Chapter 21 of Alexander Mccall Smith’s latest series

“Great people,” said Gav. “And he had that Brazilian girl working in the kitchen Remember her? She had come to Ireland to learn English and had ended up working in the kitchen and looking after their goats. Remember the goats? Johnny Ferguson tried to ride on one of the big ones and got butted in the stomach. Stupid git.”

“He was a good prop, though,” Bruce mused.

“Yeah, sure. But he was pretty thick, wasn’t he? Went down to that university just outside Newcastle where they send all the thickos. Can you remember its name?”

Bruce shook his head. “Durham?” “No, I don’t think so,” said Gav. “Durham’s the place for debbie girls. This other place is just for thicko men. They do a lot of agriculture degrees. Sports sciences – that’s another one for the thickos. You can actually study golf somewhere.

Bruce shrugged. “There are hardly any salmon these days. I was reading somewhere that on one of those rivers they caught just one last year. One fish.”

“That’s the Russians,” said Gav. “The Russians and the Spanish. They’re taking the fish out at sea. Anyway, this Jenny’s old man is the real Mccoy.”

Bruce was cool. “Oh yes?”

“Yes. Seriously. Big time, I tell you.” Bruce explained that he was not sure. “But she wants to meet you,” said Gav. “How can you say no in these circumstances?”

For a short while Bruce said nothing. Then he asked about the place near Peebles. What was it like?

“It’s an estate,” Gav said. “Not far from Traquair – you know that place? Not far from there. They’ve got a big pheasant shoot, you know. And their place up in Inverness is massive. Twenty-eight thousand acres, somebody said.”

Bruce shook his head. “Me? No. I do the dumping, not them. You know how it is.”

Gave looked doubtful. “Funny, that. I heard from Fridgie that that Australian dame had given you the old heave-ho. For some extreme sports guy up on Skye.”

Bruce made a dismissive gesture. “We split up,” he said. “Mutual consent.” “I see.”

“She wanted me back,” Bruce continued. “I said: ‘You had your chance, girl. Too late.’ Great gnashing of teeth. Sobs. Danced around me with no clothes on. The works. But no, I’d made up my mind.” “Her loss,” said Gav.

Bruce drained his glass of the last of his beer. In the brewer’s mirror on the wall behind him, he caught sight of himself. The light was just right, he thought; it made him look even better than unusual. But then he thought: looks don’t last forever. When he looked in the mirror in five, ten years’ time, what would he see? He would still be handsome, of course, but handsome old. And there was nothing more tragic, Bruce thought, than handsome old. You were reminded by handsome old of what had been, and was no more; handsome old spoke of the past, of loss, of what was now gone. Handsome old was the bitty glory of the Calton Hill and the faded splendour of those old Edinburgh hotels, still dignified old matrons in spite of attempts to rejuvenate them with swanky new names. People and buildings, thought Bruce, are much the same, when it came down to it. The thought was a disturbing one. You are at a crossroads …

Gav had thought of something else. “And another thing,” he said. “Her old man, Harry Whatever – he owns a distillery.”

Bruce looked up sharply. “Owns it?” “Yes. The whole lot. It’s been in the family for yonks. They make a rather good single malt.”

Bruce looked back at the mirror. A distillery. Single malt. These things opened doors. Good seats at Murrayfield. Drinks in the Scottish Rugby Union boardroom – with the players. Highland Cathedral. The works.

“Next week?” he said to Gav.