Sophia's Secret Read Online Free PDF

thought of something else, and turned to me. ‘Ye nivver let ma Stuie drive ye fae the airport? Michty, come in,’ he said, as I nodded. ‘Sit down, quine. Ye must have been feart fer yer life.’
    Stuart shifted to let me go by him. ‘You know, Dad, you’re meant to be telling her all of my good points, not all of my faults. And you might want to try speaking English.’
    ‘What way?’ Jimmy asked, which I knew from my past trips to Scotland meant ‘Why?’ But when Jimmy pronounced it in Doric the first word came out more like ‘fit’ – which I later would learn was a feature of Doric, the way that some ‘w’s sounded like ‘f’s – and the second word came out as ‘wye’. So, ‘Fit wye?’ Jimmy asked. ‘She can folly me fine.’
    He was right, I could follow him easily, though Stuart seemed unconvinced. Jimmy saw me settled in an armchair by the window, with my feet warmed by an old electric heater in the fireplace, and a clear view of the television. ‘Stuie, awa up tae the St Olaf wi’ ye, and bring us back three plates o huddock and chips.’
    ‘They don’t do take-away at the St Olaf.’
    ‘Na, na,’ his father said, knowing, ‘they’ll dee it fer me. Ye’ll stay tae lunch,’ he told me, but he made it sound an invitation rather than an order. ‘Efter drivin wi’ ma Stuie ye’ll be needin tae recover. We can take yer things up tae the cottage later.’
    Stuart didn’t argue, only smiled as though he’d long since learnt there was no point resisting. ‘You do like fish and chips?’ was the only thing he wanted to make sure, before he left. ‘Right then, I won’t be long.’
    His footsteps echoed on the road outside as he went past the window, and his father drily said, ‘Dinna believe it. Ma Stuie’s nivver gone past the St Olaf Hotel athoot tasting a pint. Mind, he’s nae sic a bad loon,’ he added, as he caught my eye, ‘but dinna tell him I telt ye that. He thinks a great deal o hisself as it is.’
    I smiled. ‘You have two sons, somebody said.’
    ‘Aye. There’s Stuie, he’s the younger, and his brother Graham’s doon in Aiberdeen.’
    ‘He’s a student, isn’t he, at the university?’ I was trying to remember what the woman at the Post Office had told me.
    ‘Ach no, quine. He’s nae a student, he’s a lecturer. In History.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners with good humour. ‘They’re naething alike, ma twa sons.’
    I tried to imagine Stuart Keith attending classes, much less teaching them, and failed.
    ‘Graham taks efter his mither, God rest her sweet soul. She loved her history, loved tae read.’
    Which would have been the perfect opening for me to tell him what I did, and why I’d come to Cruden Bay, but at the moment, with the warm fire at my feet and in the comfort of the armchair, I felt no sense of urgency to talk about my work. He’d find out soon enough, I reasoned, from his son. And anyway, I doubted that a man like Jimmy Keith would take an interest in the sort of books I wrote.
    We sat companionably in silence as we watched the game on television – Scotland playing France. And after several minutes Jimmy asked, ‘Ye were coming fae France, weren’t ye?’ and when I told him yes, he said, ‘I’ve nivver been. But Stuie’s aye ower there these days on business.’
    ‘And what’s his business?’
    ‘Geein me grey hairs,’ said Jimmy, straight-faced. ‘He disna stick at onything fer lang. It’s computers the noo, but I cwidna say just fit he does wi’ them.’
    Whatever he did, I decided, he must do it well, to be able to afford the Lotus. And his clothes had an expensive cut, for all that they looked casual. But when he came back several minutes later with our fish and chips in paper, the salt wind – no doubt with the help of a pint from the Hotel’s bar – had rumpled him enough to make him lose the city slickness, and he looked at home, relaxed, as we three sat and watched what they would have called