An Apple From Eden

by Emma Blair

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Bridie gets a job as a maid on Sir Ian of Seaton's estate and, much against her better judgement and will, falls in love with Sir Ian's brother's step-son, also called Ian. Ian optimistically feels that his father will understand and let them marry but Bridie expects what she gets - dismissal, with Ian threatened with the loss of his inheritance. Ian then gets involved with a burglary on the estate and is killed and Bridie, on hearing this, deciding she can't bear to live with Ian dead, goes out into the snow, lies by his grave and freezes to death . . . Praise for Emma Blair: 'An engaging novel and the characters are endearing - a good holiday read' Historical Novels Review 'All the tragedy and passion you could hope for . . . Brilliant' The Bookseller 'Romantic fiction pure and simple and the best sort - direct, warm and hugely readable. Women's fiction at an excellent level' Publishing News 'Emma Blair explores the complex and difficult nature of human emotions in this passionately written novel' Edinburgh Evening News 'Entertaining romantic fiction' Historical Novels Review '[Emma Blair] is well worth recommending' The Bookseller

Release date: October 20, 2016

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 480

Sample

‘L’amour.’

Bridie Flynn sighed, then repeated the word. ‘L’amour.’

‘You what?’ queried Teresa Kelly in astonishment.

‘It’s French for love,’ Bridie informed her. ‘I go prickly all over every time I say it.’

Teresa shook her head. ‘I suppose you learned that from one of those daft books you’re always reading.’

‘They’re not daft at all!’ Bridie retorted. ‘Amongst other things they’re very informative. Why, I’d be lost without my books. Thank Heavens for the library. The best thing I ever did was joining.’

Bridie glanced about her. The rest of the family were out – a rare enough event as there was usually someone else around in the evenings. Her mother, father and sister Alison had gone to visit Granny Flynn who was suffering from lumbago. As for her brother Sean, who knew where he was? He could be anywhere. Probably with one or some of his many pals.

‘You know what I’d really like to have been in life,’ Bridie suddenly stated.

‘What?’

‘A schoolteacher.’

Teresa gave a derisory laugh. ‘You, a schoolteacher! My my, we have got ideas above our station, haven’t we? Our kind don’t become schoolteachers. That’s for posh folk.’

Bridie pulled a face. ‘I know. But a lassie can have dreams, can’t she? If things had been different, if I hadn’t been born into an ordinary working-class family, then that’s what I’d like to have been. A spell at university, then training college followed by teaching.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Oh but that would have been grand. The bee’s knees.’

‘Well, it’s the lemonade factory for you, my girl, and thankful you should be that you have a job at all. There’s many don’t, as you well know.’

Bridie thought with distaste of the lemonade factory, her place of employment, as it was Teresa’s, since leaving school.

‘I don’t know about l’amour, but if it’s boys you’re talking about, well, I’m certainly not against them. Quite the contrary.’ Teresa giggled. ‘I wonder what it’s like?’

‘What’s what like?’

Teresa gave her friend a conspiratorial wink. ‘That. L’amour.’

Bridie reddened slightly. ‘I’m not just talking about that, though of course it is part and parcel of love. No, I mean the act of being in love, of existing for someone else and they for you. On counting the hours, minutes and seconds till you see them again. The sheer elation of being in their company. The thrill when they touch you, the bliss of their lips on yours. The time spent together when the rest of the world ceases to exist.’

Teresa snorted. ‘Well, there sure isn’t much of that around here. Could you imagine my ma and da gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes? The only thing my da stares adoringly at is food when it’s put in front of him. Especially after a hard day’s graft. Then he gazes adoringly enough. Particularly if it’s his favourite mince, and potatoes. I swear he’d murder for a heaped plate of that.’

Bridie lean’t further back into the rather ancient fireside chair which had belonged to Pat and Kathleen Flynn since early on in their marriage, one of the first items of furniture they’d acquired, and even then it had been second hand from Crown Showrooms in the town.

