This is a work of fiction. It is a sequel to the other stories, beginning with "A Letter from America" that have appeared in adult/youth, young pals, and no sex. Not one single character is , or is based on, a real person. I have borrowed the names of places, and even of some buildings and institutions in those places, but their personnel remain fictitious. They do not represent real people. I have to point out that the story was written in 2020. The year 2020 was largely cancelled due to the Covid19 virus. You will find no reference to that emergency in this story, which represents things that might have happened if the virus hadn't.
I hope you enjoy this story. I'm grateful to Nifty for publishing it. Nifty makes no charge, neither for me to publish, nor for you to read these stories, but it does cost money to publish them. If you enjoy the stories, please consider making a donation to Nifty at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html so that he can continue to bring these stories to you.
A Highland Fling Chapter 7 By Jonah
Snuffle!
"Stop it Luke."
Snuffle!
"Stop what?"
"Snuffling."
Giggle!
Snuffle!
Wait a minute!
" Oooof! Owwww!"
That was me as a tremendous weight landed on my chest.
"Hello girl." More giggling. "She's licking me Jonah."
"Yes, well dont lick her back. Lady, have you never considered being a smaller dog?"
I slid sideways as far as I could so that our furry companion dropped into the chasm. One arm thrown across her back and, as before, Luke did the same. It wasn't even daylight so, hopefully, he'd go back to sleep.
I woke, some hours later, with my back to the animal, but she had one paw on my shoulder. Luke was wrapped around her, and we must have looked, to Janet when she brought in the tea, like a strange sort of horizontal conga.
"I coudn't tell which of them looks the most peaceful," she commented.
"Yes, well she's obviously good for him," I acknowledged.
"It's another braw morning," she said.
"Yes, I could get used to this," I responded. "We've really loved being here with you and Fergus. The boys need some family, and it's done them all good."
"It's done us good too," she smiled. "I couldn't think of that one as not being family."
"Neither could I," I replied. "Do you remember what I said about him pretending to be asleep?"
She walked round and sat on the far side of the bed.
"Ach I don't care," she said, tousling his reddish hair." He's got a family here, and I don't mind if he knows it."
Luke smiled and cuddlled contentedly with the dog.
"Are ye going to the games today?" she asked (Janet that is - not the dog).
"What games are they Janet?"
"It's Easter Monday. The Highland Games at Aviemore. Fergus loves to go, but I can't stand all that while, so I won't go with him. He's missed the last three years, because I don't go, but he'd go if you were going."
"I'm pretty sure the boys would like it," I said. "See if Fergus wants to go."
"He'll want to alright."
Well she was right about that too.
We could tell that he did because he was dressed for the job. Way back in the days of the Jacobite rebellions, the McAndrews had fought alongside the Campbells, and they were entitled to wear the Campbell Tartan. Fergus looked bonny in his kilt, with its dark blues and greens, and grey tweed jacket, His garters were distinguished with dark green tabs and he wore a Glengarry with a small red toorie on the top, black ribbons at the back, no cockade but an embroidered red rose on the right side.
We breakfasted on kippers then Fergus kissed his wife, put a lead on Lady and led us out to the pickup.
"We'll drive today," he told me. "The trains will be too crowded."
"Do you want me to ride in the back?"
"No. We can get the five of us in the cab. Lady will be OK in the back."
Well we didn't get quite to Aviemore, but parked up in a field outside, alongside countless other vehicles, most of which boasted four-wheel drive. Landrovers of many persuasions predominated.
Many of the company were kilted, as Fergus was. Some wore a plaid, but most common was the tweed jacket. In some cases, epaulettes on the jacket allowed a short fly-plaid to be worn. Many wore Glengarries, but the Tam-o-Shanter seemed more common - especially among younger men. The skirl of the pipes was everywhere, so it seemed impossible that a lone piper was responsible. There he was though. Royal Stewart Tartan, kilt and full plaid, with a military Glengarrie. Cheeks puffed out as he filled the field with "Wi'a hundred pipers an a', an a' ". It certainly sounded like a hundred pipers.
As we walked into the main field there were sideshows, there were plentiful tents and caravans selling anything from Dutch barns to doughnuts. There were roped off enclosures for traditional highland tournaments. The caber was tossed, and the shot was putted. The javelin and the hammer were flung afar.
"Aye," said Fergus, "we do it properly up here. It's only down in Glasgow they do "heading the shot", and "catching the javelin".
"I'll be back in a minute," said Simon, suddenly.
