by Gwen Moffat
‘Those birds are like wee devils,’ she remarked on the ferry, catching the idiom, watching a cormorant scooting past their bows. Willie winced. On the island people believed in devils.
‘It’s hot,’ he grumbled, and it was sweltering in the cab.
‘I love it hot. When you’re on the road and it rains, there’s nowhere to dry your clothes, and warm wet stuff smells horrible, and your hair’s in rats’ tails. You look like death and no one will give you food. Besides, you never feel so hungry in the sun.’
They rolled off the ferry, up another ramp and through the village of Kyleakin to open country. The island was grey in the drought: pewter and smeared silver, hazed by the heat, with the air above every rock shivering as if in a mirage. The odd cottage, dazzling in this soft light, drowsed through the afternoon. An occasional tourist car drifted by, or could be glimpsed, stationary, in the shade of scrub birches.
There was another place, a town he called it, and she thought he was joking: another collection of white-washed houses, a couple of stores, a garage and an hotel. In a moment they were past it, and strange hills loomed ahead while on their right were islands and water and, on the other side of the sound, the mainland hills. They ran under immense slopes of scree where she had to bend down to see the top, and round lochs like fiords with birds feeding on the exposed mud. A smell of seaweed filled the cab.
The scree slopes receded, opening out to moorland, and away on their left, spiky peaks were a frieze without detail against the sky. Between these and the road, the moor descended in random steps, gleaming like glass in places where water ran over slabs. Now, ahead of them, was a junction and a long rambling building in the ubiquitous whitewash under a jumble of slate roofs. It appeared uninhabited.
‘Is anyone left alive on Skye?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Perhaps they all died suddenly and left just us.’
‘This is Sligachan,’ he announced, slowing down, then coaxingly: ‘Come in and have a drink with me.’
She returned his look coolly. ‘I’ll wait.’
He had nice lips but his smile could be cruel. ‘I’m no’ going farther.’
Her eyes widened, then, without a word, she started to gather her things together. Such ready acceptance made him feel guilty.
‘I told you,’ he reminded her, ‘I’m no’ going straight to the glen; I’ve to go to Portree. I’m coming back this way if you’ll wait—or you can come with me.’
‘I’ll walk.’
‘Don’t be like that. Wait for me. I’ll no’ be long.’
‘Can’t I walk to Glen Shira from here?’
‘It’s eight miles!’
She climbed down from the cab and wrinkled her nose at the smell of beer from the bar. ‘Which road do I take?’
He shrugged. ‘You go round the side of the building and up the Dunvegan road a ways. On the left there’s a signpost.’
‘Thanks.’ She put the string of the bedding roll round her neck.
‘Hell!’ he protested. ‘You’re no’ going to walk over the moor carrying that stuff! Let me take it in the wagon.’ She gave him an indulgent smile and picked up her carrier bags. ‘Why don’t you have a rucksack?’ he asked desperately.
‘You’re obsessed with youth hostellers.’
He glanced at the sky; it was an adult look but his tone was sulky. ‘If you don’t come down the glen tonight, I’m no’ turning out for you. You’ve got a sleeping bag; you’ll need to crawl under a rock till daylight but you’ve nothing to fear on the moor. No one’s after dying of exposure in this weather. It’ll be a fine night.’
He turned and swaggered into the bar. She hesitated for a moment then started walking.
*
He was rather sweet, she thought, for a farm boy; he hadn’t lost his bloom yet. He seemed kind. He didn’t like being snubbed yet his retaliation wasn’t spiteful but quick and natural. Terry knew that she roused strong reactions but she found it difficult to distinguish between people whom she charmed and those she repelled, or at least disturbed. If she sometimes suspected that not everyone found her irresistible, then she knew an increased thrill, but if she was aware of danger it was only as an extension of excitement. She was sixteen and had survived so long through luck.
