Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

As he spoke, he jerked his head towards a cluster of sheep at the side of the road. They seemed to wait until the Land Rover was almost upon them before they skittered away into the long grass and gorse that stretched right around the track.

  ‘He saw how those lairds had cleaned up, paid off their debts, so he had his factor move the people out. Some went to live on the coast, became fishermen. Some moved to the mainland, to the cities. Others caught a boat to America or Canada. They called it “improvement” and said it was for their own good, that the land could not sustain so many people, and maybe there was truth in that.’

  ‘Life was hard on the land back then,’ said Rebecca, repeating what her father had said years before.

  ‘Aye, bloody hard. Long hours, backbreaking work, very little return. People starved. They died from diseases they probably shouldn’t have died from. But this land was their home and had been for generations. The laird was more than just a landowner, he was their leader. But he thought more of his pocket than he did of his people and he could make more from the four-legged Highlanders than he could from rents that were never paid. He didn’t even live here. He had a house in Edinburgh and he needed the money to maintain his lifestyle and to give his wife nice gowns to impress their pals.’

  Chaz stopped the vehicle in a makeshift passing place and pointed to a collection of low stone walls. ‘That used to be a settlement and the factor served eviction notices to every family. They refused to leave. The factor came with a company of soldiers and burned them out. Five men were arrested and thrown in jail. Their families hauled their few belongings on this track all the way to Portnaseil. That’s why it’s called the Làrach nan deur, the track of tears.’

  He stared at the walls for a moment and Rebecca sensed his anger. He hadn’t been born on Stoirm, but he was outraged by what had happened almost two hundred years before. Once more, the words of her father echoed in her mind: Injustice is injustice. Time doesn’t change that. What’s wrong is wrong . . .

  Chaz jerked the vehicle back into gear and pulled onto the bumpy track once again. ‘For a long time these moorlands were used for grouse shooting, but that played out in the 1970s. They hope the grouse will return but there’s no real sign of that so far. There are a few here and there but not enough for the men to get their jollies. So they shoot pheasant, around the trees, and they can be restocked every year. All this is still owned by the estate. Lord Henry has his chums up for weekends to blast away at the birds—at anything that moves, if you ask me—and then they go back to the big house for fancy food and drink. They hire local people to serve them. Treat them like serfs, some of them. That’s what he wants to expand.’

  ‘What kind of people does he have for friends?’

  ‘Some landed gentry. They can be okay with the staff. Showbiz types like Newman, who can be a bit full of it. But the money people, you know—market traders, hedge fund types, all mouth and braces. They’re the worst. Some of them have a shocking attitude to ordinary folk.’

  Rebecca thought of Greg Pullman and Edie Gallagher. His contempt had led him to a prison cell and her to an early grave. ‘How do you know all this? Have you worked there?’

  Chaz shook his head. ‘My friend, Alan, he’s in administration. He doesn’t tell me everything, just enough to know that some of these people are total scum. And Lord Henry wants to bring more of them here, to expand all this . . .’

  Chaz waved one hand towards the world outside the cab of the Land Rover.

  ‘You don’t approve?’ she asked.

  He thought about it. ‘I’m happy to see more money coming to the island, as long as the ordinary folk benefit. I’m happy if there’s increased employment, even if it is minimum wage, although no way do I want to see zero hours contracts but I’ll bet they’re in the business plan. But the killing? No, not happy with that. I don’t understand it, killing for pleasure. Can’t get my head around it.’

  ‘What do the islanders think about increasing tourism, though? They must want that, surely?’

  He smiled. ‘The islanders have a funny attitude to tourists. They want their money but they don’t like the idea of outsiders coming in and tramping all over the place. Ideally, what they’d want is for the tourists to come over on the ferry, leave their cash at the harbour and then bugger off home again.’

  He slowed at a closed metal gate across a cattle grid. ‘Do me a favour, can you open that and let me drive over it, then shut it behind me?’

