This is the Specialist Glass Division,’ Hamish said, opening a door. They found themselves in a long corridor with one glass wall that looked out into a bright, modern, open-plan and spacious area. Everything gleamed and the few people visible wore white coats; apart from the exposed brickwork of a couple of rotund furnaces, linked to the ceiling by shining metal ductwork, the place looked more like a laboratory than a factory.
There was a silence none of the three brothers seemed inclined to fill. Hamish, an immaculate white coat over his three piece suit, gazed with a rapt expression at the almost static panorama on the far side of the glass. Kenneth looked bored. Rory stood at Janice Rae’s side, humming something monotonous, one arm round Janice’s waist and attempting to tickle her, just above her right hip.
‘Very clean,’ Janice said eventually.
‘Yes,’ Hamish said gravely. He nodded slowly, still observing the scene beyond the glass. ‘It has to be, of course.’ He turned to the tables against the wall behind them, on which lay various glassy-looking objects, some in display cabinets, most loose, all with explanatory notes stuck to the wall above them. From a wooden plinth on one table, Hamish picked up a dull black cone that looked a little like a Viking helmet without the horns.
‘This is a missile nose-cone,’ he said, turning the cone over in his hands. He held it out to Janice. She took it.
‘Hmm. Quite heavy,’ she said. Rory tickled her again and she nudged him.
‘Yes, heavy,’ Hamish said gravely, taking it back and carefully replacing it on its wooden block. ‘Strictly speaking, this is a glass ceramic rather than ordinary glass,’ he said, adjusting the precise position of the nose cone on the plinth. ‘The basis is lithium aluminosilicate, which withstands heat very well. Cooker hobs are made from this sort of thing ... and obviously missiles need to withstand a lot of heat from friction with the air.’
‘Obviously,’ Kenneth said. He and Rory exchanged looks.
Hamish turned to another exhibit; a broad bowl, also dull and dark, and over half a metre across, it was like a gigantic plate with no lip. He lifted an edge so that they could look underneath, where it was criss-crossed with a lattice of deep ribs.
‘Satellite aerial?’ Kenneth said.
‘No,’ Hamish said, though a hint of a smile crossed his dour face. ‘No, this is a substrate for an astronomical telescope mirror.’
‘Like the one Fergus has in the castle?’ Rory asked.
‘That’s right. All the substrates and optics for Mr Urvill’s telescope were made here. Though of course they were on a smaller scale than this piece.’ Hamish lowered the edge of the bowl and flicked a bit of dust off one edge. ‘This is made from the same type of material as the nose cone there. It resists distortion under thermal shock.’
‘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 sun-shade 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.’
‘What about Fiona?’ Kenneth said, voice low, staring at his brother. ‘Did it touch her?’
Rory looked away, across the loch. He shrugged. ‘Look, Ken, it isn’t something you’d benefit by knowing, all right? Just leave it at that.’ The fork continued to shift the lettuce leaves around the plate.
Kenneth watched his brother for a moment, then sat back. ‘Oh well, serves me right for being nosey. Let’s change the subject. How’s this new project thing coming along?’
‘Oh, I’m still working on it.’
‘I wish you’d let me look at it.’
‘It isn’t finished yet.’
‘When will it be?’
‘When it is,’ Rory said, frowning. He put the fork down. ‘I don’t know. Look; it’s sort of a personal story ...
‘Ah,’ Kenneth said.
Rory leaned forward over the table, closer to his brother. ‘Look,’ he said, glancing round towards the french windows that led to the bar. ‘I’ve had a few more ideas ... well, I’ve thought about ... areas I didn’t think I could use that I now think I can, and I want to develop that stuff, and -’
‘What
stuff?’ Kenneth said, laughing in exasperation and throwing his arms wide. ‘Just tell me what
sort
of stuff!’
Rory sat back, shaking his head. ‘I can’t say. Really.’ He glanced up at Kenneth. ‘But things ... things might start to happen soon, anyway. I can’t say any more for now.’
Kenneth shook his head sadly. ‘They might have happened by this ... opera, TV series, pop-up-book, whatever the hell it is;
and
if you’d let me talk to a few people. I mean, if it’s just that you’re too close to it and you don’t want
me
to look at it, there are people I know who’re good at that sort of thing; they can see the wood from the trees; they could -’
‘Aw, come on, Ken,’ Rory said, a pained expression crossing his face. He ran a hand through his short, straight hair. ‘This is my show; this is the way I want to do it. Just let me, all right?’
‘I don’t know, Rore,’ Kenneth said, sitting back. ‘Sometimes you play your cards so damn close to your chest I don’t think you can see them yourself. You should open up a bit more, share your problems. Share some secrets.’
‘I do,’ Rory said, biting his lip and looking down at his glass.
‘Rory,’ Kenneth said, sitting forward and lowering his voice to conspiratorial levels, ‘the last secret I remember you telling me was that it was you who set fire to that barn on the Urvill’s estate.’
Rory grinned, stirring his finger through a little patch of moisture on the side of his glass. ‘Hey, I’m still waiting to see if you tell anyone.’
Ken laughed. ‘Well, I haven’t. Have you?’
Rory smiled, sucking air through his teeth at the same time, clinked one thumb-nail against his glass. He glanced at his brother. ‘Don’t worry; my secret is safe with us.’ He shook his head, then shrugged. ‘Okay,’ Rory sighed, trying to suppress a smile, looking away. ‘There might be a job with Aunty in the offing, okay?’
‘What?’ Kenneth laughed. ‘The Beeb? You going to be a TV star?’