Women of the Dunes

by Sarah Maine

“A flowering!” his father scoffed. “My son has seen fit to pack in his studies, Mr. Drummond, just a year before completing them, and chooses instead to flower as a writer.”

  “No, Pa, a poet. He will flower as a poet,” Mungo corrected him, and Oliver glanced at the younger son with some sympathy but could think of no way of offering support. Alexander Sturrock, however, was viewing his assailants with amusement, and his eyes connected for a moment with his mother’s. Was there indulgence there? he wondered.

  “I shall keep myself by teaching, as well as writing,” the young man said.

  Sir Donald’s expletive was covered by Lady Sturrock’s calm voice: “And he has come home for a spell to think matters over.” Yes, Alexander Sturrock had an ally, and Oliver was glad of it.

  At that point the door opened and May Sturrock slid soundlessly into the room, so frail a form that she seemed transparent. Oliver rose, but the old lady made no acknowledgement of his presence other than a slight dismissive gesture as Lady Sturrock bid her a good evening. Alexander rose to bring her chair closer to the fire and she sat, saying nothing, and stared ahead with the vacancy of extreme old age.

  At dinner, Oliver found himself seated beside Alexander and opposite Mungo and Miss Sturrock. Sir Donald and his wife sat at either end of a table more lavishly set than usual with the crystal sparkling and an abundance of well-polished cutlery which indicated an extra course. A candelabra blazed in the centre. Perhaps the fatted calf had indeed been slaughtered! Oliver’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.

  As the soup was being consumed, Lady Sturrock remarked on the recent bad weather which had wrecked two of the fishing boats, with lives only narrowly saved. “How are the families doing, Mr. Drummond, do you know?”

  “Robbie MacDonnell was worst hurt, but he’s improving. His leg was badly broken and his shoulder damaged, and his wife is determined that he’ll not go to sea again.”

  Sir Donald grunted, gesturing for the hock to be served. “And what does she propose he’ll do instead?”

  Oliver hesitated; this was not a fence to be rushed. “Perhaps there will be work on the estate, sir—”

  “Will he remain crippled?”

  “I’ll have a basket sent over tomorrow,” his wife said, and gave Oliver a smile. “It was good of you to visit them, for they are not regular church attenders, are they?” Not at his church, Oliver thought as the fish course replaced the soup, but very regular at the Free Church three miles away. Like so many.

  “They are God’s creatures nonetheless, aren’t they, Drummond?” Mungo Sturrock shot him a glinting look across the table.

  Oliver sensed boredom behind the goading, as well as a general contempt for his ministry, and he had encountered the same attitude from the young man’s father, but Sir Donald at least had the courtesy to hide it. He returned Mungo a tight smile, saying nothing, and applied himself instead to the poached cod which was thick and succulent, superior in every way to the tasteless flounders his housekeeper provided, and the conversation moved on. As he scraped the last morsel from his plate, he became aware that Mungo was watching him: “And we can thank the Lord that at least some of the boats were able to bring home their catch, eh, Drummond, whichever church they attend.”

  His successor at the manse in years to come would have a hard time of it when Mungo came into the baronetcy, Oliver decided. Handsome and brawny he might be, but Mungo was seemingly a young man without compassion or understanding. Confident and contemptuous. On the occasions when he did attend church, he made a point of yawning through the sermons, and Oliver had to try hard not to dislike him.

  At least it was beef that was subsequently brought to the table, well cooked and plentiful. Conversation dragged, however, and Oliver, fortified by a claret which surpassed expectations, decided to put his idea to the test, a toe in the water, so to speak, and addressed his host: “Tell me, sir, has there ever been any investigation of the ruin on the headland?”

  Alexander looked up. “Odrhan’s chapel?”

  “I was looking at it this afternoon.”

  “Whatever for?” asked Sir Donald.

  “Curiosity, sir. Such an ancient site, and it would, perhaps, be worth examining it more closely. Clearing the fallen stones, perhaps, and looking at the shape of the place. There would be interest in Edinburgh—”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Well, I can!” Alexander put down his knife and fork. “What an excellent idea, Mr. Drummond. I shall assist you. Who knows what we might find.”

