The Interpretations

  Despite its long history, the town was getting newer and younger. Again, the new bridge was partly responsible. There were more new businesses run by younger and younger people. The town was becoming youthful and brash. People came here to work, not to live. They lived in nearby villages and commuted five or ten miles in their big four-by-fours. And the people who lived in Dalmore these days – quite a few of them, anyway – had no intention of living there forever. No, they were there to work and that’s what they did and after a few years they just buggered off somewhere else.

  Miss Petty’s was now called ‘The Highlander’ and it boasted twenty-three photographs of Highland cattle, all long horns and shaggy red hair. These animals were pictured standing around in wet fields, marshland or snow and they all looked perfectly miserable. Jim found any manifestation of these beasts, photographic or otherwise, to be very depressing. So he avoided The Highlander despite the fact that its food was widely praised.

  Instead, he went to the Din.

  In his drinking days, Jim had avoided the Din at lunchtime but had spent most of his evenings there. These days his involvement with the pub was quite the reverse. Because he had given up drinking he never went there in the evenings any more but he could often be seen in the Din at lunchtime because that’s where he usually had lunch.

  The landlord’s name was still Bohespic but it was Andrew Bohespic, the man still in possession of some pulpit firewood, who ran the place now, not his father, Farquar, who had retired.

  Jim hated the piped music and the slot machines and the fact that he was ten years older than the average age of the lunchtime clientele. But the lunch menu offered a wide range of food of reasonably high quality at relatively low prices.

  Today he ordered a jacket potato with sweetcorn and a green salad. And a bottle of still mineral water.

  ‘You’ll not get fat on that.’ Bohespic had come from behind the bar and was standing at Jim’s table.

  ‘Good,’ Jim said. ‘Getting fat is not the intention.’

  ‘Actually, I was wanting a wee word.’

  Jim, his mouth full, waved his fork at the empty chair opposite him. Bohespic sat down.

  ‘It’s just that I’d value your opinion on a little investment I had in mind.’ He leaned forward. ‘Just between ourselves.’

  Jim nodded.

  ‘It could actually be an outstanding business opportunity,’ Bohespic said.

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘Well, you know the old warehouses out by North Treshie . . .’

  ‘You mean the ones on the shore,’ Jim said, ‘just past the care home.’

  ‘That’s them.’

  ‘So what about them?’

  ‘Well, they’re on the market.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Along with four acres of land.’

  ‘Four acres?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got this idea. It’s . . . now you will keep this to yourself for the moment, won’t you?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to live in Dalmore till I die.’

  ‘Well . . . well, what do you think of this: the Bonnie Prince Charlie Experience.’

  Jim struggled to keep a straight face. The Bonnie Prince Charlie Experience. The poor misguided sod.

  ‘You’ve got Culloden over by Inverness, right?’ Bohespic went on, his enthusiasm rising. ‘And there’s that other place, where he landed . . . what’s it called?’

  ‘Glenfinnan.’

  ‘That’s it. Over in the West. And here’s North Treshie somewhere in the middle.’

  ‘Is that an advantage?’

  ‘Of course it is. Coach trips, that’s what I’m thinking. I mean, you come here to the centre to see all the displays, the photos, the artefacts . . .’

  ‘Where are you getting them from?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. Copies of stuff. Portraits, replicas, Highland dress, claymores . . . Easy stuff to get. Anyway, you come here to get the historical background and then you get a coach to Glen . . . Glen . . . what was it?’

  ‘Finnan.’

  ‘That’s the one. And then you go out to Culloden. You get the whole experience, you see. Start to finish. And you’re in Jacobite territory all the way through.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, a few of the clans round here were loyal to King George and actually fought on the English side at Culloden.’

  This was meant to deter Bohespic but it failed.

  ‘Oh, minor details,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of the landscape here. I mean, the emotional as well as the geographical.’

  ‘What about the political?’

  ‘Politics,’ Bohespic said, shaking his head. ‘Dull, dull, dull. No, we’ll avoid all that stuff. I’m thinking of the romance here, the romance of the cause, that great story about him escaping with Florence . . . Florence . . .’

  ‘Nightingale.’

  ‘That’s it, Florence . . . no, you’re having me on.’

  ‘You’re right. That was Crimea. A good one, though, if you’re looking for romance. Charge of the Light Brigade and all that.’

  ‘Any connection with Dalmore?’ Bohespic asked. He seemed genuinely interested.

  ‘Oh, there’s bound to be some. But look, it’s not Florence Nightingale you’re after, it’s Flora MacDonald.’

  ‘That’s her. That’s the one. You see. All that material. There’s an opportunity there just begging to be exploited.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Have you checked out the competition?’

  ‘What competition?’

  ‘Well, there’s a visitor centre at Culloden for a start and there’s probably something similar over in Glenfinnan. There’s the monument, certainly. Have you been over there to take a look?’

