Angus trudged down to the village pub and considered the last few years. It was strange to think that he was the one ultimately responsible for his sister Lucy being engaged to Declan. Despite their different backgrounds, the aristocratic Angus had grown to like Declan, a broad-shouldered Irish nationalist who had grown up in the urban grit of Dublin.
Angus, by contrast, was a stocky Highlander; a younger version of his father, the Laird of Glenmacara. Being the Laird’s son did not mean much these days, only that Angus might someday inherit a few thousand acres of degraded bogland; a crumbling lodge; and a few scattered homes that paid their rent to the estate rather than the council.
Growing up, Angus had been fascinated by maps of the landscape he knew so well. He was captivated by the names of tiny geographical features. He sat up one evening with a Gàidhlig dictionary and the OS map trying to translate them: Creag Loisgte, Garbh Bhealach, Sròn a Chonnaidh. They seemed so familiar, yet so distant. Names that would have been spoken daily in a language he hardly knew, but that his ancestors had been fluent in.
Now the glens were empty of those people, replaced by sheep and grouse. Angus knew that his forbears had been responsible for the clearances, but that did not make it right. Families intermarried. Many of his ancestors had also suffered. Kin against kin, all because human lives were cheap. It made him angry and terribly sad.
A fierce determination grew within him to honour these people. He would learn their language. Twice a week, he attended Gàidhlig classes taught by a woman in the next village. Angus’s father had been impressed and privately very proud.
When Angus was 16 he attended his first Fèis. It was an eclectic collection of young Irish and Scots Gaelic speakers crammed into the conference suite of a university on Scotland’s East coast. They were there to celebrate language, music and culture. On the Saturday morning a number of young Gaelic writers gave presentations. Angus had been up early after a long journey the day before. He was sleepy. He began to tune out.
Then this Dubliner in jeans and a GAA shirt strode on to the stage. Without notes, he enthused in Irish and English about his love of archaeology, and how it inspired his debut novel about a group of teenagers growing up in pre-Christian Ireland.
Angus drank it in. At the break he shyly approached Declan, who gave him a signed copy of his book in Irish. In return Declan received Angus’s own short history of Glenmacara. Later Angus covertly went to the bookstall and bought another copy of Declan’s book, this time in English.
Months later, Lucy was flicking through a magazine. Buried in the back was a review of the book she had seen her brother reading. She showed the article to him. He lent her his copy in English without commenting. He knew she would make up her own mind.
Angus had liked Declan’s novel well enough, but Lucy was entranced. She read it twice, back to back. He let her keep it. He did not tell her where he had got the book or that he had briefly met the author. He knew she would ask complicated questions.
Across the sea Declan’s life continued. The Fèis had been one of those moments where life changes course. He had spoken to one of the Professors in the University’s Celtic Studies department. He had loved the place, applied, and got in.
While preparing for the move Declan found the papers from the Fèis so crucial to his decision. He decided to take them with him. From them dropped a stapled monochrome pamphlet, by one Angus Bheag, younger of Glenmacara.
It was a romanticised history of the area, with a glossary of local place names, but Declan enjoyed it. He was intrigued by the description of the monumental High Cross. Declan had already decided on a Summer walking holiday in the Highlands. Now he decided on Glenmacara. The place spoke to him.
That trip was another life altering moment. After hiking across the heather to visit the cross, Declan had descended into the village. He bought one of the village shop’s famous 'Hot Pie’s' and literally bumped into Lucy while reversing out of the door. Declan had turned to apologise, and their eyes met. She spent the rest of the week dragging him to tea rooms, inviting him to dinner and generally giving him the tour. Eighteen months later he stayed for Christmas.
Now, as young adults, Declan and Lucy were engaged. Perhaps it was an odd secret to keep between themselves, but neither Angus nor Declan had ever told Lucy that they’d had a pre-existing friendship. They argued about politics and history, but deep down they respected each other.
Angus pushed the door of the bar open. Declan ushered him over to their favourite table. He pushed a whisky towards Angus.
'This better not be that brush cleaner you drink,' Angus said jokingly.
'Nah,' said Declan, grinning. 'It’s the good stuff.'
Briefly they exchanged small talk. Then Angus got to why Declan had asked him to the bar.
'You said you wanted to ask me something? A favour?' said Angus.
'Oh yeah that,' said Declan. He shifted in his seat. Angus detected a trace of embarrassment. Declan was awkward about asking for help.
'I was wondering…', Declan began. 'Would you like to be my best man? At the wedding, I mean.'
'Of course I will,' said Angus.
Declan paused. 'Right. Good. Great,' he said. Then he added, 'That was easier than I expected.'
Angus sipped his whisky. It was the good stuff, older than either of them.
'I was remembering the Fèis,' said Angus.
'My life would be very different if I hadn’t gone.' said Declan. 'I’d like to say thanks. For everything.'
Angus understood. He raised his glass.
'Slàinte.'
'Sláinte mhaith.'