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was tipped in half-ton scoopfuls straight from the boat into lorries which then took it to the consumers, the different tons being separated by odd bits of cardboard or sacking which would of course be blown away or shaken down among the coal before the lorry had gone more than a mile or two. The unloading of a ‘puffer’ was always a merry affair with Gaelic oaths and jests flying about as thickly as the coal dust itself. It was a regular practice of the men to try to fling one another’s caps into the lorry just at the moment the coal was being tipped in and there was much mirth both at the dispatching and receiving ends when this was successfully accomplished. But the trophies one might discover in one’s coal were not confined to caps: as the same pier was used for unloading coal as for unloading fish, it was not at all unusual to find fish hooks, fish heads, bits of seaweed and crab claws on one’s shovel; though the fact that after some stoking one’s kitchen became redolent of a guano factory was more often the result of the loaded lorries having to pass through a passageway locally termed ‘bomb alley’, where hundreds of gorged seagulls wheeled in ecstasy and extruded indiscriminately. When unloading was completed the volunteers, black all over, would return home to clean themselves up and to have their clothes well sprinkled with the louse powder they used for the cattle. The Bruachites maintained that coal was full of fleas and houses close to the pier were said to become infested whenever a coal boat was unloading.
    Thus was one’s supply of fuel obtained and the disadvantage was that if one had ordered a couple of tons or so and it turned out to be of poor quality then one was stuck with it. I discovered this for myself the very first time I took a delivery of coal—two tons of it—at the cottage. My suspicions were aroused at first sight. Good coal usually looks bright and brittle; this stuff slid off the lorry in flat shaley-looking slabs that made almost a metallic noise. When I put some on the fire it lay there sluggishly, defying heat or flame to ignite it; the chimney blew down smoke, no doubt in protest at the filthy stuff going up it. It was easily the least combustile fuel I had ever seen. Somewhat exasperated I got on the ’phone to the undertaker. He was not at home, I was told, but a voice I had never heard before and most emphatically never wish to hear again asked me in rich Highland accents if it could be of any help.
    â€˜I wanted to know if there was a chance of getting hold of some coal,’ I said.
    â€˜More coal? Surely, Miss Peckwitt, you took two tons of coal last week just. What have you done with that?’
    â€˜I’m building a castle with it,’ I retorted acridly. ‘I want to talk about coal, not this rubbish.’
    â€˜Indeed, and isn’t it terrible stuff? My own mother was saying herself just last night that she might as well carry dung from the byre and try will it burn.’
    â€˜Well, that’s an idea anyway,’ I conceded. ‘I suppose if this was India we might be able to do that.’
    â€˜Do what? Use cow dung? For fuel, you say?’
    â€˜So I believe.’
    â€˜Indeed then, they must have very inflammable cows out there. I don’t think it would work here at all. Supposing you tried mixing a little peat with the coal.’
    â€˜I have tried,’ I said. ‘It helps, certainly, but even so there’s very little heat from it.’
    â€˜Ach, but you English,’ the voice chided patiently, ‘you’re always complaining of feeling the cold.’
    â€˜It’s no good sending me stones to keep me warm,’ I retorted.
    â€˜No, indeed.’ From the mouthpiece came the faintest of sighs. ‘Well then, Miss Peckwitt,’ the voice suggested blandly, ‘will I come out myself tonight and have a damn good try?’
    The months of April and May are