November 2000

"We made the most money we have ever made on an event night," Tony told Bren, the day after Bonfire Night. "My genius woman," he added, kissing her temple. "What could be better?"

"There's that," mused Bren, sipping a morning cup of tea, "and never having to listen to Cliff Richard sing, "Millennium Prayer" ever again." Beside her, Tony laughed.

"Ooh, sausage rolls," she added, reaching for one. But Tony brushed her hand away.

"Don't touch them, Bren," he said, taking her hand in his, instead.

"Laura?"

"Laura the New Ager with her obsession about food waste. Dumfries. Tesco bins."

"There's some samosas there, too," Bren added. She tried to break her hand from his, but Tony held onto it, playfully.

"Laura again. I've done a bacon bap, if you're interested?"

"Yep," Bren replied, and but into the freshly-made breakfast, then looked at the table again, dubiously. "Can't be much worse than some of the things the pie-man brought us. The factory actually paid for them."

"Probably why it closed," Tony added, then grinned at Bren again.

"Happy?"

"Yes!" called back Laura, who was busily cleaning the lavatories.

"Hearing of a pipistrelle bat," Toiny hissed to Bren, then added, "That's great, Lor!" Tony called back, then, leaning towards Bren, and continued, softer this time, "I mean you, you wally."

"Good, yeah, yeah," Bren said. "I can't believe I was so scared about leaving my life back in Manchester, where I wouldn't take risks, or anything. Like I was living on the edge waiting for what my mother would do next, and what I would have to sort out after. I do miss her, sometimes, though. But ye."

"Well, I'm glad. And there's more to come. We will be taking in a fair bit when we get the B and B up and running, and your idea of a retreat was genius."

"There's no tax problems?"

"No, just insurance, as if they are staying in the B and B. They sign up to help for a free week here in the lovely county of Dumfriesshire?"

"And taking on Laura, do you think that was genius?"

"You liked her; you're a good judge of character, Bren, I trust you. Even if she does live in a commune."

"She's not Christine," Bren mused.

"No, she bloody isn't!" Tony declared. "Do you know, she was born there, in that commune? Her parents went there in the sixties and never left. Her real name's Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. But even hippies need to top up their income sometimes, so she changed her name to something plainer."

Tony took the call when the phone rang just then, holding out the receiver and Bren took the last bite of her bacon roll.

"What's the matter?" Tony asked, looking at Bren's expression, when she put the phone back on the hook, five minutes later.

"My solicitor...an anomaly with my divorce."

"Did they say what?" Bren shook her head, her face clouding.

"You don't think it's the money, do you?" Bren lowered her voice. "An anomaly...that means something's wrong, doesn't it?" She looked at Tony, fear in her stomach. "Martin's found out about my mother's money? Or the police? Laundered?"

"Give over, it could be anything. I was married to Sandra three months longer than I thought I was because I hadn't signed one of the boxes on the Decree Absolute. It'll be something like that, yer daft-un."

"Suppose so," Bren replied, nuzzling into Tony's shoulder, the name of his ex-wife in her ears. But not for long as he Tony turned round so Bren was facing him, and kissed her.

"Even if it was, it's not traceable, he soothed. But the look on Bren's face made Tony add, "It'll be nothing."

"They're sending a letter anyway, if it is, Tony, what - " But Tony cut her off by kissing her again.

"Hey," Tony said afterwards. "Colin has got some interest in the B and B idea, he's placed adverts on the Internet Superhighway, through Lunn Poly, and Co-Op Travel, and Thomas Cook."

"It's amazing what you can do now, with computers. Eh, do you think we could get one?"

"Mebbe," Tony replied. "I know it's supposed to change our lives, but I'll just end up wasting time playing Mineweeper on it. And that'll be no good, it could give Colin post traumatic stress disorder, from his time in the Falklands, like when Big Willie Mac let off his air rifle shooting rabbits - listen to me!£ Tony groaned, "I sound like Norman the bread man."

"Phobic of open spaces, bread, hygiene," Bren added, filling up the kettle.

"Pity he didn't get a phobia of phobias."

"Here," Bren called, as letters dropped through the letterbox and onto the mat, scooping them up and handing them to Tony.