‘You can mock all you like, Teresa Kelly, there’s a Prince Charming out there for each and every one of us. Or if there isn’t there should be. And one fine day I’m going to meet mine. I just know it.’

‘You’re away with the fairies, you are. Always have been in my recollection, and God knows I’ve known you long enough.’ Teresa stared hard at her friend. ‘Those silly books you’ve forever got your nose stuck in have a lot to answer for, and that’s a fact. They’ve made you expect too much out of life. You’ll settle for some nice lad just like all the rest of us, someone plain and ordinary and a far cry from a blinking Prince Charming. There’ll be the wedding followed by weans and years of toil as is the case with all the women round here. There’ll be precious little time for gazing adoringly into eyes when you’ll be spending most of your time down the steamie boiling dirty nappies or else at home slaving over a hot stove and trying to make ends meet.’

Despair filled Bridie. What Teresa said was true enough, though she was reluctant in the extreme to accept it.

‘Life’s real, and hard,’ Teresa went on. ‘What you read in those books of yours are only stories. Sort of … well, things to get you out of yourself. A pretence if you wish.’

Bridie closed her eyes and pictured a handsome, dashing young man with flaxen hair and piercing blue eyes. ‘L’amour,’ she breathed again. ‘A meeting of souls.’

Teresa barked out a laugh. ‘Your arse in parsley, hen. A meeting of souls indeed. Utter tosh.’

‘It is not!’ Bridie retorted fiercely.

‘It is sought. Och, I admit when you find the right chap there should be a lot of lovey-dovey stuff during your courting. But that, from what I understand, is soon over once the wedding ring is on your finger. Then it’s down to reality and getting on with it.’

Bridie came to her feet and leant against the mantelpiece. She suddenly wished her friend would leave so she could get back to her current book. There was still a while before bedtime, time enough for a couple of chapters at least.

Bridie started when she heard the front door open.

‘Cooeee, we’re home!’ Kathleen Flynn called out. ‘Get the kettle on.’

And so ended the conversation about l’amour and Prince Charming.

‘Come in,’ Willie Seaton responded to the knock on his study door. As he’d expected it was Ian, his only son.

‘You wanted a word with me, Pa.’

Willie indicated an adjacent chair. ‘Sit yourself down. And aye, I do wish a chat.’

Willie rubbed his eyes which were painful from long hours poring over ledgers. He was going to have to give in and see an optician, he told himself, something he’d been fighting against these past few years. But although he still considered himself a relatively young man at forty-four, time was beginning to take its toll.

‘Would you care for a dram, son? I know I’m ready for one.’

Ian immediately rose although he’d only just sat. ‘Yes, I will join you, Pa. I’ll do it.’

Willie produced cigarettes and lit up, not offering the packet to Ian who didn’t smoke.

‘Hard day, Pa?’

Willie nodded. ‘What about yourself? What have you been up to?’

‘Did a bit of rabbit shooting earlier. Knocked over half a dozen of the buggers. Mrs Kilbride was pleased to get them.’ Mrs Kilbride was their cook.

‘So it’ll be rabbit stew or pie tomorrow,’ Willie mused, which pleased him. He enjoyed rabbit, hare even more.

‘There you are,’ declared Ian, placing Willie’s drink in front of him, before returning to his chair.

‘Slainte!’ Willie toasted.

‘Slainte, Pa.’

Willie tasted his drink, smiled in appreciation, then steadily regarded his son. ‘It’s a fortnight now since you returned home from your studies. I wanted to give you time to settle back in before speaking to you.’

Ian nodded, knowing what was coming next. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘You’ve always been aware you’ll be taking over from me some day. Though not for a while I hope. I have no wish to depart this world just yet.’

Ian laughed softly. He and his father got on extremely well, and always had done. With one exception that is, but that subject had long been accepted by Ian, the animosity forgotten.

‘So when do I start?’

Willie nodded his approval. ‘Keen, eh? That’s the stuff, lad. I like keenness in a person. Apart from anything else it shows character. And I hope the son and heir of Willie Seaton would have that.’

