Scrapbook

by Michael White

  My editor, Phillip Montague, is an understanding man. Well he was for the first three months after the deadline for my latest book expired. After that he was starting to get just a little bit more excitable.

  “Publishers like to have their release schedules ready nine months in advance at least.” he said to me during one particularly irate phone call that was I think four months after the deadline had shot past. “They won’t wait for you forever.”

  “I only have about ten chapters left to do.” I said apologetically, “I am sure it will fix itself.”

  “You need a break.” he said. “Sun, sand and sangria.”

  “I don't do holidays.” I frowned. I lived alone and found beach holidays something that I would never ever do. I confess that the very thought of such a holiday makes me break out in a cold sweat. No. I would stay in front of the laptop almost practically bursting with anger as for hour after hour I stare at a blank page just waiting for something to happen instead.

  “Perhaps you need isolation.” he said. “Get out of London. Everyone has to do it from time to time.”

  “I am fine where I am, Philip.” I said firmly, “After all, I am where I wrote all of my previous books.”

  “Well isolation sometimes helps. Go and rent a cottage somewhere. Lock yourself away.” There was a brief pause during which I could almost hear his mental cogs turning.

  “As long as wherever you go has a telephone of course.” he said finally.

  “So you can keep tags on me I assume?”

  “Precisely.”

  I finished the call with the promise that I would keep him up to date with how I was, or wasn’t, getting on and sat myself back down in front of the blank page on the laptop again. It was after nine at night and so I stood up again and poured myself a scotch, returning to the computer and closing the empty word document for the night. I started off reading the news online which was sufficiently depressing enough to make me go and look at how my book sales were going, which was not too bad at all, and then on a whim I did a quick google search for remote cottages.

  I must admit that Phillip’s idea was not too bad and so I lost myself for a while looking at all of these remote places, all hundreds of miles from anywhere at all, which seemed if anything to make them more appealing to me. It was January however, and so many were not let currently. In fact, judging by the location of some of them I suspect that some of them were not accessible at all during the winter months!

  I reached into my desk and grabbed a pen. I printed out a few of the pages and made a few notes on them and then finding that time had run away with me and the whisky was almost gone I closed the laptop, turned off the lamp and retired for the night. I never have trouble sleeping, whether I am suffering from writer’s block or not and so I was soon asleep, my dreams remote and settled, though in one I was standing outside a cottage and inside I see the light from the open fire burning at the hearth. It was dark as I trudged towards those flames, my feet crunching in the snow as I walked across the ground outside. It was a cosy dream but it soon flew away and I was lost to sleep again.

  ***

  “South Ronaldsay?” exclaimed Philip when I rang him at the beginning of the following week to say that I had made no progress on the manuscript and that yes, I was taking him up on his advice to spend a little bit out of time out of London by renting a remote cottage for a month starting on the Saturday of this week. “Where the bloody hell is that?”

  “Orkney.” I said, a smile appearing on my face as the very idea of it swam though my mind.

  “Jesus.” said Philip. “Do they have a phone?”

  “Well I spoke to the owner just yesterday so I assume so.” I thought about its location for a second. “It is nearer to Oslo in Norway than London, you know. I doubt if I could get any further away from London and yet still be in the same country if I tried.”

  “Flying?”

  “To Aberdeen yes. I could have gone a little bit more rural but to be honest I fancied the drive. It’s a bit of an adventure, and I haven’t had one of them for a while.”

  “It’s a ferry to Orkney I assume then?” said my agent, a slight edge of what may have been humour in his voice, though it could possibly have been envy too, for Phillip was London bound just as much as I was.

  “Yes. North Sea. May take a few sea sickness tablets before it sails I think.”

  “Drive from Aberdeen to the ferry won't take long then, I imagine.”

  “Just over six and a half hours from Aberdeen to Gill’s Bay where the Pentland ferry sails from.”

  “Blimey!” said Phillip, “Shows you just how far it is!”

  “Then from St Margaret’s Hope where the ferry docks on Orkney to the Hoxa Peninsula where the cottage is only about fifteen minutes tops. Isolated doesn’t even begin to halfway describe it!”

  “You sound excited!” said my agent, and I was surprised to find that I was, and was actually looking forward to packing everything that I would need for a month’s stay on the remote island. I looked at the picture of the cottage on the map once again. It was so far away! This was going to be an adventure for certain!

  The British Airways flight from Heathrow to Aberdeen took a surprising one hour and twenty-eight minutes. Strange really, you always think of UK internal flights as trifling affairs. Just enough time to be served a cup of tea by the harassed stewardesses and it was back on with the safety belts as the landing gear comes back down again. Not so with this one!

  I collected my hire car from the airport and set off to Gill’s Bay at the very top of Scotland. I had taken no chances with my choice of car and had hired a 4X4 just in case. Mister McTeigh, the owner of the cottage had said that although there was only a slight layer of snow on the ground when he had spoken it was forecast for when I was due to arrive.

