He hadn't ordered a piper. Despite all his mother's efforts, he'd never gained any real appreciation for the instrument. Nevertheless, he should have thought of it: an acknowledgement of her roots that she would have appreciated, even if no-one else did. And yet, there he was, in full regalia, with pipes in the same blue-green tartan; standing next to Uncle Edwin, who was chatting to a tall man in a severe black suit and an elderly gentleman who looked for all the world like Winston Churchill. He would have to go and find out about them later – they did not look like typical fans of his mother, and they certainly weren't family.
Fans. They were out in force. He knew how popular his mother's books had been, but he still couldn't believe how many people had turned out on such a wet and windy day. 'Dreich', she would have called it: a word virtually unknown in New York, but somehow more evocative than the regular words people used here. He'd heard it a lot (with good reason) on his (fairly regular) golfing holidays to the 'Auld Kintra'. He'd called it that once in his mother's presence and she'd laughed for an hour solid, before telling him not to do that ever again. "No, really don't. Really", she'd said, and started laughing again. His golfing buddies in Scotland were more polite about his attempts at 'the Scottis leid', but their amusement was unfortunately still plain to see.
He looked over at Uncle Edwin. Never seemed to age, that man. Aunt Dora was long gone, but 'Paisley' as his mother called him, always looked the same. He often joked about a picture in his attic. Still talking to the tall man and 'Churchill'. He'd really have to go over. It would have to wait, though: Rabbi Lowenstein was arriving.
Many people had expressed puzzlement that the Rabbi was doing the funeral, since his mother was not Jewish and had indeed had some very harsh words to say about religion in general on a great many occasions. The truth was simply that he was an old family friend: the Lowensteins had been his parents first neighbours when they'd first come to New York in the thirties, and Abey, now Rabbi Abraham, Lowenstein, had been his best friend at school; so there was really no other choice for the task. He'd done his father's funeral five years ago as well. He went over to greet him.
…
He'd zoned out during the service, coming back to the sound of the piper playing as the coffin was lowered. He knew the tune: Cha Till Mi Tuill it was called, or 'No More I'll Return' in English, among other names. It was something of a favourite of the Scottish-American community. Wherever he'd come from, he was very good: when he'd heard pipes played in New York before, it was like cats fighting in an a/c duct, but this guy really knew his business.
It took him a good while to get over to Uncle Edwin, so many people commiserating, and praising his mother to him, but eventually he got there.
"Aye, ma cousin Donald wrote it. He wis on the wrang side y'ken: he wis MacLeod's man, an' they stood wi George, but he wis a grand piper forbye", the piper was explaining. Up close, he looked older than he had from a distance: the hair he'd taken to be blond was in fact almost completely white. "A didna ken the lassie, but this auld scunner", he nodded towards the tall man, "sez she'd need a proper sendoff, an' he couldna think of anyone better, the auld flatterer."
"That she did" said Edwin. "She saved my life, along with the 'auld scunner' here".
"'Auld scunner', indeed. You and I are going to have words, a Sheumais Og!", snapped the tall man "an' ye're just as bad, Bracey. If it wisna for Pond, I'd not bother wi the pair of ye." He glowered at them.
"Thank you for playing for my mother, Mr. Og" said Anthony. The piper laughed. "Take no mind o' this yin's blethers". He nodded towards the tall man. "He wis calling me 'young Jamie' in the Gaelic, the great fool. Ah've no been young in quite a wee whilie, as is plain tae see. James Robert MacCrimmon, piper tae the MacLarens, at your service." He smiled, and bowed slightly.
"I don't know how much your parents told you of their early life", said Uncle Edwin "but this 'auld scunner', as Mr. MacCrimmon calls him, is more usually known as the Doctor".
"You've changed a lot from my mother's photos of you", said Anthony.
"It's been a long time, and I wish I could have visited sooner, but it was impossible until very recently, I'm afraid", replied the Doctor sadly. "I owe a lot to your parents, and I'll always remember them".
"And, thank you for coming too, Mr Churchill", said Anthony, realising that if the Doctor was here, this must be the real McCoy, so to speak. "My mother always spoke of you with affection, though I'm not sure I really believed that she knew you until now".
"She was a fine woman. One of the best." said Churchill, slightly damp-eyed.