ped his phone, checking the time once again. One thirty-three a.m. – only a few minutes since he last checked. It was as though time moved at a slower pace in the night, the same way the nurses lowered their tones once the midnight hour had passed. He checked his emails, his messages, his diary. Took another sip of his drink. Two nurses walked into the café and headed straight for the counter, then left as soon as their to-go drinks were made.
He glanced at the news, the weather forecast and the closing share prices across the globe. His coffee was half-drunk now, the liquid cooling fast in the air-conditioned café, and he pushed the cup away with one hand, still holding the phone with his other.
Sighing, he pressed on the search box in his web browser. What could he look up next? He wasn’t interested in gossip, didn’t follow any TV shows, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a book. The keyboard popped up on the screen, and he slid his fingers across the boxes, making letters appear in the search.
The MacLeish clan.
As soon as he pressed the little magnifying glass icon, a list of results appeared. An online shop selling Scottish tartan, a Wikipedia page, and then the website that Grant had told him about. Lachlan pushed on the third result, and it immediately took him to the same page he’d seen before, the one with a tartan background, and a photograph of Glencarraig Lodge in the banner.
The menu held a number of options, and he clicked on the history one first. He glanced through it, reading about the clearances in the eighteenth century, and how they resulted in so many poorer Scottish families being evicted by their aristocratic landlords, leading to a mass emigration to the New World. He read about Bonnie Prince Charlie, and how the head of the MacLeish clan had supported him in his quest to defeat the English occupation, leading to the clan chief being forced into exile, a hunted man.
There was so much information in there, Lachlan could barely take it all in. Who had written this? He couldn’t believe his father had either the interest or the technical expertise to run a website. There was no information about the author – just links to the forum, which as Grant had said was pretty deserted – as well as details of the accommodation that Glencarraig Lodge offered to paying guests, and an annual gathering.
Interested, Lachlan clicked on the gathering page. A photograph of Glencarraig castle came up again, but this time there was a host of people standing in front of it. Men wearing kilts in the traditional MacLeish tartan, ladies in longer skirts wearing tartan blankets wrapped across their shoulders. There were even children, boys in kilts and flat tam-o’-shanter hats, girls in shorter skirts and long socks. At the bottom of the photograph was a caption: MacLeish Clan Gathering 2017.
He blew up the photograph, scanning the people to see if he recognised anyone. But none of them looked familiar. Neither his father nor his brother were there, and that gave Lachlan some satisfaction.
The café door opened again, and this time there was a bigger influx of people. He glanced at the time and was shocked to see that over an hour had passed. He stood quickly and headed back to see his mom in her private room.
Learning more about the MacLeish clan would have to wait.
10
Scotland has enough treasures to satisfy
you out of your own royal coffers
– Macbeth
‘Mr MacLeish?’ Dr Farnish walked out of the hospital room, pulling the door closed behind him. ‘I’ve had the results of the X-rays back. Your mother’s chest is looking clearer than yesterday. The antibiotics seem to be working.’
Lachlan nodded quickly. The relief made his muscles feel loose. ‘She’s more lucid than yesterday, too. We managed to exchange a few words.’
‘Yes, that’s a good sign. If her recovery continues we should be able to discharge her before the weekend. The fact she has twenty-four-hour care at her home should make things easier.’
‘Will there be any lasting damage?’ Lachlan asked. ‘Do we need to review her care?’
Dr Farnish shook his head. ‘As you know, each episode of exacerbation causes some damage to her lungs, which will make breathing harder for her. But she already has a ventilator at the care home, and that should be sufficient for now. I’ll want to review her in a week, and then monthly from then. But if she’s well enough to discharge, then she’ll be well enough to go back to her care home.’ He lowered his voice, enough for Lachlan to have to lean a little closer. ‘At some point you’ll need to have a discussion with her about her wishes. Maybe think about a living will. Her COPD will have an effect on her quality of life, and eventually the pain is going to outweigh any positives.’
Lachlan leaned back on the painted wall. A nurse walked past them, pushing a trolley of equipment, the rubber wheels squeaking against the tiled floor. The doctor was right – he knew that. They’d consulted enough experts to know there was no way but down for his mother.
‘I’ll speak to her when she’s back at the home,’ he agreed, though he was already working out when he’d have a chance to do it. Now she was on the mend he had to get back to work – he’d already cancelled four days’ worth of meetings, he couldn’t cancel much more.
‘I know it’s not easy, but it would be the kindest thing to do.’
Lachlan nodded again, then walked back into the hospital room, where his mom was still sleeping, her breathing audible against the backdrop of the bleeping monitors. There were pillows propped around her, and the tubes were still attached to her wrist, but the mask had been removed, replaced by a nasal cannula that allowed her to speak, for the few minutes she had enough energy to stay awake. He sat next to her, in the chair that had already moulded to his body, the cushions sinking beneath him as though they were tired of staying plump.
It was hard to look at her like this, even knowing she was getting better. She looked so different to the mother he remembered growing up. The young, vibrant woman – too young, probably – who would kiss him like crazy then disappear for hours, leaving him to fend for himself. From the earliest age he’d learned to be independent – to find his own food, his own entertainment, his own comfort. He’d quickly learned that if he didn’t take care of himself, nobody else would.
Looking back, he could have gone either way. For a few years there as a kid, he’d skirted the lines of the law, hanging out with the wrong crowd, looking for a fight – any fight – just to prove he existed.
Strangely, it had been his father – the man who hadn’t seemed to care much for him – who’d made the difference. Or rather, it had been the times Lachlan had stayed with him and his family. They’d shown him an alternative to the lifestyle that had been all around him. Even Glencarraig had played its part. It was hard to be angry when you were surrounded by the beauty of nature, and almost impossible not to want more from this world than a lifetime of thuggery.
So he’d worked hard, harder than he’d ever knew he could, first at school and then in business, pushing himself out of his old life and his neighbourhood, bringing Grant right along with him. He hadn’t stopped fighting – he probably never would – but the things he was fighting for had changed.
His mother’s eyes flickered open for a moment, her watery blues meeting his, before they closed again and she took a deep, rattled breath.
In her own way, she was a fighter, too. She’d done the best she could as a mother – with the scant resources she had available – and he didn’t hold his upbringing against her for that.