I was somewhat taken aback by this, but I watched him go and discovered that he had spotted Jock Laidlaw. The two of them were in earnest conversation for a few minutes, and I wondered if they were talking about trains, or something else. The two of them smiled and shook hands. Probably something else then, and Jock followed Simon back.
"Fergus, Mr. Cummins," he greeted us.
"It's good to see you again Jock," I told him.
"Aye, but Simon tells me ye're away back to Lunnon tomorrow. Dinnae be too long before you come back to see us again will ye?" He responded. "Allan Cobbett says Simon can fire a big engine too, so ye definitely need to bring him back."
"I do Jock," I told him. "Now the boys know they've got some grandparents, they're definitely going to want to come back."
"Well, we'll look forward to it," he said. "Now, if ye'll excuse me, I've got to show they big jessies how to toss a caber properly."
For all his diminutive size, I didn't doubt for a moment that he could do it.
"Aye, good luck Jock" I said.
There was a scream and a scuffle nearby. A youth of about nineteen pushed through and broke clear of the crowd and ran towards the car-park. Fergus bent down and unclipped Lady's lead. Away she went, at a speed which I'd never seen her attain before. As she began to gain ground on the lad, some of the bystanders began to walk that way. There was no hurry. Nobody needed to give chase now that Lady was on the job.
He threw something down, but it missed Lady, and she ignored it. He had almost reached the first of the vehicles when she reached him. He was leaning slightly forward to run, so adding the weight of a large pyrenean mountain dog to his upper back shifted his centre of gravity way ahead of where his feet were. Lady obviously knew her physics. He was going down. She pinned him to the floor until relieved by an alsation. The new dog stood four square in front of the protrate youth. Every time he tried to move the dog would snarl, and bare it's teeth.
"I'd advise you not to move son," said a police officer casually walking over.
Lady relinquiished her post and trotted back to Fergus.
The policeman bent down and cuffed the lad's wrists behind his back. then helped him to his feet.
"Name?" demanded the officer.
"Macdougal. Wullie Macdougal," said Fergus.
"How do you know me?"
"I taught your father boy, and you're just as daft as he was," replied Fergus.
He pulled out his handkerchief and used it to pick up the handbag that he had seen the young man throw at Lady.
"Did ye take anything out of this?" he asked. "The truth mind. I'll know if ye lie to me."
"There wasnae time."
"No," agreed Fergus. He handed it to the constable. "Do ye need to keep this, officer?"
"Aye, it's evidence." and to the elderly lady who had just arrived, "I'll give you a receipt love, and we'll let you have it back as soon as we can. Is there anything in it you can't do without. Any medication or cash, or anything?"
The old lady shook her head. She tried to speak, but was not coherent. She seemed near to tears. Fergus took charge.
"Come with us Joanie. You've had a nasty shock. Are you taking him away now officer?"
"There's a car on its way for him sir. If anybody is prepared to be a witness I'll take your names as soon as it gets here."
"Aye, well you'll be needing us anyway," said Fergus. "I'll bring her down the station when she's feeling a bit better."
The constable took out a notebook and wrote something down. Handing it to Fergus he said;
"That's a receipt for her handbag. Perhaps you'd better take charge of it for now. Thank you for your help sir. "
Fergus nodded and took the receipt.
"Come on Joanie," he said. "We'll find you somewhere for a nice sit down."
Next to the beer tent was a marquee where cream teas were being served. We sat Old Mrs. Calquhoun in there. And Simon got her a cup of tea.
"Is this your grandson Fergus?" she enquired, gazing at Luke.
"All three of us are Mr. McAndrews grandsons," said Peter. "My father was Indian. He was a policeman, but he got stabbed and they gave him the Queen's Police Medal for Gallantry."
"Stabbed? Was he alright?"
"No, he was killed."
There were tears in the old lady's eyes again, but this time she seemed stronger.
"I'm so sorry dear," she said. " And I'm sorry that I thought only your brother was Fergus' grandson. That was a foolish thing to think. We used to have a lot of foolish prejudices, and I can remember when an Indian man couldn't have been a policeman, and couldn't have got a medal. We were foolish then. Perhaps the world has got better. It didn't seem like it this morning but, yes, I think it has."
Peter smiled at her, and she smiled back. It was good to see her smile.
"Fergus?"
It was a tall greying man, perhaps in his early sixties, sporting a kilt of the Royal Stewart Tartan, and Tweed Jacket. He wore no bonnet, and his full head of hair was slicked back. He had obviously cultivated his impressive moustache too.
