‘Good one,’ James said, and forced out a burst of laughter he hoped was more confident than it sounded.

‘Jamie gets it,’ Tony said, winking at his cousin and smirking as he pressed his body into the passenger seat.

Three 2005

THREE
2005

James sat in the hire car out the front of Jones and Son Stock and Station office, impatiently sipping a takeaway coffee. Apart from a cleaner who’d let herself in about twenty minutes ago, there was still no sign of anyone. It was after ten o’clock, so he downed the last of his drink, locked the car and pushed at the door.

‘Hi, just wondering when anyone will be in?’

The cleaner looked up from behind a computer and smiled. ‘Jamie Brandt?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Cassie. You know, from Kippen Primary?’

James let out a breathy, embarrassed laugh.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember us playing at school?’ she said. ‘Good to see you back. Now pick your jaw up off the floor, whitefella, and give us a hug!’

They pressed together awkwardly.

‘You’re not the first one to get a shock at a black woman running the show,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘I keep this place open a couple of days a week, and I do the rentals.’

‘Good to see you,’ James said. ‘It must be, what, twenty years?’

‘Closer to thirty, mate. You fly up? Been bloody good for Kippen, getting that airport over at Wishaw after they closed the trains. Apart from that, nothing’s new, except they have to let us mob into the pool these days!’

‘Things change pretty slowly up here.’

She laughed. ‘True.’

‘I got a couple of messages asking me to drop in while I’m in town,’ he said.

‘Yeah, but Mr Jones is over at Wishaw today. Big station coming on the market and he went to take photos. I’m supposed to call him as soon as you show up.’

‘Well, I can come in tomorrow morning. Funeral’s not until eleven.’

Cassie’s face dropped from animated to concerned. ‘I can’t make it, sorry to say, I got family stuff of me own,’ she said, shrugging and laughing at the same time. ‘But Mr Jones is that keen to see you, so just let me call him now.’

Before James could object, she’d lifted a receiver and punched a button.

He turned away to take in the room. A glassed-in office sat across the back, no doubt for Mr Jones, with a small desk for Cassie out front. Dilapidated racks of property listings ran all the way to the front windows. A faded photograph of Mr Andrew Jones, proprietor, hung at one side of each, face as red as a parrot.

‘He always leaves his phone in the car, I have to let it ring for ages,’ Cassie said.

James smiled. ‘How did he find me?’