“What kind of tree is that one?” Archie asks, pointing at a twelve-foot-high spiky-looking tree. Hugh, meanwhile, heads off with a soccer ball. A football?
“That’s a monkey tree.”
“Do you think monkeys live in it?”
“No,” I say with a chuckle. “At least, not in Scotland. Haven’t you visited this place before?” I ask as I begin to unpack the food. It looks like Chrissy has packed us a feast, which certainly puts my hastily constructed PB&J to shame.
“Yes, but not since last year. And last year, I was only five, which isn’t really old enough to appreciate something like this.” Sometimes this kid sounds like a little old man. A little old man with a hungry stomach, judging by the way he watches me as I empty the contents of the basket, his eyes lighting up as I pull out container after container, pulling the top from each as I do so.
Bamboo containers, eco-friendly. No Tupperware for these kiddos.
Crackers. A wedge of Scottish brie. A tub of preserved figs. Raspberries. Goat’s cheese tartlets. Herby sausage rolls—
“Yum! Eww, is that fly graveyard?”
“Is it what?” I ask, turning the container around and staring into it. Inside is a pastry slice with sugar sprinkled on the top.
“Fly graveyard,” Hugh says, dropping his knees to the edge of the blanket. “I love that stuff!” His hand sneaks into the container, whipping out a corner of the pastry and shovelling it into his mouth.
“But why is it called fly graveyard?” I ask, peering into the container and swatting away a curious wasp. And why would anyone want to eat something that sounds as unappetising as that?
“Because of this, see?” Speaking through a mouthful of pastry, Hugh holds out his index finger where a single currant and a few stray crumbs sit. “It looks like a dead fly, doesn’t it?”
“That’s gross, Hugh!” I complain, though I’m less grossed out by the currant on his finger than I am about the pastry and fruit he’s swilling around his mouth.
“Disgusting,” Griffin agrees, popping the champagne cork over the nearby flower beds. “Who names a cake something like that? Bloody mental Scots,” he complains.
“Hey, I’m a Scot!” Archie shouts . . . sounding anything but Scottish. “And that’s littering!”
“Nah,” Griffin answers. “Cork is biodegradable.”
“You’re half Scottish, too.” Hugh glowers Griffin’s way.
“Scots. They’re a temperamental bunch.” Griffin splashes champagne into two (not plastic) glasses, the effervescent bubbles sparkling in the sunlight. He reaches over to a tub of raspberries, plucking a few between his fingertips before dropping a couple into each glass. “That’s half temper and half mental.”
“You’re really just calling yourself,” Archie says sagely.
“Can we play Frisbee now, Holly?” Archie asks around a mouthful of sausage roll.
Griffin declines an invitation to play Frisbee in favour of stretching out on the blanket with his glass of champagne. I kick off my flip-flops before leading Archie and Hugh to the meadow grass, where we stand in a triangle and begin our fun but sedate game. Isn’t that usually how Frisbee starts out? Nice, easy glides of the disc, aiming for each other’s hands. But before long, squeals and giggles are rising through the air, the boys’ throws becoming longer and increasingly sillier, leaving us diving in the long grass and pulling the disc out from tree branches and flower beds. I can’t say it’s all at the boys’ instigation. Though I blame the champagne for my poor aim. I kept popping back to the blanket for a sip. It’s thirsty work!
“Time out!” I shout, sliding the Frisbee under my arm. “Don’t you know the aim isn’t to try to chop off your opponent’s head?”
“But it makes it much more fun,” Hugh retorts with a grin a mile wide.
“I think it’s time for refreshments.”
“Your champagne is getting warm,” Griffin calls.
“You mean my magic glass of champagne that never seems to fall an inch below the rim?”
Griffin is completely unabashed as I lower myself to the other side of the blanket. “It must be the magic of this place,” he offers.
“It is pretty magical, isn’t it?” I reply, ignoring the way his eyes roam over me. For a minute, I thought we had an affinity for the setting, not that he was being his usual suggestive self.
“It’d be even more magical if you were over here.” He pats the space next to him. “Come over and let me top up your glass.”
“Oh, I think you’ve topped it up enough already.” I already feel pleasantly buzzed, which is enough warning to make me change to water. “Besides, this is where the cookies are . . . were? My gaze slides to the most obvious culprit. Archie had returned to the blanket almost as many times as I did to my glass. A girl’s got to keep hydrated. “Who ate all the chocolate chip cookies, I wonder?”