by Gwen Moffat
“I’m so sorry.” She apologised for her manners: “You were saying?”
“I was wondering if you specialised — in ornithology. Clive told me you’d come here for the birds.”
“Not quite right. I came for a holiday and at Miss West’s invitation. I’m only an amateur: interested in everything. Are you specialising?”
“I’d like to. I’m interested in orcinus orca but there’s no money for research in this country.”
“Orcinus —?”
“Killer whales — but they’re dolphins, in fact.”
“You mentioned them before. Are they resident or do they merely visit?”
“They’re visitors, fortunately, or they’d take all the seal pups in the breeding season.”
“And they’re about now?”
“I saw them off Farrid Head this morning. They like the place; the seals often pull out below the stack, but of course there are no seals now. All life disappears when the killers come in.”
“Very appropriate,” Miss Pink said. “I wouldn’t even paddle.”
“What? Oh yes, but they don’t go for people; seals are their biggest prey.”
“Don’t I remember their attacking Scott’s ponies in the Antarctic?”
“Well, they don’t attack in northern waters; that is, there’s no record, whatever you may hear from the crofters. They could upset a boat certainly, and then if you couldn’t swim, you’d drown.”
“Are they as intelligent as beaked dolphins?”
“Now this is where I want to do the research but one must have the facilities, and a captive animal is the first essential. They’re doing some good work in the States. I’d like to go there when I leave here.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Writing a book. A publisher friend of Clive’s commissioned it. There’s nothing technical and no hard work: merely a naturalist’s year at Calava Bay.
He went on to talk of bird counts and associated topics with such enthusiasm that she forgot she was hungry. He had been in Scamadale only two months but already he appeared familiar with the wildlife if not with the crofters. She was going to mention the seal-women when she realised they were about to eat.
As they left the drawing room she sensed Marcus make a movement towards Bridget in the dim passage: to take her hand? The girl turned and stared at him. He was pouting when they entered the dining room. Bridget moved round the table humming. She stopped at a chair and looked at the older woman. For a moment there was a deep and shocked pain in the lovely eyes, then a shutter came down and the girl’s lips moved in the sketch of a smile as she indicated the other’s place.
They ate lobster à l’Américaine and drank a carefully chilled Moselle. They were waited on by Elspeth MacKenzie: a sturdy woman with watchful eyes and steady hands. Leila sat opposite Clive at the round table, Marcus was on her right which brought him next to Bridget. Miss Pink was asked when she had last been in the Alps and the conversation turned on recent developments. She was surprised to find that the older climbers were conversant with modern methods but it transpired that Marcus met young climbers in London and Clive kept in touch through the publications of the Alpine Club. Speculation turned on the personality of a hard man.
“Essentially selfish,” Marcus said, regarding Miss Pink fixedly. “Climbing comes before everything: marriage, sex, career — honesty. The hard man will lie and cheat and steal in order to obtain money and time in which to do the route he’s set his heart on — or any route.”
Young Morrison looked surprised, the older people leapt to the defence, but even as Clive crossed swords with his friend, Miss Pink noticed that Bridget hadn’t reacted, was crumbling a roll with long fingers while she stared at her plate. Her mouth was sad. Marcus glanced sideways at the girl.
“And look at the gear they carry,” he went on, interrupting his host. “No wonder they’re always being benighted, or having to be rescued by helicopter . . .”
Bridget raised cold eyes. “The hard men don’t have to be rescued,” she said flatly. “Only the fool — and the ones who’ve got too old for it.”
“The idea of carrying small packs,” he continued, ignoring her completely, “is so that you can move fast. The way to get benighted is to carry all the gear to cover you in case you’re benighted. How often have you spent a night out, Clive?”
“Never, voluntarily; only by design.”
“And the equipment!” Marcus exclaimed triumphantly: “Everything but the kitchen sink —”
“I’ll see about coffee,” Bridget said without a smile and left the room. Leila made a quick movement but didn’t stop her. She looked at Marcus reproachfully.
“They still have courage,” she said, admonishing him. “And modern routes can be very hard.”
“I know.” He slumped in his chair, the picture of misery. Miss Pink, who now guessed that Bridget’s former lover had been a climber, felt sorry for him.
“I’ve always felt that the really top climbers must be selfish to some extent,” she said gently, “which is why good guides never make great climbers; a guide must first think of his client’s enjoyment and safety.”
Clive said: “And the hard man has no call to think of his companion’s safety because he’s climbing with another hard man — and as for enjoyment, now that’s a moot point.”
“Over coffee, my dear,” Leila said. “Then Elspeth and Jessie can go home.”
They returned to the drawing room.
“You see what I mean?” Leila whispered to Miss Pink.
“Who is the man in question?”
“I don’t know. I know he’s a climber, but I don’t think Marcus can be aware of his identity or he’d be more specific.”
The fire was made up and the curtains drawn, shutting out the wild view. The men came in followed by Bridget and Elspeth with the coffee. Clive moved among his guests with brandy and liqueurs. Suddenly Miss Pink was aware of Jessie MacLeod in the doorway, wearing a white apron over something black with frills. She was trying to catch her employer’s eye. Then Trevor Stark appeared behind her and waited expectantly. Jessie crossed the room to Clive and whispered to him. There was a hush as the host moved to the door.
