by Beech, Mark
The small cottage was on a slight hillock and gave a panoramic view out across the flat headland; to the East they could see the top of a lighthouse which would mark the edges of the Northern channel of the Irish sea, off to the North some choppier waters gave way to the Firth of Clyde, and to their East, tucked into a more secluded furrow of land was Loch Ryan. It looked magnificent and Margaret’s eyes were wide with delight and wonder.
“Oh, isn’t the sea just magnificent, Robert,” she sighed.
Before he had a chance to answer a voice called out from behind them.
“It is that, lassie, but behind all that magnificent beauty there lies a terrible, ruinous beast!” a man said, with a soft Scottish accent.
They both turned, surprised that they should be disturbed in such a secluded spot.
The man was standing with one leg up on a dry stone wall, in a scruffy tweed attire that seemed to mark him as a farmer. He gave a rather odd impression of hovering some way off the ground, until the couple noticed that he was standing in a tractor trailer that was piled high with stones, to repair the wall.
“Oh, good afternoon,” Robert began, heading over to the man and offering his hand. “I’m Robert Galton, and this is my wife, Margaret. We’re staying up here for a week, for a little holiday. We’re newly married, you see.”
“Well, that’s bonnie,” the man said, jumping down from the wall and shaking Robert’s hand vigorously. “Congratulations to you both. I’m Stan Buchanan and I’ve the land bordering this cottage. That’s my place on the way doon to Lady Bay there.”
He pointed to another low, tiny cottage, almost obscured by a herd of cattle that were heading towards the trailer at a good pace.
“If ye’ve any problems at all, just give me and the missus a shout,” he said. “We’ll be more than happy to help oot.”
“That’s very kind of you indeed,” said Margaret. “Have you lived around here long?”
“I’m a Dumfries lad, mysen,” he said. “But I took the farm on aboot twenty years back now, after me granda’ passed on and left it to ma pa. He didna care for farming and I fancied the outdoor life, so I gave it a go and met ma lassie doon in Stranraer. It’s a grand spot here. A bit rough though, ya ken; in the winter. We get a reet blast of weather coming in frae the sea. And then there’s the cries of battle in the night. I hope ye’re good sleepers.”
“The cries of battle?” Margaret said, quite puzzled.
“Och, aye,” Stan said, propping himself against the wall. “All around here ye’ve the old forts from ancient folk—Iron age, I think it was. Ye’ve one doon there, straight North of yer cottage—Dundream; and one away doon by Corsewell lighthouse—Dunskirloch. There’s a load of them all aboot here, right doon The Rhins an’ all. Aboot once a month, as the moon is on the wane, ye can hear their ghostly battles; the clang of sword on sword, the sunderin’ of shields the moans of the wounded, the screams of the womenfolk and the cries of the bairns, the calls of lost souls whistling across the empty fields at midnight, desperately trying to find peace again.”
Margaret gazed out to the Northern headland in awe.
“And I suppose you’ve also a headless horseman too,” Robert smiled at Stan.
“Och aye, three o’ ’em, and a Spanish ghost ship that come doon the Loch firing spectral cannon off Jamieson’s point,” he said, winking at Robert.
“Oh, I see,” Margaret laughed, realising he was winding her up. “And I suppose you’ll tell me the one about the haggis next... with the three legs, that can only go one way around the mountainside...”
“Ah, so you’re familiar with the wee creatures then,” Stan chuckled.
“Oh, yes,” she said, heading over to the back of the car to start unpacking. “I just hope Robert is quick enough to catch one for our supper one evening.”
“Oh, aye,” Stan grinned, clambering back onto the wall. “Ye’ve to be very swift of foot to catch ’em.
“No, aboot the only ghosts and goblins ye’ll hear will be ma coos breaking wind—and that’s truly frightening, I can tell ye. Have a lovely time, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
Robert smiled tiredly and remembered Tom saying the same. Stan waved goodbye as he jumped down onto the trailer.