She thought about Willie’s husky body—and of George. But George was old; fellows couldn’t be expected to keep their bodies hard indefinitely, and he’d had a lot of falls. Besides, he didn’t look after himself; it was a bad diet, not age, had made George put on weight. Certainly he was nearer forty than the thirty-six he claimed. . . . Suddenly the thought occurred to her that when she was thirty-six and thus already old, George would be around sixty, if he were still alive. She wasn’t sure whether she was more shocked at the thought of George as a very old man, or of his dying—but then he could be killed at any time. He’d pointed that out himself, the first time he’d met her. She’d thought then what a terrible thing that was to have to live with.
She dawdled, her flip-flops scuffing in the gravel. She felt hot and sweaty and very much alone. She stopped and looked back at the hotel Willie called Sligachan. George was eight miles away and this one was so near—and so much more accommodating. She remembered the warm eyes on the other side of the cab, the hard chest under the shirt. She bit her lip and sighed. George said she was over-sexed and she supposed he was right because you couldn’t be all that old without acquiring some wisdom about girls. She resumed her trudge up the road, looking now at the mountains from under the brim of her hat. Her gaze ranged over the moor and the weird skyline, and came back to a signpost which read, ‘Footpath to Glen Shira’ and seemed to be pointing to an empty world.
‘God, it’s creepy,’ she whispered. ‘I should have stayed with Willie.’
*
‘Why are we stopping?’ Lavender Maynard’s voice had a cutting edge.
‘Because I can’t look at the scenery while I’m driving, dear.’
Her husband reversed into the big lay-by at the head of Glen Shira and switched off. He peered through the windscreen and sighed. ‘Too hazy.’
‘The place to stop is above the hairpins,’ Lavender pointed out. ‘You can see only one corrie from here.’
‘That’s the one that matters,’ he murmured absently.
Her dark glasses were turned on him. ‘Why does that corrie matter?’
‘Because we can see the Lindsays’ route from here; could do, with decent visibility. Mustn’t grumble in an anti-cyclone—’
‘Madge Fraser’s route, you mean.’
‘Yes, dear; they took both guides today.’
‘But I suppose you’ll pay her all the same?’
‘Naturally. I engaged her for the fortnight; I don’t deduct a day’s fees because you insist on my taking you to Portree shopping.’
‘So she’ll pick up double wages today. Easy money.’
He regarded her angular body without expression. ‘She earns every penny of it. Can you suggest an occupation which is more dangerous—or which gives so much pleasure to the client?’
Her hands twitched in her lap but she said with deliberation, ‘I shouldn’t think danger has much, if any significance, where people of low intelligence are concerned.’
After a moment he said reflectively, ‘You could have a thought there—quite a thought.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just getting out, dear, for a breath of fresh air.’
Leaning against the bonnet, feeling the hot metal through his slacks, he looked up the corrie and thought that somewhere within visual distance the Lindsays and their two guides were scrambling carefully along the crest of the ridge, or descending some easy gully close behind Madge, with George bringing up the rear. He saw them in his mind’s eye, stop and cluster: about a late saxifrage perhaps, or to gape at a basking viper. Madge didn’t care much for wildlife but she knew what her clients wanted.
His gaze wandered leftwards across vast wastes of rock and moor to the pass that led to Sligachan. His eyes narro
wed. Someone was coming along the path: strung with packages and walking with difficulty.
‘Shall we go on for tea?’ Lavender’s voice hinted at urgency. She liked her tea at five o’clock and it was now ten to.
‘Hold on a minute; this girl looks at the end of her tether. We might offer her a lift.’
‘Do we have to get involved with every slut in Glen Shira?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ He went and leaned on the driver’s door. ‘All right,’ he said soothingly, ‘I know it’s been a trying day but it was you who wanted to go shopping. I did warn you that Portree would be hell on Saturday afternoon—’
‘All you wanted to do was climb—’
‘It’s what I came here for—’
‘I don’t climb, Kenneth.’ Softly.
‘You didn’t have to come, dear.’
‘No. And you’d have preferred me to stay at home so that you could come to Skye and take up with Madge Fraser where you left off—’
Her voice shrilled dangerously but he was walking away: up the road to the end of the Sligachan path, trying to shut out the tirade, peering at the limping traveller—then he smiled incredulously, for this was out of the frying pan and into the fire with a vengeance. No wonder Lavender was hysterical; she had better eyesight than he.