“Good evening. I didn’t catch your name?”
“Stark.”
“Stark. Stark? Not Trevor Stark?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“My dear chap, come in! This is an honour. Let me introduce people. I don’t have to tell them who you are . . .”
He went round the room jovially, missing Pincher who wavered in the doorway, to be brought inside by Leila. The newcomers were seated and brought drinks. Both evinced surprise at finding Miss Pink in this company but neither voiced it. Pincher sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, blinking with embarrassment, while Stark, whose eyes had passed quickly over Bridget, hugging her knees on the floor beside the fire, concentrated intently on his host. After polite banalities he told them that they had come to look at the sea cliffs and perhaps the stacks. Marcus chuckled.
“One less for you now,” he said.
Stark looked at him warily. “Who’s done it?”
“We did, today.”
“You did the Old Man!”
“No, no; the Pagoda.”
“What’s that?”
“A stack on the north headland.” He went on to describe it but Stark’s eyes wandered to Bridget.
“Are you going to look at the Old Man, Mr Stark?” Leila asked.
He gave her his full attention. “We might do that, if we can find a way down to it. An unclimbed stack is always a challenge.
“You’ll need a lot of rope,” Clive told him. “To get down the cliffs, I mean.”
“Is that so?” Stark was thoughtful. “We’d like to have a look at it tomorrow. What I came for tonight was to ask if you had any objection to us camping in that old fort.”
“The broch, you mean? I don’t mind, my dear fellow, providing you clean up afterwards: no tins, you know,
or plastic bags. We’ll dispose of your rubbish. I’ll give you some sacks.”
“That’s very good of you.” He amazed Miss Pink with his air of co-operation. “May I ask if you mind us climbing here?”
Clive looked at Morrison.
“There are fulmars on the Old Man,” the naturalist pointed out.
“Only on the landward side,” Leila put in, then stopped, disconcerted. Stark was staring at her. Clive laughed.
“I’m afraid you’ve come here on a wild-goose chase. The stack’s been climbed — several times, and in fact it’s not all that hard.”
“Who’s done it?”
He looked round the room. “Miss West —” the intensity with which Stark renewed his study of her was embarrassing, “— Bowles, Bridget here and myself.”
“Who led?”
“Miss West —” she made an involuntary movement, then smiled weakly, “— and Bridget, wasn’t it?”
No one contradicted him.
“What’s the standard?” Stark asked.
The women were silent. After glancing at them Clive said: “Severe in its lower half; rather harder above.”
There was a silence during which Miss Pink, unobserved herself, contemplated Leila West, far more astonished at her friend’s prowess than that the Old Man had been climbed.
“You’re hard men up here then.” Stark’s heartiness rang falsely as he addressed Leila. “A number of people have started climbing in middle age,” she told him equably.
He nodded agreement. “I’ve met some of them, and they can be very good. There was a chap from my home town, St Albans: a lawyer — criminal lawyer. Followed me up some good routes in Wales.”
Leila appeared fascinated. Miss Pink was surprised to see a mature woman fall for those rather stereotyped looks and amused that Stark should respond: concentrating on her presumably because he thought she was the hostess.
“Are you used to working as a team?” Miss Pink asked Pincher.
The man jerked to attention.
“We done a few routes together,” he acknowledged hoarsely. “Yeah, we’re used to each other. Stark leads,” he added.
“He can lead all right,” Stark said. “I used to climb with a girl.”
“Ah,” Clive said with a slight air of relief. “So you have faith in lady climbers?”
“To a point. She could follow but she couldn’t take the initiative.”
“You mean: she couldn’t take the lead?”
“That’s right. With a partnership, the second mustn’t rely on the leader. I mean, if something happened to me, she’d be helpless. Women never strike out for themselves.” He looked back at Leila and the dark eyes were laughing as he inclined his head in a little bow. “Present company excepted, of course.”
“Would we know her?” Marcus asked.
“No, I don’t think you know her. She was pretty well known in her own circle. She got around.”
“Can you swim?” Marcus asked.
“We thought of that.” Miss Pink sensed a stiffening in the group and guessed that Stark realised the others would have climbed the Old Man from a boat. But he was no fool. He must have heard of the embargo and he didn’t ask for a boat.
“So long as we can get to the stack at low tide,” he went on, “I’m not worried about coming back. How wide is the channel?”
“Fifteen feet or more.”
He grinned. “You could almost jump it.”
“Almost.” Bridget spoke for the first time. “You wouldn’t be in there for very long. You don’t mind deep water, Mr Stark?”
He lost all his poise. Now that, thought Miss Pink, with those dark features, is a scowl.
Bridget smiled and her beauty glowed.
“You don’t think of what’s down there, in the depths?” she pressed.
“Such as?”
“She’s teasing you, Stark,” Clive exclaimed, laughing.
“Not really, darling,” Bridget contradicted. “The killers would make some people uneasy. Not Mr Stark of course.”
Stark’s eyes flicked round their faces in a tense silence. People were watching him in amusement.
