To Be Continued

by James Robertson

  ‘Mungo. Not now.’

  ‘Point taken. Unnecessary diversion. Corryvreckan says he’s never had a second-sight experience again. Anyway, he won a hundred thousand pounds, which I gather was a lot whenever it was. He did mention the year, but of course it didn’t mean much to me.’

  ‘It would just be a number to you.’

  ‘Two numbers. Nineteen and eighty-nine. Springtime, he said. Ah, springtime!’

  ‘Nineteen eighty-nine,’ Douglas said. ‘Aye, that was a fair sum then.’

  ‘So now he had the wherewithal to do whatever he wanted. He said goodbye to the Somethings of Surrey and headed for here, stopping en route to enjoy the Edinburgh Festival for a few days. He busked – I believe that is the term – with his guitar. It was on this occasion that he invented the pseudonym Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon, although this was purely a promotional device at that time.’

  ‘And then he came on here?’

  ‘Yes. It was where the fairies had taken him from, of course, but it had the added advantage of being remote.’

  ‘Rosalind doesn’t like that word. She says it’s insulting.’

  ‘Well, that’s what he wanted, remoteness. Or did he say “isolation”? Well, anyway, he’s a man who finds Oban too thriving a metropolis. Here, he could be what he wanted to be, and what he wanted to be was the complete Highlander.’

  ‘Called Corryvreckan?’

  ‘He had already come up with a name for a wandering minstrel, so now he lighted on another, which represents the untamed, mystical maelstrom that is the Celtic soul, apparently. Fortuitously he arrived just as the Glen Araich Lodge Hotel was put up for sale so he bought it.’

  ‘Why would you buy a hotel if you wanted isolation?’

  ‘He also wanted a long-term income. The cash wouldn’t last for ever, so his plan was to live in one part of the building while the rest of it earned him money. He hired someone to be the manager but she was useless, so he sacked her. Then he hired someone else who wasn’t much better and he had to sack him too, not long after the Georgina episode. That’s when he appointed Ruaridh MacLagan to look after the hotel. Are you with me so far?’

  Douglas scratched his head. ‘I was until that last item. How could Corryvreckan possibly appoint MacLagan?’

  ‘Listen to me and you shall know everything,’ Mungo said, and to Douglas he could have been a wee fat Belgian detective explaining a murder. ‘Corryvreckan was already psychologically fragile, given his family background. When the cyclist was killed he suspected the truth of what had happened and felt partially responsible, but he also felt a powerful loyalty to Rosalind Munlochy and to the way of life in the glen. Together they seemed to him to represent the old days. So he created the personality of Ruaridh MacLagan to manage the hotel, while the Corryvreckan side of him did whatever it could to keep Glentaragar House functioning and continued to become more Highland than the Highlands.’

  ‘Why not go the whole hog and wear a kilt?’

  ‘Ah, do not ask me to fathom the swirling depths of that mind. It is possible however that a true Highlander eschews such a contrivance as the modern form of the kilt, non? Shall I continue?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Eh bien, I am not saying that Corryvreckan was unconscious of what he was doing, but over time it became necessary, in order to avoid complete mental collapse, to accentuate the distinction between Corryvreckan and MacLagan. For one thing, the business was now – in Corryvreckan’s mind – MacLagan’s responsibility, and it was failing. MacLagan felt this too, even though he didn’t own the place. Corryvreckan would pay for a few bits and pieces when he went shopping – your breakfast supplies, for example – but not much else. In a desperate effort to keep the hotel afloat and make himself something on the side, MacLagan became involved in the illicit distribution of stolen liquor. He fell in with some bad characters from the Lowlands and they put pressure on him to take ever greater risks. Meanwhile, a third side to his character manifested itself in the revived form of the bard MacCrimmon, who – it transpired – wanted only to absolve himself from all responsibilities and wallow in self-pity, alcohol and terrible songs. Alors, what do we have? MacCrimmon is an irredeemable drunkard; MacLagan also takes more drink than is good for him – or did until I put in an appearance and showed him the error of his ways; but Corryvreckan does not drink at all – he stopped immediately after the death of the unfortunate cyclist. All this taken together suggests that the young man from Surrey formerly known as Edward Something has vanished and in his place stands a character as divided yet as unified as a block of Neapolitan ice cream. Compare the relaxed, even nonchalant manner in which Corryvreckan received me in the kitchen with the abject terror I induced in MacLagan. If I had shown myself to MacCrimmon he would doubtless have died of fright.’

  ‘Three sides of the same coin? It’s a nice theory, Mungo, but it has more holes in it than a lobster creel.’

  ‘Nevertheless the lobster is contained, mon ami,’ Mungo said. ‘It is the sober Corryvreckan who keeps the show on the road.’

  ‘I wish you would stop doing that,’ Douglas said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dropping in those French words as if you’re some kind of Poirot.’

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for is crapaud.’

  ‘You think you’re so smart.’

  ‘C’est vrai. Shall I tell you why?’

  Before Douglas could answer or Mungo could expand on the reasons for his intelligence, there was a tap at the door. A voice said softly, ‘Douglas?’

