‘What’s “Tad”?’
‘I don’t know. Short for Theodore, perhaps.’
‘M—m—m,’ said Pat doubtfully.
‘He’s a flyer.’
‘Oh,’ said Pat, his brow clearing. ‘I thought maybe with a name like that he was a professor.’
‘No. He flies to and fro across Arabia.’
‘Arabia!’ said Pat, rolling the R so that the mundane Scots breakfast table scintillated with reflections of the jewelled East. Between modern transport and ancient Bagdad, Tad Cullen seemed to have satisfactory credentials. Pat would ‘show him’ with pleasure.
‘Of course Zoë gets first choice of places to fish,’ Pat said.
If Grant had imagined that Pat’s infatuation would take the form of blushing silences and a mooning adoration, he was wrong. Pat’s only sign of surrender was the constant interjection of ‘me and Zoë’ into his conversation; and it was to be observed that the personal pronoun still came first.
So Grant borrowed the car after breakfast and went down to Moymore to tell Tad Cullen that a small boy with red hair and a green kilt would be waiting for him, with all appliances and means to boot, by the swing bridge across the Turlie. He himself would be back from Scoone in time to join them on the river some time in the afternoon, he hoped.