‘We’d need an electrician tae fix that,’ one of Sachin’s pals had said, the one in the kilt and jumper.
That’s when a tentative Euan had appeared from the shadows, dressed all in black, lowering his hood and pulling his black mask away. ‘Am I needed?’ he asked.
‘Not likely!’ Carenza scoffed. ‘There must be someone else who can fix it,’ and she’d set about searching all around the little raised platform, looking for the cause of the problem.
Another of Sachin’s pals was arriving, having traversed the field and returned carrying some bulky items in his arms. He cast Sachin a daring look.
‘Or, eh… we could help oot?’ Sachin said quickly, catching on.
Carenza was on her hands and knees looking at the power outlet. ‘The crowning’s not for half an hour. We need the party atmosphere to continue until at least then.’
‘What atmosphere’s that?’ Clyde Forte threw in with a laugh from where he’d been sitting on a haybale with his friend and a bottle of whisky he’d brought from home.
The band worked fast, unzipping instrument cases and shifting the DJ decks out of the way, running cords this way and that.
‘What are you doing?’ Carenza blew as they hustled her out of the way.
‘Where we’re going, we don’t need speakers!’ Sachin said, before counting the men in. ‘One, two, one, two, three, four!’ and a thudding sound filled the air, a Scottish drum, followed by the deep resonant beat of an Indian Dhol. It was enough to draw the crowds from far across the rec. Another of Sachin’s old pals cuddled his bagpipes under his arm and drew the blowpipe between his lips. A drone emerged that made the people murmur in approval as they drew nearer.
Euan, realising what was afoot, had found the DJ mic and hastily rigged it up on a stand, reconnecting it to the power, and Sachin, who’d been handed a keytar from one of his old friends, threw the strap over his head and plugged in the jack, and stepped up to the mic.
‘We are Down in the Dhol Drums, Cairn Dhu’s answer to the question, “What do you get when banging Bhangra beats meets Highland rock?” and it looks like we’re playing for yous the night!’
The mic fed back in a squeal, but nowhere near as loud as the delighted cries and applause from Mrs Roy and their daughters and sons-in-law at the side of the little stage.
Euan plugged the keytar into the amp and, throwing himself flat on the grass, reached his arm under the stage to retrieve the main power cable.
‘Got it!’
In seconds he’d set the disco lights spinning again, and Sachin flexed his fingers over his keys. ‘Let’s see if our band practice has paid off, eh, lads?’
Some of the crowd called a loud ‘hee-uch’ like this was a ceilidh, and the band fell into a swirling, skirling tune. Everyone was dancing in an instant.
Carenza watched from the margins, her mouth dropping open. ‘But… but, what about…’
Peaches was there to help her understand. ‘Mum? People are happy. Look. Let them play.’
‘Cheer your face up, Carenza.’ It was Senga, on hand to offer her own brand of sage advice. She’d left her stall to offer Sachin some encouragement. ‘There must needs be some noise to see off last night’s demons.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Carenza asked, crossly.
Rhona joined the gathering now too. She was supping happily from a paper cup between bites on a rum ball, chocolate vermicelli sprinkles scattered over her bosom like tasty sequins.
‘Our ma,’ chewed Rhona, ‘always said this day was about the balance between light and dark, good and evil, order and chaos. You can’t have any one without the other. Let the people have their fun after the long wait for summer, eh?’ Rhona pressed the cup into Carenza’s hand.
Carenza looked fit to drop at the realisation that the evening was slipping out of her control.
Peaches would have comforted her more if she hadn’t laid eyes on Euan Sparks trying to leave the Knowe without so much as saying hello. She’d caught his eye too, and he’d still skulked away.
‘Peach,’ her mum warned. ‘Not you turning on me too! And what happened to your date? Have you abandoned him so soon? Good grief!’ Her eyes jolted to the cup. She brought it to her nose to be sure. ‘Who’s tampered with my punch? That is absolutelyit!’
‘Mum.’ This time it was Peaches speaking in a warning tone. ‘We have to talk.’
24
Roz didn’t want to be the first to say something.
McIntyre throwing himself over the wall and the sound of his heavy landing had alerted Wayward, and stopped Roz in the act of hauling three decades’ worth of clutter from the space under the mill house staircase. McIntyre was surveying the mess now.