  Bohespic’s flow was checked. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I suggest you visit both places before you do anything else.’

  ‘But they’re not here,’ Bohespic complained.

  ‘Quite obviously not. But you’ve got a car, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, no. I mean they’re not direct competition here, are they?’

  ‘Well, that’s really the main point, isn’t it?’ Jim stuck his fork into his now cold potato. ‘I mean, why would anyone come here when there’s all these places out there that are directly associated with the rebellion? Why Dalmore? That’s the question.’

  ‘A sort of gathering together. That’s what I was thinking,’ Bohespic said slowly. He was obviously disappointed at the response he was getting.

  Jim almost felt sorry for him. But not quite. Bohespic had surpassed himself this time. The Bonnie Prince Charlie Experience! Had there ever been an idea as daft as that? What about the After Culloden Experience? The Forty Years in Paris Getting Pissed Experience? Considering the number of whisky distilleries in and around Dalmore that last one might do quite well. But he didn’t say any of this. Instead, he said, ‘I’ve got a better idea for you. What about the General Wade Experience?’

  Bohespic said, ‘General Who?’

  18

  ‘Does the name Peter Clinghurst mean anything to you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Mike looked at the picture and then read the message on the back of the postcard carefully. He said, ‘This is what McCall wanted me to see?’

  ‘Yes. Plus one other thing.’ Jim pulled the trainer from the envelope in which he’d originally been given it.

  Mike held the shoe in his left hand and examined it. ‘Just the one?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Recognise it?’

  ‘Well, no. But let’s see . . . I think it’s Tom’s size, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So, where’s the other one?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know for sure,’ Jim said, ‘but I’d be willing to bet that it’s inside Tom’s coffin. They’re not likely to let us dig it up to find out, though, a
re they?’

  ‘But why would we want to do that, anyway?’ Mike asked. ‘I mean, what are we trying to prove here?’

  ‘Well, the shoe in the coffin is the one that was found on the beach, the one that finally convinced everyone that Tom was dead.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘So, if this shoe . . .’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Mike interrupted. ‘OK, yes. If this shoe is the other one of the pair that Tom was wearing when he committed suicide, then . . . then we need to know if it’s ever been in salt water.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘Well,’ Jim said, ‘just look at it. You don’t have to look very hard, do you?’

  Somebody coughed but it wasn’t Mike and it wasn’t Jim. It was Andy. Jim hadn’t even noticed Andy who had taken up occupation of one of the three spare beds in the ward. He’d been asleep when Jim arrived and was now awake.

  ‘This is Andy,’ Mike explained.

  ‘Hello there,’ Jim said. He waved over to the new arrival, a man of about sixty, who was fiddling with the bed controls. ‘Any idea how this damn thing works?’ he said.

  Jim stepped over to his bedside. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked.

  ‘Raise the head of the bed up.’

  ‘Let’s see now . . .’ He took the control pad, selected a button and pressed. The correct button.

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine. Thanks.’

  ‘What’re you in for then, Andy?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Well, a lot less than your friend Mike, that’s for sure. Broken leg.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘Broke it playing football.’

  ‘Football?’

  ‘Oh, I know, man of my age and all that. But it was just in the back garden with my nephew. A wee kick-around. I gave him a new pair of boots for his birthday, you see.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Nine. Fair kick in him, though.’

  ‘Well, that’s clear enough.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s not a bad break. I’ll be out of here soon.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m sorry to say it but I think I’ll be out before your friend is.’

  ‘I think you’re probably right.’

  ‘Aye, well, thanks for sorting the bed out, eh.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Jim rejoined Mike who was looking hard at the postcard. ‘So, have you any ideas about this?’ he asked Jim.

  ‘One or two. Look at the date on the postmark.’

  ‘Let’s see . . . sixteen . . . abril?’

  ‘Take a guess.’

  ‘Sixteenth April nineteen eighty-two?’

  ‘That’s right. Begin to make any sense?’

  ‘It might if I could remember all the other dates.’

  ‘What’s important here,’ Jim said, ‘is that it’s after the bridge race. It’s after Tom disappeared.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  ‘And we have to factor in Archie Gilfedder as well. What I mean is that there’s only one link between Tom’s disappearance and your accident and that’s Archie.’

  ‘But he was in jail, wasn’t he? Didn’t you tell me that?’

  ‘That’s right. He was in jail when Donnie was shot and he was still in jail when Tom disappeared. But he got out about a week later. And a week after that, McCall got this postcard from Spain.’

  ‘From someone called Peter Clinghurst who nobody’s heard of.’

  ‘OK, but jump forward eighteen years and Archie dies and suddenly we’ve got this postcard. Why?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Do you know?’

  Jim said, ‘No, not for sure. I don’t know anything for sure. But look at the postcard again. Recognise the handwriting?’

  Mike examined the postcard once more. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Do you?’

  And Jim said, ‘I think I do.’

