Excerpt from John of John by Douglas Stuart, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"There are so many pigeons here and they are not a bit afraid. " With so much that could never be said, he tried to buoy along the first part of their conversation, and like a person treading water, there was always a slight edge of desperation to his talk. Throughout the week he carried a piece of scrap paper with him and jotted down subjects that would fill the time. He took the paper from his pocket and studied the list. His father must have thought him empty-headed, because he seemed to be fascinated by all sorts of uninteresting things.

"I saw a lot of red cars today." He winced, remembering he had said this on a previous call. He placed a strand of hair in his mouth and sucked the rain from it.

It was a relief when the small talk ended and the prayer began, then all Cal had to do was receive the Word and murmur his assent at the end. John was softly spoken and as the precentor of their church he had developed a fine singing voice. When he read the Gaelic scripture, the damning words always transformed into something lyrical, beautiful, incantatory.

"A bhràithre, ma tha neach air bith air a ghlacadh ann an euceart sam bith ..." he began. "Brethren, if anyone is caught in wrongdoing, you who are spiritual should bring him back in the spirit of gentleness. Watch yourself, lest you also be tempted."

For the past few weeks his mind had been stuck on Galatians, running backwards and forwards over the need for brotherly correction. It could be like that with his father: a particular book could come on him like a season and take hold of him for months.

At the end of their prayers, John led them in song. He precented the line, singing it first, and then Cal – three hundred miles away and watching rugby players grapple in the soft rain – sang it back to him with as much devotion as he could muster.

After the singing the men lapsed into a stilted small talk again. His father had never been to the capital and Cal had learnt not to talk too much about Edinburgh, or else the next sermon would focus on all manner of sin. If Cal asked him about the sheep, or the weaving, or the weather, he received the same answer, for what good was passing remark on something that never changed. "It's fine. It'll be better tomorrow. God willing."

So it was significant when John mentioned Cal's grandmother and the purpling of her feet. Cal could picture the calf-liver colour immediately, how it could be purple and grey and cream at the very same time, both dead and grotesquely alive. He could picture swollen feet that were mottled and fatty-looking, blood blooming and fulminating underneath a cloudy skin.

"Calf liver? Are you sure?" Even as he asked it, he knew he hadn't needed to. They had spent their lives weaving cloth, holding the weft up to the light to check the consistency. Between them, all talk about colour was considered and accurate.

"It's that exact shade," said John. "It's not just her feet. Her heart isn't good and she complains about her circulation. She's limping, slowing down. And she's more addled than usual. She tells me she talks to the sheep."

"She's always done that."

"Now she claims they're talking back." John made a small clicking noise. "Your mother's mother is not my responsibility, John-Calum. We've discussed this."

"I know. But why can't she go live with my mam?"

There was a dead silence that made Cal fear they had been disconnected.

"Hello. Dad. Are you there?"

"Yes?" said John. "I'm here. Do you expect a response to every stupid question?" There was another pause. "Your grandmother says that this is her home and this is where she'll end her days. She sees no reason to leave. "

Cal suppressed a desire to provoke him. He wanted to ask why his mother couldn't return home, why couldn't she care for her own mother and spare him the burden of returning, but the question would only cause a fight, so he swallowed it and said nothing.

Excerpted from John of John © 2026 by Douglas Stuart. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher, Grove Press, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.