  “It's not like London snow up here.” he had said in a surprisingly slight Scottish accent. “Oh no. When it snows here it snows properly. Bring a few warm coats and a hat my lad!” he had said laughing, but I paid him attention and had already done so.

  The drive heading roughly northwest towards Elgin and Inverness before heading north along the eastern side of the tip of the country was both bleak and exhilarating. The North Sea never seemed to be far from view and the road was between the larger cities quite comfortable to drive along traffic wise. This was farming land of course, and everything seemed also to be wind powered, the wind turbines outside almost every farm building no matter how distant it was from the roadway.

  It was the weather that was the greatest challenge, especially as I headed north. I passed through many villages and towns, but there was a constant assault by either rain, sleet, snow or the roaring wind which buffeted the car mercilessly on several occasions, especially on the Dornoch Firth road bridge, which although not quite as grand as it sounds, is still something worth seeing.

  By the time I pulled into Gill’s Bay and saw the ferry terminal ahead I was well and truly ready to put my feet up whilst the ferry conveyed me to Orkney. I had taken a very early flight from Heathrow, but it was still now nearly three in the afternoon and night was drawing in on the horizon as I drive the car onto the ferry and having secured it to the satisfaction of the crew made my way up to the deck for something to eat and perhaps a drink or two. I had already swallowed a few sea sickness tablets and was glad that I had done so as the journey was to say the least a little wild, though I did chuckle at the advertising strap line of the ferry, the main thrust of which seemed to be that they would try and make the crossing as quick as possible!

  The crossing itself was to take an hour, and the ferry was a remarkably large, well equipped ship that I found was certainly ready for a hungry traveller such as I. I swallowed my food quickly however and made my way to the deck to take in the sights as we sailed across to the Orkney Archipelago, and the port of St Margaret’s Hope, the very name of which made me want to visit the place when I first read of it.

  It was the largest town on the islan
d, and although it was too late this evening I knew I would have to return there at some point to stock up on food and general supplies for my stay.

  “Best not get caught out by the weather.” McTeigh had said. “Always have in more than you need just in case you get stuck. I can keep an eye open for you in case the weather gets bad, but if it’s the same this year as it was last then you’ll be cut off and on your own.”

  “Did you have tenants this time last year then?” I asked and the Scotsman roared with laughter down the other end of the line.

  “Haven’t had a tenant in January for about five years!” he laughed, “You’re a real surprise. Make no mistake about that, laddie!”

  “Ah well. I don't like to follow the pack.” I laughed and made a mental note at the time to make sure I had plenty of whisky in stock too. Wouldn’t do to be stranded in Scotland without anything to drink!

  By four thirty I had driven the hire car out of the town of St Margaret’s Hope for the short journey to the cottage I had rented to the south on the island of South Ronaldsay. Night had fallen an hour before, and the sea journey had been completed in darkness, the lights of St Margaret’s Hope shining us into the harbour like a promise some thirty minutes before. Now I drove across the island towards the cottage in the dark. There was no traffic about at all, and the wind was racing across the island, though only the occasional tuft of grass off to the side of the road held snow, the road being clear of it completely.

  There was no moon as I turned down the drive towards the cottage and the sea, and as I pulled up outside the converted farmhouse I had rented for the next month I felt both apprehensive and yet also completely vindicated by my actions. As the car pulled to a halt beside what looked like a small battered farm jeep, a large man in a very thick coat strode from the cottage and approached the car, holding his hand out and shaking minevigorously as I exited into the wind they seemed to be roaring up from the shore at the end of the drive.

  “McTeigh.” said the man with a smile. he was in fairness almost exactly as I imagined him; broad shouldered and tall, but a ready smile on his face as he assessed his tenant who made this journey at a very strange time of year.

  “Pleased to meet you.” I said, pumping his hand and then he followed me to the boot to help me carry my luggage into the hall.

  “You will need provisions tomorrow for certain.” he said sternly on our second trip from car to house. “Snow is forecast and if it falls I won't be able to get to you up here.” He paused, looking into the night. “Nobody will. Make sure you have peat for the fire and stove. I have left you some, but it’s not enough to last a month. Plenty of food and drink too. Nonperishables.”

  “I’ll do that thanks.” I smiled as we went into the house with the final sets of bags.

  McTeigh then set about giving me a tour of the house, which I do have to say was very nice indeed. Four bedrooms, several bathrooms, a very well equipped kitchen and comfortable sitting room and lounge. I mentally mapped out which bedroom was best as I followed him around, where I would have breakfast, where I would set up the laptop and so on.

  It did not take long. McTeigh pointed out several manuals he had printed with instructions on how to light the fire, keep the oil pressure up and so on.

  “Weather permitting don’t forget to have a good look around the island. There is an awful lot of history about the island. First and second world war relics, but even more so our Viking history. Very colourful, as they say.”

  “I certainly intend to.” I smiled, “And I will be straight out to St Margaret’s Hope in the morning to get my supplies in.”

