Alexander Mccall Smith

While Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson were in the middle of their adventure in Edinburgh, considerably further north, in the ancient fishing town of Peterhead, Irene Pollock, now ensconced in the home of her new rescuer and lover, Graham Scroggie, the skipper of a medium-sized trawler, had embarked on a journey that represented the summation of days of cajoling and planning. None of that had been easy, but now at last, as she looked out past the bow of the Aberdeen Belle, which she wanted to temporarily rename the Melanie Klein, she was able to reflect on the personal victory that she was on the point of achieving not for progressive opinion not only in North-east of Scotland, but for the whole country. It was a sweet moment of triumph – and it was only just beginning. No fish had yet been caught, but the sea ahead of them was calm, a wide blue plain, inviting under the benign July sunset, a place of teeming pelagic fish waiting to be caught by the all-female crew of six volunteers.

Watched by half a dozen pair of eyes, the Aberdeen Belle, sailing under the temporary name, the Melanie Klein, slipped out of Peterhead and into the open sea. Irene had suggested that there should always be more than one person at the helm, in accordance with the sharing ideals for which she had always striven, so now she and Mollie jointly set the fishing boat on its projected course. Out on deck, the other crew members watched the receding shore with a mixture of satisfaction and trepidation. Fortunately, the sea was quite flat, undisturbed by even the slightest breeze, and the sky, unusually for that part of the world, was devoid of cloud.

Nor was Bruce the type to yield too quickly to an adverse turn of events. He had encountered difficulties of every sort, ranging from social embarrassment to direct lightning strikes, and had been emerged undefeated. The instances of social embarrassment were, of course, for the most part minor, but, when remembered at odd moments, could still bring a warm feeling to the back of the neck. That awkward evening, for instance, when he had gone to the annual dance of the Edinburgh South Conservatives in his kilt, but had forgotten to wear any underpants, still made him cringe, even if it was the sort of thing that was too easily done. The only way of saving face in such circumstances was brazenly to assert that the omission was deliberate. That applies to all wardrobe malfunctions: the déshabillé should simply say, “But that was intentional”, at which point any embarrassment will evaporate. It is no fun laughing at an intended effect.

Tony was late.“Sorry, Bruce,” he apologised. “I know I’m half an hour late, but you know how it is. Things to do, my friend.” He winked.Bruce smiled. “Yeah, Tony, we’ve all got things to do. That’s all right, old pal. Nae worries, as they say.”

Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson stood at the doorway marked Tunnel. Behind them, in the main body of the kirk, they heard the choir and the wedding congregation embarking upon Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer. The words were indistinct, though I am weak but thou art mighty might have given them some of the courage needed to follow the steps down into the subterranean reaches of St Giles’. They began the descent

The arrangement that Nicola had made with David was that they should meet at Big Lou’s before making their way up to the Festival Theatre for the matinée production of Don Pasquale. The performance would end at five-thirty, David said, and that would mean that they could go for dinner somewhere nearby, provided, of course that Nicola did not mind eating that early. “We have a word for a late breakfast,” he said. “We’re quite comfortable with brunch, but we don’t have a word for a meal that’s such a late lunch that it becomes an early dinner. Linner? Or possibly Dunch?”

Big Lou looked over Nicola’s shoulder. The front door of the coffee bar opened onto a set of steps descending from street level. Next to the door was a window through which it was possible to watch the arrival of customers, or at least to see their disembodied legs before they reached the door.

In their house at Nine Mile Burn, Matthew and Elspeth had been woken up that day even earlier than usual. The boys usually slept until shortly after six, the light of summer mornings being kept out of their room by heavy blackout curtains. But now, at half-past-five, they were wide awake, the curtains had been opened, and sunlight was streaming into their bedroom.

It lasted one day. The boys listened to their father’s pep-talk about the need for discretion, and each of them, in turn, voluntarily crossed his heart and hoped to die should he be so careless as to reveal the presence of Ralph. They made suggestions – all of which made Matthew smile. Fergus asked whether they could dye Ralph so that he appeared to be a different dog – or even paint him, if dyeing were to prove too difficult. If he were painted white, and black spots were to be added, then surely he could pass for a Dalmatian, and would be able to lead a less concealed life. Rognvald wondered whether he could be kept permanently in the attic, where there was plenty of room for him to take regular exercise. “He’d get used to the dark after a while,” Rognvald suggested. “And nobody would hear him if he barked up there.”