The browned, calloused hands were those of a craftsman at work. Deftly balancing the paper between thumb and forefinger, sprinkling tobacco down its spine, the right moved effortlessly. As the tobacco sat patiently, ignoring the breeze with a cool contempt the right reached with dirty, but neat nails up to the mouth to retrieve a roach clenched in the lips for safekeeping. A roll of second nature completed this drill and a lighter magicked from nowhere gave spark to the Amber Leaf within, leaving a warm orange cherry glowing at the tip of the cigarette. Snapping the lighter shut with a flick of the wrist, Barrie tucked his pouch of tobacco in his back pocket, eyes locked on the palm of his other hand where the lighter now sat as the blue smoke from his first drag filtered through grey teeth. “It was my old man’s,” he said without looking up. He was twirling it through his fingers now, clicking open the lid. Ewan wondered why they were here, why they were having this conversation. It was cold and he wanted to go home. The wind had picked up now and was merciless across the lake by which they were sat. It was getting dark and Ewan could hear the music from the pub behind him. Someone had put ‘I Wish it Could Be Christmas Every Day’ on. It was his favourite Christmas song. Barrie was sat on a bench, smoking and still transfixed by the lighter. It was a beautiful instrument. The polished brass with its paisley pattern, worn by long years of use looked like a piece of history. Ewan had often watched as his father lit up with it, encouraging the ten-year-olds typical interest in fire. “Why are we here, Dad?” Ewan asked. “Are we Christmas shopping?” Barrie turned to his son who was sitting on his right. ‘God, he looks like me,’ he thought. “No, son,” he said in his thick Scottish accent, ruffling Ewan’s dark hair. “We’re not going Christmas shopping.” He took a final drag and flicked the end of the cigarette away. “Dad,” Ewan chided him. “A bird will eat that.” “Look, son.” Barrie said, ignoring his comment. It was difficult. He didn’t know what to say. No one told you what to say. “Look,” he tried again, pushing long brown hair out of his eyes, and looking down intensely at Ewan. “You know things haven’t been great between your mother and me for a while now, eh.” “Yeah, I know.” Ewan said looking down. He hated thinking about his parents fighting. “Are you coming home? What are we going to do at Christmas? Have you got Mom anything?” Barrie scrutinised his son for a moment, who looked him right back in the eye, hope etched over his face. “No lad.” Barrie finally said. “See, your mother and me,” he paused, eyes back at the floor. “Your mother and me are no good together. No good for each other, and no good for you.” “What do you mean?” Ewan said quickly, his voice cracking slightly. “Yes you are, just come home Dad, please.” “I’ve got a job, mate. Up in Glasgow.” Ewan looked at him blankly. “Glasgow? That’s ages away. Its Christmas, Dad.” “I know, son. But its for the best. You be a good lad for your Mam though mind.” “It’s Christmas..” Ewan said again in a small voice. “Aye. Look, I’ve never been much cop with Christmas. Your Mam always sorted all that out. Hold on to this though, eh?” he held out the lighter towards Ewan. “Don’t let me hear you’ve been smoking mind! And don’t get telling your Mam, alright.” Ewan held out his hand and his father placed the old lighter gently in his palm. “You always said this was the only thing you had of Grandads.” “Aye, well, it was. Doesn’t matter though. My gift to you.” Barrie said, ruffling Ewan’s hair again. “And maybe when I come back down south, me and you could go off camping eh. I’ll get the wood and you can light the fire, eh? What about that for a plan?” Ewan tried to smile. Barrie looked down at him sadly. “Go on then. You best be getting off home to your Mam. We’ll speak soon, alright?” Five minutes later Ewan turned round and caught a last glimpse of his father disappearing into the gloom, backpack slung over his shoulder, swigging deeply from a hipflask. Standing next to the lake, the wind numbing his face, he looked down at his hand, the lighter still clenched tightly in his small fist. A rage boiled up in his chest, gushing from his mouth in a piercing, anguished cry. Unconsciously his arm arched backwards and launched the old lighter into the heart of the lake. Ewan didn’t hear it hit the water above his own voice but saw several of the bad tempered geese scatter into the night sky, obviously disturbed. Breathing heavily, he realised he was crying. Cuffing at the tears on his cheeks with a savage anger he turned to walk home, regretting throwing the lighter away.