Duncannon returned in a few moments, clutching a small parcel, wrapped in yellowing newsprint. For the first time during their conversation, he looked directly at Fergus, looked into his eyes themselves rather than the convections that circled about him. And he kept his eyes steady, relentless as he pushed the package into Fergus’s hand. The boy accepted meekly, without resistance, struck by how deeply the world’s vastness sat in Duncannon’s eyes.
‘It is something for your journey. Duncannon wants you to have it. To keep you safe, to remind you, to help you to return; it is important that you return. Only when Fergus Buchanan brings back the cursing stone can things be put right on this island. It was your grandmother’s.’
Duncannon nodded at the package as he said this last. Then he was gone, his eyes lost again in the open spaces of the island, watching for the things that Fergus did not see. He had picked up his broken pail and, raising his left hand over his shoulder in farewell, he trudged off towards his barn without another word. The door clattered behind him and the bolt shot across, locking away his unlikely treasure along with his secrets.
Mary had left the deck, retreated to the shelter of the wheel house against the rain. While she talked to old man McCredie, told him about the city and the land, Fergus sat on the deck and turned the pendant in his fingers. He could feel its time-smoothed edges and the faint trace of the engraving: To hold me close against your heart, Peg x. The copperplate script was elegant and spoke of a long lost past, of deep sentiment.
He wondered once again how Duncannon had come to have it. It seemed unlikely that such an object would have been found amongst the detritus of the beach. Much less that Duncannon would have recognised it as belonging to his grandmother: everyone, including his grandfather had known her as Maggie. And surely, in any case, since it was clearly worn by someone else, a loving gift from Maggie Buchanan, it would be more accurate to say that it belonged to his grandfather, to Fingal. Fergus did not want to believe that Duncannon had stolen the pendant, but that seemed much the more likely explanation. Perhaps that was how Duncannon really managed to make a living: not magically from the rubbish he collected, but by stealing the valuables of his unsuspecting neighbours. Perhaps this was why he had decided to say nothing to his grandfather about the pendant. The accusation would have set him into yet another rage against Duncannon and, in the absence of proof, he wanted to protect his friend’s reputation. He would ask about it on his return; the matter would keep. He slipped the gold back under his shirt and stared out into the closing drizzle.
To relieve his melancholy, Fergus tried to think about Shona. She had held him closer than ever the night before. While the islanders and others had caroused late into the night, they had slipped into the hallway and kissed among the coats hanging from the rack, lost in the half darkness. She had allowed his hands far greater freedom than he had expected and, so long as they stayed outside her clothing, she let him explore her form without constraint. Yet this had not satisfied his ardour and, when eventually they surfaced, gulping air tainted with stale gabardine, he had burned with incoherent desire.
Through the thin wall behind him, Fergus had heard a peel of laughter and the scraping of furniture on the stone floor of the bar; then the wheezing of Mr McCulloch’s accordion had begun, soon joined by the shuffling and stamping of dancing. Shona had untangled herself from him, was smoothing her skirt and pushing her hair back into shape, asking him something, with tender concern. And he had told her that, of course, he would save himself for her, for their wedding night, that the mainland would not tempt him, could not. And he had curled his fists so tightly that his fingernails had cut into the palms, had almost drawn blood, such was his need to regain control of his flesh. And Shona had smiled her best smile and stroked his cheek with the palm of her hand and had then led him back into the bar, slipping in unseen, hoping that their flushed cheeks would be unnoticed among the dancers and the revellers.
His bag was getting wet in the now-persistent rain and Fergus decided that there was nothing for it but to join Mary and McCredie in the wheel house. He picked up the old holdall and rolled his way back along the deck. It was a small bag: he had packed only a few changes of underwear, a spare pair of jeans, a couple of t-shirts, a sweater, his wash bag, his book of UK postal codes, his schools atlas and the notebook; that morning he had also packed some pens, a spare notebook, and the roll of twenty pound notes that had been given to him by his father.
Fergus had also dropped into his bag the package of sandwiches that his mother had brought down to the harbour and thrust into his hands before enveloping him in the most encompassing of embraces. His father had simply shaken his hand, squeezing into the confines of palm and fingers all the things he could not say. His grandfather’s embrace had come with two pieces of advice: trust no-one and hurry back. The Reverend Drummond had offered his prayers, since the boat was leaving before his sermon that morning; Mr Galbraith had been agitated, gripping his hand too tightly as he wished him good luck and a speedy return. Shona’s final, parting kiss had embarrassed her parents, and they could only wave hesitantly from the jetty. McCredie had engaged the engine and waited while Fergus slipped the lines to allow the little vessel to peel away from Hinba. As the small farewell party stood at the brink, waving and shouting to the receding Tern, Fergus had waved back, his arm around his sister, from the foredeck.