  “Bones.” May Sturrock spoke the single word between tiny mouthfuls.

  “Bones, Aunt?”

  “Some fell out during a storm years back, when half the headland was washed away.”

  Alexander looked across at Oliver, eyebrows lifted. “Human bones?”

  “Aye.”

  “Perhaps there was a burial ground out there,” said Lady Sturrock, and Oliver saw the opportunity slipping away.

  “Any graves encountered would not be disturbed,” he reassured her.

  Miss Sturrock spoke up again. “It would be a bad thing if you did, for there are those who believe the bones were Ulla’s.”

  Alexander paused, his fork half raised. “Ulla’s! Really, Aunt? Why have you never said?”

  Miss Sturrock viewed her nephew through rheumy eyes. “You never asked.”

  “Well, tell us now! Why Ulla?”

  Oliver looked at the old woman, remembering his conversation with Ellen, and thought of the time span encompassed by Miss Sturrock’s memory, stretching back perhaps eighty of her ninety years—links in a far-reaching chain. Nowhere near enough, of course, but she was worth hearing.

  “It was said Odrhan buried her there,” she said, “beside his cell, where he could watch over her, and pray.”

  “Who said?” asked Oliver, drawn in, and accepting a second helping of potatoes.

  She shifted her gaze to him. “Folk said.”

  Folk. The tellers and keepers of tales. And he had an image of the chain forged by the retelling reaching back into a lost past, preserving precious pieces of knowledge. “A little gold cross was found at the same time, with the bones,” the old woman added. “Odrhan must have placed it with her.”

  “Did it come from there? I didn’t know.” Alexander looked across at him again, his eyes sparkling. “I’ve not looked at it for years. Is it still in the library, Mama?” His mother nodded. “I’ll show it to you, Mr. Drummond, after dinner. And we’ll go out there tomorrow, shall we, and take a look?” And then an idea seemed to strike him. “Maybe I can write about the legend, develop it into an extended poem. Like Macpherson did—a new Ossian!”

  His father snorted into his glass. “So that’s it, is it? Cobbling together some old nonsense and hoping to live on the proceeds? You’ll more likely starve.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And besides, you’re too late, your grandfather was ahead of you.” He addressed Oliver. “What do you make of the book I lent you, Drummond?”

  “It’s very informative—” he began, but Alexander cut across him.

  “It’s hideous stuff! Romantic bilge with no attempt at a factual account.”

  “Can a legend ever be factual, my dear?” asked his mother.

  “Mr. Drummond and I will find out, Mama, starting tomorrow.”

  “Mr. Drummond has his duties.”

  “And shouldn’t be concerning himself with pagan ladies anyway,” Mungo added, sitting back and twirling the stem of his empty wine glass. “Especially not lovely ones who lead holy men astray.”

  Oliver decided to let that one go but opened his mouth to refute any concerns about neglect of duties. Alexander, however, was before him again. “It’s a thought, you know! We’ve accepted the portrayal of Ulla as in Grandpapa’s dreadful poetry, but perhaps she was really a sort of Eve figure, offering temptations—”

  “Alick, really!”

  “Wait, Mama, and consider. We can’t know what actually happened, can we? We’re
just told that Ulla arrived here with her lover, a beautiful pagan, fleeing the husband she had wronged, then was abandoned here when Harald died. And what does Odrhan do?”

  “Seduces her,” said Mungo, who had gone to the sideboard and was carving himself another slice of meat, “if he’d any sense.” His father gave a snort of amusement, his mother a click of annoyance.

  “You’re a fool, Mungo Sturrock,” said his aunt.

  Everyone ignored her, and Alexander continued: “If the accepted story is correct and Odrhan did convert her, though, and thereby saved her soul and so forth—”

  “And a blasphemer.”

  That statement too was ignored and Alexander carried on: “—having already, with true Christian charity, tended the wounds of her dying lover—”

  “Probably finished him off to clear the field.” Mungo came back to the table.