Margaret didn’t like toilet humour, but it had been nice to meet such a friendly person just as they’d arrived, especially after the disappointment of the exhaust.
“Why does everyone say that?” Robert said, irritably.
“What?” Margaret asked, starting to sort through the boxes, planning which order to take them in.
“Oh, you know—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—it’s embarrassing,” he grumbled.
“I know,” she said, dragging their suitcases out. “I had it all from the girls at The Herald. It’s a funny thing to say anyway, seeing as we’ll be doing what everyone does anyway.”
She looked a little sheepishly at him and giggled. He smiled back and they both blushed.
“Oh, Robert,” she said, quickly. “Why don’t you call after him and ask about a nearby garage?”
Stan was already halfway across the field.
“Er, Mr Buchanan,” Robert shouted. “Hello...”
Stan turned and waved.
“Do you know of a garage nearby, our car’s had a little problem and we’ll need it fixed?” he yelled, the wind muffling and distorting his voice.
“Nearest garage is in Stranraer,” Stan called out. “Ye’ll have to ring them to book in mind, they’re very busy.”
“Do you have a telephone we could borrow to call them?” Robert said, his throat becoming hoarse.
“Och, no!” Stan laughed. “Naebady roond here has a telephone. There’s one at the lighthouse and one doon at the hotel in Kirkcolm—but they’re about the same distance, a couple o’ miles—so I’d go for the hotel, at least ye can have a wee drink while ye’re there.”
Robert waved and yelled his thanks as loud as he could against the increasing winds and headed back to help Margaret with the boxes of provisions.
She’d gone in ahead of him and was stood, suitcases still in hand, looking around rather forlornly at their accommodation.
It was very musty, having not been visited for over a year now. The main living area was open plan, with a small sink and drying unit, a large range cooker and fire, which presumably also heated water in the large tank behind it. There was a small table and two chairs and a rather mildewed looking sofa. Robert went through to the small bedroom and found an old wooden bed with neatly folded sheets and blankets on top of it. A large window looked out from here towards the east and a door off of it led to a bare brick room that had a small toilet and a metal bathtub hanging from a rusted hook on the wall.
“Looks as though we’ll be bathing by the fire,” he called out to Margaret.
There was no answer.
Back in the main room he found her struggling in with the largest box of groceries, with all the tins and jars in it.
“You should have said. I’d have brought that one in,” he said, wondering if she was annoyed with him. “Look, I’m so sorry. The way Tom talked it was a lovely little place. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Don’t be silly, Robert,” she said, kindly, walking over to him and taking his hands. “It is a lovely place and there’s nothing wrong with it that a quick dust and airing won’t sort out. Now, you go out for a walk and gather as much wood as you can, so we can get that range going, and I’ll have the place looking spotless for when you get back.”
“Ok, then, if you’re sure. I’ll try and bag us some supper with my haggis blunderbuss,” he said, giving her a big kiss.
In the small hallway he found a bag of coal about a quarter full. He emptied it into a metal bucket and took it with him to put the wood in.
He wasn’t quite sure how long it would take to make the place ‘spotless’—perhaps he should return in a couple of days, he thought.
A few hours should be ok, and then he could lend a han
d. He knew Margaret wanted to do it—to make the place special—but he felt awful for having not gone ahead with his plan for Paris.
He roamed across some of the fields and along the lanes but most of the wood he found was damp and he just hoped that there might be enough to get something of a fire going to dry the rest of it out, or they’d be eating packets of crisps and pickled onions for a few days, until the car was fixed.
On his return to the cottage he saw smoke rising from the chimney, all the windows and doors were open and he saw Margaret come out with the rug from the bedroom, beating it against the stone wall; dust clouds rose from it as she turned her head away, spluttering. The cows in the field looked up at her with their patient, perplexed expressions before resuming their grazing.
Walking in through the backdoor he saw a complete transformation. The place was swept, even a tablecloth and a jug with some flowers on the table, which was laid for supper. He saw that the range had been started and there was a basket filled with logs beside it.
