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anything beyond the excitement of a wide, open road that was waiting for them. He wanted to see and breathe the newness of the southern Highlands, a prospect that was so much fun to one who’d been no further than the few miles either side of his auntie’s croft.
    But how different would be the sting of reality. They were used to a warm bed within the sheltered walls of that low-roofed croft, with the sea winds to its back and mountains to the front. These were to be denied to them; from then on they would live the ancient ways of their late mother, a hard and bitter life in which the elements would take their toll on two pampered boys. That was how it had to be; their father had decided, and from that day on his word would be the rule of the family.
    One final conversation between sister and brother was about that scar. He said he’d fallen over a clump of heather upon a sharp rock which missed his throat by an inch, striking his exposed cheek instead. He leaned forward, planted a warm kiss on her cold brow and whispered, ‘I was sober at the time.’ She just shook her head in disbelief, reminding him, ‘A tiger keeps its stripes, brother.’
    Next day after breakfast, the boys said their farewells to the only mother they knew. After saying goodbye also to Heather the cow and running from the nipping beak of an old red cockerel, they set off with a father who had until then been like a ghost from some recurring nightmare. Would he prove to be a hero, or maybe like that spirit from a bad dream come back to haunt them?

T WO

     
    T he next ten years saw them constantly wandering from place to place, living under canvas and eating from hand to mouth. They slept beneath summer skies, filled with stars or rain clouds, and they were familiar only with Mother Nature’s goods, her fish from the streams, fowl and rabbit from the heather moors. She filled their bellies and covered their bones with strong muscles. So into manhood grew the once petted boys, who became expert in all ways of survival. No thanks to their wayward father, though. One thing did turn out to be true; those wise words from Aunt Helen when she warned of their father’s fondness for alcohol. Its lure at times became too strong for him; he’d slip away, find a dingy drinking den and be without reason for weeks. If not for his sons, God alone knows in what state he’d have ended up.
    In lieu of pay for work they’d be offered a derelict building, unroofed but with four walls to keep out the bitter chill of winter winds. They regarded this as a godsend. But this was only while work was available. More often they made do with a bracken-stuffed mattress and rough tent for cover, little else. Life hardened the young men. Sometimes they’d seek out their father from some flea-ridden den and drag him home semi-conscious, simply to add body warmth to a midwinter bed. Otherwise they might have forgotten his existence, rolled up their bundles and headed north.
    If Helen could have foreseen the way her brother would drag the boys from place to place without so much as a thought to their wellbeing, she’d surely have murdered and buried him deep in bogs of peat.

     
    In the areas of thick forest around remote glens in Angus, by moorlands teeming with grouse overlooked by snow-capped mountains they found enough work to sustain them for several months. For many years past Rory had camped there; being sober at the time he lingered for a peaceful summer, but did not stay for winter. Now he had brought his family into its bosom, severe and harsh, at the coldest time of year. If it were not for the rows of dense conifer trees and a high stone dyke circling their campsite, nature’s ferocity would have taken no prisoners.
    Rory was curled up in the darkest corner of the tent, growling at the snowstorm ravaging through the glen. He’d found a drinking buddy by the name of O’Connor, a big Irish tinker wandering through the area, and had asked him to pitch his tent