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grew up, trying to cut out the noise, but Jeff poked me in the ribs to borrow my pencil and marked his ballot paper. When the votes had been counted there was only a difference of two in Douglas’ favour.
    ‘We will have a recount, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Macleod, but he was shouted down.
    ‘Don’t bother,’ said Mr MacGilvray, ‘I wouldn’t insult Mr Strang by asking him to lead such a rabble.’
    ‘Well then,’ said Mr Macleod, ‘I duly elect Mr Douglas Grant as Chairman of the SNP.’
    Jeff jumped to his feet punching the air, but Mr MacGilvray had a face like a soor ploom. I couldn’t believe it when, instead of congratulating Douglas, he said he was resigning as National Secretary, and added, ‘If anyone wants me, I will be in the Rutland Bar.’ Half the room trooped out with him like bairns.
    Poor Douglas looked shocked. Then Mr Strang stood up and said it looked like he had been defeated on a point of principle, and no offence, but he was resigning, too. Douglasshouted something after them in Russian, I think. The men in the room sounded like animals, hooting and jeering, but Jeff was smiling at Douglas, clapping like a wild man. I told him I was going home, and this time he didn’t try to stop me. He was shouting, ‘Tell MacGilvray’s caucus to go hang themselves.’
    The street outside was quiet by comparison. People were looking from the conference door to the Rutland Bar, and back again, at the stream of angry people, and someone had marched off with the flag. It was all so confusing. Jeff and Douglas had seemed so calm and clever at home, and Jeff was so anti-war in his slippers, but here they were hopping mad that MacGilvray had stormed off. It didn’t seem worth it for two votes. Jeff said it was just that MacGilvray didn’t want a political, conscientious objector as leader.
    I began to breathe again as I walked over to Princes Street Gardens and sat by the gold fountain at the foot of the castle rock. Sculptures of naked women, piled three high, poured water into the pond. The most beautiful woman rose up out of the middle and it seemed strange because they used to drown witches here when it was the Norloch. It was like they had come back and were reaching up to heaven, dripping wet. Thinking about them gave me the willies, and I had no one to cheer me up. The pigeons walked up to me, dipping their heads, but I didn’t have any bread for them, so I left by the railway bridge and walked home. The mothers had gone from the Links. There were just rows of empty benches, and the back streets were deserted apart from a few bairns running between the gardens with guns made of sticks.
    I wondered when Jeff would get back but I could imagine he would be late. He would be drinking with Douglas somewhere , banging on about democracy. I think the ceilidh they’d planned for later was cancelled. No one would have dared to walk out of the conference if Mrs MacDougall had been standing there with the gavel in her hand.

5
    The house was very quiet when I got back. It was just as I had left it, and I missed the stir of the farm with my brothers tramping in and out, leaving clothes and newspapers strewn everywhere, and filling the house with their laughter. I remembered Mother’s cheery fire in the kitchen and the cooking smells, and it just felt like the flat had no life. I was looking after a museum full of Jeff’s late mother’s things. Her china knick-knacks were still in a glass case in the drawing room and her clothes were in our double wardrobe. They still smelt of her perfume. I put my hand on the door handle to Jeff’s study, gripping the cold metal. I wanted to look for the letter with the black crown on it but he trusted me not to go in, so I made a cup of tea in the kitchen instead.
    The trees out the back were thick with leaves. A fat wood pigeon was waddling along one of the branches, but when the window upstairs opened, he flew off with a crack of his wings. I put my teacup down