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<h1>18</h1>
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<p><em>July:</em></p>
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<p>The stranger came knocking at the door in the early afternoon.
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Jean McColl didn't hear him at first, engrossed as she was in the
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delicate task of removing honeycombs from the hives at the back end
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of the vegetable garden where the bewildered and angry bees buzzed
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in clouds. The terriers heard him, as they heard everything and had
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set up a racket, insistently barking their high-pitched temper and
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eventually she had to lay down the smoke funnel and go round
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through the gate to the front yard to check.</p>
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<p>"Looking for work, " the man said. He was tall and angular,
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though broad shouldered and his dark hair hung down over his eyes.
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In the warmth of the summer afternoon, he was wearing a log coat
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with a belt hanging loose, the kind they used to wear back in the
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fifties and it had seen better days. Over his shoulder, an old army
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tote bag showed the stains of many miles.</p>
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<p>"Saw the sign, did you?" Jean was still wearing her broad straw
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hat with the muslin tucked into the neck of a man's chambray shirt.
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On her hands, a pair of her husband's protective gloves made her
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look almost comic, like a child dressed in adult's clothes. She
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unrolled the fine cloth and peered out from under the brim. "The
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sign on the gate?"</p>
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<p>"I did," he said, nodding to affirm. He was standing with both
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feet planted apart. One boot's sole was peeling from the upper.</p>
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<p>"Can you dig potatoes?"</p>
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<p>"Sure I can. All day too." He hadn't shaved in a couple of days
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and he looked as if he needed a bath. In the angle of the sun, she
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couldn't see his eyes, but there was no particular need. Maybe the
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country was changing after the austerity of the years after the
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war, but there were still plenty wanderers who couldn't settle, men
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with no fixed abode and an itch in their feet, looking for seasonal
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work.</p>
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<p>"Well, you look big enough," Jean said. She was fifty six years
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old, ten years younger than her husband Ian, and where he was wide
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and blocky, she was bird-like and quick. Her hair was pure white
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and her skin was clear despite a lifetime of helping to run the
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hill farm, out in all weathers. She squinted up at the big man.</p>
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<p>"The labourer is always worthy of his hire," the man said. His
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voice was deep and slightly rasped, like he'd beeen breathing in
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the cornstalk dust. She couldn't place his accent.</p>
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<p>"Amen to that," she said, picking up the context. He was a
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religious man. Good. "Blackwood should be back in a half hour or so
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and he'll tell you what's needed. But there's work to be done so
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he'll no doubt take you on." She turned and pointed round by the
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corner of the byre where a half dozen heavy red chickens were
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scratching in the straw, jerking their heads in nervous tics.
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"There's a space in the bothy where you can put your kit. Running
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water's from the tap on the wall."</p>
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<p>"What's he paying?"</p>
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<p>"Same as anybody else. A pound a ton and then he'll see how fast
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you go. You get bed and board, and if he takes a shine to you, well
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maybe there's some walling needs done for the winter, but that'll
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be up to him."</p>
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<p>The big man said nothing for a moment, but remained standing
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there, almost in silhouette. The sun limned the edge of his hair,
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making it gleam blue black, like a red Indian's hair. He looked as
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if he'd been sleeping rough for the past few days. Maybe he was
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hungry.</p>
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<p>"I suppose you could have a bite and a cup of tea while you're
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waiting. Give me ten minutes to finish with the bees and I'll put
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the kettle on."</p>
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<p>"I'd appreciate that, ma'am," he said, nodding again. He hadn't
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said much at all but that wasn't unusual either. Many of the men on
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the roads just came out of nowhere and worked a few weeks,
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sometimes a full harvest season and disappeared again with hardly a
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word. It was possible, Jean knew, that one or two of them might
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have been running from trouble, with the police or the army, but as
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long as they could work, that was nobody's business but theirs. She
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came from old farming stock and farmers in this neck of the woods
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liked to preserve their own privacy. They respected the need in
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others.</p>
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<p>Round at the home garden, she unshipped the last dripping slab
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of honeycomb while a few bees which had been out of the hive when
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she used the smoker came buzzing angrily around her head. The rich,
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thick honey dripped into the pan, sending up a luscious, exotically
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sweet scent that reminded Jean of every summer she'd spent on the
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farm. She smiled to herself, thinking of all those seasons that
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made up most of her life.</p>
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<p>She was in the kitchen when the man came back, now stripped of
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his heavy coat. The sleeves of his shirt, a faded blue
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working-man's cotton, were rolled up to his elbows, showing a pair
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of long, muscular arms covered in a matt of black hair. He'd
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obviously bent to get his head under the hosepipe tap for his hair
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was now slicked back from heavy eyebrows and beads of water
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trickled down his cheek like sweat.</p>
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<p>"Here, I made you a sandwich," she said, indicating the table.
