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Sitting at the small mahogany desk where the late minister had composed his sermons, Threadgold lifted the framed family photographs one by one from the open wooden chest on the floor beside him. He arranged them carefully in two piles on the desk, the pictures of men in uniform face down, the ones of civilians and wives and children face up. He worked slowly and thoughtfully, staring for a few moments into each sepia image before placing it very gently on the appropriate pile. A loud rap on the front door interrupted his reverie. He closed the chest and rose stiffly, a little disoriented by his unfamiliar surroundings, then made his way to the front hallway. He fumbled to open the two latches.

On the doorstep was a respectably-dressed slightly plump middle-aged woman. Her weatherbeaten face bore the lines of a life that had been neither easy nor pleasant. In her right hand she held a basket, covered with a printed tea-towel.

“Good afternoon, Major Threadgold,” she greeted him respectfully, “I’ve come to welcome you to the Vicarage, and I’ve brought a few home-made scones in case you might be in need of a bit to eat. I’m Mrs. Arnold, from just down the lane.”

“Oh, how very kind of you…” he took the basket and looked from side to side, momentarily unable to remember where the kitchen was. “Won’t you come in, Mrs. Arnold? Won’t you sit down for a momen?. I’ve only just arrived and I’m still unpacking. You’re right, I don’t have any food in the house. I have tea and milk—no sugar, I’m afraid—but if that would be acceptable I’d be very pleased to make you a cup.”

“I have never used sugar in tea, Major Threadgold. That would be very civil of you.” She walked towards the kitchen with total assurance and he followed her. Before he caught up with her she was filling the kettle from the kitchen tap. “You seem to know the house very well, Mrs. Arnold…”

“I did for the Reverend Willis, God rest his soul, three days a week. I can do for you too, if you want me to.”

“Oh…” he felt slightly taken aback, “yes, I suppose that would be all right. We must come to some arrangement.”

“Aye. That we must.” She took down cups from the cupboard and produced spoons from a drawer. “All in good time, Major.”

He paused for a moment, watching the confident movement of her hands. “There’s just one thing, Mrs. Arnold. I would prefer if you didn’t call me Major. Mister Threadgold. Just plain Mister, if it’s all right with you.”

She turned to look at him, clearly waiting for an explanation. “May I sit down, Mrs. Arnold?” He lowered himself on to a kitchen chair before he spoke. “Mrs. Arnold, it’s obvious that you know a little about me already. I don’t know what you may have heard, but I dislike rumours and gossip, and if we are to become… associates, I would like everything to be perfectly open from the outset.” She sat down and looked him squarely in the eye. “It’s true that I come from a military family. The Threadgolds had the honour of serving in Scottish regiments since the Jacobite uprising of 1715, quite possibly earlier. The family name has been linked with the Black Watch for at least two hundred and fifty years. The finest regiment in Scotland, Mrs. Arnold. The finest on earth in my opinion. In the campaign against Napoleon, the one against the Boers, and now the one against the Kaiser, there were always Threadgolds in the Black Watch, never far from the vanguard either.” He paused, chose his words more carefully. “Do you know anything about the Battle of Aubers on the 9th of May, 1915?” She shook her head. “It was a singularly… bloody affair.” He lowered his voice. “More than one thousand of Scotland’s finest sons fell in the first five minutes. The first five minutes, Mrs. Arnold. Think of that. Of course there have been worse massacres, you don’t have to tell me, but not many. Soldiers of the Black Watch won two Victoria Crosses that day.” He paused again, unable to find the right words. “My son was there, Mrs. Arnold,” he whispered.

“You must be very proud, Mr. Threadgold.”

“No, Mrs. Arnold, I am not very proud.”

Threadgold’s little speech faded out. The kettle whistled and Mrs. Arnold got up to deal with it.

“Do you know… are you aware… of how deserters are dealt with on the field of battle, Mrs. Arnold?” She turned, her face pale. As she poured the water into the teapot neither of them spoke.

“I am not going to speak of this again,” Threadgold said in a more normal tone, “my personal association with the Regiment has come to an end. My family association also, as I have no further sons… They say the blood grows a little thinner with each generation. A little further from the source each time. What do you think, Mrs. Arnold?” She looked uncomfortable. “Please forgive my rudeness, I forgot to enquire about your family. Did you also suffer… misfortune?”

“I lost a son at the Somme. My other son came back from the war but they said he’d caught some kind of disease from the American soldiers. He died in his bed last year. My husband passed away last year as well—something to do with his heart.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Arnold. That’s absolutely tragic. Please forgive me for bothering you with my petty family concerns.”

“You lost your wife too, didn’t you Mr. Threadgold?”

“What have you heard about that?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing. Nothing. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You might as well know. I said I was going to tell everything, forestall all rumours. My wife took her own life shortly after she heard about… our son. It was very unexpected. Very out of character. There, you know all my nasty little family secrets now, we need never speak of any of this again.”

