by Andrew Tudor
“Yes, I’ve seen that,” Irene said. “It’s very impressive. Lots of turbulence and white water when the tide runs. In the right conditions you can even get a standing wave. Looks a bit like a step in the water. When I saw it there were kayakers kind of surfing it.”
“We’ll have a close look when we get there. We can always wait until slack water if we have to.” Marie looked again at the chart. “I’m more worried about the narrowness of the access. In fact, the whole of Loch Etive is fairly narrow. You’re more open to attack in narrows than in the open sea and you’ve got nowhere to run to.”
“We’ve got plenty of arms, sis,” Conrad said. “We’re not exactly defenceless.”
“How come?” Julie asked.
“When the military withdrew to the Homeland, Dad struck a shady deal with some deserters. He thought there would be a good market for armaments as things got worse. I made sure that we got hold of some of them, and a lot of fuel too. As a result The Cormorant is a very well-found boat.” Conrad looked pleased with himself. “We’ve even got a little rocket launcher. Ideal for seeing off pirates.”
“Ignore him,” Marie said, noticing the expressions on Irene’s and Julie’s faces. “Boys’ toys. But it’s true, we are well set up. Along with diesel for the hybrid motor we’ve got the most recent military batteries which we can top up by wind, solar, and hydro. We’re pretty much self-contained.” She looked around at her passengers. “Right then, I’m going to start plotting our course. Get some rest. We set sail first thing tomorrow.”
Early next morning Irene was awakened by Marie arriving in the wheelhouse adjacent to her bunk.
“We’re off, Irene. Stuart’s dealing with the anchor up there. It’s a lovely day if you fancy enjoying the view from on deck. We’ll motor out into the Bristol Channel then hope to pick up a breeze.”
They were under way by the time Irene had finished dressing, and when she went up on deck she found Stuart sitting on a hatch cover in the early morning sunshine. She sat down next to him.
“Morning,” he said. “Look,” pointing away to the west. “That’s Cardiff. And over there, Weston-super-Mare. They look so normal from out here, don’t they? Yet they’re anything but.” He paused then shook his head. “It’s such a relief to be doing something at last, not just sitting back there wondering what terrible thing will happen next.”
“What did you do before all this?” Irene asked.
“I was an electrical engineer,” Stuart replied, staring thoughtfully into the distance. “Had a PhD and a decent job with a generating company until things went wrong. Then it was a question of ‘last in, first out’. They’re out of business now anyway.”
Before Irene could respond, a small figure emerged from below and snuggled herself in between the two adults. Lucy beamed up at each of them in turn. “This is exciting,” she said. “I think I like boats.”
She had plenty of time to cultivate her new-found enthusiasm as they set the mainsail, rounded South Wales and headed north. Prevailing winds favoured them and they made good progress, only briefly encountering the rough conditions for which the Irish Sea was famed. This was still more than enough to afflict both Julie and Irene with seasickness, but Lucy seemed entirely immune and appointed herself Stuart’s personal deckhand. Tethered to a safety line, she showed every sign of enjoying the pitch and roll of the boat and the crash of the waves as The Cormorant rode them. Fortunately, by the time they arrived at the northern reaches of the Irish Sea the weather had calmed, allowing the two erstwhile patients to come out on deck and breathe some fresh air. It was from there that they caught their first sight of Scotland as they passed between the Northern Irish coast and the Mull of Galloway.
Marie’s desire to avoid narrows took them west into the open Atlantic to round Islay, but then they had no choice but to head into the constricted mouth of Loch Etive. Dunstaffnage Marina was crowded with boats when they passed but with no signs of activity. To their relief, slack water greeted them at the Falls of Lora where they had only to pause briefly to lower the tabernacle mast and then motor on beneath the bridge. In almost windless conditions they continued under power past the cable at Bonawe and then up the loch until they could drop anchor off the mouth of the River Noe. It was five days since they had left Bristol and in all that time they had seen only two boats under way, both of them distant and showing no inclination to make contact.
For what remained of the day Irene and Conrad sat on deck with binoculars trained on the Glen Noe farm and its group of outhouses. They detected no movement and after dark there were no lights to be seen anywhere along the shoreline, so Irene, Julie and Conrad resolved that on the following day they would walk up the glen and over the pass. At 8am Stuart ferried them ashore in The Cormorant’s inflatable, Lucy dissuaded from joining them by the promise of going fishing with Stuart.
The walk up to Lairig Noe was rough going. Irene recalled traces of a stalker’s path from her previous visit but there was little sign of it now. Once over the pass, however, they found themselves on a good stony track and by early afternoon they were among Stronmilchan’s deserted crofts as they neared Duncan’s house. The two women prevailed upon Conrad to conceal the short-barrelled automatic rifle that he had insisted on slinging over his shoulder, and, grumbling, he hid it in his rucksack. They had no wish to give the impression that they were a threat, although they saw nobody before arriving at their destination. Irene knocked on the door and called out but there was no reply. When the door proved to be unlocked they ventured in to find a deserted, silent house. An upstairs window was broken and, as Conrad pointed out, there were what looked like bullet holes in the ceiling and in the wall opposite the window. There were also ominous brown stains in the downstairs hallway. At this sight Irene sighed deeply and, unable to hide her dismay, turned to the others.