  Alick laughed. “Perhaps so! And we’ll never know whether Ulla really did convert or not. What had she to gain, after all?” Only eternal salvation, thought Oliver dryly, but was this the moment to say so? “Anyway, Odrhan had the last laugh as he could bury her as a Christian regardless, and bring up Harald’s child in the faith.”

  Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but this time Mungo interjected: “Harald’s child? I may be a fool, as my beloved aunt remarks, but not so great a one to believe that Ulla and Odrhan spent their time together studying the Good Book. First woman he’s seen for months? Ha! The child was his. What d’you think, Drummond?”

  Oliver saw that two pink spots of annoyance had appeared on Lady Sturrock’s cheeks, and he returned Mungo’s look steadily. “No version of the legend I have read suggested that was the case.” And yet had not Ellen raised that very question? “But did he only love her as a godly man, not a lover?”

  “And you won’t, because that’s the point,” Mungo returned. “The church created a winsome tale of a holy hermit tending a pagan’s wound, a converted sinner, and a redeemed infant just to hide the fact that Pádraig, their great patron, was conceived by a monk and a harlot during a wild summer of carnal—”

  “That is quite enough, Mungo!” Lady Sturrock rose to her feet. “Sir Donald, if you do not think of the courtesies due to our guest, let alone my own and your aunt’s sensibilities, then I do.”

  “Sit down, m’dear,” her husband said, waving her back to her seat with an ill-disguised smile. “Mungo, you go too far.”

  Chapter 15

   Libby

  A week after returning from Ullaness, Libby was in her tiny office making lists of equipment needed and worrying about project finances when the phone rang.

  “Libby Snow?” The voice was unmistakable, and she found herself pleased to hear it. “Rodri Sturrock here. I’ve just had Fergus on the phone. Word’s come down from on high that they have to clear the rest of the mound to look for further evidence.”

  “Damn—”

  “I did what I could, but Fergus has to obey orders.”

  She looked down at the lists in front of her—now just so much waste paper. “When will they start?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh God.”

  “The only concession I won from them was that you could be there to observe. Will you come? We’ll keep some supper for you.” Right now? A force of nature, Alice had called him. “I sold them the idea on the basis that you’d recognise what was ancient and what wasn’t and save them time. No promises that you’ll be allowed to dig, though, Fergus went all vague at that point.”

  “I’ll have to speak to my head of department.”

  “Is that Lockhart?”

  “No. George Buchanan. Above him.”

  “I’ll speak to the man. Give me five minutes.” And he rang off.

  She put the phone down and sat there, absorbing the blow. She should tell Declan, she owed him that much— Then she thought of the morning when she arrived back at the department: “Whose fucking project is this?” he’d said, having first shut his office door. “What were you doing up there, going behind my back?”

  “Like I said. Just taking a look.”

  “Why?”

  Because it was a place that had been in her consciousness since childhood, a place which had a deep resonance, a place she had had to see. But that was not for Declan. “I’d no intention of getting in touch with the estate, it just happened. A good thing too, or there would be no project left, would there?” Then, as payback, she added: “Besides, what I do with my weekends is my own . . . affair, same as you.” That little pause silenced him, but now she had an enemy, rather than a colleague—and she owed him nothing.

  Two hours later she was on the road, heading north. By the time she had gone to find George Buchanan, Rodri had already spoken to him and got him on board. “Any help we can offer you, let me know. I suggested that one of the postgraduate students go with you but he said no, just you.” He paused a minute, then continued in an expressionless voice: “I’ll square all this with Declan, of course, when he finishes teaching.” By which time she would be on her way; George was a good sort. As she turned to go, he added: “Mr. Sturrock said he’d discuss the summer with you. So if you have ideas how we might keep six or seven students occupied in a way that’ll let us hang on to that grant, I’d be grateful. He sounded like a reasonable man.”

  She had left the building, stopping only to collect some basic equipment just in case, then drove to her flat, threw some clothes into a holdall, and set off. Another seven-hour drive, she calculated, plus stops, and she phoned Sturrock House to tell them she was on her way. No reply. School pickup probably. She left a brief message saying she hoped to be there soon after eleven.