  She climbed out and stepped gingerly onto the metal slats of the grid, pulled the bolt back on the gate and swung it open. She followed its swing and waited until Chaz bounced across, the weight of the vehicle making the grid kick and grind in its pit. He stopped again to allow her to close the gate. When she turned she saw Carl Marsh watching her from the shade of a clump of Scots Pine, a shotgun tucked under his arm. He was wearing a camouflage jacket, green canvas trousers and strong leather thigh-length boots. He had a flat cap on his head. He looked like Elmer Fudd in the cartoons, all set to kill the wabbit. She looked beyond him, to the other side of the trees, and saw a blue Land Rover, larger than Chaz’s short wheelbase model. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw someone in the passenger seat.

  ‘And where are you two off to?’ Marsh asked, his Yorkshire accent heavy with suspicion, as he walked towards them. Rebecca wondered if he should have the weapon covered, but then they were on estate land. She then wondered if he was going to order them off.

  ‘Morning, Carl,’ said Chaz, smiling through the open window. ‘Taking Rebecca to see Thunder Bay.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ The man studied Rebecca closely. Over the years she’d been scrutinised by many men. Sometimes their eyes slid up and down her body as if they were sizing her up for some kind of kinky costume. Sometimes they just focused on her breasts. She felt nothing overtly sexual in Carl Marsh’s gaze but fought the urge to cross her arms just the same. There was something discomforting in the way he looked at her, as if he was probing for weak spots, something he could use to overcome her.

  ‘And you are?’ he asked.

  ‘Rebecca Connolly.’

  He squinted at her. ‘Saw you at the meeting last night.’

  It was a statement rather than a question, but Rebecca confirmed it all the same. ‘You did. And I saw you, inside and outside the hall.’

  If he was ashamed of his behaviour, he didn’t show it. His eyes flicked back to Chaz, as if dismissing Rebecca for now. ‘What’s so interesting about Thunder Bay?’

  Rebecca felt Chaz was going to somehow pander to this man, so she said, ‘Do we need your permission to go there?’

  There was something reluctant in the way Marsh turned back to her, as if he didn’t want to talk to her at all, but his gaze was steady. ‘This is estate land.’

  ‘It’s a right of way, Carl, you know that,’ said Chaz, his voice reasonable.

  Marsh was still staring at Rebecca. ‘Aye, for now. When the new plans go through, that might change.’

  ‘A right of way is a right of way,’ said Rebecca. ‘Changes on the estate can’t affect it.’

  ‘We’ll see, lass, we’ll see.’

  ‘No, there’s no “we’ll see” about it. Tell me, Mr Marsh, have you heard of the Land Reform (Scotland) Act of 2003?’ She saw by the roll of his eyes and the way his nostrils twitched that he had. She was unsurprised by his reaction, as he’d probably had it thrown at him more than once. All the same, she continued. ‘Some people call it the Right to Roam, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.’

  He clearly did not want to debate the rights and wrongs of the Act, so he asked, ‘What’s your interest in Thunder Bay?’

  Rebecca was not about to tell him anything. ‘What’s your interest in my interest in Thunder Bay?’

  His face tightened. ‘Does this lass ever answer a straight question?’ he asked Chaz.

  ‘This lass isn’t inclined to explain her reasons for wanting to travel on a right of way to see a local attraction.’ Two men had now attempted
to treat her like a child this morning. It normally took till lunchtime for that amount of chauvinism to rear its head.

  ‘The Land Reform Act doesn’t allow for motorised vehicles,’ countered Marsh.

  Rebecca didn’t have an answer for that.

  ‘Come off it, Carl,’ said Chaz. ‘There are four-wheel drives up here all the time.’

  ‘Aye, as I said, for now.’ Marsh was smiling now because he felt he had triumphed.

  ‘Rebecca wanted to see the bay, that’s all there is to it, Carl,’ said Chaz. ‘You’ve got to admit it’s worth seeing.’

  Marsh nodded, almost absently. He was still staring at Rebecca. ‘They say you’re a reporter.’

  Shit, she thought. Her attempt at staying under the radar hadn’t been too successful.

  ‘Why are you here, on the island? Why now?’

  Rebecca debated telling him the truth but decided not to. She’d seen him talking to Sawyer the day before and the chances were he had more than an inkling of the reason behind her presence on the island. She’d be damned if she would make it easy for him. ‘I came to cover last night’s meeting.’