Willie squirmed himself into a more comfortable position while Ian waited patiently for him to go on.

‘I want you to learn as I did and my father before me, which means starting at the bottom. When you’re finished there won’t be a job on this estate, including mine, which you won’t be able to do if necessary. Understand?’

‘The hard way in other words,’ Ian commented ruefully.

‘Exactly.’

It was what Ian had expected. Thanks to his studies he was well versed in the theory. Now came the practical side of things. He had to admit he was looking forward to it.

‘You start next Monday under Jock Gibson. Jock is getting on in years and it won’t be too long until his retirement. When that happens you’ll be the next estate manager.’

Ian thought of Jock Gibson, a dour Scot, though kindly underneath, if ever there was. He’d known Jock all his life.

‘While you’re working for Jock he’s the boss and you do as he says. I don’t want you trying to pull rank on him. Is that clear?’

‘Quite clear, Pa.’

‘It would be rude if nothing else and I can’t abide rudeness. Never have.’

Ian recalled the several cuffs he’d received when a youngster for cheeking his father, incidents he still vividly remembered. There had been nothing token about those cuffs, they’d hurt like billy-o. Willie wasn’t joking when he said he couldn’t abide rudeness.

‘And make sure you dress properly. You’re going to get more than your hands dirty.’ He added sarcastically, ‘It wouldn’t do to ruin one of those smart suits of yours now, would it?’

Ian laughed. The idea of him turning up for work under Jock wearing a suit appealed to him. He was almost tempted to do so just for a lark. Dear old Jock would have a fit.

‘Indeed, Pa,’ he replied in mock seriousness.

Willie took a deep breath. He’d been looking forward to this ever since Ian had been born. How proud Mary would have been, just as proud as he himself was. Darling, lovely, departed Mary.

‘Any queries?’

Ian considered that. ‘I don’t think so, Pa. Except for remuneration of course.’ That was said slightly tongue in cheek.

‘Your allowance will continue as before. And consider yourself lucky, it’s far more than the estate workers get.’ Willie decided to tease his son. ‘Though on second thoughts perhaps I should pay you what they earn. That way you’d really learn the value of money. That a ha’penny is hard come by.’

Alarm flared in Ian. Surely his father wasn’t serious? ‘Pa?’ he queried anxiously.

Willie’s eyes twinkled. ‘Just a wee josh, son. You’ll continue on with your allowance as I said.’

He finished his whisky, stared at the empty glass for a moment, then looked again at Ian and smiled. ‘I believe I’ll have another. It’s not every day you welcome your son into the firm.’

Ian again did the honours.

‘Your father tells me you’re starting work on the estate this Monday,’ Georgina Seaton, Willie’s second wife, said to Ian across the dinner table.

‘That’s right, Georgina.’

‘Good.’

Willie indicated to a hovering maid to refill the wine glasses. Georgina covered the top of her glass with a hand, having had her quota. Ever mindful of her figure she took great care with what she ate and drank.

‘I must say it’s all very exciting,’ she declared.

Rose Seaton made a small harumphing sound.

Ian raised an eyebrow. ‘You wish to make an utterance, sister dear?’

Rose shook her head.

‘Oh! I thought you might have.’

‘Only that it was so quiet and peaceful when you were away,’ she stated sweetly.

‘I thought you missed me.’ That dripping sarcasm.

‘Dreadfully. It was so dull without you charging about the house. That and the general hubbub you always seem to cause when you’re around.’

‘Rose!’ Willie admonished sharply.

‘Yes, Pa?’ she smiled, innocence itself.

‘I’ll have no such banter at the dinner table. It’s most unseemly.’

Georgina secretly enjoyed ‘such banter’ as Willie called it. It livened things up. She glanced at Willie and not for the first time wondered what her life would have been like if Harry had lived. Harry who’d gone to war and never come back. Harry whom she’d simply adored. He’d been another lively one, just like Ian.

‘Georgina?’

