"… jobbie, jobbie; big smelly jobbie!"

In the last game, Kenneth hid with Emma Urvill in one of the dungeons, showing her how to turn her back to the light and put the hood of her coat up to hide her face, and sure enough when Ilsa came to the door of the dungeon — and he felt that quivering, scary, glorious feeling in his tummy again — she didn't see them, and they hugged each other once she had gone, and the hug was warm and tight and he liked it and she didn't let go, and after a while they put their mouths together and kissed. He felt a strange echo of that terrifyingly wonderful sensation in his belly and his heart, and he and Emma Urvill held onto each other for ages, until all the others were caught.

Later, they played in the tangling undergrowth of the walled garden, and found an old over-grown fountain with the stone statue of a naked lady in it, and an old shed at one corner where there were ancient tins and jars and bottles with Victorian-looking writing on them. The rain came on for a while and they all stayed in there, Fergus complaining about his bike rusting, his sister and Kenneth exchanging the occasional sly look, Ilsa staring out at the rain and saying there were places in South America where it hadn't stopped raining for hundreds of years, and Lachy mixing various sticky, treacley subtances together from the shelves of old bottles and tins, trying to find a combination that would explode, or at least burn, while the rain hammered then whispered then dripped on the tarred roof overhead, and plopped through holes onto the springy wooden floor of the shed.

"Of course, we haven't moved all the bottles yet," Fergus said, pointing with his pipe at the still unfilled racks that covered the wall of the cellar. The cellar was painted white, and lit by naked bulbs; wires hung and there were unplastered holes for cables and plumbing leading through the walls and up to other floors. The wood and metal wine racks gleamed, as did the two hundred or so bottles that had already been stored.

"Should keep you going for a bit, eh, Fergus?" he grinned. "Once you've filled this lot up."

"Mmm. We were thinking of touring a few vineyards next summer," Urvill said, scratching his thick chin with his pipe. "Bordeaux; the Loire, that sort of thing. Don't know if you and Mary fancy making a foursome or not, hmm?"

Fergus blinked. Kenneth nodded. "Well, perhaps. Depends on holidays and that sort of thing. And the kids, of course."

"Oh," Fergus said, frowning as he picked a little sliver of tobacco off his Pringle sweater. "We weren't thinking of taking the children."

"Ah, well, no; of course not," Kenneth said, as they went to the door. Fergus switched the lights out in the various cellars and they went up the stone-flagged steps towards the utility room and kitchen.

It was that cellar, he thought to himself as he followed Fergus's Hush Puppies up the steps. That was where I hid with Emma Urvill, and kissed her. That cellar; I'm sure it was that one. And that window I was looking out earlier; that was the one I hid in that day, nearly thirty years ago; I'm certain.

He felt a terrible weight of time and loss settle on him then, and a slight feeling of resentment at the Urvills in general and Fergus in particular, for having — with so little thought — stolen part of his memories from him. At least malice might have acknowledged the value of his nostalgia.

"Ferg, this dishwasher's like a Chinese Puzzle," Fiona stood up from the recalcitrant machine, then saw her brother and smiled broadly, came towards him, hugging.

"Hiya, Ken. Been getting the guided tour, have you?"

"Yes; very impressive." Kenneth kissed his sister's cheek. How old had she been when he'd come out here with Fergus and the rest? About two, he guessed. Not old enough to come all this way on a bike. He must have been eight or nine. He wondered where Hamish had been; ill, maybe. He'd always been taking colds.

Fiona Urvill, nee McHoan, wore old flared Levis and a loose green blouse knotted over a white T-shirt. Her copper-coloured hair was tied back. "How're you?"

"Oh, I'm well," Kenneth nodded; he kept an arm round her waist as they walked over to the dishwasher, where Fergus crouched, consulting the instruction booklet. The door of the dishwasher was hinged open like a drawbridge.

"Appears to be written in code, my dear," Fergus said, scratching the side of his head with his pipe. Kenneth felt a smile form on his face as he looked down at the man. Fergus seemed old before his time: the Pringle jumper, the Hush Puppies, even the pipe. Of course, Kenneth could remember when he used to smoke a pipe; but that had been different. Looked like Fergus was losing his hair already, too.

"How's school?" Fiona asked her brother.

"Och, getting on," he said. "Getting on." He had been promoted to Principal Teacher in English the previous autumn. His sister always wanted to know how things were going at the high school, but he usually felt reluctant to talk about work around her and Fergus. He wasn't sure why, and he suspected he probably wouldn't like acknowledging the reason, if he ever did work it out. He was even more chary about revealing he was writing down some of the stories he'd told the kids over the years, hoping to publish them some day. He was worried people might think he was trying to out-do Rory, or — worse still — think he hoped to use him as a contact, an easy way in.

"No, I tell a lie," Fergus admitted. "Here's the English bit. Well, American, anyway." He sighed, then looked round. "Talking about English-speaking furriners, McHoan; you still all right for the International next Saturday?"

"Oh aye," Kenneth nodded. They were meant to be going to the Scotland-England rugby game in a week's time. "Who's driving.

"Umm, thought we'd take the Morgan, actually."

"Oh God, Fergus, must we? I'm not sure I can find my bobblehat."

"Oh, come on man," Fergus chuckled. Thought we'd try a new route: down to Kintyre; across to Arran, Lochranza to Brodick; Land Ardrossan and then the A71 to the A of the N. Strikes and power cuts permitting, of course."

"Fergus," Kenneth said, putting one hand to his brow. "It sounds enormously complicated." He refused to rise to the bait about strikes and power cuts. He guessed that "A of the N" meant Athens of the North. "Are you sure the Lochranza ferry runs outside the high season, anyway?"

Fergus looked troubled, stood up. "Oh, it must, mustn't it? Well, I think it does."

"Might be best to check."

"Righty-oh, will do."

"Anyway, couldn't we take the Rover?" Kenneth wasn't keen on the Morgan; its stiff ride hurt his back and gave him a headache, and Fergus drove too fast in the ancient open-top. Maybe it was the sight of all that British Racing Green paint and the leather strap across the bonnet. The Rover, 3.5 though it was, seemed to calm Fergus a little.

"Oh, come on man, where's your sense of occasion?" Fergus chided. The hotel won't let us into the car park if we show up in the Rover,"

"Oh God," Kenneth sighed, and squeezed his sister's waist. "The Morgan it is then." he looked at Fiona. Those green eyes sparkling. "I'm getting old, sis. Do you think I'm getting old?"

"Positively ancient, Ken."

"Thanks. How're the twins?"

"Oh, glowing."

"Still taking them to Windscale for their hols then, are you?"

"Ha! Oh, Ken, you're still so comparatively witty."

"Have you tried switching it on?" Fergus suggested, squatting on the floor in front of the dishwasher again. His voice echoed inside the machine as he tried to stick his head inside amongst the racks.

"Don't be catty, Ferg," Fiona told him. She smiled at her brother. "Haven't seen young Rory out here for a while, and he never calls us; he okay?"