“Something terrible has happened here,” she said. “Maybe we should walk further down the road, see if we can find anybody?”
The next several houses were also deserted, their gardens neglected and overgrown. But then, a little further up the hillside, Julie spotted a column of smoke rising from a cottage chimney. Cautiously they approached, Irene calling out as they walked up the path.
“Hello. Is anybody there? We were looking for Duncan MacGregor but his house is empty.”
At the mention of Duncan’s name they caught a glimpse of movement behind a window and, seconds later, the front door opened and an elderly woman peered out.
“Who are ye?” she asked.
“I’m an old friend of Duncan’s,” Irene replied. “My daughter, Sarah, and her husband and my granddaughter were staying with him and Ali.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve bad news for ye about Duncan then,” the woman said. “He’s dead. He was shot by Reivers, but not before he killed five of them. That saved the rest of us. A good man. We buried him in the graveyard by the kirk.” Then, seeing Irene’s desolate expression, she quickly added, “But that was after all the young folk had left. My niece Shona and her two laddies went with them.”
“Do you know where they went?” Irene asked. “Sarah told me that there was some place they might go to further north.”
“Aye, they went north. A couple of months ago, just before the Reivers came. They were aiming for – och, what’s the name of the place?” She stared past them, eyes unfocused, thinking hard. “Poolewe, that’s it. Where the Inverewe Gardens are. I went there once, years ago.”
Irene beamed. “Yes, of course. I’ve been there too with Sarah. That’s what she mentioned, visiting those gardens. Thank you so much. We’ll try to find them there. But is there anything we can do for you?”
“No, I’m fine thanks. I’ve family away up the glen and they keep an eye out for me. I hope ye find your folk.” She turned back into her cottage, murmuring as she went: “Awfy times, awfy times.”
Although Irene was eager to return immediately to
the boat, the other two persuaded her that it would be dark before they even got as far as the pass so they would be better making a meal and spending the night in Duncan’s house. Irene found sleep elusive, in part because of her impatience to hurry on, but more because she was haunted by thoughts of Duncan’s violent death so close to where she lay awake. As a result, she was up at first light chivvying the other two into reluctant action. It was a damp, grey Highland morning that accompanied them on their walk back, clouds sitting low over the peaks of the Cruachan range. Descending towards the farm at last, they could see Lucy waving and calling out on the Cormorant’s deck. As they learned later, she had spent the whole morning peering through the big tripod-mounted binoculars that she trained on the hillside down which they were to return.
Once both good and bad news had been imparted to the others, Irene sat down with Marie to plan their onward course while Stuart motored The Cormorant back down Loch Etive and towards the open sea. As they approached the narrows at Bonawe he suddenly called out.
“There’s a small boat approaching us.”
Those below rushed out on deck just as the visitor hailed them.
“I mean you no harm. I’m just out to check my creels. Where are you from?”
Stuart slowed the boat as Marie replied, “We’ve been away up the loch looking for someone, but originally we sailed out of Bristol.”
“A long voyage, that. How are things down there?”
“Not good. It’s chaos right across England. How are you managing here?”
“I stay in Taynuilt,” the fisherman said. “We’ve lost a lot of folk to the flu and we’ve had Reivers through as well. But we’re getting by.”
In the midst of this exchange, Irene noticed out of the corner of her eye that Conrad was lying flat on the rear deck clutching what she assumed was the rocket launcher, which he was aiming at the fishing boat. She nudged Julie and, frowning, nodded in his direction. Julie swore under her breath and with seeming casualness strolled towards him. “Don’t be stupid,” she hissed. “He’s on his own and he’s no threat.”
Meanwhile, the others having fallen silent the fisherman called out, “I’ll be on with my work then – good luck,” and with a wave continued up Loch Etive.
Marie and Irene returned to the charts as The Cormorant cruised on, Lucy at the wheel closely supervised by Stuart. Julie and Conrad disappeared into their cabin from whence raised voices were heard. Irene looked at Marie who shrugged apologetically. “He’s a hothead. Always has been I’m afraid. Julie has a good effect on him, but…”
When they reached the Falls of Lora they were confronted with foaming white water as the tide retreated and the waters of Loch Etive plunged through the channel. Eyes shining, Marie took the helm and steered the accelerating boat through the deeps on the southern side of the turmoil and out into open water.
“That was fun,” she said, as they set about raising the mast. “Now let’s go north.”
When visible through the periodic squalls and mist, the parade of mountains and sea lochs along the West Highland coast formed a spectacle far beyond that which any of them could have imagined. Irene was disappointed not to pass through the dramatic narrows separating Skye from the mainland, but Marie, whose authority as captain was unquestioned even by her brother, deemed it too risky and took The Cormorant around the west coast of the Isle. Unlike the earlier part of the voyage when Marie, Conrad and Stuart had alternated night watches at the helm to speed their progress, now in less haste they sought out sheltered inlets in which to anchor overnight. At last, rounding the northern tip of Skye they set course for the Rua Reidh Lighthouse after which, late one calm morning, they swung south into Loch Ewe.