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"Set yourself down while the tea's brewing."</p>
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<p>Off in the distance, a low rumble told her the tractor was
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heading back up the rutted track. The stranger sat up straight,
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head cocked to one side. An odd, indecipherable look flicked across
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his face. He blinked a couple of times.</p>
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<p>"That'll be Blackwood coming back," she said. It was a tradition
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in these parts, still is, for farmers to take the name of their
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spreads. Ian McColl farmed the highest land on the north side of
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the town, a mix of poor arable and high moorland where the bracken
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made further creeping inroads every year. They'd some cows which
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were pastured down on the edge of the barwoods and three hundred
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sheep and a small herd of shaggy highland cattle up on the heath
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and scrub of Blackwood hill and beyond. On the south facing fields
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below the trees where he'd spent three backbreaking years stripping
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out the thick gorse, there was a fair crop of early potatoes and a
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handy field of swedes, most of which would feed the beasts in the
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winter. It was a hard life up on the hill, both of them knew that,
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but for Jean, it was the only life, often rewarded by the late,
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dropping sun catching the rocks of Langcraig Hill in the distance,
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or gleaming up from the river estuary in the height of summer. The
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winters could be bad at this height, but then she'd see a spider's
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web hoar-frosted and glittering, or a white stoat go scampering
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across the rocks, and in the depth of January, she'd hear the first
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bleating sounds of the new life as the sheep dropped their lambs.
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It was no easy life, but there was a beauty and a symmetry and
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sometimes a magic in it all, as she would write in her neat hand in
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her diary.</p>
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<p>She brought two big mugs to the table and filled them both. "The
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ham's my own. Smoked only last week, and the bread's fresh from the
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oven this morning."</p>
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<p>Jean never tired of telling folk, even strangers looking for
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casual labour, about her bacon or her bread. She'd a store out the
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back with rough cheeses wrapped in muslin and maturing away in
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wooden rounds and a half a dozen demi-jons sealed up with last
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years vintage of elderberry wine. All of it, every fermentation,
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every batch of cheese was carefully noted in her book. Every new
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year she'd go down to the town, as long as the snows hadn't blocked
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the track, and buy a new diary. They were her pride and her record
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of thirty years up on Blackwood Farm. On winter nights, when the
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wind howled around the red-leaded struts of the haybarn, she would
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bring a book down from the loft and travel back in time to the days
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when she was young and dark haired; to when Ian McColl would take
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time off from the scything of the hay and chase her through the
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long grass and sometimes catch her.</p>
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<p>Outside in the yard the tractor shuddered to a halt. The engine
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barked twice and Jean knew there would be a plume of blue exhaust
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smoke trailing away from its rear end. The stranger started back at
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the sound and his eyes blinked several times as if grit had got in
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under his eyelids.</p>
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<p>"Och, it's only a backfire," she told him "You'll get used to
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that soon enough if you're here awhile."</p>
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<p>The man looked at her, still blinking, as if he couldn't really
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see her and Jean wondered if he was all right. Just then her
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husband came in, wide shouldered and with a day's silver growth of
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beard ragged on his cheeks. He took off his hat and wiped a
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handkerchief over the red crown of his head.</p>
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<p>"The heat would melt you out there," he avowed, and slung the
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hat onto the hook. He turned and saw the other man. "Looking for
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work I suppose?"</p>
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<p>The big man nodded again. "Yes sir, I am that."</p>
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<p>"Sound like an army man, eh?"</p>
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<p>Another nod.</p>
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<p>"So you'll not be scared of a bit of hard graft?" McColl said
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cheerfully. "Usual start rate's a pound a ton, and maybe a bit more
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on the up-slope when we reach it. There's a good two weeks work
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there on the early crop if you want it."</p>
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<p>Jean McColl brought the tea across and Ian sat down, his scalp
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fiery and beaded with sweat. He still hadn't set eyes on his wife,
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but when she laid the cup and a plate of sandwiches down in front
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of him he took her fingers in his calloused hand and gave them a
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gentle squeeze that conveyed a whole sonnet of feeling. "Good lass.