"Angus, it's good to see you. Do you know Joanie Calquhoun - Joanie, Angus McLeod.
"Mrs Calquhoun."
"It was Joanie's bag that young MacDougal snatched."
The man looked uneasy.
"I probably shouldn't discuss the case... , " he began.
"You probably should man," said Fergus. "It's not sub judice'. He hasn't been charged yet."
"Has he not?"
"They need us to take Joanie to the police station."
"Aye. Well I'm not looking forward to having yet another MacDougal up before me."
"You sentenced young Gary."
"Aye, he deserved it. I couldn't do any different."
"And his father too - and now young Wullie."
"Aye", the man nodded sadly.
"Well his father has taught him to snatch bags. Will you put him inside to learn armed robbery?"
McLeod gazed sadly at the floor.
"It would be a terrible thing Mr. McLeod, " said Mrs. Calquhoun, "to change a young man's life for the worse, if you could change it for the better."
"Work in the community?"
"In Wullie's circumstances, it would do more good, and prison would do more harm." Fergus was the one looking lugubrious now.
Mcleod seemed to make up his mind, for he nodded decidedly.
"I cannot promise," he said, " for I need to hear the evidence, but I'll see what can be done."
"Aye, and we'd better get ye to the Police Station Joanie, "
"Mr. McAndrew," said that lady, reprovingly,"have ye forgotten ye've got guests. They came to see the games, not to traipse round after me."
"We can look after ourselves Fergus," I told him. "You'll be coming back, and you won't want to take Lady with you to the police station anyway."
"Well, that's all right then," said Fergus, "Angus!" They shook hands and the old lady led Fergus away. Yes, it really looked as if that's what she was doing.
"We've not been introduced," said McLeod, holding out his hand, "but I'm thinking those two gentlemen are Fergus' grandsons."
"All three of....."
"Yes, thank you Peter. it's alright - I've got this." I turned back to Mcleod and shook the proferred hand.
"Jonah, Cummins" I told him. "This is my foster son Luke, and these are...."
"Simon and Peter," he finished for me, smiling. "I'm the local magistrate, and I take the Police Gazette. It's good to meet all three of Fergus' grandsons."
Peter smiled, but Mcleod had not finished.
"I've been asked to judge the Haggis competition, and to adjudicate the caber-tossing. I'd be honoured if you'd be my guests. You'll get a better tea in the judges enclosure than you will in here."
Well I couldn't very well refuse, and he was right in all of that. Lady behaved like the hero she was, and did not disgrace us. Angus judged the small samples of haggis, and then went on to proclaim Jock Laidlaw the champion caber-tosser. I try to believe that Simon and Peter didn't influence him in that, but I know my boys.
An hour later, Fergus came to collect us. We took our farewells of Mr. McLeod, and climbed into the Landrover for the journey home.
Janet met us at the door.
"Did ye get them Fergus?" she asked.
"Aye, I did," he replied, handing her a plastic carrrier bag that had been secreted in the footwell.
"Dinner will be at about six," she told us. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
An exhausted Fergus sank into his armchair by the, as yet unlit, fire, so the boys took Lady out in the garden to play.
I settled in the other chair.
I must have dozed a bit, because the boys were back, and had already washed their hands.
We paraded through to the kitchen where Janet had already served up - haggis, with neeps and tatties.
"You can't come to Scotland without having this for dinner," said Fergus.
Well the haggis was rich and a little spicy. but not unpleasantly so. The mashed swede (I later discovered it was rutabaga) was deliciouis, as was the creamed potatoes. The boys loved it, and I had to say that Janet had excelled herself.
Janet had prepared stuffed apples, with custard, for a dessert and, as I helped her clear away, there were four contented people leaving the table.
"It does me good to see them," Janet said, smiling.
"Yes, it does Janet," I replied. "I can see that, and that's good to see too."
"It'll be quiet round here when ye've gone."
"Well quiet's good too," I told her, "and you've got some good memories now, but how long do you think I'm going to be able to stop the boys from wanting to see their grandparents? We'll be back Janet. Now, I'll dry for you, then you can join us in a hand of whist."
What we called whist was a travesty of the game. Peter and Luke couldn't play whist, and the rest of us pretended not to be able to, so we got it all wrong. It involved more laughter and fun than I ever remember that game entailing before, and it brought bedtime.
Ah Glenlivet! Never mind - bedtime.
TO BE CONTINUED