"What, dad?"

"What was the job, dad?"

"He had to make brooms."

"Brooms?"

"Old fashioned brushes made from bundles of twigs tied to a wooden handle. You know up in the forest you sometimes see those things for beating out fires?"

"The big flappy things?"

"Yes; they're big bits of rubber — old tyres — attached to wooden handles, for beating out fires on the ground. Well, in the old days, those used to be made from twigs, and even longer ago people used to use brooms like that to sweep the streets and even to sweep their houses. Not all that long ago, either; I can remember seeing a man sweeping the paths in the park in Gallanach with a broom like that, when I was older than either of you are now."

"Ah, but dad, you're ancient!"

"Ha ha ha ha!"

"That's enough. Now listen; about these brooms, right?"

"What?"

"What, dad?"

The man who had been a rich merchant, and who was now a beggar, had to make brooms for the town. He had a little hut with a stone floor, and a supply of handles and twigs. But to teach the man a lesson they had given him a supply of twigs that were old and weak; poor twigs for making brooms with.

"So, by the time he had made one broom the floor of the hut was covered in bits of twigs, and he had to use the broom he'd just made to sweep the floor of his hut clean before he could start making the next broom. But by the time he'd cleaned the floor to his satisfaction, the broom had worn right away, right down to the handle. So he had to start on another one. And the same thing happened with that broom, too. And the next, and the next; the mess made making each broom had to be cleared up with that same broom, and wore it away. So at the end of the day there was a great big pile of twigs outside the hut, but not one broom left."

"That's silly!"

"That's a waste, sure it is, dad?"

"Both. But the people had done it to teach the man a lesson."

"What lesson, dad?"

"Ah-hah. You'll have to work that out for yourselves."

"Aw, dad!"

"Dad, I know!"

"What?" Kenneth asked Prentice.

"Not to be so damn silly!"

Kenneth laughed. He reached up and ruffled Prentice's hair in the semi-darkness; the boy's head was hanging out over the top bunk. "Well, maybe," he said.

"Dad," James said from the lower bunk. "What happened to the merchant?"

Kenneth sighed, scratched his bearded chin. "Well, some people say he died in the town, always trying to make a broom that would last; others say he just gave up and wasted away, others that he got somebody else to make the brooms and found somebody to provide better twigs, and got people to sell the brooms in other towns and cities, and hired more people to make more brooms, and built a broom-making factory, and made lots of money and had a splendid house made… And other people say he just lived quietly in the town after learning his lesson. That's a thing about stories, sometimes; they have different endings according to who you listen to, and some have sort of open endings, and some don't actually have proper endings yet."

"Aw, but dad…»

"But one thing's definite."

"What, dad?"

"It's light-out time."

"Aw…»

"Night-night."

"Night, dad."

"Yeah; night."

"Sleep tight."

"Don't let the bugs bite."

"Right. Now lie down properly; noddles on pillows."

He made sure they were both tucked in and went to the door. The night-light glowed softly on the top of the chest of drawers.

"Okay… Dad?"

"What?"

"Did the man not have any family, dad?" Prentice asked. "In the story: the merchant. Did he not have any family?"

"No," Kenneth said, holding the door open. "He did, once, but he threw them out of his house; he thought he wasted too much time telling his two youngest sons bed-time stories."

"Aww…»

"Aww…»

He smiled, padded back into the room, kissed the boys" foreheads. "But then he was a silly man, wasn't he?"

They left Margot to look after the children and set off in the car, heading for Gallanach. Kenneth smiled when he saw the hand-painted sign at the outskirts of the village that said, "Thank You."

"What are you grinning at?" Mary asked him. She was bending down in her seat, staring into the little mirror that hinged up from the glove-box flap, inspecting her lip-stick.

"Just that sign," he said. "The one that goes with the Slow Children sign at the other end of the village."

"Huh," Mary said. "Slow children, indeed. I hope you weren't telling my bairns horrible stories that'll keep them awake all night."

«Na» he said. The Volvo estate accelerated down the straight through the forest towards Port Ann. "Though maggoty meat and people with one eye did come into it at one point.

"Hmm," Mary said. She snapped the glove-box closed. "I heard Lachy Watt's back in the town; is that true?"

"Apparently." Kenneth rotated his shoulders as he drove, trying to ease the nagging pain in them that too much drink the night before always seemed to give him these days.

They had spent Hogmanay at home, welcoming the groups of people roaming the village as they came round. The last revellers had finally been seen off at nine in the morning; they and Margot had done some cleaning up before going to bed, though Ken had anyway had a couple of hours" sleep between three and five, when he'd fallen into a deep slumber on the wicker couch in the conservatory. The boys had gone out to play on the forestry tracks with their new bikes on what had proved a bright but cold day; Mary had got three hours" sleep before they came back, noisily demanding to be fed.

"Haven't seem him for… what? Ten years?" Mary said. "Has he been away at sea all that time?"

"Well, hardly," Ken said. "He was in Australia, wasn't he? Settled down there for a while. Had some sort of job in Sydney, I heard."

"What was he doing?"

"Don't know; you could ask him yourself. Supposed to be coming to Hamish and Tone's shindig tonight."

"Is he?" Mary said. The Volvo hissed along the dark road; a couple of cars went past, holes of white light in the night, scattering spray which the water jets and wipers of the Volvo swept away again. Mary took a perfume spray from her handbag, applied the scent to wrists and neck. "Fergus and Fiona are coming tonight, aren't they?"

"Should be," Ken nodded.

"Do you know if Lachy and Fergus still talk to each other?"

"No idea." He laughed. "Don't even know what they'd talk about; a member of the factory-owning Scottish gentry and a second mate — or whatever Lachy is these days — who's spent the last few years in Oz. What is there to say; aye-aye, captain of light industry?"

"Fergus isn't gentry, anyway," Mary said.

"Well, good as. Might not have a title, but he acts like he does sometimes. Got a castle; what more do you want?" Kenneth laughed lightly again. "Aye-aye. Ha ha."

The lights of Lochgilphead swung into view ahead, just as rain started to spot the windscreen. Kenneth put the wipers on. "Aye-aye!" he sniggered.

Mary shook her head.

"Going to the dogs, if you ask me."

"Fergus, people like you have been saying that since somebody invented the wheel. Things get better. They're always looking up."

"Yes, Kenneth, but you're basically Bolshie, so you would think so.

Kenneth grinned, took a drink of his whisky and water. "It's been a good year," he nodded. Fergus looked suitably disgusted, and threw back the remains of his own whisky and soda in one gulp.

They stood in the lounge of Hamish and Antonia's house, watching the others help themselves to the buffet Antonia had prepared. Neither of the two men had felt hungry.

"You might not be saying that when the refugees come back from Australia," Fergus said sourly. Kenneth glanced at him, then looked round for Lachlan Watt; he was sitting on a distant chair, a plate of food balanced on his knees, talking to Shona Watt, his sister-in-law.