Chapter 5: The Flies and the Fife Mountain

The ferocious Lanarkshire winter did not leave Chryston quietly, but by the first week of April, the stubborn frost on the moors had finally broken. The biting winds that rattled the cottage windows on Pentland Road softened into something mild and damp, carrying the sharp, sweet scent of wet earth and waking grass. For Patrick Maguire, stepping out onto his doorstep each morning no longer felt like marching into battle. Light stretched further into the evenings now, a slow, gentle thaw that seemed to seep right into the bones of the valley itself.

Inside the cottage, the changing season brought its own kind of warmth. Little Simon, now three and full of wicked mischief, tore round the kitchen floor chasing baby Michael, whose chubby legs pumped away as fast as they could carry him. Josie stood by the iron stove, wiping her hands on her apron as she watched them. When Patrick walked in from his shift at the brickworks, his shoulders dusted pink with clay, she did not reach straight for the tea pot. She waited until the boys were distracted, stepped into his space, and rested her head against his broad chest.

“Ye look worn thin, Paddy,” she murmured, her voice muffled against the coarse wool of his waistcoat.