Margaret came back in with the heavy rug.
“It looks wonderful, darling,” he said.
“Not too bad, so far,” she replied.
“So, you didn’t need any wood then,” he said, dropping the meagre bag on the floor.
“Well, luckily, there’s a little shed, just round the side, that’s stacked with dry wood and kindling, so there’s no need to worry,” she smiled. “Did you have a nice walk, anyway? Spot any wild haggis?”
“Yes, it was lovely—but I think all the haggis—hagisses, haggae—might be hiding,” he said, heading over to the sink to wash his hands.
That night they had fried spam and beans, with thick slices of bread and butter. Robert poured them generous measures of scotch—one of the few drinks that didn’t send Margaret instantly squiffy—and they laughed and joked the evening away, quite enjoying the fact they were roughing it.
While Margaret chatted about where they might visit around the area, the novel she was reading (something about a group of rabbits, that sounded a bit silly to Robert), and some gossip about the girls at the newspaper she worked at, Robert’s thoughts kept turning to their first proper night together, trying to plan, as best he could, how it might go.
Margaret got changed through in the toilet—which didn’t bode particularly well—emerging in a long blue nightdress and rushing over into bed, where she turned the side lamp out and pulled the covers over her, in what appeared to be one practised, single movement. Granted, it was a little chilly, but Robert had hoped there might be something a little more exciting she had found to wear. After some kissing and cuddling she said, rather flatly, “well, hadn’t you better start.” It sounded as though she was talking about a making an omelette, or washing the windows.
So Robert ‘started’.
Margaret was clearly uncomfortable and held him closely to her as she winced with each thrust. Just as things were getting a little easier and she seemed to be settling into it, with the covers tightly tucked around them, she suddenly threw him off and let out a loud scream.
“Oh, Christ, Robert. There’s someone at the window,” she stammered, pointing with her right hand and frantically pulling her nightdress back down with her left.
Robert had leapt out of bed unsure whether he had done something awful and now stood naked in the moonlight. He felt ridiculous and cupped his hand around his privates, reaching out to turn the lamp on.
Bang! The bulb blew and a bright spark crackled out of the decaying flex along with a puff of dark smoke. Margaret let out another scream.
“Oh for God’s sake Margaret it’s just the bloody lamp blowing. I’ll get the torch,” he said exasperatedly, running through to the boxes stacked by the sink to find it.
“No, don’t leave me,” she called, desperately.
“Well, I can’t stay there and get the torch can I,” he said, running back in to her a couple of moments later, flashing the light at the window.
Margaret screamed again.
“What! What!” Robert yelled. He hadn’t seen anything.
“There it is again. There he is!” she sobbed, pointing at the window.
Robert scanned the window again, slowly. And as he paused by the right hand side he heard her gasp.
“You don’t mean that do you,” he said, stepping closer to the window and shining the light on a medium sized fern-like bush outside. He turned back to Margaret, keeping the torch on the plant.
Margaret squinted in the gloom, “Er, yes, that’s him—I mean it.”
“It’s a plant, Margaret—a sodding plant!” he said, turning the torch off and placing it on his bedside table.
“Alright, there’s no need to be nasty about it,” she said, still looking over at the window. “It does look like someone though—in the moonlight—doesn’t it.”
Robert peered over. There was something about it that looked like tangled hair, with a dark face beneath, but only if you really looked for it.
“Of course it doesn’t, Margaret. It’s a plant,” he pushed his legs into the bed and rolled over with his back to her.
After a couple of minutes of sitting in the tense quiet, with Margaret still sat up in bed, looking at the shuffling shape outside, she whispered, “Sorry, Robert. Shall we start again?”
“No,” he said. “Let’s leave it for tomorrow.”
He closed his eyes tightly and tried to sleep.
