Thursday legends

2

'Just one, as usual, then I'll need to get the kids home.' Mcllhenney dropped a five-pound note into the kitty jar, a half-pint tumbler which sat on the bar. 'Make it a pint of lime and soda, please, Lesley, and a couple of Cokes for Lauren and Spence.'

'I don't remember ever seeing you have a beer in here,' the bar stewardess ventured as she filled a tumbler from the dispenser. 'Don't you drink at all?'

He shook his head. 'Not any more, other than the odd glass of wine with a meal. That's a luxury I can't afford, not with those two.' He carried the Cokes, and two packets of Cheese and Owen crisps across to a table in a big bay window, where his two children were seated, playing a board game.

'I won't be long,' he said.

Lauren looked up at him; her brown hair was still damp from her swim in the Sports Centre pool. 'No,' she agreed, severely. 'Spence mustn't be up too late.'

He was frowning as he joined his football friends. Bob Skinner had noticed the exchange. 'She giving you a hard time?' he asked; quietly, so that none of the others could overhear.

'Not really. She thinks of herself as a sort of surrogate mother sometimes, that's all.'

'Aye, well. She would, wouldn't she, the poor wee lass. She's cut out for the role though.'

Neil looked up at the ceiling and laughed. 'Indeed she is; but what a teacher she had.' And then the lump was in his throat again. Still, it came without warning; usually when he was alone, but sometimes, in the company of very close friends, people who had known them both. At first it had overwhelmed him; there had been a couple of occasions on which he, big, hard, Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney, had shocked his companions, by dissolving, quietly and without warning, into tears. Now though, he was able to master it, to control the sudden surge of grief before it got to the stage of public embarrassment.

Skinner, having been down that road himself, knew when to say nothing. Eventually his companion dragged his gaze away from the ceiling and looked around the bar of the small North Berwick hotel. The usual Thursday-night banter was picking up pace; the evening's game was being replayed, notably by the Diddler, who was well into the second talk-through of his winning goal.

'Bloody toe-poke!' Mcllhenney grunted.

'Skilfully guided away from the keeper, I'd put it,' the scorer insisted.

'Aye, you would. Now move a couple of your bellies along that bench and give me a bit more space.'

More seat-room materialised for the big policeman; he leaned back and let the chat continue, listening as it widened out, from the Diddler's never-ending store of gossip about the lives of Edinburgh's elite to take in the week's televised sport, which had highlighted the closely fought conclusion of the battle for the English Premiership.

He looked around his new friends, realising again that he, still in his thirties, was the youngest member by several years:

Stewart Rees: as quiet and friendly in the bar as he was loud and hectoring during their game, a chemical engineer and head of production in one of Scotland's smaller breweries.

Andrew John: an assistant general manager with the Bank of Scotland, possessed of a laconic sense of humour, and excellent footballing skills, even if these had been a shade eroded by ageing joints and an expanding waistline.

Benny Crossley: one of four squad members from Gullane, a man of few words, but every one of them weighed and sensible, with the precision of someone who made his living as a builder of quality houses.

Mitchell Laidlaw: managing partner of Edinburgh's biggest legal firm, a legendarily successful litigator of formidable determination, which he brought with him on to the football courts.

Grant Rock: the man about town — in this case, North Berwick — of the group, local Government official, Rotarian, and like many of the group, a golf addict.

David McPhail: a successful advertising executive, his roots, like those of Skinner, were in the west of Scotland, but he had transplanted successfully to Gullane more than a quarter of a century earlier.

Spike Thomson: in a sense the odd man out, the senior disc jockey on one of Edinburgh's commercial radio stations, the nearest thing North Berwick had to a resident celebrity.

Howard Shearer: the Diddler — Mcllhenney had often wondered where the nickname had come from, but had still to ask — the most enthusiastic, if least skilful member of the squad. A high-ranking fund manager, whose secretary arranged his diary to ensure that he was always at home for the five-a-sides on Thursday evenings.

And on his right, Bob Skinner: boss, friend, benefactor, whatever

… the man who had brought him into the squad, at a moment in his life when he had needed it most, killer squash player, karate maestro, golfing shark, but rough-and-ready footballer.

'The real high point of my night, though,' — the Diddler's high-pitched voice broke into his thoughts — 'was shifting big Mcllhenney here off his feet.'

'Ye'd better bring some extra padding next Thursday night then,' Grant Rock told him. 'The sergeant's going to be looking for you.'

'No need for padding, Grock,' said Neil. 'Not with an arse like he's got.' He drained his glass and stood up, waving across to Lauren and Spencer. 'Got to get these two home, lads. See you next week, and thanks once again.'

'He's a good bloke, that,' said Andrew John, moving his seat closer to Skinner, as the door of the lounge bar closed on the father and his children. 'You did well bringing him along here. Hellish shame about his wife.'

'Aye, it was that.'

'How long's it been now?'

The big policeman scratched his chin. 'Let's see. He's been with us for five months, since January, and she died about six weeks before that. Yes, just over six months.' 'What was she like?'

'Olive? Simply the best, like the song goes. A tremendous woman.'

'Cancer, was it?'

'Aye, in the lung. She gave it her best — they both did — but it was too much for her.'

'And how's he settled down since? It must be difficult for him with the two kids.' The banker paused. 'Of course, you would know that, wouldn't you?'

'That was a long time ago, Andrew, and I was only left with one — wee Alexis. You could argue that having the kids will have helped ease the loss, in a way, but it's not true. It occupies you, but you never forget; not for a second.'

'This boys' club of ours must help him too.'

'It does. Gets him out of the house once a week at least.'

'He's not a bad footballer.'

'Better than that. He played Junior, for Armadale, before he joined the force.'

Andrew John's eyes lit up with a new respect. 'Why d'you not bring him before, then?'

Skinner grinned. 'Never thought to. Anyway, he'd gone to seed. Since Olive fell ill he's lost a couple of stone at least, and got himself back into training. His father died of a heart attack a few years back; it's all the more important to Neil now that he stays fit, for the kids' sake if nothing else.'

'Talking about kids,' John continued, 'how's your new one getting on?'

The grin turned into a beam of delight. 'Our wee Seonaid? She's absolutely great. Sleeps all the time, unlike her brother.' 'And Sarah? How's she?'

'Loving it. For the first time in her adult life, she isn't thinking about work at all. The day after Jazz was born she insisted on being picked up from the Simpson to go to a crime scene. Not this time, though. Motherhood's finally got to her… thank Christ for it too, with three on our hands.'

The banker nodded. 'Of course, your adopted lad. He's settled in.'

'Fine, thanks. He's an intense wee boy, very clever; to see Jazz and him together you'd never know that the two lads weren't natural brothers.'

'Your older daughter, how's she?' John grinned. 'Might as well ask about them all,' he added.

'You'd be better asking Mitch Laidlaw about our Alexis. He sees more of her than I do; ten hours a day in the office at least. She's living in Leith now; nice wee flat she has.'

'No romantic entanglements?'

Skinner looked at him and sighed. 'I never ask, my friend. I never ask.'