“Live and let live,” said Miss Morrison from the charity shop.
(Mrs. McLuskie didn’t think a charity shop selling old clothes and odd china was a business either and so Miss Morrison, in her opinion, didn’t belong in the Traders.)
“I’d let him live if he wasn’t killing it for the rest of us,” Kenny Imperiolo said. “Of course, we’ve got our loyal regulars, but you need passing trade too. Fresh blood.”
“Meat,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Fresh blood would be a new business in competition with us. It’s fresh meat we’re after.” No one answered. “To turn to happier news,” he went on, “our international initiative has come to fruition.”
“Ah, how is the wee lass?”
“How’s she settling in?”
“I saw her sitting there working away at her books last night.”
“She’s loving it,” said Fancy. “She’s-”
“No report on Miss Nishisato’s arrival is scheduled, Miss Clarke,” said Miss Anderson, without raising her head.
“But I still don’t see-if I’m honest, Jimmy,” said Mr. Glendinning, “what she’s doing here.” There was a sound somewhere between a rumble and flutter, with some clear voices breaking through:
“You and me both, pal.”
“Good question.”
“No harm to the wee soul, but…”
Mr. McKendrick’s voice rose above all of them.
“Several of our target funding sources look kindly on international reach,” he said. “And cultural exchange.”
“But why a Japanese?” said a voice. “Why not the likes of Canada or New Zealand or somewhere? My Auntie Margaret’s boy Stewie would have-”
“Oh aye, some big cultural exchange that would be, your Auntie Margaret’s boy Stewie!”
“If we can move on?” said Mr. McKendrick. He looked over the tops of his spectacles, sweeping a look around the room until it fell silent. “I’ll speak to Byers again unless there are other volunteers.”
“I wonder if maybe Mrs. Poole might have a word with him.” People craned round to see who had spoken. Sandra Dessing, Mrs. McLuskie’s buxom counterpart, sitting next to her and, like her, dressed for golf, stared defiantly back at them.
“Grace?” said Mr. McKendrick, and he leaned forward to look along the table at Mrs. Poole, who was sitting quietly next to Pet McMaster from the florist, watching her knit. “I’m not with you, Sandra,” he said.
“Since she’s in an interested position,” Sandra continued. There was a mild shifting in seats.
“You mean because Murray rents his workshop from Mr. Byers?” Mrs. McMaster asked loudly.
“I think Grace has done more than enough already,” said Mr. McKendrick, “in offering the flat.”
“Oh I see,” breathed Sandra. “I hadn’t heard that the terms had changed. That’s most generous of you, Grace.”
Mrs. Poole looked fixedly down at the knitting needles.
“It’s well seen I’m not sitting beside her, Grace,” whispered Mrs. McMaster, “or she’d have one of these pins in her fat behind.”
“The cost of Keiko’s accommodation is being borne out of Traders’ funds as is only proper, Sandra,” said Mr. McKendrick. “That’s very clearly set out in the accounts appended to the minutes that we passed at the start of this meeting.”
“And as I understand it, Sandra Dessing,” said little Mrs. Watson, “Murray is giving up his tenancy, aren’t you pet?” She looked at Murray for support, but he was watching his mother.
“Well, if Byers loses the income from renting out the workshop, that can only benefit us,” said Sandra. “That’s a piece of lucky timing.”
A babble of voices broke out, and Mr. McKendrick banged lightly on the table. “Mrs. Dessing,” he said in an unsteady voice. “Can I remind you that Murray is back in the butchers instead of in his own place, because of his father dying.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” said Sandra, with her chin up. “Grace knows I didn’t mean anything to do with Duncan. Stop stirring it up.”
“As the pot said to the kettle,” said Mrs. McMaster.
Mrs. Watson said something too soft for Murray and Craig to catch.
“I think,” said Mrs. Poole, and the room immediately quietened. “I think we should get back to the business at hand. I accept Mrs. Dessing’s apology.”
“I nev-” Mrs. Dessing began, but she stopped before she could say more. Instead she brushed imaginary specks from the front of her powder-pink golf jersey with three hard swipes.
“Don’t minute that, Miss Anderson,” said Mr. McKendrick. ‘So, I’ll speak to Willie Byers. And I’ll get back to you at our next meeting, which is on the…”
“Twenty-third of October,” said Miss Morrison.
“At the Bridge,” said Mr. Dessing, of the Bridge Hotel. It was the first time he had spoken; his wife fought her own battles.
“Back here,” said Mr. Ballantyne, of the Covenanters’ Arms. “Mr. Chairman, we agreed that meetings would alternate. There’s a meeting scheduled for next week. So that’ll be across the way and then back here on the twenty-third again.”
“No Iain, that’s a committee meeting,” said Mrs. Dessing. “It was my understanding, Mr. Chairman, that the full meetings were turn-about and the committee were suiting themselves.”
“What committee?” said Fancy. “I thought we were the committee.”
“The inner circle, Fance,” said Craig. “The hard core.”
“The grandmasters,” said Murray. “The high priests.”
“I’d rather not discuss the committee while we’re in full session,” said Mr. McKendrick, glowering now.
“Secret order,” said Craig. “Like Opus Dei.”
“Enough,” said Mr. McKendrick, sending a black look down the table to Mr. Ballantyne for bringing it up, and the meeting was over.
The Traders straggled out to their cars in weary ones and twos except for Mr. McKendrick, Kenny Imperiolo, and Iain Ballantyne, who came downstairs together and, like a shoal of mackerel, executed a sharp right into the public bar. Mrs. Dessing and Mrs. McLuskie, ruffled and too late for golf, went off for a tetchy half-hour in the practice range. Craig, Murray, and Mrs. Watson came reeling out in fits of giggles and ran into Mrs. Poole and Mrs. McMaster standing at the kerb.
“Your mother and I are just going to take a walk up by,” said Pet McMaster to Murray, nodding her head towards the top of the road.
“D’you want me to come with you?” asked Murray, moving away from Fancy and Craig. “Mum?” Mrs. Poole looked at him without expression, then turned to the beckoning arm of Mrs. McMaster, who bore her away.
“Okay, pal?” said Craig, as they began to head down the street towards home.
“We all know how it feels to lose a loved one, Murray,” said Mrs. Watson. “No shame in sorrow.”
“I’m fine,” said Murray. “Bloody nuts, anyway.” He spoke too softly for the others to catch his words, then he winked at Craig and went on, louder: “What did you call Sandra Dessing, Mrs. Watson?”
“What did you say, Mabel?” said Fancy.
“It sounded like ‘Vinegar Tits’ to me,” Craig said.
“I did not say any such thing!” Mrs. Watson protested. “Murray, you’re a disgrace to your poor mother and the memory of your father. And you, Craig McKendrick, your uncle would be ashamed of you.”
“Ha! Lucky me then,” said Fancy. “No good name to lose!”
“Och, you and your nonsense,” said Mrs. Watson stepping into her shop doorway and picking over a bunch of keys. “I’m away in to give this place a good clean.”
“Don’t forget to wash your mouth out,” said Fancy, but Mrs. Watson just tutted and went inside.
“Hey!” said Craig, looking up at the big bay window, where Keiko and Viola were watching them. “I thought she was away into the uni.”