As the Tern rounded the headland and left the little harbour behind, Fergus had taken one last look back to the island and was sure that he saw a figure standing on the low cliff above the eastern shore. While it was maybe a mile distant, Fergus believed that he could make out the face of Duncannon, certain that he was smiling, looking directly at him, even though that too would have been impossible. The thought of it made Fergus look back once more, over the grey sea to where Hinba should have been. But the island was lost in the thick cloud, along with everyone he loved. Everyone except Mary, of course, and he felt again a rich thankfulness to his sister for her presence. The simple fact of her being there, visible and shouting unheard from the wheel house window, made him feel more confident in his journey and in his quest, despite the gnawing anxiety over what was to come. Mary leant fully out of the door and bellowed again to be heard over the rain and the cascading surf.
‘Only another 5 miles until Mallaig, Fergus! We’re soon on dry land!’
Part II
Into the City of the Dead
11
There was still an hour before the train. They had been sitting in the café for forty five minutes already and still there was another hour to go. Outside, three women stood under umbrellas chatting, the slow business of the day running its easy course in soft spoken exchanges. When two of them headed up the hill and the third slid into the Co-op, Mary turned her attention once more to the café’s interior. A clutch of tourists sat around a pine table, scouring maps and guidebooks for something with which to occupy themselves during a damp Sunday. She sighed and tried to drink what was left in her cup, forgetting that the tea was now long cold.
The slowness of life up here, away from the city, could kill a man. Mary had almost forgotten how deathly the waiting could be. Ordinarily, a trip home was a sufficient reminder, but this time there had be the excitement of the engagement party and of the fuss about the cursing stone. The drama had been invigorating; even the plans for the wedding gave unfamiliar momentum to life on the island. But once they had boarded Mr McCredie’s boat, the slow wallowing of time returned. Even here in Mallaig, nothing happened very quickly. Indeed, it was possible to sit idly in a café for almost two hours without thinking anything was being missed.
Mary was pleased to be heading back to Glasgow and the life that she had discovered there, as she had known she would. While she missed her family, it was in the city that she had begun to live: she couldn’t wait to share it with Fergus.
Her impatience had solidified almost as soon as they had stepped off the Tern at the east harbour, picking their way over the decks
of still sleeping yachts and fishing boats. Reaching the steady quayside, they had waved their farewells to McCredie who had not even bothered to tie up his boat. Sunday trains meant that there would be a long wait and they picked their way through the plastic crates stacked around the quayside without urgency. The rain had not abated and had, if anything, deepened. The town was shrouded in dampness and the pitter-patter pocked the otherwise calm harbour. Above on the hillside the colours became more vivid, all ochre and rust gilding the deep charcoal of the granite crags.
She had insisted on a cup of tea in An Cala, to hide from the rain. In the forty five minutes that had elapsed, they had talked about the passage of time on Hinba and in Glasgow, about studies and essays, about their grandfather and neighbours, about the engagement, about parties and student demonstrations. Mary had explained the hardships of the modern student and Fergus had accepted them without question, offering only bewilderment that she should choose to endure it. Eventually even this meagre conversation had thinned to nothingness, and the brother and his sister had fallen into silence.
When they had been at school in Mallaig, too young for the pubs, each had been a regular in An Cala. It had been over four years since Fergus had been inside, and yet the café felt as familiar as his mother’s kitchen. During those years, he had lodged through the week along with several other boys with Mrs McLeish at her boarding house around the bay. All those nights away and he never once got used to sleeping off the island. It was at Mrs McLeish’s that the dreams had started. At first, they had only crept into his bed on the mainland, but little by little they found him on Hinba too, and he had started to record them then, once he realised that they would accompany him through all his nights.
Mary had left the school only a few months before, once her exams had been safely completed, so the café held less mythical significance. For her, it was just a café, one more café in a world full of cafés against which she could compare An Cala. Similarly, Mallaig was not the limit of her encounters with the world, but merely its beginning: it had been the gateway to her one and only family holiday, when she had been eleven years old. And while Fergus and his father had taken from the trip only a confirmation that they need never look beyond Hinba for their satisfaction, for Mary the scale of possibility in the world, even seen from just a few tens of miles from the island, had awoken something that had grown until, that autumn, she had started secondary school in Mallaig. There, she had embraced the newness and possibility of the village, perched on the very edge of the mainland’s abundance, just as much as Fergus had resented its imposition on his island life. All through her school days, she had known that she could not return to a life adrift in the empty ocean.
Mary surveyed the tea cups, suddenly certain that mundane distraction was needed to fill the conversation’s lull. But there was no sign of the girl, or anyone else that might fetch them fresh tea. She looked over at her brother. He was becoming good-looking, Mary decided. His features were sharpening from their adolescent blancmange. His complexion remained flawlessly smooth, downy still despite his now daily adventures with a razor. His lips were full and soft, but his jaw was straighter, a firm line upon which you could build a thousand romances. His eyes still sparkled their vibrant blue; his red hair, a blessing Mary had always been pleased to have avoided, was evermore strawberry blonde than angry copper. He was becoming a man, and a handsome one. Mary prickled with pride.
She had always known, of course, that her brother was special. The first child, the rightful heir. Mary’s accomplishments were important to the family, but Fergus had never had to accomplish anything to be important, neither around the island nor in their home. It wasn’t that he was stupid or lazy, or complacent or selfish. Fergus had the sweetest of natures: he was kind, helpful and hard-working. But it was only once she had reached Glasgow that she realised that she had, at one point, resented him hugely. It seemed comical now, with her life, her future, among the books and ideas of the university, among the people and possibilities of Glasgow. She no longer begrudged him his little kingdom, since she had the world.
