by Jeremy Page
The Scottish darkness grows increasingly around them, pricked only now and again by the small precise glow of windows in isolated houses. The weather becomes dreary, then foul, the road bends unexpectedly, flurries of rain hit the windscreen, there are drifts of fog on the moor, the eyes of cattle shine back at them at each unexpected corner, bewildered.
‘The times I’ve driven this road,’ Marta says, her face lit unsympathetically by the reflected light of the headlamps. She looks so tired, or possibly it’s a growing preparedness too, that she’s bringing a new man to a special place. ‘We’re nearly there, though,’ she says, kindly.
‘I’m OK,’ Guy replies, ‘don’t worry about me.’ I’ve been travelling a long time now, he thinks to himself, it’s the journey that looks after me.
‘We had a picnic here, once,’ Marta says, as they pass a small parking area surrounded by trees. It looks a pretty inhospitable place, tonight. ‘There’s a small tarn through those bushes, with stepping stones that go out to an island. There were highland cattle standing in the water. It’s a cute spot, except the midges spoiled it.’ Guy smiles at Marta. The memory is relaxing her. ‘We cracked boiled eggs on the rocks and dipped them in salt I’d wrapped in tin foil.’
The valley descends into an area of tall dense conifers with long mossy threads hanging from the branches. Guy winds the window down, and smells the wet forest and dark peaty earth. He hears the sounds of dripping, everywhere, and the further sound of fast water rushing through the rocks.
‘Hear that?’ he says to Marta.
‘Shall I stop?’ she replies.
He shakes his head. ‘Let’s get there, we’re both tired,’ he says, thinking of his mother, always stopping the car to listen to the sounds of a wood or forest.
A few minutes later he sees the lights of buildings scattered through the trees, and the valley opens into a small bay between the hills. For the first time he spots the sea, cloudy grey, with the lighter bands of surf rolling in smooth curves to the shore.
‘Ah,’ Marta sighs, ‘this is it.’
They turn into a village of small stone houses, most of them unlit, and turn again into an alleyway. Marta switches the engine off, and leans exhausted over the wheel, gathering herself, before facing Guy and smiling happily. ‘We made it,’ she says, sounding a little nervous.
‘Thanks,’ he says. On the back seat, Banjo wakes, blearily, looking back at him with glossy dark eyes.
They get out and carry their bags to a small terraced cottage, while Banjo scampers up and down the street. It’s a tiny place, built of granite, with two windows and a door to the front, opening directly on to the street.
‘Look,’ Marta says, pointing to the bone vertebrae set into the stone, below the gutter. ‘Several houses round here have that. It reminds me of home - in Reykjavik they found a Viking ironing board made from a whalebone plank.’
She turns the key and gives the door a hefty shove to open it. Inside, the house smells damp and is extremely cold. Guy stands in the front room, unsure where to go, while Marta moves about swiftly, flicking the switches on the fusebox and wall heaters. He watches her hold her hand above the metal vents, making sure the warmth will come, then sees how she looks quickly round the room, taking in its details. It suddenly hits him that she’s not been here since her husband died - how could he not have thought of that before? It’s awful for her. But Marta is waiting for the warmth to rise and she’s busying herself with the jobs to do. It’s as good a way to cope as any. Guy takes his shoes off - a habit from living on a houseboat surrounded by mud - and puts his bag down near the door, the natural place of a visitor, while Marta disappears into a back room.
The front room is full of shadows, with a dark fireplace and, like the Flood, has too many chairs. Shelves either side of the chimney brace are rammed with books. He reads some of the spines: highland geology, coarse fishing, archaeology, local history. Howard must have been a man of ideas, then, of placing himself only after he knew the knowledge of the area. Some people are like that - they seek connection. There’s a man’s presence throughout this room - fishing rods leaning in the corner, some sticks of driftwood that seem to have been carved by a penknife, and he sees with a touch of panic a whole wall devoted to a photo gallery. He hadn’t anticipated that. That’s the fellow, the dead man, standing on the rocks near the sea, with a fishing rod. He was large and stocky, quite fat really, with a beard. Guy decides he’ll look more closely at that at some point.
