Bruar's Rest

about their business. Bruar, Rory and Jimmy (who, incidentally, had more than a fancy for Rachel if she but knew it) took a day working on vermin control on the scattered farms round about. As there was never a lack of rabbits, moles and rats, they were regarded favourably by the local farmers, and with plenty of rabbits to eat, their bellies were filled. Megan and Rachel hawked round the tiny villages nestling in and near the Angus glens, selling their pot scourers and brooms. A cool gloaming brought the foot-weary workers home.
    After supper, both boys shared Annie and her daughters’ fire. Bruar wondered where the Irishman was, and called over to Rory lying resting in his tent. There’d been no sign of him for several days.
    Jimmy hoped he’d slung his hook, but just as he scraped a final drop of gravy from his supper plate, a course, rough voice could be heard coming round the bend in the lane, singing out ‘Danny Boy.’
    ‘Lord, why does the earth bring that useless bastard in among us?’ said Bruar. ‘Could he not start walking away and forget his way home?’ Jimmy scolded Bruar for his sharp tongue, and asked the bearded ruffian where he’d been.
    He’d been drinking with a few rough Irishers living up at the farm in a shed. ‘They were going back to the old country,’ he said, ‘and we was supping a goodbye drink. Where’s the wrong in that?’
    Nobody answered; they hoped he would collapse into his tent, but instead he rammed a hand into his torn coat pocket, retrieving a large green bottle. ‘Well, me auld highlander, do yez want a sup?’
    Rory was not sober for long, as both men gulped and sang until a full moon and drunken sleep brought silence to the night.
    Annie still wasn’t well and so Megan went off to bed, sharing soft tales with her mother until she too slept. As Megan lay listening to a hedgehog digging in the rough heather at the rear of her tent, her mother slept fitfully.
    As the last embers of fire crackled, Jimmy and Rachel felt themselves growing closer. Each of them could see in the other similar qualities and ways.

     
    Next day, when work was over and the fires gently smouldering again, Doctor Mackenzie came trotting along the path. Hobbling his old horse to a gnarled oak, he called out, ‘Are you folks in good health? For a sharing of your tea I’ll give you all a wee bit look-over.’
    Megan and Bruar, who were away somewhere over the high hills checking rabbit snares, would have been sorry not to see and blether awhile with the good doctor. Annie had been sore and thanked God for his visit. ‘I have a pain worse than bairn-labour, doctor, could you give me something to help me sleep? Rachel, pour him a mug of good strong tea, and if you and your sister haven’t eaten them all, a scone to go with it.’
    The doctor knelt and lifted a feather pillow, fluffed it and gently laid her back onto it.
    ‘Is the big world still turning, doctor?’ asked Rachel, gladly pouring him a strong mug of tea from the blackened kettle suspended over the campfire. She buttered a few scones as her mother asked, then added, ‘You see, sir, I sometimes wonder if we are the only folks left alive. We never see a soul unless we go hawking, or buy butter and milk from the good farm wives.’
    ‘Apart from the village folk and the screeching curlews I have no knowledge of the outside world myself, Rachel.’ He winked; she blushed, bowing slightly as if he were royalty and made an excuse to leave.
    ‘She’s a lady, is that lass of yours, Annie,’ he said, watching the way she moved and thinking that if her rags were replaced with fine clothes one could easily see her fitting into a world of finery.
    ‘Aye, she’d be pleased to hear you say such things, for all she moans about is getting free of this life. But is my lassie as near as would be able to hear me? I have to speak serious with you, sir.’
    He was concerned at her tone of voice, detected her fear. Casting an eye at Rachel and seeing her speaking with Jimmy, he replied, ‘I must say they make a fine pair, where are the other two?’
    ‘Never mind them. Listen, doctor, there’s these awful searing pains in my chest, like a hot poker piercing at my heart. Promise me you won’t tell the girls, now will you, because if there’s a bad thing wrong with me I don’t want them worrying.’
    He knew enough about tinker folk to tell that when a pain was admitted it was serious. He could see by looking at the woman that she was