  ‘That’s her,’ Douglas hissed. ‘Make yourself scarce.’

  ‘Or even uncommon,’ Mungo said. ‘Very well. I know when I am surplus to requirements.’ He slid rapidly down the table leg. Douglas slid off the bed and approached the door in his socks.

  ‘It’s me,’ Poppy said. ‘Can I come in?’

  [To be continued]

  WE ARE NOT ALONE

  Poppy and I embrace. I lead her to the bed and help her up onto it. She has been crying.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ She sits on the edge, childlike, her feet well clear of the floor, and I kneel in front of her, clasping her knees. I feel an overwhelming desire to comfort her.

  ‘Rosalind has spoken to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And explained everything?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t say it’s a complete shock. I’ve thought it through so often over the years. I always knew there was more to it than I was told.’

  ‘Is that why you don’t drive?’

  ‘Oh yes. I couldn’t. I know it’s ridiculous, here of all places, not to have conquered that fear, but I could never get behind the wheel of a car. If I were ever responsible for hurting someone, or worse –’

  ‘It’s not ridiculous. It’s completely understandable.’

  ‘Rosalind never insisted. That in itself made me wonder.’

  ‘But you never asked her what had really happened?’

  ‘I wanted to, and at the same time I didn’t. Why bring it all to the surface again? The longer I didn’t ask, the more I questioned what good it would do. The older she got, the less it seemed to matter. There was a time when I felt I was betraying my mother by not demanding the truth. Later I felt it would be a betrayal of Rosalind to interrogate her about it.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve betrayed anyone,’ I tell her. ‘Me included.’

  ‘Thank you, Douglas. That’s what she told me. She says she’s the traitor. She says she betrayed herself and all the things she ever stood for. Truth, justice, equality before the law. It was instinctive, she said.’

  ‘Blood being thicker than water.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Poppy says, ‘but she did it and then she couldn’t bring herself to undo it.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s gone to her room. She’s quite worn out. She’ll be all right, but she needs to be on her own. I didn’t want to be. Were you sleeping
?’

  ‘I was thinking about it,’ I say. ‘Want to stay?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says.

  ‘Let’s get into bed then.’

  Quickly we undress. Not until we are safely under the covers do I realise quite how exhausted I am. We lie very still for a while. Outside, inside, everything is silent.

  ‘Why don’t you drive?’ Poppy asks.

  ‘I do. I just don’t have a car at the moment. Sonya, my ex, has it. And I’ve got points on my licence so I can’t hire one.’

  ‘What are the points for?’

  ‘Speeding and a bald tyre. No drink involved.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I’m glad you were caught. If you hadn’t been, maybe none of this would have happened.’

  ‘Oh, I think it might.’

  ‘There are paths through life. They don’t all lead to the same place. So I’m glad anyway.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say. ‘Although I was very pissed off at the time.’

  I think about that incident with the police and it seems a long way away, and then I must drift off to sleep, I don’t know how long for – ten minutes or two hours – but it is Poppy’s voice saying my name that wakes me.

  ‘Douglas?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Do you remember the night at the inn, when I said I felt we were not alone?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I feel it again now. Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  She sits up and looks around the room. The walls are bathed in afternoon light.

  ‘Ignore me,’ she says. ‘I must have been dreaming. Sorry.’

  ‘What were you dreaming?’

  ‘There was a … a toad. It was sitting on the end of the bedstead.’

  I sit up too. ‘Where?’

  ‘There. It was so vivid.’

  ‘Well, there’s a simple explanation, isn’t there? Rosalind told us she saw a toad in her sitting room. That’s obviously got into your subconscious. I don’t suppose your toad spoke to you?’

  ‘It did, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Oh dear. What did it say?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It was friendly, though. I don’t think I said anything back.’

  ‘That was probably the best policy.’ I lie down again.

  ‘It had a kind of look about it. As if everything were fine. As if it were telling me not to worry.’

  ‘Well, then. Don’t.’

  Poppy lies down too. After a minute she speaks again.

  ‘We are not alone, of course,’ she says.

  ‘Aren’t we?’

  ‘No, not any more, you and I.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we are.’

  ‘Love’s a kind of madness, isn’t it?’ she says.

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply cautiously. ‘Or maybe not. I don’t care.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ she says, snuggling in.

  THIS CANNOT CONTINUE

  Darkness gathers. Poppy and I get up and get dressed. She goes out to lock up the hens while I, in the kitchen, prepare an omelette from some of the hens’ eggs, and fry some potatoes to go with it.

  Corryvreckan comes in and seems surprised to find me there.

  ‘All right?’ I ask him. I feel cheerful and magnanimous.

  He looks at me with what could be contempt or pity or both.

  ‘I am well,’ he replies. He goes to the sink and pours himself a glass of water.

  ‘Thirsty?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I should think you would be after all the bevvy you’ve put away in the last few days.’

  He glares at me. ‘I do not drink alcohol.’

  ‘Sorry. I must be confusing you with someone else. Would you like to join us for a bite to eat?’

  ‘I would not. I have things to do.’

  ‘We can wait. Poppy’s out seeing to the hens.’