Nearby he sees more photos, of Marta and Howard raising dark pints of oatmeal stout, a picture of a big dinner laid out on a small table - roast goose by the look of it, a sunset over the bay, a highland cow standing in the shallows of a tarn. And there’s Rhona - it’s odd to see her here, she doesn’t seem a natural fit in this place. She’s younger in the picture, with punky hair, standing with her arm round a slim young man in jeans with a trendy haircut. That man, whoever he is, is also in the other picture, sitting at the dinner table with his eye on the roast goose. He looks a type, Guy thinks. Posh. Maybe it’s the fool, Mark. He wants to study more, but realizes Marta has returned, leaning in the doorframe, watching him.
‘It has a lot of memories, this place,’ she states.
‘Are you all right?’ Guy asks.
‘I’m OK. A bit spooked.’
‘Yeah.’ Guy expects her mood will flatten now, her arms are hanging limply, like the breath’s gone out of her. He should probably give her a hug, but he wants to be polite, he wants her to get used to him physically being in this place.
‘Can I do anything?’ he asks.
She seems undecided. ‘Maybe. Maybe get some firewood in?’ she says. ‘There’s a little store in the yard.’
He’s pleased to help. Passing her in the doorway, he holds her elbow.
‘Thanks,’ he says, ‘for bringing me here.’ She nods, obediently, and looks down. ‘This must be hard for you,’ he adds, ‘I’m grateful.’
She nods again, unable to speak, and gives him a little smile. ‘Go and get that wood,’ she whispers.
The second room turns out to be a kitchen, very small, very cluttered, with a worn brown Formica table in the centre. Cookbooks overcrowd the shelves and mugs hang loosely from a Welsh dresser. He sees the back door is already ajar and, outside, there’s a small cobbled yard.
He’s about to step out when Marta says helpfully, ‘There’s a pair of shoes, by the door. Don’t get your feet wet.’ He looks down and sees a pair of ancient leather brogues, without their laces, clearly used for the purpose of bringing in firewood. Howard’s. Slipping his feet in, in the dead man’s shoes, his heels hang out over the back. He doesn’t turn to see if Marta is looking, or not. He thinks she is.
An hour later, sitting by a small fire in the hearth, the front room looks more cosy. Banjo’s stretched out in front of the fire, snoring like an old man. Marta has put on several sidelamps, and there are little orangey pools of light in the corners. She’s drained a couple of glasses of wine, too quickly, and is curled into one of the chairs, with a rug over her lap. She has a shadowed look beneath her eyes that the wine hasn’t managed to shift.
They’ve not spoken for a few minutes now, both of them have been listening to the fire hissing in the logs.
‘I think it’s time to turn in,’ she says, quietly. ‘I can’t keep my eyes open.’
Guy’s a little shy to look at her - it’s not entirely established where each of them will sleep. He realizes he hasn’t even been upstairs. It must be a tiny place, just how many bedrooms are there? Rhona and the posh boy, they must have slept somewhere which wasn’t Howard and Marta’s room.
‘I want you to sleep with me, in my bed,’ Marta says, quietly.
Guy was unprepared for that, but relieved by her frankness. That’s typical of her, to be so clear.
‘You know,’ he begins, ‘I can stay down here, if you want, I’m fine about . . .’
‘. . . I’ll take that as a rejection, shall I?’ she says, coyly.
‘No.’
‘We’re not kids.’
‘No. We’re not kids.’
‘Then - that’s agreed?’
‘Yes. You and I, we’re going to sleep in the same bed.’
‘All night.’
‘All night long.’
She looks at him, with a level, decided gaze. Her eyes have darkened as the night’s grown late, like Judy’s used to. Then she looks at the fire. Her profile, with that high foreheaded shape that Rhona has so strongly. A woman in profile is amazing, he thinks, especially at a moment like this, which is full of awareness, about what has gone before, what might be to come.
‘Come here then,’ she says.