  Reasonable, was he?

  In fact it was almost midnight by the time she pulled off the main road and plunged into the labyrinth of smaller ones which led out to the coast. Tiredness was jagging at her nerve ends as she negotiated the bends and twists in the narrowing road. Eyes, eerily lit by the headlights, stared back at her from the verges, sheep for the most part, but once she was sure it was a fox. A different world— Then, around a tight corner she had to brake hard, skidding across the road to avoid three deer which bounded out in front of her. Dear God! She watched them disappear into the blackness as her heart rate slowed.

  The journey north had given her time to consider this new development. And as she drove her concerns about Declan had faded and been replaced by a growing sense of excitement at returning to Ullaness. The place had, on many levels, got under her skin. Something might yet be salvaged for the summer, and somehow she would find a way of explaining about the cross, and maybe learn more of Ellen along the way. She’d thought of writing to Rodri but sensed he would view that as cowardly—and found that his good opinion mattered.

  This time when she saw him, she would tell him.

  Then, out of the darkness, she found herself in the small community of Oran Bridge, and saw the pub’s window softly aglow as she passed it. Almost there— A mile or so further on she turned into the fateful entrance to the track up to Sturrock House and, as she swung into the cobbled courtyard, she was struck by an odd sensation of homecoming.

  Rodri must have been listening for her and she saw him framed at the back door even before she had turned off the engine. He came over and opened the driver’s door. “Hell of a thing to ask you to do. Alice was furious.”

  The question of Alice had also occupied her thoughts.

  She got out to stretch her cramped legs while he opened the boot and took out her bag, and stood for a moment viewing the assortment of equipment. “You travel hopefully, Liberty Snow.”

  “Always.”

  The question of Maddy too, for that matter.

  He shut the boot lid and ushered her through the back door. “I can promise you nothing, but come in and have some food.”

  The kitchen also felt familiar, and there were good smells coming from a pan which simmered on the Aga. Coalbox wagged a tail in greeting as Rodri ladled the pan’s contents onto a
plate which he put in front of her, together with a piece of mealy bread. “Food. And then bed. We can talk tomorrow.”

  “Will the weather be fine?” she asked, between mouthfuls. A day of torrential rain might give them a stay of execution and allow her to plan a little.

  “Sunny and warm,” he replied. “And they’ll be here at eight.”

  “Ooh! Early start. I’d like to go down to make a record before they begin, and draw a plan.”

  He nodded. “Sunrise is about five-thirty these days.”

  “I’ll set an alarm.”

  “Right. I’ll take your bag up. Same room.”

  Dawn was already lighting a milky blue sea when Libby pulled back the curtains next morning, and a thin mist was lifting from its surface. The headland seemed to float there, disconnected from the shore.

  She dressed quickly and went down to the kitchen to find Rodri at the Aga stirring porridge. He looked up as she came in. “Tea’s in the pot. Mug over there. Help yourself.” They ate in silence and then drove in her car down to the end of the track, parking as close to the mound as possible, and together they shifted the equipment she had brought into the dunes.

  “You give the orders,” Rodri said. “Just tell me what to do.”

  He was efficient and practical, holding the ends of tapes as she plotted the outline of the mound, shouting out measurements as she hastily planned, somehow knowing instinctively what she was trying to achieve. “Not bad for a beginner,” she said when they’d finished. “And at least we’ve got a decent record of it.”

  “Just in time,” he said, nodding to where a car was pulling up beside Libby’s.

  A look of consternation crossed Fergus’s face when he joined them and saw the equipment lying beside the mound. “I’m afraid—”

  “Don’t worry,” said Rodri. “I explained, and we’ve not moved a single grain of sand, just made a drawn record.” Fergus nodded, and after a brief discussion work began.

  Libby found it hard to watch from the sideline and turned her attention to what she could usefully do. Something must surely be retrievable. She’d brought down a sieve, and the policemen agreed to shovel the sand into a heap so that she could sieve it and retrieve any small items. Rodri watched her for a moment, then drove her car back up to the house to collect more buckets so that they could work as a team.