"Bill, bill," Tony said, putting those on the kitchen table. "Hand written letter." He tore open the envelope. Bren peered across, pretending that she was looking at the progress of the kettle. But it was from Ripon. Apparently, Twinkle moved there with her mum to become a social worker. Not Sandra. then.

"But posh there for Twinkle," Bren commented.

"Ah, but she had some money come her way, a few months ago," Tony replied, "somehow. Do you know how Twinkle Smith came into two thousand pounds?"

"Stop it!" Bren protested, as Tony fell into an impression of a police officer. "She was growing up, Tony. When you took her on, she was a casual drug user, hard drinker, and complained at everything you asked her to do

"At the end?" Tony replied, dubiously. Bren stopped to think.

"She, well...I could see she was getting more mature," she replied, vaguely, then ganced into the lounge.

"Geraldine, you can leave that," Bren told their daily help.

"Eh?" It was the first time Bren had heard her say anything at all. But it didn't last, and Geraldine took up polish and cloth giving Bren a long stare, before beginning to polish the mirrors.

"See what I mean? She walks all the way from Bearsden, got to be at least two miles. I pass it on the way to Culzean. "What if she falls on an icy day, does she have any family?"

"I suppose so," Tony replied. "Colin always pays her, and it's cash in hand. Bank of Scotland notes, not Royal Bank of Scotland - she doesn't trust the Royal Bank." Bren carried on watching as the elderly woman reached every mirror with the duster, before handing Bren the cleaner and cloth without a word. Then the elderly lady picked up the Hoover as if it were filled with helium. Then, as Tony began to write out the day's menu on the blackboard, Bren's attention was drawn to the back door.

"Sorry I'm late," mumbled Little Willie McCorquodale, hurrying past Bren as she made a brew, and into the kitchen.

"That's OK, Willie," Bren called after him. "You look knackered - what was her name?" She heard the pause at her ribbing.

"Rosemary," Willie called back through, tentatively. Bren grinned.

"Oh, stop!" Tony chided, gently. "You know it's the farm's best cows. His dad was in here yesterday, telling Sandie Farlane they had two off their feet."

And, once Geraldine had Hoovered every bit of the carpet, she wheeled the vacuum over to Bren, nodding at her then, taking up her coat, left the Dram Shop, the door held open for her by a man with a uniform, ID lanyard and clipboard.

"Oh, bollocks!" Tony said, looking at the man and smiling awkwardly. "Trading Standards. They'll want to check our books, and our measures. I forgot they were coming today."

"It's all right, I can sort it. It's my name on the licence. Can you go and get those boxes Clara dropped off yesterday into the B and B.

88888888

"Told you it would be a signature," Tony nodded. Bren had been nervous, driving to Dumfries, but Colin's solicitor, to whom Bren had asked for the documents to be sent, had been kind, and needed a signature on the local records books. When they got back, the phone was ringing. It was Jean, who wanted to get specific as to when Bren might be retuenng to Manchester for a holiday.

"Not that I'm making much of a fuss," Jean told her. "I went overboard with Lisa's wedding - I was trying to compensate for chronic lack of intimacy from Keith. Besides, we want to have options, not waste our money - Stan thinks a move will do us good."

"A move?"

"Now that Lisa's at Stan's place, saving on rent, and putting it towards the baby. It's just an option. I think he suggested it because he's run out of jobs to do at my house. So, how's the pub trade going? Doing any interesting food?"

"Well, our theme nights are pretty popular," Bren told her. "And most of it is like at the factory, although right now Tony's frying tripe and liver for lunchtime.

"Liver and tripe? Did you take a wrong turn off the M6 and ended up driving down a road called the 40s?"

"People seem to want it. Laura's on veg today, which was lucky, we had to pop out." Bren was dying to confide her worries to her friend.

"Laura the hippy?"

"Yep. They celebrate winter solstice on the 21st in the commune; so she's available on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day...we're offering it on the seasonal menu."

"Liver and tripe on the Christmas menu?"

"Thank you, Dolly Bellfield!" Bren quipped back, though only half-quipping. "We're having a big pot of cullen skink on the go, too. We thought of haggis, but then, we reopen in January and it's Burns Night then."

