I drained my glass, studied the flattening dregs of foam at the bottom.

"Nuther beer, big yin?"

"No thanks, Gav; I'll buy my own."

Gavin, I had long ago concluded, believed that life revolved around rugby and beer, and that — especially under the influence of too much of the latter — sometimes it just revolved. Perhaps it might be a mistake to match him pint for pint.

"Ah; go on. Heavy, aye?" He grabbed my empty glass, and with that he was gone, shouldering his way through the pack of bodies for the distant dream that was the bar. He was still grinning inanely. Probably a good point for him to mount an expedition to the bar. Lewis was in the middle of a long, right-on, faux-naïve spiel about post-isms which Gav probably found a little bewildering. ('I mean, what is post-feminism? Eh? Answer me that? What do they mean? Or have I missed something? I mean, was there a general election last week and nobody told me about it and half the MPs are now women? Are fifty per cent of the directors of all major industries female? Is it no longer the case that the only way to hold on to your genitals if you're brought up in Sudan is to be born a boy? Don't Saudi Arabian driving licences still have a section that says Title: Mr, Mr or Sheik, please delete?)

I really had been going to buy my own drink; anybody who has ever been hard-up will tell you it's the easiest way to regulate one's finances while still remaining nominally sociable, but Gav, profligate though he may have been with the heat plumes from his baths (and kettles; Gavin's determination to wreck the ecosphere through the generation of copious volumes of unnecessary hot water extended to never boiling a kettle that was less than brim-full, even if only a single cup was required), was equally generous when it came to buying drink. At such moments it was almost possible to forget he was also the inventor of custard and thousand-island dressing pudding.

My brother seemed to be thinking along the same epicurean lines. However, to my horror (emulsified with a small amount of schadenfreudian delight), he appeared to be proposing to sing.

I closed my eyes and looked down, ashamed not just for Lewis but for my whole family. So this was the cutting edge of British alternative humour. Finishing with a song. Good grief.

shall draw a veil over this performance, but let history record that this pretended paean of praise for Mrs Thatcher — comparing her to various foods, with only a hint of sarcasm most of the way through ('as English as Blueberry pie') — ended with the couplet "Maggie, you're a Spanish omelette, like an egg you just can't be beaten, Maggie, you're all the food that I eat… twenty-four hours after it's eaten."

The puzzled patrons of Randan's, who had been worriedly thinking that perhaps Lewis wasn't quite so right-on after all, and had had his head turned by a sniff of fame and a glimpse of the flexible stuff, suddenly realised their man was still okay (phew), and it had all been an elaborate joke (ha!) as well as a knowing dig at more conventional comedians (nudge), and so duly erupted with applause (hurrah!).

I breathed a sigh of relief that at last it was all over — barring encores, of course — clapped lightly, looking at my watch as I did so. A glance revealed that the besieged bar was under further pressure now that the attacking forces had been reinforced following the end of Lewis's act. I suspected that for all my scorn I might yet be grateful for Gav's rugbying skills that evening, not to mention his Neanderthal build (perhaps that was why he found rugby so attractive; he was a throw-back!)

I looked at my watch again, wondering if Lewis would be unduly insulted, and Gav overly disappointed, if we didn't go back-stage to see the great performer afterwards. Things had gone so appallingly well that Lewis would undoubtedly be on a high and hence unbearable.

Perhaps I could plead a headache, if that wasn't too un-butch for Gav to accept. ('Ach, have another few beers and a whisky or two and it'll soon go away, ya big poof," would be the sort of reply my flat-mate would favour, as I knew to my cost.)

"Excuse me, are you Prentice? Prentice McHoan?"

I'd noticed the woman sidling through the crowd in my direction a few seconds earlier, but paid no real attention, assuming I just happened to be on her route.

"Yes?" I said, frowning. I thought I recognised her. She was short, maybe early forties; curly brown hair and a round, attractive face that looked run-in without being worn out. I coveted her leather jacket immediately, but it wouldn't have fitted me. A glint in her eyes could have been animal lust but was more likely to be contact lenses. I tried to remember where I'd seen her before.

"Janice Rae," she said, offering her hand. "Remember?"

"Aunty Janice!" I said, shaking her hand. I suspected I was blushing. "Of course; you used to go out with Uncle Rory. I'm sorry I knew I recognised you. Of course. Aunt Janice."

She smiled, "Yeah, Aunt Janice. How are you? What are you doing?"

"Fine," I told her. "At Uni; last year. History. And yourself?"

"Oh, keeping all right," she said. "How are your parents, are they well?"

"Fine. Just great," I nodded. I looked round to see if Gav was on his way back; he wasn't. "They're fine. Umm… Grandma Margot died last month, but apart from that —»

"Oh no!" she said. "Margot? Oh, I'm sorry."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, well, we all were."

"I feel terrible; if only I'd kept in touch… Do you think it would be all right if I, if I wrote… to your mum and dad?"

"Oh, sure; yeah; fine. They'd be delighted."

"Even if I'd just made the funeral… " she said, downcast.

"Yes… Big turn-out. Went… not with a whimper." I nodded at the empty stage. "Lewis couldn't make it, but everybody else was there."

Her eyes widened; it was like a light went on beneath her skin, then started to go out even as she said, "Rory, was he —?"

"Oh," I said, shaking my hand quickly in front of her, as though rubbing something embarrassing out on an invisible blackboard. "No; not Uncle Rory."

"Oh," she said, looking down at her glass. "No."

"'Fraid we haven't heard anything for, well, years." I hesitated "Don't suppose he ever got in touch with you, did he?"

She was still looking at her glass. She shook her head. "No; there's been nothing. No word."

I nodded my head, looked around for Gav again. Janice Rae was still inspecting her glass. Broke or not I'd have offered to buy her another drink, but her glass was full. I was aware that I was sucking in my lips, trapping them between my teeth. This is something I do when I'm feeling awkward. I wished she would say something more or just go away.

"I always felt," she said, looking up at last, "that your dad knew more than he was letting on."

I looked into her bright eyes. "Did you?"

"Yes. I wondered if Rory was still in touch with him, somehow."

"Well, I don't know," I said. I shrugged. "He does still talk about him as though… " I had been going to say as though he were still alive, but that might have hurt her. "As though he knows where Uncle Rory is."

She looked thoughtful. "That was the way I felt, when I was down there, after Rory… left. There was one time when… " She shook her head again. "I thought he was going to tell me how he knew; let me in on his secret, but… well, at any rate, he never did." She smiled at me. "And how is Lochgair? Your parents still in that big house?"

"Still there," I confirmed, catching sight of Gav making his way through the scrum of bodies, concentrating on the two full beer glasses in front of him.

Janice Rae looked warm and happy for a moment, and her eyes narrowed a little, her gaze shifting away to one side. "It was a good place," she said softly. "I have a lot of happy memories of that house."