Guy’s up early in the morning. Spending the night with Marta has earned him the right to Howard’s dressing-gown, which he wears without discomfort as he goes into the kitchen. Banjo’s been up hours, it seems. He’s full of a naturally overflowing excitement that’s reminiscent of how he himself must have been, as a child on holiday. Get out, explore, Banjo wants many things right now. Guy bends to rough the dog up, push him down on to the rug and pull his ears affectionately, then he opens the front door and Banjo skids off the rug and charges into the street, slowing down into a confident trot to sniff along the walls of the other houses. He stops for a long thunderous slash against a post, shakes his back leg out, and trots off happily. What great characters they are in our lives. A man’s not complete without one, Guy really believes that.
The air is cool and sunny and there’s a lightness to it which is synonymous with Scotland. Ingredients of moss and water and cold chiselled rock, mixing with the sea’s fluid abundance of ions and ozone. Intoxicating. He breathes deeply, filling those parts of his lungs that rarely get used, the lazy wedge around the sides, where the stale air is no doubt trapped, part suffocating us always.
He leaves the door open and goes to the kitchen, finds the kettle, finds a pan, begins to break eggs into a bowl and whisk them with a fork. Get some of this magical air into the mix, he thinks, fill us with it. There are jars of pebbles and shells on the windowsill, and in the yard outside he sees a palm tree - which he hadn’t noticed last night - growing in the corner. It’s a strangely incongruous sight. On the shelves there are pens and damp matches and candles half-burned and bending in the sunlight. He loves it all. Loves to be here, alone with Marta, cooking her a simple breakfast of eggs. The butter sizzles, releasing its odours of the dairy, then he slides it round the pan, watching the foam beginning to bubble. He pours in the rich yellow eggs, still fluffed up with the air, and grinds in black pepper and adds some damp salt he found on a little dish. He licks his finger to taste the raw egg and the salt, then folds the mix over, lifting the pan above the ring which is now glowing too hot.
Nothing better in the world than cooking eggs. Banjo trots in from the street and he hears Marta making her way to the bathroom upstairs, the ceiling bending slightly above him.
He tips out the scrambled eggs on to a warm plate and puts two rolls next to it. He cuts a slab of butter and puts that on a cold plate. He pours the coffee he’s been brewing in the cafetière, and realizes he doesn’t know whether Marta takes sugar or not. Probably, he thinks, women usually do.
He sets all this on a wooden tray and takes it upstairs to the bedroom, where he finds Marta back in bed, sitting up against the headboard. He wants them to eat in here, to bless this space where they spent the night.
She looks up at him, coy and glad and ever-so-slightly amazed at herself. It’s the first time he’s truly seen her, he thinks. Everything he’s known of her, before, up to this point, can be forgotten. It begins here, he thinks, with this.
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘Very well.’
‘Me too.’
‘Ég segi allt ljómandi,’ she says, smiling.
‘Everything’s shining,’ he replies.
He sets the tray down. The room still has the smell of the night before, of their breathing, of their journey, of their slight uncertainty, and their growing comfort, too, their sheer relief of having chosen to be with each other, with no one else around, no one else knowing. The room seems quietened, as a result.
‘I’ve made you eggs,’ he says.
‘You’re a marvel.’
‘And I put one sugar in your coffee.’
‘Perfect.’
And what he doesn’t tell her should really be the only thing he needs to tell her, now: that the love he thought had left his life - it can be found again.
He has a simple realization - that he doesn’t have to face things entirely by himself. There are people who are willing to share your burden, share it with all their heart, for every breath, every day, for as long as they live. If you are lucky enough to find someone like that, then you are blessed, and right now, Guy feels blessed.
It’s a brilliantly sunny morning. He walks through the village, passing its weathered stone houses and small front lawns bordered with white picket fences, out along the single road that skirts the bay, through the rising outcrops of rock, all lying at the angle of their bedding planes as they point out to sea in long grey slabs. He looks back, at the huddled village, surrounded by the low treeless braes of limestone, and he sees Marta standing where he left her in a small cove of the bay. She’s taken her shoes and socks off, and is about to paddle when she sees him, looking at her. They wave at each other.