  He didn’t believe her. No surprise there. ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘What else is there?’

  A slight smile. ‘Have it your own way, love. But just remember, we don’t like outsiders sticking their nose into island business. We have a way of dealing with people who do.’

  Chaz’s voice was hard when he said, ‘Okay, Carl, that’s enough . . .’

  Marsh threw a sneer in Chaz’s direction. ‘And you best be watching your step, too, Chaz Wymark. There’s folk around here who don’t like your kind.’

  Chaz gave it a beat before he said in a level voice, ‘What kind would that be?’

  Marsh’s sneer intensified. ‘Like I said, outsiders.’

  Chaz barked a small laugh. ‘And on what part of Stoirm will I find Yorkshire, Carl?’

  Marsh’s eyes narrowed as he gave Chaz the stare. Chaz gave it back. Rebecca realised this young man was tougher than he seemed.

  A slight nervous laugh rose in Rebecca’s throat. ‘Are you threatening us, Mr Marsh?’

  He didn’t even look at her. ‘Stating a fact, love. And you reporters like facts, don’t you?’ His eyes moved in her direction again. ‘You want my advice? You stick to last night’s meeting, report on it fairly, talk about the benefits to the island the plans will bring. Don’t be talking to people you shouldn’t be talking to.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t ask for your advice, but as it’s been freely given, exactly who would constitute someone I shouldn’t be talking to?’

  ‘Donnie Kerr, for instance. He’s trouble, that one, and a waster. He’s got it in for Lord Henry, always sniping at him. Take whatever he told you with a pinch of salt.’

  ‘Can I quote you on that?’

  His lips thinned into what might have passed for a smile, if Rebecca had been feeling generous. But she wasn’t. It was a smirk. ‘You stay on the track until you reach the bay. Don’t be raking about in the woods or on the moorland. You outsiders are nothing but trouble on the land.’

  And then he turned and walked back into the stand of trees. As she climbed back in beside Chaz, she watched him reach his own vehicle. She focused on the windscreen, but she still couldn’t see who had been sitting there watching their exchange.

  ‘Pleasant sort, isn’t he?’ she said.

  Chaz started up the engine. ‘I’m surprised to see him here this morning. He usually lectures at the charm school in Portnaseil on Thursdays . . .’

  20

  Rebecca didn’t think the surface of the track could get any worse, but to her surprise it deteriorated further as it climbed into the low hills that built towards Beinn nan sìthichean. She found herself tossed around in her seat like clothes in a tumble dryer and at one point thought she was about to be reintroduced to her full Scottish breakfast. Chaz apologised for the bumpy ride and assured her he was taking it as slowly as he could without actually stalling. She knew this to be the case but still wondered if she should get out and walk. Soon the road levelled off.

  ‘Is it much further?’

  Chaz grinned. ‘You mean, are we there yet?’

  Despite her bones feeling as if they were being jarred from their sockets, she smiled back. ‘Yes, but I was trying to be subtle.’

  He bobbed his head to the horizon. ‘Just up ahead.’

  She saw the thin line of a wire fence and beyond it the blue ocean. Chaz brought the vehicle to a thankful if ungraceful halt on what would have been a passing place if the track hadn’t come to an abrupt end at the fence.

  ‘The eagle has landed,’ said Chaz, opening his door and sliding out.

  Rebecca opened the passenger door, swivelled in the seat so her legs were dangling outside and changed from her expensive leather boots into the thick socks and green wellies. As she climbed down, a breeze on the chillier side of cool wafted across her face, while the sound of surf against rocks and a rhythmic booming filled the air. Chaz moved to the rear of the vehicle to retrieve a backpack which, judging by the hefty tripod strapped to the bottom, housed his camera gear. Rebecca took a few steps to where a thin path dipped over the edge like a lemming’s runway. She stood at the rim and leaned on a fence post as she studied the narrow path cascading down the steep cliff face to the bay below. The wires stretched between the fence posts seemed to her a flimsy guard against people walking off what felt like the edge of the world. The wind was stronger here—if she stood in the wrong place it seemed more than capable of plucking her up and depositing her forcibly at the bottom of the cliff.