  ‘I will get myself something later, thank you all the same,’ he says. He turns to go, then stops. He comes towards me until his face is barely a foot away from mine.

  ‘You take care of her.’

  It isn’t quite a threat, nor do his eyes appear to contain envy or hatred. It is more as if he were delivering a moral instruction.

  ‘I intend to,’ I say. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you with an omelette?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ he says, and departs.

  Poppy comes in a few minutes later. She has checked on the hens and her grandmother and reports that both have gone to bed. Rosalind is reading, and doesn’t intend getting up again. I tell her that Corryvreckan has declined to eat with us. When the omelette is ready Poppy takes a portion, along with some bread and a pot of tea, to Rosalind’s room. The two of us eat in the kitchen, then we go back upstairs to Poppy’s room, also carrying a pot of tea. Tonight both of us have, for some reason, a strong aversion to alcohol. We spend the evening deep in conversation, filling in knowledge gaps. Among other things I tell her about Gerry and my lift in the hearse, and the stash of whisky at the Glen Araich. She says she is not altogether surprised as the hotel has been in financial trouble for years. Corryvreckan, she adds, would be appalled to learn that MacLagan has got himself mixed up in such goings-on.

  ‘Poppy,’ I say, ‘this cannot continue.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This pretence that Corryvreckan and MacLagan are two separate people.’

  ‘Are you sure it is a pretence?’

  ‘On his part, perhaps not. I’m talking about you.’

  She does not speak for quite a few seconds.

  ‘What do you want to do about it?’ she says at last.

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Well, don’t be too hasty,’ she says. ‘You might regret it.’

  A BIG COO’S SHITE

  I wake early, much refreshed, before it is fully light. Poppy is sleeping like a bairn beside me. I watch her breathing and a great sense of calmness flows through me. It is fair to say that any anger I have felt towards her and/or Xanthe has evaporated. That’s what good sex followed by a good sleep does for you, Douglas, I tell myself smugly. I decide not to disturb Poppy, slip out of bed, return to my own room for a towel and some clean clothes, then go and run myself a bath. By the time I have finished there is still no movement in the rest of the house. It is a fine morning. I go exploring.

  I put on my jacket, go downstairs, let myself out of the front door and walk down the path across the lawn and through the gates. The view from here to Loch Glaineach and beyond is even more impressive than it was yesterday. Everything looks washed and clear and new. I remember Rosalind in her smelly coat and woolly hat saying in her ancient voice, ‘Behold, the world.’

  I have lost track of the days, am under some kind of enchantment. I have no wish to break the spell by leaving but know that soon I will have to. From a professional point of view, there is no reason to delay my departure. I should also contact the Home and make sure that my father is all right.

  I set off down the hill towards the loch.

  It is autumn but there is a spring in my step. The surface underfoot is firm but not hard, and I find myself walking in big, easy strides. It takes no more than a quarter of an hour to reach the head of the loch. A pile of collapsed stones and timber is all that remains of the building that was once a staging post for goods as they came in from the sea. Birds are chirruping and fluttering, a fish makes a splash, but otherwise I am alone. It is a glorious feeling, especially when I think of Poppy, perhaps waking and stretching between her white sheets, perhaps even at this moment calling out my name. Will she wonder where I am? Will she worry that I might have gone? I don’t think so. Because – unlike Xanthe – I will return, the soldier home from the war, the hunter home from the hill. Well, I’ll have to, unless I walk right round the house and down the glen without stopping to collect my belongings. I’ll have to, but more importantly I want to.

  The track continues, more narrowly but otherwise in almost as good a condition, along the north side of the loch, once dipping through a shall
ow ford at the outflow of a burn, where a line of stones is carefully placed, enabling a walker to pass dry-shod.

  There are wet tyre marks on the track on the other side of the ford.

  It seems I am not alone after all.

  Loch Glaineach is short and fat and in another ten minutes I have reached the far end of it. Twenty yards of fast-flowing black water separate it from Loch Glas, the loch that connects it to the sea. At the head of it stands another old building, which to my surprise appears mostly intact. Parked beside it, where the track finally ends, is a familiar yellow car slumped at a familiar angle. Beyond the car, lying half-sunk against the shore, is the hulk of an old boat, some sixty feet in length. Rusting, and with a gaping wound in her uppermost side, nevertheless the rounded bow, derrick, hold, funnel and engine room together form the almost mythic, dumpy shape of a Clyde puffer.

  Corryvreckan is standing at the water’s edge, next to two piles, one of flattened cardboard and the other of empty bottles. As if he has been doing it for a long time, in one swinging motion he reaches down, lifts one of the bottles and lobs it through the hole in the boat. Smash! Reaches down, lifts one of the bottles and lobs it through the hole in the boat. Smash! Reaches down, lifts one of the bottles –

  ‘Corryvreckan!’ I shout.

  He looks over at me, scowls, pauses only for a second, then reaches down, lifts one of the bottles and lobs it through the hole in the boat. Smash!

  I walk over to the building. Lamont’s old store. Things are blowing about like dead leaves. I catch one: a paper label bearing the legend ‘Salmon’s Leap’. I let it go and it skips off across the loch.