Banjo runs up to Guy and leans, panting and friendly, against his leg. Banjo’s mouth hangs open and his teeth are wet with spit and black with soil, while the long candy-strip of his tongue hangs out, quivering. There’s a wild-eyed look of exertion that makes Guy laugh, the dog wags his tail in response, and swallows several times in gratitude.
He disappears among the rocks, crawling and scrambling along them till he reaches their furthermost point where they slope at an angle into the sea. Not his sea this time, but an ocean: the Atlantic.
The sea floods on to shelves of the rock, then drains off, leaving behind glistening mats of gold and green seaweed. He realizes this is the same rocky ledge where the photo of Howard was taken. Guy stands in the same spot, looking out across the vastness of the ocean and at the mountains on the islands in the distance, wearing another man’s trunks and swimming goggles. A dead man at that. It’s a fine way to end up, he thinks, but he isn’t unduly bothered by the thought. Accept all, he thinks. We slip in and out of each other’s lives constantly. We hold on to things, we should let things pass, because all things must pass.
Long tubular sections of kelp stick out of the water, steaming softly in the morning light. When each wave sweeps in, he watches its motion suddenly braking and dispersing, the wave slowing to half its speed, and lifting the necks of the plant in long wide rafts, as if the seawater is suddenly as thick as oil. He can see the kelp swaying eerily beneath the surface in long bronze horsetails. There are deep clear pools in it, and avenues where the seaweed closes and opens as the water pours through.
Guy fixes Howard’s goggles over his eyes and slips into the water, immediately feeling the greasy stroke of kelp around his legs. He pushes his way through it and slides into one of the open pools, sinking beneath the surface into a silently fanning world of weed blowing in the currents. The kelp surrounds him in waving fronds. It feels dangerous and mysterious, the distances opening up and separating and then closing in front of his eyes.
Above him, suddenly, is a sparkle of light, and he sees a cascade of bubbles spearing down towards him as Banjo’s feathery paws paddle the water, the dog’s long belly hair streaming as he swims. Guy surfaces and comes face to face with his dog, huffing away with his chin out of the water, a useless piece of driftwood in his mouth.
‘You OK?’ Guy asks, as Banjo paddles in circles round him. Guy dives again. The water is cool and light and about as refreshing a substance as he can imagine. He kicks and reaches forward into the kelp, which parts effortlessly into a glimpse of open water, and he swims towards it, as the fronds of weed caress h
is legs and arms. Below him, he notices the seabed is now not so rocky - it’s dusted with a finely crumbled white of coral. There are starfish down there, rubbery and bright orange, with the tips of their legs curling upwards. He sees a crab, scuttling one way, then the other, a rusty pincer raised at his shadow. Nature in all its wonderful abundance, in sparkling glory.
Guy swims through the last ribbons of the kelp, and he notices the seabed lowering steeply. Then he watches how Banjo’s paws, fanned out wide, dig fast at the water, as the dog moves from left to right in uncertain little changes of direction, suspended above the deepness like a puppet.
He treads water, next to his dog, who still has the piece of wood in his mouth. Banjo swims towards him with a newfound urgency, then turns quickly and heads back towards the kelp and the rocks. Guy watches him clamber out, drop the wood, shake and bark. He looks skinny.
Now Guy swims faster, remembering the time he swam in the North Sea, the coldness and the feeling of being cleansed, of being anointed. Around him the water seems so crystal clear, so sparkling, but as it reaches away into the open ocean that same water begins to lose something, its own sense of lightness, its own sense of clarity, but gains something too - a shadow, a wide deep shadow which has that same soft blue light he has sought so many times before. The glow that rises, haze-like, in the bluebell woods. The blueness at the edge of things, where the world seems to reveal a hint of its own true nature. Mysterious. Beyond reach.
He thinks he is on the verge of a great understanding. That the true nature of all things is that of calmness, that the true spirit of all he’s been searching for is here, so close to him, emerging all around. This soft blue light which surrounds us at times, so gentle, so essential. He goes towards it, welcoming it like a pleasant memory, a sense of himself which is balanced and full of well being.