  Jim still found it surprising that he and the Reverend McFarren were now such good friends. But, in 1982 and then in 1987, he had been impressed by two events which involved the minister. They were events at which creating an impression was an unlikely side-effect; they were funerals. The Reverend McFarren had officiated at both.

  The first of these was the funeral of Donald Gilfedder. The Reverend McFarren had agreed to bury Gilfedder when all the other clergymen in the area had either declined outright or made excuses. This action was all the more commendable because some twelve years previously the minister himself had been a victim of Gilfedder’s violence. He’d opened the front door of the manse one evening and been confronted by a very angry and drunk Gilfedder who promptly knocked him off his feet and then disappeared. Although there had been two witnesses to the attack, the minister refused to name his attacker and no charges were brought. However, later the same evening Gilfedder had decided to beat up someone else as well but the someone else was a policeman. Gilfedder went to jail anyway.

  The damage to the minister had been a broken nose and a fear, which lasted for some years, of opening his front door late at night.

  The second funeral was Tom Kingsmill’s. In 1987 Tom had been missing for five years and was officially declared dead. As Tom had no living relatives it was left to his two closest friends, Jim Fisher and Mike Delvan, to arrange the funeral. The Reverend McFarren proved to be a very useful ally. Not only did he insist on taking the funeral himself, though he had been retired for some time, but he made sure that Tom was buried in the churchyard of the East Kirk even though no one had been buried there since the church itself had closed four years before.

  Then, a few months after Tom’s funeral, Jim had written a piece in the Herald about Elsie McKillop, the woman who had died during the Highland Clearances and was buried on Inchduie Island. The article was timed to coincide with the long-delayed unveiling of the Clearances Memorial, a project which, like the Duie Bridge itself, had produced a mixed reaction from the local people. The Reverend McFarren had liked the article very much. When the two men bumped into one another on Dalmore High Street one day, the minister had said this, though his praise for the article was not unqualified.

  ‘I liked your piece on Elsie McKillop,’ he said and Jim nodded his acceptance of this unexpected statement of approval. ‘But you’re still not quite sure how to use a semi-colon, are you?’

  This comment, accepted with a smile, actually annoyed Jim intensely. But then, when he reread his piece on Elsie McKillop he found that the minister was right. He’d used two semi-colons, or rather, misused them. He wrote a letter to the Reverend McFarren and thanked him for this accurate assessment of his punctuation skills.

  After that they met on terms that were more and more friendly. And then, when the minister, at the age of eighty-seven, left the manse and moved to Alltduie House, it was Jim who helped him pack, helped him clear everything away and dispose of the things he could not take with him. Jim’s reward for this assistance was to be presented with a large cardboard box, tightly sealed many years before, that contained all the documents that the minister had collected regarding the Duie Bridge. But this reward came with an instruction, ‘You’ll take a look through it, won’t you? And maybe we could work together on producing a pamphlet.’

  Several weeks passed before Jim got round to opening the package. When he did he was amazed not so much by the amount of information it contained – it was quite obviously a big, heavy box – but by the variety and the detail. There were official and unofficial reports; there were minutes of meetings of this or that committee, interest group or protest lobby; there were transcripts of interviews with councillors, contractors, the ferry captain (who was about to lose his job), the local MP, local church leaders, even schoolchildren; there were newspaper cuttings – many of them from the Herald, of course – as well as magazine articles, pamphlets, brochures, geological and meteorological reports, maps and plans and that wonderful (though forged) letter from General George Wade.

  But the idea that they could work together to prod
uce a book about the bridge or even, as the minister had suggested, a pamphlet? Jim saw little possibility of this. Their first disagreement was over the name of the book. The Reverend McFarren said that his original title had been: ‘The Duie Bridge: Story of a Disaster’. Jim liked the title fine, except for one word. He suggested taking out the word ‘disaster’ and putting ‘success’ in its place. For some months after this there was no talk of a book.

  Then the minister raised the issue again. By this time he was settled in Alltduie House. He had his room with a view of the sea and not of the bridge and he was keen to occupy his mind with something useful. He still needed to make a contribution. ‘Three score years and ten,’ he reminded Jim, ‘that’s the allotted span and here am I round about the four score and ten mark. I’ll not be here much longer so I’m keen to start.’

  So they started.

  They fell out immediately over the subject of deaths. The minister pointed out that four men had died during the construction of the bridge. ‘Four men,’ he said, ‘their lives snuffed out because of someone’s arrogant notion of building a giant bridge.’

  ‘That probably compares favourably with other con­struction sites,’ Jim responded.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m saying . . . Well, four, it’s not many. Lots of people die every day on building sites all over the world.’

  ‘That makes it more acceptable, does it?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying it’s acceptable . . .’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘That accidents always happen.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what I’m saying, too. Of course accidents happen, so before you set out on a big project like building a bridge you have to decide if it’s really worth it because it’s more than likely that folk’ll get injured or even killed while they’re building it.’