The Credit Draper

Megan glanced at her friend. “But Jean Munro is no feart. Not Jean Munro. She’s a strong lassie, that one. Full of courage. She’ll take on even castle ghosts. “She lets go of my hand and pushes down on the two handles.

“I think to running away, but my feet are stuck to the floorboards like I’m standing in a bowl of cold porridge,” Megan laughs, looking again at Jean.

“Jean pushes open the doors and goes in. There’s a wind rushing through that room. Off the sea, like I said.

“And I see her pointing at something I cannae see.

“I move forward with wee steps along the side of the door. And the noise is coming loud. And Jean is still pointing.

“I get to the edge of the door and peek round. And what do ye think it was?”

“A ghost. A ghost playing a musical instrument.”

“It was a musical instrument all right. It was a harp. A big beautiful harp. With its sheet fallen down by the broken window. But no ghost was playing it.

“Just the wind. And ye should see yer face, Avram whatever-yer-name-is.”

Megan was laughing. And so was Jean, with her eyes. The two of them hugged each other.

And he began laughing too. Donald Munro stirred in his seat, but no one paid any attention.

Doorway

When the rain eased off, Jean Munro drove Avram and Megan on her wagon back into Lorn, dropping them off by the kirk near to the Kennedy’s cottage.

Standing in his doorway, Kenny Kennedy scratched his head when he saw them, dishevelling the few strands of hair that lay there.

“How come the two of ye arrive together?” “Jean Munro picked me up on my way back from the Laird’s castle,” Megan said. “Avram was in the wagon...”

“...I’d been taking the swatches over to Mr Munro.”

“Aye,” Kenny Kennedy said, with a stare at Avram. “Aye.”

“It’s nice to see them both together, isn’t it, faither?” said Mrs Kennedy.

“Aye.”

Avram slept in his usual spot in the barn with Fadda and Colonsay for company. The noises of the nights didn’t worry him now.

Instead, they linked him to Megan awake in the cot-bed in the parlour, listening to the same sounds.

Even though he woke early the next morning to catch her, she was already gone back to the castle.

It was the curious face of her mother who greeted him as she came to milk the cows.

Later that same morning, Avram took the Rail-motor service back across the Connel bridge, then tramped across the hillsides to Oban.

He found a different route into the town and it was just as well he did, for if there was one thing to take his mind off Megan, it was the sight that greeted him now.

A field laid out with goalposts. And a clubhouse with a sign above the door. ARGYLL THISTLE FC.

Dreaming

Kicking a ball around in one of the muddy goalmouths were youngsters about his age.

He guessed that the real members of the club were signed up to some Pal’s Brigade at the Front dreaming of the times they would be back thumping a ball up and down this very ground.

He stopped to watch, eager to join in, to feel again the curve of the leather on his instep.

“I thought shinty was the game here?” he called out to one of the boys running in close for a throw-in.

“Who’s askin’?”

“I’m not from these parts.”

The boy sniffed hard then spat out some clear mucus onto the ground in front of him.

He was a long-necked, tousle-haired lad with a smell of fish about him. “Where are ye from then?” “Glasgow.”

“Glesca boy, eh?” He looked Avram up and down, measuring him carefully. “Rangers or Celtic?”

“Celtic.”

“Ye’ll have to keep yer gob shut about that.”

“Why’s that?”

“We’re all Proddies here. ’Cept for a few

Baptists. But I’ll forgive ye. Aye, shinty is the game here.

“But there are a few wee fitba’ teams about.

“This one’s one of the best. Argyll Thistle. Like it says on the shed.”

“Is there a league?”

“Aye. Can ye play?”

“A bit.”

“Let’s see then.” The boy held out a muddied hand.

“My name’s Archie. Archie Campbell.”

A dream

Avram had never played on a full grass pitch before. He had a dream of it once, when he thought he might make the schoolboys’ final at Hampden Park – but that was another lifetime ago.

This pitch had been left uncut for some time, the long and greasy blades giving an edge to some of the other boys with proper studded boots.

But once he had adapted himself to the surface, he felt the old moves come back to him.

Argyll Thistle were professional enough to have nets for their goalposts.

Although they were torn here and there or patched up with blue fishing mesh, they were full enough to gather the sting of his well-hit shot.

It still thrilled him to see the bulge of the net, to hear the cord stretch taut in a stringy cradle before spilling the ball harmlessly onto the ground.

And, for Avram, it wasn’t just the thrill of scoring a goal.

There was also an essential beauty in seeing all the power he had diverted to the ball absorbed and rendered harmless by the net’s embrace.

In his doorway, Kenny Kennedy scratched his head when he saw them, dishevelling the few strands of hair that lay there

More tomorrow.

The Credit Draper is the first in a trilogy by J. David Simons. He has written five novels and is published by Saraband. His work can be purchased at saraband.net.