She roused herself from what had been only a few moments’ reverie. ‘Yes, Willie?’

‘You had the strangest expression on your face. Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly, thank you very much.’

‘Not a tinge of indigestion, I trust?’

She laughed throatily. ‘Not at all. I was simply reflecting on how delicious this lamb is. Mrs Kilbride has quite excelled herself. I must remember to compliment her.’

Rose, with a tendency to plumpness, agreed with Georgina about the lamb and considered whether or not to have a second helping. She envied Georgina her figure and Georgina’s discipline regarding it.

‘I thought we might play whist after dinner,’ Willie announced. ‘Or canasta perhaps.’

Ian and Rose both inwardly groaned.

‘I was thinking we might play the gramophone,’ Ian said.

Georgina would have much preferred the gramophone to whist or canasta. And several dances with Ian who was a marvellous dancer, unlike Willie who was terrible. Many a time Willie had succeeded in trampling on her feet.

‘I think the gramophone is a splendid idea,’ Georgina declared.

That didn’t suit Willie at all. He’d had his mind set on a game of cards. ‘How about we have some whist then the gramophone?’ he suggested hopefully.

Georgina decided to humour him. ‘Better still. That way honour’s satisfied all round.’

Willie beamed at her, Georgina’s heart sinking when she recognised a particular gleam in his eyes.

It was going to be one of those nights.

Kathleen Flynn glanced over at the mantelpiece clock. As was usual on a Friday Pat was late home from work. She knew where he was – the same place he went every Friday evening after being paid – the pub.

Kathleen sighed. How much, or little, would he bring back with him this time? And how drunk would he be? Mind you, she was lucky, a lot luckier than many in their street. Pat rarely hit her, while others she knew got a right battering each and every Friday night.

She didn’t begrudge him his drink, it was the culmination of a hard week’s graft after all. A man had to have something to look forward to. If only he wouldn’t get carried away and spend so much.

Kathleen briefly closed her eyes. How she hated the eternal scrimping and scraping, half the time robbing Peter to pay Paul. How many Thursdays and Fridays had they been reduced to eating bread and dripping? Times without number.

Another half-hour she calculated. For Pat never left until after last orders.

Would he eat something or go straight to bed? You never knew with Pat. It never bothered him that when he did insist on going straight to bed without a wash he made a terrible mess of the sheets. He was a coalman after all. As far as he was concerned that was something for her to worry about.

‘Why don’t you put the kettle on?’ Kathleen suggested to Bridie sitting opposite, her face in one of the books she constantly devoured.

Bridie blinked and looked up. ‘Did you say something, Ma?’

‘Why don’t you put the kettle on?’

‘Not for me, Ma, I don’t fancy a cup right at the moment. Shall I put the kettle on for you though?’

Kathleen considered that. It seemed a waste to make a pot just for herself, tea being so expensive nowadays. Why, only the previous week it had gone up again, that and many other things. It was scandalous. How was a body supposed to get by on those prices! If only wages would go up as well, but there was little likelihood of that.

‘No, I’ll leave it for the now,’ she replied.

Bridie nodded and returned to her book. The Maid of Avalon was a humdinger in her opinion.

Willie rolled off Georgina. ‘That was wonderful, darling. Thank you.’

‘It was wonderful, thank you,’ she lied in the darkness.

As was his custom, after every session of lovemaking, he took her into his arms and held her close, savouring the perfumed smell of her.

‘Happy?’ he queried softly.

‘Completely.’

‘That’s fine then.’

‘And you?’

‘You know I am. Just being with you makes me so.’

‘It’s the same with me.’

He released her. ‘Goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight.’

Georgina waited for him to turn on to his side, facing away from her, as he always did. She smiled cynically when that happened.

How predictable he was in bed, she thought. How utterly, awfully predictable. Sometimes she felt like screaming at just how predictable he was.

She drew in a slow, deep breath, trying to calm herself. Willie was the only man she’d ever slept with. Was all lovemaking like theirs? she wondered. She couldn’t believe that to be so. Surely there had to be some satisfaction in it for the woman.