“If you’ll forgive me saying so, I think maybe you should speak about it, Mr. Threadgold, now and then. Something that’s never spoken about can fester. At least, that’s what I think. It’s good to talk about painful things sometimes.”

“A lot of modern clap-trap, Mrs. Arnold. The point is to move on. Not rake over the ashes. The courage you need to face the enemy is no different to the courage you need to face the truth. They both wound. But if you’re strong enough you survive. That’s all there is to it.”

She handed him his cup and noticed that his hand was shaking

ooOOoo

Threadgold was sitting in the front garden within a multi-coloured bower of weeds and garden flowers run wild, reclining in a rocking-chair from The Rev. Willis’ study. By his side he had set up a folding table on which sat his pipe, tobacco and ashtray, as well as a thick hardback book which he had laid open on its front. The sunshine stung his face.

“You’re looking very well, Mr. Threadgold,” said Mrs. Arnold by way of a greeting.

He shielded his eyes from the sun. “Good morning, Mrs. Arnold. I didn’t see you coming up the lane. I didn’t realise this was one of your days.”

“It isn’t. I’m just passing by on my way to the village. Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Threadgold?”

“From the village? No, I don’t think so.” He paused. “I’ve been meaning to say… how very kind you have been to me. How very comfortable you have made me here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Threadgold. I’ll be getting along then.”

“Must you… go right away?” She stopped and put down her empty shopping bag. “I’ve been thinking about the garden. It’s very overgrown, isn’t it?”

“Aye. It’s pretty much a lost cause, I think. My late husband used to do it for the Rev. Willis, but not for years now. Not since before the war. His health wasn’t up to it. I’m afraid it’s gone beyond saving now.”

“I’m sure the Rev. Willis would never have said that. About a person, or a garden.”

Mrs. Arnold smiled, for the first time in Threadgold’s recollection. “I think gardeners need to be a bit more realistic than ministers, Mr. Threadgold.”

“Why don’t you call me by my first name, Mrs. Arnold?” he said, surprising himself with his boldness. “It’s Callum. There’s no need to be formal with one another, is there?”

“Are you sure that would be… proper, Mr. Threadgold?”

“Proper? Proper and improper don’t exist any more, Mrs. Arnold. That world has come to an end. The Tsar of Russia, the German Kaiser, every crown head of Europe dead or deposed, the rabble in power, the nobility in the poor-house or the cemetery. Do you read the papers, Mrs. Arnold? Do you have a wireless? Do you go to the cinema and watch the newsreels? Do you realise what’s going on out there?”

“I’m a simple woman, Mr. Threadgold. I can read and write but I’m not educated like you.”

“All the old standards have been swept away. God knows what the future holds for the world. Russia taken over by the Bolsheviks. Germany, the power house of Europe, on its knees with its people grovelling for food. Everything that people thought they could rely on, gone for ever. I don’t know what’s going to happen in Europe, Mrs. Arnold. It’s turned into a jungle, everybody trying to grab what they can. Armies with no chain of command, no ethics of any kind. How is it all to end? Civil war? The corpses piled up in the streets? Europe returning to the Stone Age? It’s all a mess, Mrs. Arnold. A terrible, terrible mess.”

She looked serious. “Would you rather have what we’ve just been through? All that was to defend power and privilege, wasn’t it? Was that any better?”

Threadgold’s face darkened. “We didn’t see it like that at the time,” he said sadly, “but now I’m not so sure any more. My son used to say things like that. They said he was a Marxist. Are you a Marxist, Mrs. Arnold?”

“No, Sir. Just a mother.” She waited but Threadgold had no reply. “My name is Kitty,” she added quietly.

“Kitty. Kitty,” he repeated, “a fine Scottish name.” They smiled at one another. “My son—his name was Tommy—used to read people like Kier Hardy and Rosa Luxembourg, and Bernard Shaw, and that other Irish madman, James Connolly. He used to talk about workers’ republics and the brotherhood of man.”

“So how did he end up in the Black Watch?”

“I suppose that’s like asking how he ended up walking on two legs instead of four. It’s what the men folk do in my family, Kitty. What we’ve always done. I don’t suppose he had very much choice.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t suppose I gave him very much choice. I was a decisive man then. A man… who commanded other men. Not the wreck you see before you now.”

“Och away with you, Mr. … I mean Callum. You’re a fine man still. A fine strong military gentleman. It can’t be easy for you to let go of all that.”