She was fabulous: long-waisted, long-legged, wearing pants which made her look like a fashion plate, a pink halter top and a big blue hat. The legs of the pants should have been a riot of little flowers but they were smeared by peat stains to the knees. Even in a drought the inexperienced ones always found the bogs. She carried a bedding roll and a shoulder bag, huge plastic holdalls and a pair of flip-flops.
He exclaimed in horrified amusement, ‘You’ve never walked from Sligachan like that?’
She stopped and put down her bags. Her expression was friendly and apologetic.
‘I thought the path would be better. I don’t know why I should have done. It didn’t seem far: eight miles, but I haven’t seen a soul, not even in the distance!’
‘You’ve only done five miles; you’ve got three to go to civilisation—such as it is. But not now,’ he added hastily, seeing her alarm, ‘I’ll take you to the hostel. Why are you limping?’
She sat down in the heather and presented the sole of one foot: clean from the bogs, but the thick skin gashed by glass or tin. Blood started to ooze from the wound.
‘Don’t you carry any Elastoplast, woman?’ She shook her head. ‘No First Aid at all?’
She smiled winningly. ‘I can make it to your car; I can see you’re the kind of guy who always carries First Aid stuff.’
He regarded her lugubriously and his voice was sad. ‘So right you are. Come along then. You won’t lean on me?’ He glanced towards the car. ‘You may be wise. My wife is a little tired,’ he told her after some yards of slow progress. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Terry Cooke.’
‘Mine’s Ken Maynard, and this—’ as they came within speaking distance of Lavender’s window, ‘—is my wife. Will you hand me the First Aid box, my dear, and unlock the rear door?’
Wordlessly, Lavender did as he asked, the dark glasses turned on the girl with anonymous menace. Ken muttered to himself as he dressed the foot and re-packed the First Aid box. Then he stowed the girl’s gear beside her and climbed into the driver’s seat.
‘You’re going to the youth hostel.’
It was a casual assumption. His hand moved to the ignition key but he was looking at the mountains across the glen.
‘I’m going to the camp site.’
He twisted in his seat. ‘Meeting someone there?’
‘That’s hardly our business,’ Lavender observed pointedly.
‘You don’t seem to be able to take care of yourself,’ he grumbled. Suddenly, back in the car, he felt a wave of claustrophobia and remembered that he’d lost a day’s climbing—at his age never to be recovered. It couldn’t be recovered at any age, but time was unbelievably precious once one had passed fifty.
‘I guess, when I throw myself on your mercy like this,’ Terry was saying, ‘that it could be your business what becomes of me.’
‘You’re making us responsible for you?’ Lavender asked in astonishment. Maynard switched on the ignition and started down the road.
‘Hell,’ the girl said. ‘Old people are always getting in a state about me.’
He winced but recovered quickly. ‘They’ve got good cause. Suppose the mist had come down on the moor. What would you have done?’
‘It wouldn’t. I got a lift with a fellow who lives here and he said it would stay fine tonight. Anyway, he’d have come and looked for me.’
‘How enchanting. What fellow was that?’
‘Willie MacNeill.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ His eyes met hers in the mirror and she winked at him. ‘How old are you?’ he asked curiously.
‘Nineteen.’ She was prim.
Lavender asked coolly: ‘What are you proposing to do in Glen Shira?’
‘I’m joining a friend.’
‘Another one?’
In the silence he thought: Go on: elaborate, dear. Tell the girl you meant she’s being passed from hand to hand. . . .
Terry was saying pleasantly: ‘I didn’t know Willie before he picked me up. The only friend I’ve got here is the one I’ve come to see.’
‘You’re wrong there,’ he said firmly, ‘you’ve got me.’
Lavender gasped. ‘What?’
