The Good Provider Read Online Free PDF

whereabouts, the Baird Home too. He was unclear about legal obligations now that Kirsty was over the age of sixteen. In the meantime he was delighted that she was to stay on at Dalnavert. With the optimism of youth, he believed that his mother would come around to liking Kirsty, would soften, relent and bless a marriage between them.
    It was almost half past seven before the Nicholsons emerged from the door of the cottage. The sky was light with the promise of sunshine and the cloudscape away over the Straiton hills might have been painted with a fox brush, russet tipped with cream.
    No sooner had the boys passed out of the yard than Gordon said to his brother, ‘Hoi! Where were you last night, eh?’
    ‘In bed, of course.’
    ‘Whose bed?’
    ‘My own bed.’
    ‘Aye, for ten minutes, before ye slipped away. I heard you, you dirty sod.’
    ‘One more word, sonnie, an’ I’ll punch your ear.’
    ‘You were in the back bedroom, weren’t you?’
    ‘What of it?’
    ‘Did ye get what you went for, Craig, eh?’
    ‘I went to see if Kirsty was warm enough, that’s all.’
    ‘Warm enough? That’s a good one.’ Gordon skipped away as Craig lunged at him. ‘Was she waarrrm enough for looooove ?’
    Bob Nicholson walked with an unhurried gait just ahead of his sons. He seemed oblivious to their horseplay. Already he had a pale odour of whisky about him and a glowing spot on each cheek which gave the impression of rude health. The pipe in his mouth sparked like the chimney of a new-lit fire. But Bob was more alert than he appeared to be and when he drew to an abrupt halt at the roadside his sons piled into him like dazed bullocks.
    Bob pointed the wet pipe stem. ‘See what I see?’
    Craig followed the direction and saw at once the figure of a man waddling down the sheep track from the west.
    ‘Bloody Clegg!’
    ‘Wonder what he wants,’ said Gordon.
    ‘Can you not guess?’ said Craig grimly. ‘Wants his slave back, I expect.’
    ‘He’s got gall, I’ll say that for him,’ Bob Nicholson remarked and then, to his sons’ surprise, climbed the fence and set off across the grassland to meet the farmer from Hawkhead.
    ‘Well, I’d love to linger an’ watch the fireworks,’ said Gordon, ‘but we’re damned late as it is. I’ll report to Mr Sanderson while you go up there an’ give Dad moral support.’
    ‘I’ll kill the wee pig, that’s what I’ll do.’
    ‘Keep your fists in your pockets, Craig. Let Dad do all the talkin’.’
    Gordon slapped his brother fraternally upon the shoulder and went on his way down the road towards the Mains, while Craig, simmering, hopped over the fence and loped across the grazings after his father.
    Clegg made no move to avoid the Nicholsons. On the contrary, he changed tack and came to a meeting with them in the middle of the pasture. He wasted no time at all on explanations or apologies.
    ‘My lass, where is she?’ he snarled.
    ‘She’s not your lass, Mr Clegg,’ Craig answered, his brother’s advice forgotten at the sight of the man who had dared to lay hands on Kirsty.
    ‘She is mine. Damned if she’s not.’ From his jacket pocket Clegg dragged out a wad of papers which he waved above his head. ‘I’ve got written proof of it.’
    ‘Articles!’ said Bob scathingly.
    Clegg cried, ‘Mine until she’s eighteen. Months yet. Near a bloody six-month, in fact. Send her back or I’ll have the constabulary on you all.’
    ‘What exactly do you want wi’ her?’ Bob asked. ‘You’ve hardly enough doin’ at Hawkhead to justify a servant.’
    Duncan Clegg did not seem to hear. He shouted, ‘Whatever she told you’s a bloody lie. I never touched her. I never laid a bloody hand on her.’
    ‘Nobody said you did, Mr Clegg,’ said Bob Nicholson.
    ‘Did she not—?’
    ‘I don’t doubt the validity of the documents you’re waggin’ about,’ said Bob Nicholson.
    ‘Give her back, then.’
    ‘Can’t give what I don’t have,’ Bob Nicholson