Call of the Undertow

by Linda Cracknell

  Carol spread out a rug on the dry rocks and unpacked boiled eggs, slices of buttered bread, tomatoes, sausage rolls. She’d brought an enormous flask of tea which was strong and milky, searing with steam as she poured it into two mugs.

  ‘Here.’ She held out one to Maggie, who took it but continued to stand, looking out across the water with binoculars around her neck.

  ‘Jamie. Fran,’ Carol called the children who were crouched over a rock pool, poking something with a stick. Fran’s blonde hair was still held in the two plaits Maggie had put in for her that morning.

  ‘This is how I used to keep the wind from stealing my hair on a day like this,’ she’d said, finishing each plait with the purple toggle Fran had insisted on.

  The child had looked up at her, concerned, and said, ‘Did the wind steal all your hair?’

  ‘Only temporarily,’ said Maggie.

  ‘She used to have lovely long hair,’ Carol said. ‘Remember? When she used to come and stay with us?’

  Fran frowned. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m growing it a wee bit again,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Oh,’ Fran had said.

  ‘Do you two want orange juice?’ Carol asked the children, taking out cardboard cartons. They lifted their heads from the pool and scampered over, barefoot, sitting cross-legged on the rug.

  ‘Have you seen any yet?’ Jamie asked Maggie. The bay was well known for its grey seal colony.

  ‘Not yet. You have to be patient.’

  ‘But what if they don’t come today?’

  Carol and the children would need to get packed, ready to leave first thing the next day.

  ‘There’s always the summer holidays when you’ll come and visit me again.’

  Jamie brightened.

  She pointed out shags hanging their wings out to dry on one of the skerries where the bay’s waist opened back out into the Pentland Firth. ‘Scarfies,’ she said, ‘that’s what they’re called here.’

  Each of the children looked at them through the binoculars.

  Fran was looking at the clear water, turquoise-coloured where it washed in above the pale sand. ‘Can we swim here?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Carol. ‘Keep away from the water. It’s very deep and dangerous.’

  Maggie heard the implicit criticism. She shouldn’t have brought the children here. A sandy beach would have been much more relaxing.

  ‘I doubt you’d enjoy it,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s not exactly warm. And...’ She gathered her hands into claws and launched them at the children, snapping them open and shut. ‘There’s crabs,’ she said as Jamie sniggered slightly and Fran squealed.

  Maggie looked across the tiny bay, back inland. A high grassy bank on the far shore was always kept mown by the people of the house opposite; a good vantage point for watching wildlife. Maggie saw that someone was up on the path now, facing the sea. She looked at the figure through binoculars, starting from the feet and drawing her gaze upwards. As she half expected, the person’s head was covered in close amber-blonde curls, and the woman stared down into the water of the bay. She’d seen little of Nora over the winter, or even since the memorial service for Trothan, probably because she’d moved further away from the village.

  Fran tugged at Maggie’s arm from behind her. She was looking in the opposite direction, pulling her towards something. ‘Is that a dog in the water?’

  ‘Look, there’s two.’ It was Jamie now, sounding excited.

  ‘It’s a young one. It’s a young one. Oh, look, Auntie Maggie.’

  Maggie swung around and saw two grey heads, one large, one smaller, risen on curious, long necks from the water. She saw their wide round eyes and flaring nostrils and put the binoculars in front of Fran’s eyes, adjusting for size.

  Carol was getting up from the rug now and Jamie clamouring for a shot with the binoculars.

  ‘It turned and looked at me.’ Fran jumped up and down. ‘Mum. The seal looked at me.’

  ‘Isn’t that another one?’ Carol pointed to the rocks and a large grey shape flopping its way awkwardly across boulders. It slipped into the sea, transforming itself, pouring like silk. It dived, showing a silent round of oily back before surfacing again alongside the other two. The seals made sudden, splashy dives and then rapidly resurfaced as if they’d been dancing underwater.

  ‘Listen,’ Maggie said.

  They all strained in the direction she indicated towards a low platform of rocks at the base of a stack. And heard it. A longing, a melancholy call.

  ‘Is he singing?’ Fran threw her arms around Maggie’s waist and looked up at her.

  ‘Yes, love. He’s singing,’ and she played with the tail of Fran’s plait as she gazed out to where the song came from.

  Nora was still up on the path, listening and watching too. She and Maggie turned a little towards each other and Nora’s free hand parted from her side, rose and opened slowly, into a high, wide wave. She held her hand there for several seconds, the fingers dark against the pale sky, parting wide so that light filled their negatives.

  The sisters returned the wave, Maggie holding it for a little longer, opening her hand in the same way as if to meet and match the other woman’s.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Hamish Ashcroft for inspiring me with his astonishing map-drawing skills when he was six years old. Apologies to the people of Castletown and Dunnet Bay whose marvellous location and stories I’ve inhabited with invented characters.

  For help with the development of the novel I’m grateful to the Scottish Book Trust’s mentoring scheme and the support of Caitrin Armstrong, Jan Rutherford and my excellent mentor Andrew Crumey. Early readers Sarah Salway, Elspeth Mackay and Phil Horey gave me invaluable feedback, and my agent Jenny Brown has been steadfast in her encouragement and deserves a medal for patience. To my hosts and fellow writers at the Château de Lavigny writers’ residence in September 2012 I owe the courage to press the ‘send’ button.

  For technical advice on map history and map-making, thanks are due to Carolyn Anderson, and to Anne Mahon and Vaila Donnachie of HarperCollins Publishers, particularly the latter for her careful reading of a draft. For help on wildlife matters thanks go to Kenny Taylor, Highland Council Ranger Paul Castle, and Helen McLachlan of WWF Scotland. ‘PC Pedro’ knows who he is and was of great assistance as was Jane Bechtel, Humanist Celebrant. Any factual errors are my own.

  To the good people of Freight Books – a grand salute for your belief in this work and for all your publishing skills. For her sensitive and creative editing, thanks go to Elizabeth Reeder.

  Finally, of the many people who have encouraged me, the last mention must go to Gavin Wallace who was a wonderful supporter of writers and writing through his positions at the Scottish Arts Council and Creative Scotland and is greatly missed.