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Saved a life."</p>
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<p>The other fellow reached forward for his cup and as he did so
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his sleeve rose up close to his shoulder, just enough to expose a
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small tattoo on the outside of his arm below the shoulder.</p>
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<p>"That your name? Lesley?" Ian asked, pointing at the blue
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scrolled word on the skin. Jean was over at th stove and missed the
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tattoo. The man had taken a drink of tea and he inclined his head
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forward. The farmer took it as confirmation.</p>
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<p>"Right Les, if you want the work, then it's yours. You look as
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if you've got a strong back and I need the crop in by the end of
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the month for getting it down to the co-operative. On and after
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that, I've got some walling up on the moor that I'll need a hand
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with, so if you work out all right with the tatties, then you'll be
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welcome to stay."</p>
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<p>"The labourer is worthy of his hire," the new hand repeated,
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almost whispering.</p>
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<p>Ian eyed him up. "I'll be the judge of that, you can bet."</p>
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<p>Jean came to the table with her own cup, a delicate fluted piece
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of china which looked like a part from a doll's tea set next to her
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husband's chipped pint mug. The men finished their snack and Ian
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McColl took the new man through the back to show him the potato
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field. The stalks were already tall and drying to yellow, bent
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eastwards by the gentle breeze of the past few days which had died
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down now to a sultry summer's day.</p>
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<p>"The bothy's fine and dry and the missus is a good cook so
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you'll not want for a square meal or a place to sleep. You want
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anything from the town though, it's a bit of a hike. More'n five
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miles by the track. I don't manage down there myself much except
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for a delivery or for the auctions. You from around these
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parts?"</p>
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<p>"Long time ago," the fellow said. "Long time. Before, you
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know?"</p>
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<p>Ian McColl nodded. Some folk didn't give much away and he wasn't
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the one to push either, though it would have been good if the new
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hand was more of a talker. It was good to chew the fat across the
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table when the talk of farming was done and the work was finished
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for the day. From back in the kitchen, the sound of dishes being
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washed and stacked came back to them. Jean said something which
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neither heard clearly enough to make out, but from the tone was
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unmistakable. The terriers came scrambling out of the kitchen as if
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devils were chasing them. The door slammed shut.</p>
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<p>"Never did like her kitchen getting messed up," Ian said.</p>
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<p>The other man blinked again as if the sun was in his eyes.
