“What way, Mither?”
“His ain way. He has been vera successful i’ that way, sin’ the day he was born. A wee, shrunken, puny infant he was, but he hes been a bit too much for us all—and there’s seven big men in our family, forbye mysel’ and Christine. Whiles I had a glimmering o’ the real lad, but maistly I did the lad’s way—like the rest o’ us.”
“You said he was kind to you and Feyther.”
“He hed to be. It’s a law, like the laws o’ the 186 Medes and Persians, in Aberdeen, that lads takin’ honors should pay great attention to their feythers and mithers. Some were auld and poor—far poorer than fisher-folk ever are—they had worked, and starved, and prayed for their lads, and they were going about Aberdeen streets, linked on their lads’ arms, and all o’ them like to cry wi’ joy. Neil had to do like the lave, but I let his feyther gae his lane wi’ him. I wasna carin’ to mak’ a show o’ mysel’.”
“Then you shouldna blame Neil, Mither.”
“Should I not? I do, though.”
“What did he do wrang?”
“He did little right, and that little he had nae pleasure in. I know! He should hae spent the evening wi’ his feyther and mysel’, and told us what plans he had made for the future, but he went to the Raths’ and left us alane. He had promised all along to come hame wi’ us, and spend a few weeks wi’ the boats—your feyther is short-handed since Cluny Macpherson went awa’—and there’s little doing in the law business during July and August, but he said he had an invite to the Raths’ house on the Isle of Arran, and with them he has gane.”
“I’m sorry, sorry, Mither.”
“Sae am I, Christine, but when things hae come to ‘I’m sorry,’ there’s nae gude left i’ them.”