Douglas Stewart

And so for me, it had endless dramatic possibilities.

Well, that's it.

You also might never see where it goes to.

And yeah, but it just it was such a romantic idea for me.

returned home.

He crossed to the yarn shelves.

It was his favourite place in the whole world.

The shelves were full of hundreds of yarns, all the romantic colours of Scotland, bracken and grouse, gorse and heather, rain and moss, the chafed red of a drunkard's face and pure bilious whitey.

Amongst these were punkish hot pinks and acid yellows, violent tones that made people recoil until they saw the finished cloth and saw how skilfully John could mix sour greens with wheats and nightshades until it was a field of spring bluebells.

It was a treasure box.

Cal had loved playing with these cones when he was younger.

He would take a colour and wrap it around his finger until each finger was a multicoloured worm of mad stripes.

John had taken time with them then, unwrapping the hues, re-wrapping them to show harmony or contrast, or how a Macdonald funeral tartan should look opposed to a MacLeod hunting.

"'If it's right,' John had said, "'then you should be able to feel something.'

"'His father had wrapped Cal's little fingers in lapis, violets and cornflower blues.

"'He added a light, overripe peach tone, and then, to ground it all, "'a mossy brown with flecks of coppery sienna.

"'That was the day we took your mother to Calanish, do you remember?

"'That was what the stones and the sky and her good coat had looked like.'

John unspooled a single strand of vermilion and wrapped it amongst the other colours.

You took a nosebleed.