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McColl moved off towards the tractor and got it started. He
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beckoned the stranger across and waited until the man hitched
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himself up behind the seat.</p>
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<p>"Might as well get started," he said brightly, slinging his cap
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back on his head and shoving the peak up the way farmers do. The
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tractor coughed bronchially, spat smoke from its stack and lurched
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round by the byre.</p>
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<p>Jean McColl watched from the window, thinking. Help was hard to
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come by this far up and almost anybody who came through the gate at
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harvest time got a job for the asking. But there was something
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about the stranger with the nervous blinking eyes that didn't
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settle with her. She tried to think what it was but couldn't get a
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finger on it. There was something about his face, gaunt and angled,
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that should have been expressive but wasn't quite, as if everything
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was being held down inside.</p>
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<p>There was something about the man and his deep set, coal black
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eyes and his slicked back gypsy hair and the smell of woodsmoke on
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his clothes. Up around these parts, the tinkers, the travelling
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folk, were MacFees and MacFettridges, descendants of the refugees
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kicked off the land in the highland clearances. The new man had a
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travelling look about him, but he didn't look like a tinker.</p>
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<p>Later that night, after the men had come home and eaten a heroic
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meal, she and Ian had sat at the table while he worked on the model
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ship he was building out of matchsticks, a labour of love that
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promised to keep him occupied right through the long dark nights
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until the end of winter when the ground would be soft enough to
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work. Jean was writing in her book.</p>
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<p><em>New man started today. Big as a Clydesdale ploughhorse and
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with the looks of an Italian or maybe a Polish soldier. Says his
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name is Leslie, Leslie Joyce. Says he's from around these parts
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from way back. Looks strong enough for carting the potatoes and
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that should give Ian a fair hand and good for his back too. He
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won't go down to the doctor about it no matter how much I go on
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about it. Made five pounds of butter today and got six full jars of
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honey. Best collection yet, and not one sting this time. As ever, I
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couldn't help licking my fingers for the taste of heather.</em></p>
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<p>She looked over at her husband, swinging her eyes from the one
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black-bound book to the next one, opened beside it. "You're a week
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early with the potatoes this year compared to last." she told her
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husband who was gingerly gluing a spar to a curved rib of the
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old-fashioned ketch. "And I'm a week ahead with the honey too."</p>
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<p>"It's the heat since the start of summer. It's lasted a while.
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After the good rains in the late spring. Always gets things of to a
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fine start. A lucky year for us."</p>
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<p><em>Ian says it's a lucky year,</em> she wrote down. <em>We've
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had our share of them, in between the bad ones.</em></p>
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<p>She smiled at him though he never saw it, his red dome bent to
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the delicate task, thick gnarled farmer's fingers surprisingly
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agile, delicately gentle and Jean knew just how gentle he could be.
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It was safe enough to write some things down in her diaries. Now
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and again, she'd read him a piece out loud, an entry from previous
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years, making him grin with the accounts of young Ian's first
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tottering steps, or bringing the hint of a lump to his throat when
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she showed the dried wild rose she'd pressed between the pages, a
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small gift brought back from a foray down the valley to the
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Barwoods to round up the strays. But he would never read her diary,
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never go looking in her private place. That was hers.</p>
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<p>Outside in the yard, the terriers barked. The bothy door closed
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with a dull thud and the dogs went silent again. Leslie Joyce (if
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that was his name) must have got up and gone to the outhouse.</p>
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<p>The noise interrupted her train of thought. Where had she
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been?</p>
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<p>Back ten years ago to the day she had pressed the rose in the
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book, a delicate pink with a powerful wild fragrance, a token,
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plucked in the passing, but a treasure for he'd brought it home for
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her. Another lucky year, just like this one. She wrote that thought
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down, savouring it and the memory it brought back, wondering what
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she'd think in ten years time, God sparing.</p>
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<p>Out in the bothy, the free-standing stone shelter that served as
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a bunkhouse for the labourers, the man with the tattoos and the
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black eyes lay stretched out on the bed. The dogs had surprised him
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when he'd walked silently across the yard and leaned in at the
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corner to peer in the kitchen window, but no-one had come to the
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door. In the house the old woman was writing in a book and the
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farmer was bending over something on the table. The tall man turned
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away when the dogs started their yapping, high pitched chiding and
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he'd stared down at them. Without a word he moved soundlessly
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across the dry earth and cobbles of the yard and let the door
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spring back. It took forty steps from the window to the bothy and
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he counted them all, just in case he needed to know the paces.
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Overhead, the moon showed a sliver of silver in a velvet sky. In
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the dark of the bunkhouse he lay down on the straw mattress and put
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his hands behind his head, staring into the dark.</p>
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<p>The dogs stopped barking and settled down at the front door.</p>
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<p>The man with the tattoos lay silent but inside his mind, the
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thoughts were hot and dark and filled with memories.</p>
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<p>After a while, in his thoughts, he heard the high-pitched voice
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and the steady drone and he knew it would not be long
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before....</p>
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