She’d asked him in the past to try and take longer which he’d genuinely tried to do. To no avail. Willie’s clock was a fast one, hers slow. His alarm bell always went off long before hers was ready to ring.

She didn’t love Willie, never had. Perhaps that had something to do with it; she didn’t know. If only she had someone to talk to, to discuss the matter with. But that sort of thing was never spoken about in polite society, of which she was most definitely a member.

Willie began to snore gently, informing her he’d dropped off. Quickly, as again was always the case. Other nights he might toss and turn, but never after they’d made love.

She thought of Harry. What would it have been like with him? The same as with Willie, or different? That was something she’d never find out.

Willie had asked her if she was happy and she’d lied by saying yes. Truth was, she wasn’t unhappy. Dissatisfied perhaps. Frustrated was the word that came to mind. Frustrated that when they joined it didn’t give her anything like the pleasure it gave him. It was as if she was forever trying to climb a mountain but never getting to the top, always being stopped halfway. Sometimes not even halfway.

She moved restlessly, knowing it would be some while before sleep claimed her. She was all on edge, a-jangle.

Should she or shouldn’t she? She’d feel guilty after, a little soiled somehow. Guilty and ashamed.

It was only the previous year she’d discovered she could do such a thing. The idea had simply never entered her head until one particularly bad night after Willie she’d found herself doing it without thinking. And then … oh the glorious release, release that had made her gasp and shake all over.

How fearful she’d been afterwards that Willie might have realised, but he’d been asleep and known nothing.

Her hand crept downwards to find herself. She would, she decided.

Sean Flynn let himself into the house, pausing to listen just inside the door. As he’d expected the rest of the family were in the land of Nod.

He closed the door and then tiptoed through to his bedroom. He groaned as he began to undress. Christ, but he hurt. At least, as far as he could tell, none of his ribs was broken, but he’d be black and blue come morning.

He suddenly grinned, thinking of the other two. What a pasting he’d given them. He’d be sore tomorrow but not nearly as sore as that Proddy pair. Hell mend the bastards.

It had been a good night he decided, though he could have done without the rammy. And trust him to be on his own, for once caught without his pals around to help and back him up.

He hadn’t meant to jostle the Prod, it had been an accident. But that hadn’t stopped them waiting outside the boozer and jumping him.

‘Effing Prods,’ he muttered. ‘Effing bloody Prods.’

He hated them.

Jock Gibson watched Ian stride towards him and smiled inwardly. He had a little treat planned for Ian’s first day.

‘Hello, Jock,’ Ian greeted the estate manager.

‘During working hours I think it had better be Mr Gibson,’ Jock stated.

Ian swallowed. Jock had always been Jock for as long as he could remember. Even as a wee boy it had been Jock. ‘I understand.’

‘That would be best in the circumstances, don’t you agree?’

Ian nodded. ‘Whatever you say Jo––, Mr Gibson.’

‘Fine then.’

Ian rubbed his hands together. ‘So where do I begin?’

‘I thought with the pigs. You’ll be helping mucking out. A filthy job I admit. But one that has to be done.’

‘Of course.’

‘The lads there are expecting you, so off you go. I’ll drop by later to see how you’re getting on.’

Pigs! Ian thought ruefully as he walked away. He’d never liked pigs. Nasty, unpredictable creatures.

His nose wrinkled in disgust as he approached the first pen and he got a whiff of what lay ahead.

Bridie came hurrying up to Teresa and the pair of them fell into step together.

‘Another Monday morning and another week at the lemonade factory,’ Bridie groaned. ‘The thought makes me sick.’

Teresa grinned at her friend. ‘Oh come on, it’s not that bad.’

‘Bad enough. It’s the boredom that gets me down more than anything. Repetition, repetition, repetition. Bottles into boxes, bottles into boxes, bottles into boxes.’

‘Well, if you’re that cheesed off you could always ask the gaffer to shift you to another part of the factory. That would make a change if nothing else.’

