Page 77 of Scotlander

In the early days he’d tried engaging with his new stepson, but Finn had been so angry he’d put up a forcefield of resentment and point blank refused to let Duncan in. No matter how often his mother had explained that Duncan would never replace Finn’s father, had said the love they shared was more . . . ‘an understanding’ . . . Finn knew, with Duncan in their lives, the plans he, his mother and father had made would never see the light of day.

He’d not played truant, or vandalised things or neglected his chores. But he’d glowed with hostility. Burnt with anger fuelled by an incandescent rage that Balcraigie’s deterioration stood as a daily reminder that big dreams founded on love didn’t come true.

But now that he worked with kids himself – mostly teenagers who’d been kicked out of traditional school because maths and literature and sitting still at a desk all day wasn’t their forte – he saw that, in his own way, Duncan had never once stopped trying. He’d provided for Finn. Cared for his mother. Put food on their table. Kept the farm running by the skin of his teeth, even after Finn’s mum had died, so that one day, if he chose, it could be Finn’s for the taking. In other words: he’d been there. Like a father.

This from a man who’d most likely known from the off that he might never win Finn’s affections. A man who knew he was his wife’s second choice. Someone she’d turned to after her heart had been broken and who had never, fully, returned his affections.

Duncan had loved Finn’s mother and him as if they were blood, knowing the love he received in return would never match it.

Finn’s heart cracked open, finally allowing his stepfather the access he deserved.

Because wordsmithery was obviously his gift, he tipped his drill towards the nameplate and said, ‘Did you pick the name because she’s a bonnie lassie, Dunc?’

Duncan nodded. ‘Aye. Another screw should do the trick.’

Old Finn would’ve bridled. Would’ve silently narked that he was trying to make conversation here, mate. The least you could do is play along.

They would’ve finished the task in angry silence, then collected their tools and headed off in different directions.

He pressed on the drill until the screw head was flush with the ply, then they both stood back so they could admire their handiwork. It looked nice.

‘The littl’uns will enjoy that,’ Finn said, possibly a bit too heartily. ‘No fear of getting crushed.’ He glanced over at Duncan who, as ever, absorbed the comment silently before responding.

You looked after me with the same care, he silently willed Duncan to hear. I’m grateful.

‘Aye,’ Duncan eventually agreed after running a scraggy bit of sandpaper along the doorframe the piglets would run through. ‘Well.’ He took off his flat cap, gave what remained of his hair a swipe through with his work-stained fingers then put it back on. ‘Your mother would’ve wanted it painted like this, of course. Made pretty. I wouldnae thought of that on my own if Willa hadn’t intervened, so . . .’

Finn gave his own head a finger scrub, desperate to come up with a compliment specific to Duncan. ‘You’re a mean hand with the jigsaw.’

What the actual fuck?

A lightning strike would be welcome about now.

They looked at one another, gazes cautious. Finn was suddenly desperate to finish this. Put an end to their decades of wary circling.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been an arse,’ he finally said.

‘There’s some more paint up in the shed.’ Duncan lifted his chin in the direction of the tool store. ‘Nice shade of heather.’

Finn continued, ‘And I think Orla’s plans for the castle, to get tourists who want to volunteer to help clear and restore it, is a good one.’

‘Brushes should be up there as well,’ Duncan said.

‘I was thinking of maybe going part-time at the college. Putting some more hours in here. If you’re happy with that.’ He hadn’t really. The idea had just come to him. But now that he’d said it, he knew it was the right call. He wanted to be part of Balcraigie’s future. More than that, he wanted Duncan to know he’d earn his way back into the fold the same way Duncan had. By being here.

Duncan frowned, nodded, pulled his cap off again, scratched his head, then popped the tweed flat cap back on to his balding bonnet. ‘It’s no bother, son. No bother.’

It was the first time in twenty years that Duncan had called him son.

They stood there and stared at their handiwork, then, after a quick handshake, touched the brims of their flat caps and went about the rest of their chores. It wasn’t until later that Finn realised he’d had a smile on his face all day long, and that Duncan, whenever their paths crossed, had been whistling.

Chapter Thirty-Three

‘Fuck me, your bloke is hot.’ Fenella patted the seat beside her. ‘C’mon, doll. You might as well join us as we perv on your boyf.’

Willa sat down next to Fenella on the stretch of log benches where she, Jules, Jennifer, ChiChi and Rosa had taken up posts to watch Finn chop wood for that evening’s fire. Jennifer was heating up some of Orla’s ‘famous Scottish fajitas’ in a skillet hung over the open fire, explaining that Orla looked ‘a little under the weather’ when she’d come out with the ingredients.

Whack! Whack! Whack!