‘This child,’ he said with mock-seriousness, ‘is one of Nature’s innocents. And this glen—’ he glanced at his wife and he wasn’t smiling, ‘—in a heat-wave, is a curious place.’ But he chuckled at Terry in the mirror and she smiled a little wearily. ‘You don’t know Skye, do you? There are some funny people in Glen Shira, my dear; you could do with one more friend than the one you have already, you particularly.’ He paused, wondering if she was aware of her own beauty. ‘Who is he, by the way?’ No one thought of Terry as having women friends.
‘His name’s George Watkins. Do you know him?’
Lavender turned again and stared at her. ‘The guide?’
‘Yes. You do know him then?’
‘We know him.’ Ken’s voice was flat. ‘Like I said: you need friends, dear.’
Chapter Two
Melinda Pink, J.P. was sitting in her modest Austin at the top of the ramp leading down to the Sound of Sleat. Hers was the first car in the queue and standing beside her open window was a young man with flowing hair restrained by a brow-band which, with his deep tan and sombre eyes and the fact that the hair was silky and bleached almost white, gave him the air of a Palomino pony. Beside him on the cobbles was a tall heavy pack. He had old boots creamed with dust, and his breeches had seen better days. Under a ragged tartan shirt he wore a pendant in twisted metal on a leather boot-lace.
Miss Pink had exchanged a few words with him about the heat and the difficulty shown by a cormorant in trying to swallow a flatfish, and now, pouring tea from her flask, she invited him to share it. He accepted, and surveyed the contents of the car: the olive anorak on the back seat, a small, practical rucksack. His eyes considered her cropped grey hair and owlish spectacles.
‘Are you climbing?’ he asked tentatively.
‘I’m going to Glen Shira. Can I give you a lift?’
With alacrity he stowed his pack in the boot and settled himself in the passenger’s seat. A strong odour of sweat came in with him. He said he had been climbing on Ben Nevis for two days and that he had a cottage in Glen Shira. She asked him if he lived on Skye all the year round.
‘No, just for the summer.’ There was a pause. ‘I do some guiding when I can get the custom.’ He caught her quick look and smiled. ‘I’m not certificated.’ When she made no comment he continued, ‘Do you think guides should be slaves to bits of paper?’
‘You’ve got to protect the public. I’m strongly against incompetent men setting themselves up as guides and putting foolish clients at risk. The public
is extraordinarily trusting where dangerous activities are concerned.’
‘There are bad guides.’
‘Qualified, you mean? With certificates?’
‘Oh yes.’
He was grim. Miss Pink’s mental ears were pricked. ‘Have you engagements in Glen Shira now?’ she asked casually.
‘A couple of days next week. It’s been a long season and I’ve been lucky. I had a day with a guy from Glen Shira House last week. He arrived early and had booked Madge Fraser for a fortnight but she asked me to take him till she was free. Do you know Madge?’
‘I don’t know her; I’ve heard of her, of course. Does she live in the glen?’
‘She’s not resident there. She moves about, like me—like all of us.’ There was that grim note in his voice again. ‘She’s spent most of this season in Scotland: the Ben, Glen Coe, Skye. I go out with her occasionally. She’s good.’
‘Ah.’ Miss Pink turned interested eyes on him. ‘Who leads?’
‘We lead through a lot.’
‘Who leads the hard pitches?’
‘She’s a good all-round mountaineer,’ he said firmly, ‘but she admits herself that she’s no great rock climber.’
Miss Pink regarded the approaching ferry in astonished silence. All climbing was relative and she would have said that the routes which Madge Fraser had to her credit were very fine climbs indeed, so if this man were better, then he was good.
The ferry docked and she was waved down the ramp and across the deck. She switched off the ignition and they stared through the windscreen at the ruined castle on the other side of the sound.
‘Who did you say her client was?’
‘This man I had earlier, Ken Maynard. He’s a bouncy little guy, lives only for climbing, and there’s nothing he won’t tackle. He could never lead, of course, which is why he takes guides, but he’s a competent second. Great company on the hill, too.’
As he talked his mobile face shone with enthusiasm and she thought what a happy contrast he was with some of the young men she saw in the courts. Aloud she said, ‘I met Mr Maynard last year in the Lakes. You didn’t tell me your name.’