoustic rendition of “Brown Eyed Girl”.
Halfway through the last act, Priya lays her head on Lila’s shoulder and drifts off to sleep, her dark hair falling across her face. Lila’s eyes shine, her expression half-joy, half-melancholy, as she brushes Priya’s hair back and kisses her forehead.
“Come on, sleepyhead,” she says. “Let’s get you off to bed.”
Priya jerks up. “I’m awake! I promise! Please, Mum. One more song?”