"And there was me thinking you were going to flame proof the curtains," Jean replied, sardonically, recalling the argument Bren and Tony had been having when Jean had turned up for work one morning with Dolly.

"Ho hum, Jean," Bren retorted

"Yes, but liver and tripe...?"

"Scottish people," Bren replied, "they love it. Even the SNP fanatic, Barbara. I'm going to test her on other places in England, and see of she thinks they are Scottish."

"So you haven't voted for them, then?" Jean asked, a tone of mischief in her voice.

"The vote's next May, the same time as the General Election, and the European Elections. Though why we send MEPs to Brussels, it's like the UK entering the Eurovision Song Contest, we get our name written in very small writing at the end of the list of countries, pay for the privilege, then get ignored. I mean, look what happened to that greengrocer on the market, wanting to sell in pounds and ounces. He wasn't hurting anyone. Apart from emotionally tormenting a load of French people," Bren added. "Who would have thought that two pounds of potatoes would lead to hand-wringing and pursing of lips in Lyon?"

"Well, I think 2001 is going to be the year for everyone," Jean replied, the happiness obvious in her voice.

"It will be for you, I am so pleased for you and Stan," Bren replied.

"What about you and Tony?" It was coming - it was always going to.

"Oh Jean, I would love to, but I want to take things slowly, get used to Scotland, get this retreat-slash- B and B on the go. Tony's got a mad idea for getting help, we can offer for people to stay in the retreat for free, meals and that, in exchange for helping us in the pub."

That was a good idea, Tony thought as he heard Bren on the phone. To whom, he wondered, then he heard the word, "Balconette," and knew it could only be Jean.

"And we can come down in the New Year: Colin closes up for three weeks in January and are having the builders in. Clara's using her contacts to track down what we need."

So, she wanted to go back to Manchester. Just to visit. Perhaps what he had for her birthday might change her mind. But then again, Bren could do with a holiday and she could take him with her.

"No, I have my birthday present, Jean," Tony heard her say. "I'm here, having a life I could never imagine. I have my birthday present for the rest of my life, if I'm honest."

But I know what she's hoping for. Because mad Barbara from the Post Office assumed we were married when she brought round the redirectred mail for Bren and Colin wanted to know when I had changed my name to "Furlong".

88888888

"And, what are you getting him?" Clara asked, when she arrived that afternoon with polyboarding, almost knocking Little Willie flat onto his back as she reversed into the yard.

"A tie, a bit of copper piping and a voucher," Bren smiled. She was, too. Joke presents, with meaning, seemed to have been something they now did.

"A voucher for what?"

"No. 32, Sycamore Avenue, for Mrs. Janet Farnes-Barnes."

"What?"

"Nothing. I've got him a watch, a really good one. Swiss. Not a knock off job from down the market."

"If you had said," Clara whispered, "I could have got you the same, but cheaper. Anyway, it'll be great to work together on this." Clara looked over the barn like a starving man might look at the pin up of Norma Major.

"Right, you don't want to be on a building site for three weeks," Tony added, giving Bren a quick kiss on the cheek. Bren noticed Clara's crestfallen look. They were becoming good friends - she liked Clara, she reminded her of an opposite version Twinkle, always smiling and competent in her job.

"Too right I don't," Bren agreed. "It'll be just like one big shed to you all - a man shed. Stan'll be in his element."

That afternoon, Tony phoned his mum. Bren felt a bit funny, and he asked her about it afterwards, when she seemed withdrawn.

"It's strange, my mum's gone, but she's always been there, she's not there this year."

"I know," Tony replied, cuddling her, then added, "eh did you see that?"

"That, being Little Willie watching Clara drink a pop and look intently at a Westlife CD inlay card, because it's the only way you can understand the lyrics?"

"Ye," Tony agreed, as Willie left through the front door of the pub.

"Look you've scared him, Clara!" Tony called over to her. Clara lazily picked up her head and smiled at Tony.

"I just asked if I could see his cows sometime," she clarified.

"Well, if that's what you young people are calling them now," Bren called, as Tony cuddled her shoulders, "who are us old ones to say different?"