And the Land Lay Still is nothing less than the story of a nation. James Robertson's breathtaking novel is a portrait of modern Scotland as seen through the eyes of natives and immigrants, journalists and politicians, drop-outs and spooks, all trying to make their way through a country in the throes of great and rapid change. It is a moving, sweeping story of family, friendship, struggle and hope - epic in every sense.

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Mike is at the bedroom window, taking in the view of the water, the
road and the scattering of cottages along it, when he sees Murdo’s
red van come round the end of the kyle. The van disappears for a
few seconds, then begins to climb the hill. It slows, and pulls in at
the gate. After a minute, as if he’s been plucking up courage or
maybe just thinking something over, Murdo gets out and starts up
the track. By the time he arrives at the back door Mike is there
waiting for him. With a shy, almost sly grin Murdo proffers a plastic
bag. Mike unwraps the newspaper bundle it contains and there are
two rainbow trout shining in the morning sun.
‘They’re beautiful,’ Mike says.
‘Fresh from the loch last night,’ Murdo says. ‘Can you make use
of them?’
‘Of course. I’ll cook them tonight. Will you come for your
tea?’
‘Och, they’ll just do yourself nicely.’
‘Nonsense. There’s one each.’
‘They’re not that big.’
‘They’re fine. I’ll make plenty of tatties. Will you come?’
‘I might at that. I have a few things to do first.’
‘Well, it’s only ten o’clock. You have all day. But come any time
you like. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I will then.’
The necessary negotiations over, they stand enjoying the sun, of
which there has not been too much lately. Mike says, ‘Do you have
a moment just now?’
Murdo looks down at the van and shrugs. ‘There’s nothing that
won’t keep.’
‘I want to show you something.’
‘Aye, do you?’
Inside, Mike puts the fish in the kitchen sink. They go into the
hallway, past the front door that’s never used, through the sitting
room and into the sun lounge that Murdo’s uncle built at the side of
the house thirty-five years ago for Mike’s father.
‘I was at my father’s archive again yesterday,’ Mike says, ‘trying to
impose a bit more order on it. And going through the photographs
for this exhibition, yet again.’
‘The one in . . . Edinburgh?’ Murdo makes it sound not just two
hundred and fifty miles away but as if it’s on another continent.
‘Yes. I keep thinking I’ve made the final selection, and then I find
I haven’t.’
‘And there’s to be a book as well?’
‘To go with the exhibition, yes. I’m trying to write the introduction,
but it’s not going too well. Anyway, I was sorting through
some boxes and I came across this photograph.’
He hands over the print. Murdo holds it by the edges with his calloused
fingers and looks at it thoughtfully, as he might at a diagram
of how to assemble a new tool.
‘I’d never seen it before last night,’ Mike says, ‘but as soon as I did
I remembered everything about it. You’re looking at probably the
only photograph in existence of the three of us together. My father,
my mother and myself, I mean. Maybe my mother has some others
secreted away, but I doubt it.’
‘It’s your father right enough,’ Murdo