Only the dimming of affection from her grandfather still saddened her. When she had announced her intention to apply to the university, he had lost even the relatively small store of love he reserved for her. While her mother had fussed over her in joyous, vicarious excitement, Fingal had slowly shaken his head and shrunken from her. He had been unwell the day she had left the island, all her belongings stowed onto the Tern, and he had not been able to make an appearance at the jetty. It had been Mr Galbraith who had instead gushed and enthused and babbled as she stepped off the island and into her future. It was her old primary school teacher who wrote to her, asked her about her progress, her reading. Her grandfather would appear on the phone once a month to gruffly ask if she was healthy and was behaving herself.
The girl appeared from the side door next to the kitchen. She carried the sour tang of nicotine and damp wool in with her. Mary waved over to her and caught her eye.
‘I’d like another pot of tea, please. How about you, Fergus?’
‘Aye. And one of those cream cakes, if I may.’
Fergus nodded towards the glass-fronted counter, under which lay a tray of oversized biscuits, an arrangement of flapjacks and a plate of chocolate éclairs. The young woman nodded and turned to the hot water urn, clanking the tin teapot against the spout. Water and steam fizzed and gurgled into freedom.
‘What’s so funny?’
Mary had been suppressing a giggle and, now discovered, she could control it no longer. Once she had regained her composure, she took a final swallow of cold tea before replying.
‘Just you, with your éclairs and your ‘if I may’s. Such a well-brought up young man!’
‘So I take it you’ll not be wanting any of that wee cake then? And manners cost nothing, young lady, or have you forgotten that, living in Glasgow?’
Fergus winked then smiled at his knees. Normal relations had been re-established, he the big brother, she the contrite sister. It felt so familiar and comforting. Mary flushed with the certainty that she could rely upon his wisdom and strength, that even the weakness it implied on her part simply felt safe. She relaxed into her role and asked the question that had been bothering her all day.
‘What’s the plan, Fergus? I mean, we don’t even have the name of the auction house. There’s a lot of auction houses in Glasgow, you know.’
‘How many do you think? There can’t be that many, surely? Anyhow, we’ll just ask at the first one, see if they recognise that catalogue page. And if not, I’ve got all week: I reckon I can knock on every door in Glasgow in that time, if needs be.’
Mary gave her brother a look but said nothing. In the silence, Fergus slid the neatly folded page from his coat pocket and spread it carefully across the table top, studying it closely as if he believed he could find an unnoticed identifying mark, if only he stared hard enough.
She watched him, and looked in turn at the page. It was true that Bonhams, the only auction house she knew of in the city, would probably recognise the design of the catalogue. And they may get lucky – maybe their first port of call would be the one they sought. But most likely Fergus and she would spend valuable vacation time traipsing around the city, working their way through a list of addresses that they had assembled from an internet search. Of course, they might be able to work it out from the websites of the auction houses themselves; they might recognise the font or colours. Mary brightened: it might not be so bad.
‘Why do you care so much, anyway?’
His question surprised her. It was something that would be more appropriate for her to ask of him. After all, he had never shown any interest in the island’s history, had laughed with everyone else at Mr Galbraith’s enthusiasm. She had long shared her teacher’s passion for exploring the traces of St Columba on Hinba. She had decided to devote three years to studying the subject at the university, so that she had a better understanding of the story of her home. A
nd that stone was a rare artefact, wrapped in myth as much as scholarship: to hold it and trace its lines would bring to life an entire semester. Of course she cared.
‘I mean, you hate Hinba. Couldn’t get off it quickly enough, didn’t care that your leaving hurt granddad so much. So why so interested in helping him now? Is it because of Mr Galbraith?’
‘What?’
She was genuinely disoriented by his questioning, his sharpness; didn’t understand what he meant by hurting her grandfather, or hating the island, much less what Mr Galbraith had to do with anything. She could only repeat her one-word question, blinking, shaking her head. Less a question than a challenge.
‘Galbraith. Everyone knows that he writes to you, and that you write back. He makes no attempt to hide it. And I do deliver the post, you know. You had a crush on him when you were a girl, didn’t you? Always hanging around him, sucking up to him, long after you’d left primary school? No shame in that, everyone has a crush when they’re that age. But I’ve never liked the way that he seemed to take advantage. I know nothing is going on, what with you living over in Glasgow and everything, but I just wondered what was in all those letters…’
Mary was angry now. Her own brother, accusing her of, of what? She straightened in her chair, pushed her lips together tightly. Fergus recognised the face and stopped speaking, his explanation petering out into embarrassed silence.
‘Sixth century religious art; the routes and settlements of the Norse explorers; early Christian monastic life; reference books for course work; that bloody stone! That’s what’s in those letters, you idiot. Do you think that… I can’t believe you’d think that; how long has that one been festering in there?’
The Cursing Stone: a gripping mystery and family saga Page 8