Tombstoning Read Online Free PDF

around, the other about fighting for freedom. It was all very Braveheart .
    ‘Ah, I get it,’ he said. ‘A not-so-subtle piece of subliminal advertising for the school reunion, is that it? Surround me with messages from the past about the importance of Arbroath in our history?’
    ‘Nah, I just thought it would be a cheeky laugh to bring you here,’ she said. ‘My own declaration of Arbroath. Or something. Actually it didn’t occur to me until after I put the phone down last night. But it fits quite nicely, don’t you think?’
    She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were a very attractive shade of brown. They were smiling at each other now, both caught in a moment, wondering what was really going on here. Nicola moved first, breaking eye contact and heading through into the next room of the museum in a casual saunter that felt slightly on the forced side.
    David followed on, feeling a bit like a dog on a lead, but happily wagging his tail. They wandered around the rest of the floor, swapping comments on the bits and bobs in glass cases, the stone sculptures, the old swords, armour, coins, trinkets, spears and a multitude of other pieces of the pointless past. He paid scant attention to the exhibits, his thoughts constantly returning to Nicola. What were they doing here? Why had she asked him? Why had he agreed to come?
    He made an effort to concentrate at a display of Robert the Bruce stuff, reading the accompanying blurb which said that everything in the case was either ‘a facsimile of the original’, ‘rumoured to have belonged to Robert the Bruce’ or ‘found at Bannockburn, but possibly a later forgery’. Christ, the stuff in here wasn’t even the original old crap, it was less ancient copies of old crap. A thought suddenly struck him.
    ‘Is the Declaration of Arbroath here?’ he said.
    ‘No, it’s in Register House on Charlotte Square.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Who knows? Historian politics? It’s a backbiting business, the study of Scottish history. Not quite as bloodthirsty as the history itself, but not without its battles.’
    By this time they had worked their way around the ground floor. The restrained air of the place, the relentlessly studious vibe, was beginning to tire him. He looked up from the open-plan concourse and the building seemed to go up forever, shafts of daylight splitting the dusty air at irregular intervals.
    ‘How many floors has this place got?’
    ‘Six.’
    ‘Jesus. You’re joking.’
    Nicola looked at David’s face. She’d realized straight away that he wasn’t at all interested in the museum and its exhibits, and she’d kept on slowly heading round the place to wind him up, see how long he could put on a brave face just to stay with her. She was testing him and she knew it was a bit puerile, but she had enjoyed doing it all the same. She laughed, looking at his hangdog expression, and took his arm, turning him towards the exit.
    ‘OK, David Lindsay from Arbroath, no more history for today. You’ve earned your pint.’
    ‘Too right I have,’ said David, relieved to be leaving, exhilarated to be arm in arm with this woman and damn well looking forward to the first pint of the day.
    Sandy Bell’s was that rarest of things, a traditional pub still going strong in the centre of town. The tiny space was dominated by a large ornate gantry lined with dozens of single malt bottles. Half a dozen crumpled old men lined the bar. A young couple sat in the corner in front of the toilets playing guitar and fiddle gently, the melodies and rhythms intertwining with the thick fog of cigarette smoke that danced in the sunlight filtering through the windows. Nicola and David were squeezed into the table at the front of the bar, both nursing pints of lager, and they could just see the arse end of the museum across the road. They clinked glasses together in a cheers and drank.
    ‘So,’ said David with a deliberately ironic air of clunky formality. ‘Nicola Cruickshank. From Arbroath.