‘Fat chance of that. Do you not remember Sheena McLaughlan tried that last year and got told to get on with what she was doing in no uncertain terms?’

Teresa pulled a face. ‘Oh aye, I’d forgot.’

‘Packing is where I started and where I’ll no doubt finish, whenever that might be.’

‘When you find your Prince Charming you mean?’ Teresa teased.

‘I suppose so.’

They walked a little way in silence. ‘Are you going to the dance next Saturday?’ Teresa queried. ‘Who knows, you might meet Prince Charming there.’

Bridie thought of the dance in question, a local affair held once a month. She had about as much chance of meeting Prince Charming there as she had of flying to the moon. Still, you never knew.

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘There was a lad at the last one took my eye. But he never asked me up.’

‘You never mentioned.’

Teresa shrugged.

‘Nice, was he?’

‘I’ve no idea as we never spoke. But he looked nice enough. The shy type I’d say.’

‘Not too many of those round here,’ Bridie commented. ‘They’re a forward lot by and large.’

‘True enough.’

Bridie recalled the last dance they’d attended, the one Teresa was referring to. She’d been asked up far more times than Teresa, as was usually the case. Teresa was verging on being plain while she … well, she was hardly a ravishing beauty but folk did say she had ‘looks’.

‘It’d be a laugh,’ Teresa went on.

‘Hardly that,’ Bridie commented wryly.

‘Well, where else do you want to go? There’s always the flicks, though you won’t meet any fellas there. You don’t get a lumber at the pictures.’ Lumber meant meeting someone and being escorted home.

‘I don’t really fancy the flicks either.’

‘You’re becoming a right stick in the mud, so you are. I suppose you’d rather stay indoors on a Saturday night with one of your books.’

Bridie didn’t reply to that.

A few minutes later her heart sank when the lemonade factory came into view.

‘Here we go again,’ Bridie muttered.

‘Here we go,’ Teresa agreed.

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Willie exclaimed. He was at the breakfast table sorting through the morning post. Georgina glanced up from her kipper. ‘Bad news, darling?’

Willie beamed at her. ‘Quite the contrary. It’s from an old chum of mine who served alongside me in the First Essex. He’s going to pay us a visit.’

‘That’s nice.’

Rose was the only other person at the table, Ian having long since gone to work.

Willie re-read the letter then laid it aside. ‘It’ll be wonderful seeing Andrew again. He’s a terrific chap.’

‘You certainly sound enthusiastic,’ Georgina commented.

‘How old is he?’ Rose queried.

Willie considered that. ‘About the same age as me I suppose.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘Far too old for you, my poppet.’

Rose coloured slightly. ‘That wasn’t why I asked at all.’

Willie regarded his daughter thoughtfully. He sometimes regretted not having sent her off to school as he had Ian. Not that the various tutors hadn’t done a first-rate job, they had. It was simply that she lacked a wider experience than might have been otherwise.

‘Is this Andrew married?’ Georgina enquired.

‘Doesn’t say. Certainly wasn’t when in the army. I recall he was engaged at one point, to an Irish lass …’ He broke off and shook his head. ‘Sad business.’

‘What happened?’ a curious Rose asked.

Willie’s expression became grim. ‘She was killed and let’s just leave it at that. Andrew was deeply hurt. Took it very badly indeed.’

This sounded intriguing, Georgina thought, wondering how the fiancée had been killed. ‘So when’s he coming?’

‘Beginning of next month. He’s not certain about the actual date yet but will write again when he is. In the meantime I shall write to him saying we shall be delighted to have him as a guest for as long as he wishes to stay.’

Willie paused, then said, ‘Andrew is Drummond of Drummond whisky. We must get some of that for when he’s here. Can’t offer him another brand now, can we?’

‘I’ll speak to Mrs Coltart and see it’s ordered,’ Georgina declared. Mrs Coltart was the housekeeper who did all the ordering and buying for the household.