“No, Kitty. It isn’t easy.” He paused. “An ancestor of mine was the piper who led the Regiment into battle against Napoleon’s army at Nicopolis in 1801. He was sixteen years old. He wore the Royal Stewart tartan, like all Black Watch pipers do to this day. The first fuselade of musket fire blew his right foot completely off. He continued marching on the stump for about five minutes until he fell dead from the loss of blood. He didn’t miss one note of the tune he was playing. I think you have to believe in something to do that. Kitty. Am I going to turn around now and say that he was wrong? That he was just a fool, manipulated by powerful, cynical men? I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I have the right.”

There was a pause.

“You know, you should get out of the house more, Mr. … Callum. Would you like to walk into the village with me?”

Threadgold drew back instinctively. “That’s very kind of you… perhaps some other time. Oh, I was meaning to ask you about the pond at the bottom of the garden. It’s deeper than it looks, isn’t it?”

“Aye. The burn used to flow through it once. It was clear and deep, like a highland loch. I’m afraid it’s badly silted-up now, and stagnant. But you’re right, it’s a lot deeper than it looks. Why do you ask?”

“I’m worried about the village children playing down there. They could fall in.”

“The village children? What makes you think they play down there?”

“I walked down there late last night. I couldn’t sleep, so I came out for a bit of air. There was no moon, so I couldn’t see very clearly, but there was a boy down there.”

“A boy? What did he look like?”

“Well, I just saw his silhouette for a moment. Just a black outline against the water. I couldn’t see him properly. I shouted, so I suppose I must have frightened him away.”

Kitty looked puzzled. “I’ll ask about it when I’m in the village. I certainly wouldn’t want any son of mine playing around that pond.”

ooOOoo

“Hello Callum! Look at ye there, working in the garden!”

“Ah, hello Kitty. Aye, I’ve decided to cut back as much of this bramble as I can. I’m going to burn it when it dries out. I know the garden will never be like it was, but if I can clear a bit of this stuff away I might be able to do something with it.”

“You’re a strong man for your age, Callum. What you need though is something with a longer handle. Something like a scythe. I’ll see what I can borrow for you.”

“Oh aye, Kitty. I’ve been expecting a visit from the man with the scythe for a long time now.”

“God forgive you Callum. Have you had any more visits from the black boy?”

He stopped what he was doing. “I’m nearly afraid to say, Kitty, in case you think I’ve gone soft in the head. Last night, after midnight, he was back there again.”

“Just the black outline like before?”

“That’s all I can see. I don’t know where he comes from, or where he goes. When I get down to the pond there’s never anybody there. Do you think they’re playing tricks on me, Kitty? Trying to frighten an old fool who lives on his own?”

She looked concerned. “Is that why you’re cutting back the briars? To leave them less hiding places?”

“Well, it can’t do any harm now, can it?”

“Callum, I don’t know how to say this but I feel that I should. When a person lives on their own… things can play on their mind. I’m talking about myself as much as you. This… isn’t a good way to live. Don’t you ever think of… making a change of any kind in your life?”

He looked embarrassed for a moment, then laughed. “Is this an indecent proposal, Mrs. Arnold?”

“It’s a suggestion that maybe it’s silly for two old people to be on their own when there’s no need to be. What’s the point of playing games at our time of life, Callum? We get on all right, we’d be good companions to one another. You keep telling me how the whole world is changing, how the old ways don’t mean anything any more. Well, maybe we ought to change too, before it’s too late. I’m tired of nursing my pride, Callum. I don’t want to be on my own until the day I die. I don’t feel like my life is over yet. I want more. Don’t you want more?”

ooOOoo

“Can I come in, Callum?” She tapped smartly on the front door.

“It’s not locked, Kitty!”

She pushed the door open and hurried to where Callum stood resplendent before his full-length bathroom mirror. “Goodness me,” she laughed, “aren’t you the dandy? Is that your wedding suit? They’ll be green with envy down in the village!”

“I thought it was bad luck to see the groom dressed up before the wedding?”

“Get away!” She embraced him from behind and rose on to her tip-toes to kiss his neck. “Is everything ready them—for tomorrow? Are you excited?”

“Excited? Trembling with fear, more like.”

“The courage you need to face the enemy is no different to the courage you need to face the minister,” she announced, imitating his deep authoritative tones. He turned and slapped her playfully on the bottom.

“I hope we get a bit more sleep tonight than last night,” he said wistfully.

“And maybe a bit less tomorrow night. Why, did you not sleep well, Callum?

“Well, it wasn’t exactly easy to drop off, with those pipes.”

“Pipes, Callum?”

“Aye, you must have heard them, you’re only a couple of hundred yards down the lane. The man playing the pipes, late last night.”

“I didn’t hear a thing, Callum.”

“You didn’t?” he looked at her oddly, then turned back to the mirror. “I must have been mistaken. Maybe I left the wireless turned on.”

“You are all right, Callum, aren’t you? You’re not still seeing the black boy at the pond?”

