"Hmm," Janice in a tone that suggested that she was really trying to be interested as well as sound it.

"Over here," Hamish said, plodding towards another table, "we have what are called the passivation glasses, related to the Borate glasses but made from zinc-silicoborate…»

"All I said was I'd like to see the factory," Janice whispered to Rory as they moved to follow Hamish. "The outside would have done."

"Tough shit," Rory said, and tickled her with both hands this time, producing a yelp.

Another man in a white coat came up to Hamish from the far end of the corridor. "Excuse me a moment," Hamish said to the others, and turned to talk to him.

Kenneth turned to Rory and Janice. He tugged on Rory's sleeve and in a low monotone said, "Dad, I'm bored, dad; dad, are we nearly finished yet, dad? Dad, want to go home, dad." He leant one hand against the glass wall, glanced back at Hamish — still deep in conversation, and nodding — and rolled his eyes. He looked at Janice. "My elder brother," he said quietly. The man who put the Bore in Boro-silicate."

"You don't have to stay." Rory grinned. "We could get a train home."

Kenneth shook his head. "No; it's okay." He glanced at his watch. "Maybe we can drag the Tree out for lunch soon."

"Sorry about that," Hamish said, coming up behind them. They all smiled at him. Hamish moved one arm up to indicate they should move down the corridor to where they could see the exciting zinc-silicoborates. He took a pristine white handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbed at the faint hand-print Kenneth had left on the glass partition as he said, "These passivation glasses are of much use in the semi-conductor industry, and we have high hopes that with the burgeoning of the Scottish computer industry — Silicon Glen as it is sometimes jocularly called — we shall shortly be supplying…»

"And to think, all that could have been mine." Kenneth sighed with pretended regret, putting his feet up on the low wall of the terrace and rocking his seat back on its rear legs as he shaded his eyes with one hand. He brought his drink up to his lips with the other.

Janice and Rory were tucking into their salads; the terrace of the Achnaba Hotel was crowded with tourists, and on the road in front of the hotel cars, caravans and coaches hummed past, heading for Lochgilphead, Gallanach, or Kintyre. A brisk warm wind blew from the south west, laden with the vanilla smell of gorse blossom, mixed with pine off the forests and a salt hint from the sea.

"Well, that's just the way it goes, Ken," Rory said. "Hamish got to be manager of the factory and you didn't. No use crying over spilled boro-silicate…»

Kenneth grinned, staring out over the balustrade of the terrace towards the hills on the far side of Loch Fyne. "I wonder where that saying comes from. I mean, why milk? If it means something not very valuable, why not water? Or —»

"Maybe crying over milk was unlucky," Rory suggested.

"It was years before I realised it was even common parlance," Kenneth said, still staring out to the loch. "I used to think it was something only mum came out with. Like 'I couldn't draw a herring off a plate. I mean, what the hell does that mean? Or, 'Och aye; that's him away the Crow Road. Jeez. Opaque or what?"

"But they might all have some… some basis in reality," Rory insisted. "Like crying over milk was bad news; spoiled it."

"Maybe it spoiled un-spilled milk," Kenneth nodded. "Some chemical reaction. Like they say thunder can curdle milk; ions or something."

"Ah," Rory said. "Then maybe you were supposed to cry over milk, because it helped preserve it, or made it easier to turn into cheese. And so it was a waste crying over spilled milk."

"I think this is where we came in," Kenneth said. He squinted at a car on the road as it hurried north. "Isn't that Fergus?" he said, nodding. "Where?"

"Racing green Jag; heading north."

"Is that what Ferg's driving these days?" Rory said, rising up in his seat a little to watch the car pass. It swept round the long bend that carried the road towards the forest. He sat back down and took up his fork again. "Yeah, looked like Ferg."

"This is Fergus Urvill, who owns the factory?" Janice asked. She sat back in the white plastic chair, fanning herself with her napkin.

Kenneth looked at her. "Yep, that Fergus," he said. "Of course, you haven't had the dubious pleasure yet, have you?" He put his glass down on the circular table, and inspected the rolled up sunshade that protruded from the centre of the table like an unopened flower.

"No,'Janice said. "What's he like?"

Kenneth and Rory exchanged glances. "Bearing up remarkably well," Kenneth said.

Janice looked puzzled for a second, then said, "Oh; yes, of course; Fiona… " she looked embarrassed. Rory patted her hand on the table.

Kenneth looked away for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Yeah; anyway." He stretched his shoulders, sat back. "Fergus… Upper-class; huntin'-shootin'-fishin" type… Could be worse, I suppose."

"Still," Rory said. "Not what you'd call a happy man."

"Well, of course," Janice said quietly, and bit her lip.

Kenneth frowned. "His precious factory's making a profit," he said briskly, draining his glass. "The Greedy Party's in power. What more does he want?"

"A wife?" Rory suggested, and then sucked on one finger.

Kenneth looked down, studying his glass. There was silence.

Rory rubbed a mark off the white table's surface. Janice lifted the scooped neck of her bright print dress and blew down.

"Want some shade?" Kenneth asked Janice. She nodded. Kenneth stood, lifted the stalk of the sun-shade and opened the big parasol, casting a shadow over Janice and Rory.

"Did you know," Janice said to Rory, squeezing his hand. "In the Dewey Decimal System, glass-making comes under the code six six six?"

"Woo," Rory whistled. "Number of the beast! Spooky, eh?"

"Not many people know that," Janice said. She smiled.

Kenneth laughed. He sat back in his chair again, dragging it round so he was under the shade too. "Shame Ferg isn't superstitious." He chuckled. "Mind you, Hamish is. Maybe we should tell him that. The Tree has some pretty weird ideas about religion; he might just swallow the idea he's been working for the devil all this time. Renounce the whole business, start going round smashing windows."

"Really?'Janice said. "What is he? I mean what religion?"

Kenneth shrugged. "Oh, just Church of Scotland; but if they had a Provisional Wing, I think he'd be on it."

"He's always had a soft spot for the royal family — " Rory began.

"Yes; his head," Kenneth said.

" — Maybe he could start the Royal Church of Scotland."

"Maybe he could start thinking like a rational human being instead of a cave-man frightened by lightning," Kenneth said tartly.

"Oh, you're so cruel," Rory told him.

"I know," Kenneth sighed, rolling the base of his glass around on the table top. "Time for another drink, I think."

"My round," Janice said, rising.

"No," Kenneth said, "Let —»

"Sit down," Janice told him, taking his glass from his hand. "Same again?"

Kenneth looked glum. "No; Virgin Mary this time. Gotta drive."

The two men watched Janice head for the bar.

"What did Fergus ever say to you?" Kenneth asked Rory.

"What?" Rory said, blinking. "What about?"

"God, I hate it when you're mysterious!" Kenneth shook his head. "You know damn well. Before the crash; way before. What did Fergus ever tell you? Was it after you came back from India that second time; before you went back to London? You two went hill-walking a lot then, didn't you? Old Ferg spill some beans up in them there hills?"

"We talked," Rory said awkwardly, using his fork to push bits of lettuce around his plate. "He told me things, but… I don't want to go into it, Ken, it would only complicate matters. It's nothing that directly touches you."