Willie leant back in his chair, breakfast temporarily forgotten. ‘It’s six years since I last saw him, I wonder if the old bugger’s changed much.’

‘Willie!’ Georgina admonished, nodding in Rose’s direction.

‘Wouldn’t it be fun if he’d gone bald or something,’ Willie chuckled. ‘That would upset him. He was always rather vain about his good looks. Bald and a paunch,’ Willie chuckled further.

‘You’re being evil,’ Georgina chided.

‘Quite the ladies’ man I remember. Had an easy way with them that I always envied. Myself and quite a few others.’

Pity he was so old, Rose reflected. This Andrew Drummond sounded fun.

‘I’ll write later today,’ Willie announced.

‘A gang of our own?’ Noddy Gallagher repeated.

Sean nodded. ‘Why not? There are enough of us, to get started anyway.’

‘All Catholics of course,’ Sammy Renton said.

Sean gave him a withering look. ‘Of course, you eejit. That would be the whole point.’

Sammy grunted.

‘I like the idea,’ Mo Binchy declared thoughtfully. ‘We could hardly rival the Billy Boys or the Norman Conks yet. But who knows, one day.’

Sean’s eyes gleamed. ‘I’ve even got a name for us.’

‘Oh aye?’ prompted Noddy.

Sean glanced from face to face. There were ten of them present, huddled over cups of coffee in an Italian café they frequented. All eyes were glued on him, something he was enjoying.

‘The Samurai,’ he stated proudly.

The response was blank stares.

‘The what?’ Bobby O’Toole queried.

‘The Samurai,’ Sean repeated.

‘And what the hell’s that when it’s at home?’

Sean’s expression became one of superiority. ‘You’re a bunch of ignorant sods, so you are. Samurai are Japanese warriors.’

‘Is that a fact,’ breathed Jim Gallagher, Noddy’s brother.

‘How come you know that?’ Mo queried of Sean.

‘I saw a picture all about them last year at the Poxy Roxy. They have funny haircuts and carry bloody big swords which they use to cut their enemies’ heads off with. It was a rare film. I took Maeve Dunphy, you know her with the really big ones, and she got all upset with me.’ Sean laughed. ‘Said I was more interested in the film than I was in her.’ He laughed a second time. ‘And she was right too.’

‘Will we have to carry bloody big swords?’ Dan Smith queried, shivering at the prospect. This was frightening and exciting at the same time.

‘Not to start with anyway,’ Sean replied slowly. ‘I mean to say, Japanese swords aren’t exactly thick on the ground around Glasgow. Perhaps we can eventually lay our hands on a few though.’

‘The Samurai,’ Sammy Renton mused. ‘It certainly has a ring about it.’

A murmur of agreement ran round the group.

‘If we’re going to be a proper gang then we’ll need someplace to meet. If we gets lots of members then this café will hardly do,’ Sammy went on.

Sean nodded. ‘I’ve already thought of that too. You know that old condemned building at the end of Thistle Street. The one they’ve been going to pull down for years but never got round to it. Well, how about there?’

‘Would it no be dangerous, I mean, it’s condemned after all?’ Mo Binchy queried.

Sean shot him a contemptuous look. ‘Are you feart? Is that it?’

Mo went quite red. ‘Don’t call me feart. I’m nothing of the sort.’

‘Well, I had a shufty round the other day and it’s all shored up inside. There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘That settles that then,’ Don McGuire stated emphatically.

Noddy Gallagher cleared his throat. ‘If we’re going to be a proper gang and all that we’re going to need a leader. A heid bummer so to speak.’

Sean sat back in his chair and waited, not wanting to put himself forward, confident someone else would.

‘That has to be Sean then,’ Jim Gallagher duly obliged. ‘If he agrees that is.’

‘What do you say, Sean?’ Bobby O’Toole queried.

‘Is that what you all want?’

Another murmur of agreement ran round the group.

Elation swelled in Sean. The leader of his own gang, oh that was dandy indeed.

‘So be it,’ he dec