After an awkward breakfast of boiled eggs and toast the following morning was spent with further tidying up and checking what provisions the small shed contained—mostly wood, an axe, kindling and two large gas bottles for a heater that was, as yet, undiscovered. Raking out the ashes from the range Robert thought the bottom of it looked rather fragile and he wondered what they might be able to use to reinforce it a bit. Maybe he could ask Mr Buchanan for something.
He suggested a walk down to the lighthouse at around eleven but Margaret said she wasn’t feeling up to it and fancied a bath, and a little rest. So he ambled off and explored a little of the rocky headland, before heading back in the early afternoon, feeling rather tired himself.
As he plodded wearily up the cottage track he could see a figure out in the field a little way from their cottage and, at first, assumed it must be Mr Buchanan. As he got closer though he saw that it was Margaret, her beautiful hair blowing madly in the wind. She had a bright summery dress on and, although it was late Spring, there was still quite a bite to the sea air. He thought she must be freezing. He veered off the track and across the field to her, but noticed that she didn’t seem to move at all—as still as a statue.
He picked up his speed and began calling her name. There was still no movement and no answer. He quickened his pace into an almost run.
“Are you alright, Margaret?” he panted out, a few feet from her.
Still she didn’t say anything and didn’t move. He circled round her and saw her eyes were closed, her nostrils flaring as she took in the sea air in deep, rhythmic breaths.
“Margaret, are you ok?” he asked, raising his voice.
She opened her eyes, startled to see him.
“Oh, Robert, yes. Yes, I’m fine,” she said, gathering up her cardigan and looking rather flustered and embarrassed.
“What are you doing?” he asked, helping put the cardigan over her shoulders.
“Nothing really,” she said, somewhat guiltily, still looking rather dazed. “I was just thinking.”
“Thinking... about what?” he continued, putting an arm round her and looking out across the sea.
“Oh, this and that,” she turned and started heading back towards the cottage.
He followed her and took her hand.
“You’re not worried about the car are you?” he asked. “I’ll go down to Kirkcolm tomorrow and ring the garage...”
“No, nothing as dull as that,” she laughed, turning back towards the sea, as though she had forgotten something. “I was just thinking about what Mr Buchanan said yesterday—about the ol
d forts; about Dundream.”
“Oh, he was only playing with you,” Robert said, pulling her round into his arms.
She looked up at him seriously, “I know that, Robert. I’m not a little girl.”
“Well, what is it about Dundream?” he said, unsure why she was suddenly so stern with him.
“It’s the name,” she said, sadly. “Don’t you think it sounds like everything’s over—Dun Dream. The dream is done—finished!”
Robert didn’t know what to say. He’d never heard Margaret say anything like this before, anything so sad and poignant. He felt rather empty and disoriented.
“Anyway, I’d better get us something for lunch,” she said, snapping merrily back into her usual manner. She took his hand in hers and led him back to the cottage.
“Do you know why they call it a honeymoon,” she said, swishing at the tall grass with her other hand.
“I thought it was because the wedding guests spent all their time drinking the bride and groom’s mead,” he joked.
“No,” she said, the serious tone returning. “It’s because this time is the best and sweetest of times. It doesn’t get any better. We are in the full moon of our love, from now on that moon wanes and gives way to all the everyday things—to homes and washing, to babies and cooking, to cleaning and earning money. These are our honey days.”
They walked on slowly in silence.
“Oh, right,” Richard said, as they got back to the cottage. “Well, we’d best make the most of them then.”
Margaret nodded and opened the door for him.
She made some sandwiches with the rest of the spam and put in a thick layer of piccalilli. Robert didn’t much like the mustardy, vinegary spread but didn’t want to say anything, uncertain whether she was in some kind of mood with him. She didn’t seem to be angry though, just a little distant. They ate their sandwiches in silence as she peered out of the open back door at the fields and the sea.
They spent the afternoon reading and dozing on the bed. The night came, almost instantly, and the house was surrounded by its black, curtain less windows—odd lights from what must have been a ferry were visible on Loch Ryan and the arc of the lighthouse illuminated the clouds off to the west.