successful business, and now Graham was having to take the full brunt of its demands on his own wide shoulders.
‘Indeed we are talking about the same man,’ he answered, his eyes crinkling as a ready smile spread itself across his features. ‘You’d be proud of me these days,’ he assured Jim, patting his friend’s hand. ‘I’m at my desk for hours at a time! I’ve given up all this rushing about as though there’s no tomorr …’ His voice tailed off as he caught Jennifer’s wide-eyed alarm at his thoughtless use of the expression.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry, Jim. Jen …’
Jim shook his head. ‘Away with you now,’ he said. ‘God, it’s getting so no-one’s comfortable saying ANYTHING around me any more.’ He threw down his spoon. ‘I’m sick of it!’
‘Jim!’ Jennifer reached for his hand, but he pulled roughly from her. She reached for her coffee mug, looking down and away from them both.
With difficulty Jim rose, tightening the cord on his dressing-gown. Graham held his breath as he watched his friend stumble towards the kitchen window. He knew better than to offer his help. Finally, leaning on the counter-top for support, Jim spoke again.
‘It’s a fine morning,’ he said, his voice trembling with the effort of the movement.
‘It is,’ Graham agreed, forcing a cheerfulness back into his tone, a cheerfulness he no longer felt. He would never get used to this, never get used to seeing Jim wither in front of him; wither and die.
Last week, in a quiet hour while Jim slept, Jennifer had confided in him that she’d be glad when it was over. He had wanted to censure her for her honesty, but in his heart of hearts he too had wished it over. And in that moment, he had died a little himself.
‘And I’ve got just the news to make the morning even finer,’ he breezed on, determined to try – for all of their sakes. He shot a smile of shared sympathy at Jennifer. She caught it and nodded slightly, grateful for the gesture.
‘Well,’ Jim said, reaching for his wife’s arm, ‘don’t keep us waiting.’
Jennifer stood and helped her husband back into his chair, wrapping the blanket he had thrown from his shoulders around him. He tugged it away once more, and she sat, refusing to acknowledge this small rebellion.
Graham cleared a space on the white Formica top and pulled out a manila file. ‘You know that Atkinsons have been scouting around the area? Well, yesterday their “man about town” dropped by the office, Jim. They’ve clients in London who’ve been buying up property all over the place. They’re set on having a chain of bistros from Land’s End to John O’Groats.’
‘Bistros, no less!’ Jennifer interjected, smiling at the thought.
‘Don’t laugh, Jen,’ Graham said. ‘If they’ve come this far north, they’re not playing at it. Anyway, Jack Buchanan – that’s the bloke from Atkinsons - was telling me that they’re chock-a-block in the Glasgow office, and he was wondering if we’d like a crack at handling the account. He more or less let me know we could charge double our normal fees and, as long as we handled the first one right, they’d use us as their base in the Highlands. We could have accounts as far as Inverness. They’re not intending to let the grass grow under their feet, that’s for sure! What d’you think?’
Jim looked thoughtful. ‘What property do they have in mind?’
‘Wait, OK? Just wait a minute when I tell you - before you jump down my throat.’
Jim’s eyes were wary, but he nodded.
‘The Whig,’ Graham breathed, turning sideways to face his partner, crossing his long legs in front of him.
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Jim protested, his voice unsteady still. ‘Maisie’ll never sell the Whig. It’s her life.’
Jennifer, too, was shaking her head at the idea. ‘I can’t see it, Graham,’ she said. ‘Not the Whig.’
‘Well, dear friends and colleague,’ Graham continued, smiling mischievously at them both, ‘Mr Buchanan is one step ahead of us there. It seems he’s had a word in Maisie’s ear already, and she’s definitely considering it. Definitely!’ he added, wagging a finger in emphasis.
‘We-ell …’ Jim exhaled, slowly. ‘That’s a turnup for the books.’
‘A very lucrative turn-up,’ Graham reminded him. ‘And it’s just the beginning. They’re planning six more over the next eighteen months. They could become a major client, Jim, and Atkinsons would be happy to stay on the sidelines. No interference from them, as long as we’re diligent.’
‘No interference from me either,’ Jim said, smiling ruefully.
‘Come on, Jim,’ Graham pleaded. ‘Don’t talk like that. There’s always hope.’ He wished desperately that it were so.
‘There’s no hope,’ Jim said, very quietly, very definitely. ‘I thought we were all agreed on that.’ He paused briefly. ‘Now, what d’you need from me?’ he asked.
Graham shook his head, lost for words. ‘Just … Just that you’re happy with pursuing it. The account.’
Jim reached out, clasping Graham’s arm with one hand and Jennifer’s with the other. ‘Look at me,’ he demanded. Two sets of eyes met his own. ‘All I want is for you to keep going, Graham. Keep rushing, and running, and busy, and alive! Don’t get so bogged down with accounts you forget what it’s like to be alive.’
Jim paused, gathering his breath. ‘And take care of my Jenny …’ he added, stroking her arm, his own eyes filled with an inestimable sadness.
Graham swallowed, hard. ‘You know I will.’
Jim eased back from them both. ‘Good.’ He smiled, though it lasted but a second. ‘What’s the next step?’
Jennifer was trembling slightly. Graham knew it wasn’t fear, for she’d long since faced her fear. Fatigue, then. At ten-thirty on a bright spring morning, he finally began to understand the depth of her fatigue. And, as he shuffled the unopened file back into his briefcase, he realised that he couldn’t wait to get out of here, out into the sunshine, and away from them both. Out, out, out!
‘I’ll … uh. I’ll call in on Maisie, see what she has to say about it,’ he stammered.
‘Be careful,’ Jim warned. ‘She was talking about changing her accountant not so long ago; saying she wouldn’t mind giving us a shot at doing her books. Don’t go getting involved in a conflict of interests, Graham.’
Graham stood. His eyes creased with genuine mirth as he leaned towards his friend.
‘A conflict of interests? In Drumdarg?’
They all laughed. It was too daft for words.
‘We’ll get the one o’clock bus from the Whig,’ Rose said, avoiding her son’s gaze.
‘I don’t know why I have to come to the town with you,’ Barra grumbled. ‘And if we see anyone from school, I’m walking off.’
‘Don’t give me a hard time, Barra. How d’you think I could concentrate on my messages, with you wandering about the woods looking for some headcase of a boy pretending to be an angel?’
‘He is an angel,’ Barra insisted.
‘He is not!’ Rose thumped her string bag with the two library books on the table, making Barra jump.
‘Come on, son,’ she said, her voice quieter. ‘You’ve earned your pocket money. We could enjoy the afternoon together. I hardly get any time with you any more.’
‘It’s not that, Mam. Honest, it’s not.’ Barra’s brow furrowed. ‘It’s just … it’s cissy going up the town with yir mother.’
‘You