“What killers?” Pincher asked. “Killer whales,” Bridget said coolly. “They’re off the Old Man now: thirty-footers.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“They won’t bother you,” Morrison said judiciously but without much interest. “They prey on seals.”
“I hope they don’t mistake him for a seal.” Marcus gave an irritating chuckle.
“How many?” Stark asked.
“Five,” Bridget told him. “A bull and four cows. I would think the bull is the one to watch for. He has the largest fin: the dorsal fin, you know; it’s about six feet high.”
“My dear, you’re doing this deliberately,” Clive scolded. “You’re trying to put him off; I can’t think why. You mustn’t be possessive about the Old Man — it’s not worth it anyway; there are far superior stacks in the Orkneys. Seriously, Stark, the whales seem quite harmless although you’ll certainly be startled the first time you see them and none of us would venture in the water when they’re around.”
Stark said tightly: “I won’t be putting them to the test. We’ll just have to see we keep on the rock, won’t we?”
*
“I thought they’d go away when they knew it had been climbed,” Leila said. “I guessed that was why Clive told them. Funny that it didn’t put them off.”
They were sitting in Leila’s cottage, sipping discreet nightcaps of Chivas Regal.
“Is it really not all that hard?”
“The upper overhangs are more serious than Clive implied. He was pretending that the whole thing was below their interest as hard men.”
“I hadn’t realised you led at such a standard.”
“Just a flash in the pan. Bridget’s our tiger.
“She wasn’t attracted to Stark.”
“No. Were you?”
“I’d met them on the way here; I’d seen another side to the coin.”
She recounted the meeting at the inn beside the loch.
“Where can the girl be?” Leila asked. “Rita, did you say the name was? Poor child.”
“She could have left them, but I’d think she’s still with them and she stayed at the camp. She might cramp Stark’s style in company.”
“I don’t like his eyes.”
“A cold man,” Miss Pink agreed. “The kind of man one wouldn’t normally encourage.”
“It was impertinent, his coming in like that when we had a party, but then Clive adores all climbers although he’s terrified they’ll focus unwelcome attention on Scamadale. You could see him fluctuating, poor love. But he truly felt it was an honour: to be sought out by one of the hard men, even though it was only for permission to camp. Isn’t it curious, this climbing hierarchy? Did you feel honoured?”
“No, I was rather disturbed. But men are different in this respect: a fellow’s personality pales beside his climbing prowess.”
“There are limits,” Leila said thoughtfully. “If a climber had done something very wrong . . . I mean, what a man’s done ranks first with Clive, not what he is.”
“But surely that’s the basis of his regard for Stark: what he’s done?”
“I was thinking then of an anti-social act, outside climbing; if Clive discovered that you’d done something against his code, it wouldn’t matter if you’d done the Eigerwand in winter, he’d turn, not nasty, but cold and ruthless.”
“Will you tell him?”
“What!”
Miss Pink stiffened in astonishment. “About Stark: giving Rita cannabis. Isn’t that what you’re talking about?”
“Oh yes, of course. No. I mean, we’ll have to see, won’t we?”
Miss Pink went upstairs and prepared for bed. As she closed her eyes, the events of the evening gradually receded leaving one pin-point of consciousness. But that wasn’t what she was talking about, was her last thought before she slept.
>
Chapter Four
Miss Pink slept well and wakened to a still, mild day with a few high clouds. She stood at her open window and saw that the tide was on the ebb and birds were feeding busily on the wet sand. The water was quiet, and no fountains of spray showed against the Old Man.
Leila looked tired this morning and puzzled her guest by announcing that she could not, after all, come up to Farrid Head; she hadn’t realised that Clive would have a full house, or rather that the full house would mean so much work. There was tonight’s dinner, and lunch . . . She might be able to get away and come up to the cliffs during the afternoon. Her eyes pleaded and Miss Pink, of course, fell in with the suggestion that she should at least start out alone, but she reflected that it was odd that domestic chores should have multiplied themselves to such an extent between yesterday afternoon and this morning.
After breakfast she set out alone. To reach the southern cliffs she had to go through that part of the settlement which she’d not yet visited, for the way she’d taken to the House last night with Marcus was over the stile and straight up the grass slope from MacLeod’s croft. This morning she found the old man planting potatoes in an enclosed corner of his paddock. He acknowledged her greeting and they both surveyed the turned earth critically. He was manuring with a mixture of cow dung and what he called ‘tangle’ from the beach.
“You met the visitors,” he stated, still looking at his plot.
“Yes. Have you?”
“No. I’ve no interest.”
“Unless they leave gates open.”
“They’ll close them — after seein’ Mr Perry. They’re after takin’ a load of ropes up to the Head. What do they want?”
“They’re aiming to climb the Old Man.”
“No sense to that; it’s been climbed. The cliffs is dangerous too. We used to go there for the birds when I was a lad.”
“With ropes?”
“Not always. You’re not free when you’re tied to those things, are you?”
She went on her way reflecting that they must have been highly competent climbers; he hadn’t mentioned accidents so, if there hadn’t been any, they were, in their own terms, a hardy lot — meaning fearless. With the height of these cliffs, one slip would be fatal.