“No, no, of course not. I’m fine, perfectly fine. Look… I haven’t really told you how much this means to me. Coming to live with me, I mean. Marrying me. You were perfectly right, I thought my life was over. Nothing left for me but to find somewhere quiet to live out my last few years. Now, it feels like I’m young again. Like I can do anything I want to. It feels as though my entire life is starting up again. I’m most eternally grateful to you. Thank you, Kitty.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Maybe I’m not just an old fool who’s been left behind by the world.”

“You’re a good man, Callum. A fine man. And I’ll be proud to have you for a husband.”

“As soon as you move in here, after the honeymoon of course, there’s something I’d like us to do. It’s only a small thing. I’d like us to fill in that pond. We can pay to have it done, can’t we?”

“Of course we can. Why is it so important, Callum?”

“I don’t like having it there. It’s ugly and dangerous, and… it reminds me of the trenches. The mud and the smell… it’s an unhealthy place, Kitty. An unholy place.”

“You’re right, Callum. As soon as we get back I’ll ask around for a couple of strong men to fill it in.” She saw his face relax. “I only came round to make sure you were all right. I’ve got loads of things to do. My brother will be arriving from Thurso any minute. I’d better get back to the house.”

“I’ll see you in the morning then, Kitty.”

“At the altar, Callum. Don’t be late.”

ooOOoo

Threadgold stirred in his sleep. There it was, as clear as day! The beginning of the pibroch, the simple, plaintive theme that would grow in complexity with every repetition, until the piper’s fingers could travel no faster over the holes in the chanter. The regimental call to battle. There could be no mistaking it this time.

He lit the lamp by his bedside and pulled on his dressing gown and his slippers. He had doubted his own sanity before, now there could be no denying the clear, high penetrating call of the pipes. He would go to Kitty’s house and knock on her door and waken her and she would hear it too.

He hurried down the stairs and out by the front door, the sudden cold breeze making his cheeks tingle.

Out here it was even louder—far away, but piercing, compelling. He remembered that Kitty’s brother from Thurso would be staying with her. All to the good, another independent witness to his sanity and the reality of the phenomenon.

With most of the brambles hacked back it was now a clear view down to the pond at the bottom of the garden. A movement of some kind from that direction caught his eye. He stopped and stood completely still and stared down the hill at the dim shapes of the trees and the gorse-scattered hills behind them. More movement. Somebody was there, he was certain of it. So the young scoundrels thought they could play one last trick on him on his wedding night! He doused the lamp and put it down carefully by the garden wall. This time he would make sure they didn’t see him coming. He started down the familiar path towards the stinking mud-pit that had once been a garden pond.

As he walked, he realised that the piping was getting louder. Its source seemed to be directly ahead of him. He paused and listened. There was no mistaking it. The piper was somewhere in the hills beyond his garden pond. But he knew that there were no houses up there, nothing but a few grazing sheep. Somebody with a gramophone, perhaps? Yes, that would be it, a village child with a gramophone. He edged forward with infinite slowness, infinite care not to make a noise.

Then he saw it with perfect clarity, raising its hand in a greeting between him and the pond. The black, featureless figure of a boy. Hardly a figure at all—more like the emptiness where a figure should be. A trick of the shadows and the dim starlight, he thought. But he knew in his heart that this was no childish prank.

“I know you’re there,” he said aloud in a voice that he hoped was calm and reassuring, “and I wish you no harm. Just tell me who you are and why you’ve come.”

A wave of unreality seemed to sweep over Threadgold, as though he had entered a waking dream. The figure made no reply but it didn’t need to. Threadgold simply knew who it was now. He could feel his son’s presence, the way you can with your closest family. He felt no fear. He didn’t even feel much strangeness. Indeed what he felt was the deepest content that he had known for a long time. He seemed to accept what was happening, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. As though he had been expecting it and waiting for it for as long as he could remember.

“I did you wrong, Tommy,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t listen and I put you in an impossible position. I want you to forgive me. You were no coward. I understand now. I understand what happened. You stood there and you looked at those frightened young boys coming out of the German trenches and you couldn’t fire on them. They didn’t fire on you either. Wasn’t that strange, Tommy? How did they know who you were? What was in your mind? Is that what you meant by the brotherhood of man?”

The piping grew louder, the melody faster and more complex. Tommy’s black featureless form turned and began to march towards the sound of the pipes. Threadgold followed. What else was there for him to do? The regiment was calling him to his final post.

One rush of unimaginable cold, then just numbness. His body continued to walk but he seemed no longer to inhabit it. Within a very few steps the muddy waters rose above Threadgold’s face and filled his mouth and his nose and his lungs. All that existed for him now was the wail of the lone piper drawing him ever onward across the gulf that separates life from death. A whole new world was starting. A whole new way for human beings to relate. No more room for the likes of him. He had done his duty, without regard to cost, like the endless ranks of his ancestors who were watching proudly now from across the centuries.

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