‘Three drams!’ Braveheart reappeared and bellowed. ‘And one for Grandpa here.’ And with that, he clapped Old Campbell on the back and kissed his forehead. And, finally, the old man was speechless.
The bar at the Harris Hotel, cosy and warm in look and feel with shelf upon shelf of whisky bottles doing a far finer job than wallpaper ever could, began to fill. Guests came in before and after their meals, locals came in from the cold and soon enough the tables and benches and stools were all taken. Different tongues joined in chatter; English, French, Icelandic and native Gàidhlig and the American visitors charmed everyone. They were the youngest there and there was a freshness to their energy which was welcome. They reminded Morag of the sheepdog pups her father used to breed: playful and daft and engaging but amenable enough to be reminded of correct behaviour. They were fun to watch, joshing with each other, open and friendly to everyone. They called people Sir and Ma’am and Morag found she rather liked this, though she hadn’t really objected to Lady Loch Nessie either.
Braveheart, it turned out, was actually called JB. And this, it transpired, was short for John-Barrington.
‘John-Barrington Abernathy the Third,’ Taylor qualified.
‘TheFourth,’ JB corrected.
‘He’s a dick,’ Drew butted in.
‘The much-in-demand dick you wishyouhad in your pants,’ JB countered.
‘I’ll not have that mouth in my bar,’ said Morag.
‘That’s a Scottish name, Abernathy,’ said someone else but JB declared that his family were as deeply Midwest as it was possible to be.
‘Drew here is from Beaverton, Oregon,’ JB said. ‘And Taylor’s from Colorado Springs in the Centennial State.’
‘And you’re here on your holidays?’
The three glanced at each other, tapped their whisky glasses on the table and necked them back in unison.
‘Actually, we’re here to run a marathon.’
And Morag thought she’d heard it all now. These three were barely able to keep themselves upright and yet they were here to run awhat?A marathon? Here? In April?
‘We ran the Paris marathon a few weeks back,’ Taylor told the room as if it was nothing more than having strolled up and down the Champs-Élysées.
‘Three hours sixteen minutes,’ JB proclaimed with a proud punch at his heart.
‘Three sixteen,’ said Taylor, raising a glass to himself.
‘Three twelve,’ Drew said awkwardly, anticipating the cuff around the head and the friendly abuse immediately dished up by the other two.
‘But there isn’t a Harris marathon,’ someone said.
‘There’s a half marathon – but that’s not until early July,’ said someone else.
‘You’re in the wrong place,’ laughed another.
‘Took the wrong boat, did you?’
‘Numpties, the lot of you!’
A marathon?! Here in Harris?! In April?! Oh aye – someone bring out the medals! We’ll have the podium up in no time! Can you laddies even put one foot in front of another?!
‘Taylor’s idea,’ JB said, hands held in surrender as if none of it had anything to do with him and he was simply doing his buddy a favour.
‘He’s from here,’ Drew said, taking off his glasses but still seeing double.
All eyes were on Taylor, the kid with blue eyes peeping from shaggy blonde curls and the fresh sweet face at odds with the strong athletic body it belonged to.
‘You’re fromhere?’
‘Oh way back,’ Taylor mumbled. ‘Distant relatives.’
Someone asked Taylor who, but JB launched into song once more and everything else was drowned out.