  ‘Welcome to Thunder Bay,’ said Chaz at her side.

  The bay was an almost perfect semi-circle, the high cliffs on either side jutting out to the sea, the only way down being the dicey-looking trail to her left. Jagged rocks thrust from the foaming waters and the sea lunged against them, each assault culminating in an explosion of spray. There was a clear passage in the middle of the bay, into which the waves rushed as if they were in a hurry to reach shore, but then, once reached, thought better of it and tried to retreat again. A line of fine silver sand stretched around the inland stretch of the beach, but as it neared the water it gave way to shingle and heaps of seaweed.

  ‘Next stop America,’ said Chaz, squinting towards the horizon, where Rebecca saw a line of dark clouds.

  ‘Is that a storm coming?’

  ‘On the island there’s either one coming or there’s one just been.’

  ‘Come on,’ she challenged. ‘The weather was beautiful yesterday and it’s the same today. The way you islanders talk you’d think it was like a disaster movie all the time.’

  He gave her a smile that was almost bashful. ‘No, you’re right. It’s not that bad, not really. We get some beautiful weather. A lot, in fact. But when a storm comes, there are no half-measures. Feel that wind? That blows constantly on the westward side, varying degrees of strength sure, but it’s there. Look at those trees . . .’ He pointed to a line of squat rowans behind them, their trunks and branches craning away from the coastline. ‘They didn’t grow that way naturally. That’s the wind for you. They bend before it but they can’t escape it. The wind is part of them, shapes them. That’s the island. That’s Stoirm. The storms are part of what it is and islanders embrace it, make it their own. That’s why we talk as if they are a constant, because they are part of us. We weather the storms. We weather life. It’s an island thing.’

  She took in his words. ‘Pretty impassioned for an incomer.’

  ‘I’ve lived here most of my life; it’s all I remember. As far as I’m concerned I’m an islander, no matter what Carl Marsh says. My mum and dad are English but I’m from Stoirm, even though I wasn’t born here. I love the place. I want to see the world, but Stoirm will always be my home. Does that make sense?’

  As she nodded she thought of her father. He had a different view of the island.

  ‘Do you want to walk down?’ Chaz asked.r />
  She nodded her assent.

  ‘Okay, but watch your step. It’s tricky.’

  Chaz stepped past her to begin the descent and she followed. The earth beneath her feet was mainly dry, stony and hard-packed, but a few stretches of wet mud made the going tougher. She reached out to the face of the crag on her left to steady herself, keeping her eyes on her feet but now and then looking up to take in the view. Seabirds cackled overhead, their wings barely moving as they floated on the thermals. Gannets speared the water to snatch a fish in their beaks, any noise they made as they hit the surface drowned out by the surge of the surf punctuated by the booming.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked.

  Chaz paused and looked back at her. ‘What?’

  There was another obliging boom. ‘That,’ she said.

  He gestured across the bay. ‘Fissures in the rock. Sea caves, too. Inaccessible unless you really know what you’re doing or have some kind of a death wish. The water crashes in and the surrounding rocks act like an echo chamber.’

  ‘Is that why they call it Thunder Bay?’

  ‘Yes. Never stops, day or night, rain or shine. As long as there’s the sea and the cliffs, Thunder Bay will keep thundering.’

  Soon they had reached the bottom of the track and climbed over an obstacle course of fallen rocks. They paused on the silver sand to catch their breath and Rebecca took in the crab’s eye view of the bay. It was, without a doubt, a spectacular location, with the cliffs rising steeply on all sides except where the white-topped waves rolled in high and proud. She followed Chaz closer to the tideline, where the salty tang of the sea mixed with the less pleasant stench of rotting seaweed. She watched the water break on the jagged rocks and fill the narrow channel.

  ‘I take it no boats beach, or launch, from here?’

  ‘It can be done, but you really need to know what you’re doing. One slip of navigation and you’d end up on the rocks on either side and they take no prisoners. There are a few people on the island who can do it, though. Donnie Kerr, for one.’ His feet crunched on the kelp. ‘The Vikings managed it, too. They sailed right in and slaughtered some monks who were hiding here. They say when the wind blows just right you can still hear their screams.’