Inside the old petrol station on the corner, Willie Byers was glad of it too. He was sick of them all, with their hints and their nagging. They didn’t even have to open their mouths these days; he could see it in their eyes, could easily imagine what they said about him. He had bought the garage as a going concern, right there by the main road and ten miles from the nearest chain with its discounts. And Painchton folk didn’t hold with new cars every three years, so there was good trade in keeping their old ones going. And Mr. Byers could surely live cheap, with his quiet ways and no wife to his name. Could have taken on a lad right away—people made mental notes to mention that to him whenever he should come to his first Traders’ meeting. He never did come though, just as he never bought so much as a newspaper or a packet of cigarettes at Glendinning’s or in the Spar, although he stopped in at both of them to read the headlines. At first, Iain and Margaret Ballantyne assumed he had plumped for the Bridge, and Alec and Sandra Dessing guessed he’d taken to the Covenanters’ and it was six months before it dawned on the four of them that the new mechanic didn’t drink anywhere.
