“Cheers, mate,” he said briefly, and took a long, slurping gulp. “Wotcher say yer name is?” he demanded, emerging abruptly from his immersion. “Oh, Roger, right. Gilly never mentioned ye…but then, she wouldn’,” he added moodily. “Never knew nothin’ about her family, and she wasn’ sayin’. Think she was ashamed of ’em all…but you don’t look such a nelly,” he said, generously. “Yer lass is a looker, at least. Aye, that sounds right, eh? ‘Yer lass is a looker, at least!’ Hear ’at, eh?” He laughed uproariously, spraying whisky droplets.
“Yeah,” said Roger. “Thanks.” He took a small sip of his drink. Brianna, offended, turned her back on Edgars and affected to be examining the contents of the china closet through the bevel-cut glass doors.
There seemed no point in beating around the bush, Roger decided. Edgars wouldn’t recognize subtlety if it bit him on the bum at this point, and there seemed a substantial danger that he might pass out soon, at the rate he was going.
“D’you know where Gillian is?” he asked bluntly. Every time he said her name, it felt strange on his tongue. This time, he couldn’t help glancing up at the mantelpiece, where the photo smiled serenely on the debauch below.
Edgars shook his head, swinging it slowly back and forth over his glass like an ox over a corncrib. He was a short, heavyset man, about Roger’s age, perhaps, but looking older because of the heavy growth of unshaved beard and disheveled black hair.
“Nah,” he said. “Thought maybe you knew. It’ll be the Nats or the Roses, likely, but I’ve no kep’ up. I couldny say who, specially.”
“Nats?” Roger’s heart began to speed up. “You mean the Scottish Nationalists?”
Edgars’s eyelids were beginning to droop, but they blinked open once more.
“Oh, aye. Bloody Nats. ’S where I met Gilly, aye?”
“When was this, Mr. Edgars?”
Roger looked up in surprise at the soft voice from above. It wasn’t the photograph that had spoken, though, but Brianna, looking intently down at Greg Edgars. Roger couldn’t tell whether she was merely making conversation, or if she suspected something. Her face showed nothing beyond polite interest.
“Dunno…maybe two, three years gone. Fun at first, hm? Toss the bloody English out, join the Common Market on our own…beer in the pub and a cuddle i’ the back of the van comin’ home from rallies. Mmm.” Edgars shook his head again, dreamy-eyed at the vision. Then the smile faded from his face, and he frowned into his drink. “That’s before she went potty.”
“Potty?” Roger took another quick glance at the photo. Intense, yes. She looked that. But not barking mad, surely. Or could you tell, from a photo?
“Aye. Society o’ the White Rose. Charlie’s m’ darlin’. Will ye no come back again, and all that rot. Lot of jimmies dressed up in kilts and full rig, wi’ swords and all. All right if ye like it, o’ course,” he added, with a cockeyed attempt at objectivity. “But Gilly’d always take a thing too far. On and on about the Bonnie Prince, and wouldn’ it be a thing if he’d won the ’45? Blokes in the kitchen ’til all hours, drinking up the beer and arguing why he hadn’t. In the Gaelic, too.” He rolled his eyes. “Load o’ rubbish.” He drained his glass to emphasize this opinion.
Roger could feel Brianna’s eyes boring into the side of his neck like gimlets. He pulled at his collar to loosen it, though he wasn’t wearing a tie and his collar button was undone.
“I don’t suppose your wife’s also interested in standing stones, is she, Mr. Edgars?” Brianna wasn’t bothering a lot with the polite interest anymore; her voice was sharp enough to cut cheese. The effect was largely wasted on Edgars.
“Stones?” He seemed fuddled, and stuck a forefinger into one ear, screwing it in industriously, as though in hopes of improving his hearing.
“The prehistoric stone circles. Like the Clava Cairns,” Roger offered, naming one of the more famous local landmarks. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, with a mental sigh of resignation. Brianna was plainly never going to speak to him again, so he might as well find out what he could.
“Oh, those.” Edgars uttered a short laugh. “Aye, and every other bit o’ auld rubbish ye could name. That’s the last bit, and the worst. Down at that Institewt day an’ night, spendin’ all my money on courses…courses! Make a cat laugh, ay? Fairy tales, they teach ’em there. Ye’ll learn nothin’ useful in that place, lass, I told her. Whyna learn to type? Get a job, if she’s bored. ’S what I tell’t her. So she left,” he said morosely. “Not seen her in two weeks.” He stared into his wineglass as though surprised to find it empty.