  “Very good.” he said, obviously keen to get away. “I will drop in tomorrow lunch time to see if you have any questions or anything is needed. After that I will leave you to it. Unless you need me of course.”

  “Very kind.” I said, and as he left I closed the front door and walked back into the house, smiling to myself.

  McTeigh had warmed the house up for me and it was very cosy, but I was extremely tired, and so after a few token bites on a sandwich I had brought with me I was off to the bedroom I had designated to be the one where I slept, for it looked out across the drive and then the sea, which was presumably very near. Less than a hundred yards the brochure had said, though of course it was pitch black outside now and so as I drew the curtains and nestled into the very comfortable bed my mind was playing the journey I had undertaken back in my head, but very soon after I was asleep and I slept like a log until the next day.

  ***

  The next day I woke early at seven in the morning, but it would be dark for another two hours yet before I could see the vista outside and so I breakfasted and made myself busy with unpacking, setting up my laptop and having a long hot shower which made me feel infinitely better.

  I was pleased to discover that the cottage was actually more or less completely powered by oil, the peat for the fire being mostly for cosmetic effect, though I knew that i would keep it going nevertheless. The fire was a huge thing, logs nestled in it but with the tools that McTeigh had left and following the instructions he had thoughtfully laid out in a manual beside the fire, it was soon roaring up the chimney again. I also busied myself making a list of all of the supplies that I would need from St Margaret’s Hope, and that included a delivery of peat for the fire.

  By the time I had done all this dawn was breaking on the horizon and so I put on my warmest jumper, coat and hat and made my way outside. The drive itself was about one hundred yards long, and at the end of it there was the sea, lapping at the shore. Here were several burnt black stumps poking up from the sea, jutting from the small waves like long black fingers. Shivering involuntarily, I thought that It looked like the remains of a small quay, possibly for a rowing boat or the like, but of such a boat there was no sight; just half a dozen long black spikes haphazardly jutting up on the shore.

  I walked around the stone cottage, pleasantly surprised by its large dimensions, and noted too just how flat the surrounding land was. You could see across the fields of grass for miles, and the view towards the town was unimpeded too. Here I found the peat shed, a large three sided construction that seemed to be protected from the worst of the wind. I had no idea how long a sod of peat would last in a fire of course, but I knew that the half a dozen or so remaining slabs here would not last very long as McTeigh had said so and so I resolved to enquire as to furnish the cottage with a month’s supply when I booked the delivery of the sods.

  Beside the peat shed was the large cast iron oil tank, two gauges on the front of it showing an even pressure and the other showing that the tank was nearly full. I knew that although I paid for any oil I used upon departure, that the sheer size of this tank would seem to indicate that it had several months’ worth of fuel inside it to placate even the most nesh of tenants.

  I made my way back indoors to collect my car keys and list, adding to my scribblings on the pad a warmer hat and a few new jumpers. My ears were stinging, and it seemed almost as if the wind itself was relentless, roaring across the island like a wave of some sort before sweeping back out to sea once again.

  So I set off to St Margaret’s Hope and during the course of the next few hours gathered my supplies from this charming place. It had the feel of a frontier town almost, as if all of the people who lived here knew that the land was harsh and the weather bleak, but that we are all in this situation together somehow. We were here by choice, and although I was but a temporary resident, I did rather strangely feel a sense of camaraderie that you would never under any circumstances expect to encounter in London.

  I took the advice of the peat merchant and he surprised me by saying that if I had more shopping to do then my peat would be at my cottage before I was.

  “Weather’s turning.” he said, tapping his nose. “Best get it done now, or it won’t get done at all.”

  I made my last stop to pick up a few bottles of more exotic whisky than I would normally drink, but I decided to spoil myself and so
having completed my shopping made my way back to the cottage, finding to my surprise that the peat merchant was indeed true to my word and there were thirty peat sods stacked up neatly in the peat shed for me.

  “Now that is service for you!” I said out loud and began carrying my supplies inside, filling the cupboards and fridge with my purchases. It was not long after that I heard the sound of a car outside, and looking through the kitchen window i saw McTeigh getting out of his old jeep outside and making his way towards the house.

  Give him his due, he did knock, but I was already there and so flung the door open and invited him inside, pouring us both a small measure of Scotch and offering him a toast to a good month’s stay, which he smiled at and slung the whisky back as if it was just water.

  Eyes streaming, I let him see my supplies and the peat, and he seemed satisfied that I had followed his words to the letter.

  “You certainly have become acquainted with the art of a dram for a guest!” he laughed, but declined another, which was just as well for I was not by any means a hardened drinker. “Still you have your supplies in and you seem to have mastered the fire.”

  “The oil is sufficient I take it?” I asked just to be on the safe side.

  “Aye. You could have the heating on full and every light lit and it would still take you to August with the fuel in the tank right now.”

  “Excellent.” I said and followed him out onto the drive, instantly regretting not putting on my coat before I did so. The wind howled around me, the temperature so low that the cold seemed to almost seep into my bones.