Irene’s excitement was tangible but tempered by the fear that they would again be disappointed. Once they had anchored off Poolewe village itself, Stuart rowed Irene and Julie ashore, remaining with the dinghy near the mouth of the river while they sought information in the village. Coming across a woman sitting while her small child played on a swing, they approached her tentatively. She smiled at them, clearly undisturbed by their arrival. Evidently there had been no trouble with Reivers this far north.
“That’s a bonny boat you have there,” she said, nodding towards the anchored Cormorant. “Come far?”
“From Bristol,” Julie replied, returning the smile.
The woman whistled softly. “That is a long way,” she said. “What brings you here?”
“I’m looking for my daughter and granddaughter,” Irene answered. “We think they travelled here with a group of others from Argyll about two months ago.”
The woman smiled again. “Oh aye,” she said. “That’ll be the folk that’s settled out Cove way.” She pointed up the loch toward the open sea. “You’ll have passed a big wind turbine as you sailed in. That’s where they stay.”
Irene could barely contain herself. “And do they have children with them?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “There are two teenage boys, and another younger dark-skinned laddie.” She paused then smiled conspiratorially at Irene. “And there’s a bonny wee girl. Charley she insists on being called though her mum keeps on with Charlotte. That’s mebbe your granddaughter? I can see the family resemblance.”
Irene let out a deep sigh of relief. “Oh yes, thank you, thank you so much.” She turned to Julie and hugged her. “We’ve found them,” she whispered. “At last.”
An hour later and a few miles back down Loch Ewe, Ali was busy weeding her vegetable garden when she looked up to see the yacht that had earlier sailed up the loch now dropping anchor about eighty metres offshore. She squinted in its direction as three adults and a child climbed down into a dinghy. One of the figures looked familiar, she thought, and she stood up to get a better view. The dinghy started to move towards the jetty just below the cottage that she shared with Douglas and, as the white blobs resolved themselves into faces, recognition dawned. She turned towards the house next door and screamed.
“Sarah, Sarah. Come quick. Look!”
The door opened and Sarah and Charley emerged, curious to know what all the excitement was about. Ali, now incapable of articulating anything, pointed mutely towards the oncoming dinghy. Sarah looked, looked again, and began to run down to the jetty.
“What is it, Auntie Ali?” Charley asked.
“It’s your granny,” Ali said, and grabbing her by the hand, ran after Sarah.
By the time they reached the jetty the dinghy had arrived and Irene and Sarah were in each other’s arms. When they disentangled themselves Irene knelt down in front of her granddaughter.
“Hello Charlotte,” she said. “I’ve come such a long way to see you.”
The girl looked at her wide-eyed and edged forward. “Granny?” she said tentatively, and then with more certainty, “Granny.” She reached out to Irene and, as she was drawn into an embrace, whispered into her grandmother’s ear, “But I’m Charley now.”
For those who were still in a position to read or hear or, in a minority of cases, view the World Health Organization’s final communique, its contents served only to confirm what they had already suspected. In the video Dr Kiara Nareshkumar, the Sri Lankan Director General, sat sober-faced looking directly into camera. This would be her organisation’s last statement on the so-called English flu, she explained, since the WHO no longer possessed the resources to function effectively. She confirmed that the disease had attained pandemic proportions on a scale never before experienced in modern times, and that it was no longer even possible to provide an approximate estimate of deaths among those infected. Certainly the figure had passed the billion mark, a number almost beyond comprehension in a world population of just over eight billion. She further reported that although where they could still do so scientists were engaged in pursuit of an antidote to the Zeno effect, thus far that research had proved fruitless. She paused for what seemed like minutes,
then looked desolately into camera and spoke for the last time. “That is all that the World Health Organization can do or say.” She was almost whispering. “May your gods be with you.”
11
All but three of the ‘Coveys’, as Lucy had named them, were gathered in Ali’s garden, the adults chatting or just enjoying the midsummer gloaming, the children running amok, pleased to be up so late. Although the sun had only recently set it was nearly 10.30pm. Such are the summer pleasures of northern latitudes that it would remain light for at least another hour. There was enough breeze coming off the sea to turn the blades of the turbine on the hill behind them and, mercifully, to deter the midges. They were waiting for Jimmy, Kenny and Stuart to return from beyond Gairloch where they had been inspecting the failed power station on the River Kerry.
A bark from Pike, who had been dozing at Ali’s feet, followed by the whine of an approaching motor alerted them to imminent arrivals. Minutes later, the four-seater open ATV came bouncing up the track, Jimmy driving in his customary boy-racer fashion while Kenny and Stuart hung on for their lives. The vehicle threw up gravel as it spun to a halt in front of Ali’s cottage, its passengers dismounting with evident relief.
“I didn’t know it was possible to come up this track that fast,” Kenny grumbled as they joined the others.
“So, what’s the news on the hydro plant?” Ali asked.
Kenny shook his head ruefully. “It’s a bit of a mess,” he said. “When it stopped working some silly bugger tried to fix it – zapped some circuits and himself. Maybe he knew how to change a plug and thought that qualified him as an electrician.”