Vee: Lost and Found

by David Roberts

  On Friday the search was stepped up and a short article alerting the public about the disappearance was printed in the Oban Times, along with a description of the couple and their intentions to visit Kilmartin and Easdale.

  Local people, and some visitors, joined in for the second search of Kilmartin. The Templewood stone circle was searched once more. Two constables drove to Carnassarie Castle, which could easily have provided shelter. There were signs that a small fire had been lit in one of the large cellar rooms, but the rusty tin cans in the ash suggested those responsible had been there weeks or even months previously.

  Other investigations were similarly fruitless. They had been seen disembarking from the bus in Kilmartin: the bus driver’s story thereby confirmed by three other passengers who were bound for Tarbert and Campbeltown. Neither hide nor hair of the missing couple had been seen since ten-fifteen on the Tuesday. They had utterly vanished.

  For Mhairi, these three days were the worst of all that were to follow. Away from her own house, and with the need to think always of how to present the constantly evolving situation to Jamie, the intense pressure was without relief and, increasingly, of dwindling hope. She knew the police had been in contact with the shipyard where Euan worked, and with the church he attended in Renfrew. They were doing everything that could be done.

  The guest house had been booked through to the Saturday morning but Mhairi knew by mid-morning on the Friday that she could not stay in Oban with Jamie for another day. Accommodation wasn’t the problem: very kindly, the guest house had offered her the use of the room over the weekend, free of charge. The minister from the local church had visited and offered every assistance. No, the problem was simply this: she had run out of ways to keep Jamie occupied. In Gairloch she could keep him busy: feeding the chickens; going out in the rowing boat; visiting grandparents- and the routines would supplant his anxieties to some extent.

  It came, therefore, as a relief when the sergeant suggested taking Jamie to her home in Gairloch. After all, there was nothing she could do in Oban. Margaret’s sister, who still lived in Glasgow, could send on anything of Jamie’s from the rented flat in Greenock. That would cover the essentials- and hopefully the mystery would sort itself out soon.

  Mhairi also phoned John Macleod, her doctor in Gairloch, a friend for five years.

  “What Jamie needs,” he said, “is someone who loves him, and something to occupy his mind. You can offer both up here, and without fuss. If you do leave Oban today, when do you think you will be arriving in Kinlochewe?”

  “If we catch the two o’clock train at Crianlarich we can be in Mallaig before six. The ten -fifteen train from Oban should make the connection. We can stay over in Mallaig overnight.”

  “You’ll be taking the Skye ferry then?”

  “Yes, and the train from Kyle to Achnasheen, though I couldn’t tell you the times.”

  Jamie was running the racing car along the sergeant’s desk in the foyer. The sergeant was driving it back, making skidding noises as it swerved round the ink bottle, the station logbook and the ashtray. He looked up, somehow knowing he was being observed. He gave Mhairi a cheeky wink, increased the revs and spun the car. She watched Jamie mimic him and smiled.

  “Don’t worry about that Mhairi. The times don’t matter. I want you to telephone me from the Kyle and tell me when you’ll be arriving in Achnasheen. I want to pick you both up in the car from there. No buts.”

  “Thank you, John. That would be wonderful.”

  She looked back to the desk. The green car had crashed, since it was upside down in the (spotless) ashtray. The sergeant and his very young assistant were on the scene.

  “At times like these,” she thought to herself, “what you need more than anything is friends like these.”

  8 The Rover

  Torridon 2014

  The Kinlochewe road is surprisingly flat, at least in view of its immediate surroundings, and this helped Tom and Alastair make good progress despite it being a largely single track affair. There are none of those blind corners like the ones on the coast road from Lochinver, when you have no idea what is twenty yards ahead, behind that rock or over that bump. Alastair hated those roads, which made him feel on edge and vulnerable.

  The mountains of Liathach and Beinn Eighe form a continuous ridge of more than a dozen peaks in about seven miles. This is a towering presence on the left if you driving north. Between the road and the lower slopes, a belt of trees had been planted. Their shapes indicated they were mostly deciduous- probably silver-birch and rowan- but they had not flourished. They had that horrible grey look: a sparse, leafless almost spectral quality. In some areas, the ground they stood in looked permanently waterlogged.

  “Another example,” said Alastair, “of that Forestry Commission speciality: the well- intentioned screw up.”

  Beyond these greying limbs, the ridge reared up into distinct peaks. Some were rounded on top, others were jagged but all had experienced serious erosion for the summits were bare and heavily fissured with huge amounts of scree, especially in the gullies of the lower slopes. They stopped twice on the road next to the ridge, simply because it was impossible to see the peaks from inside the car.

  On the second stop, Tom squelched his way across to the trees, reappearing a minute later.

  “That one looked a bit dry to me. Absolutely parched, in fact. I thought it would benefit from some organically-sourced, liquid feed.”

  “How thoughtful,” Alastair said. “I wonder if that’s what killed the others too.”

  They chugged along in third gear, looking occasionally at the wider valley floor to their right, but focussing mainly on the mountains. After about six miles, when the ridge had receded, they pulled in at a much larger parking space where a high fence came right up to the roadside.

  “I want you to see this. Have you got the map handy?”

  Tom reached into the back seat to retrieve the road atlas, which he flicked through.

  “There, that’s where we are,” Alastair said, pointing. “Over there is what looks like an island with some very large pines on it.”

  “Very picturesque. Why are those trees so different?”

  “Well originally, before the war, this whole area was covered in trees like these. They were then cleared, which left the place looking like bleak moorland.”

  “Another cock-up then?”

  “Perhaps it was part of the war effort, I’m not sure. But the reason I’ve stopped is to point out where we are. That isn’t an island, it’s just where the land curls round the side of Loch Clair. Ring any bells?”

  “No.”

  “Loch Clair and Loch Coulin? No?.....Well that’s where the trail from Achnashellach leads, you know, the one in the area of the crash site.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it now,” said Tom. “The German aircraft Adrian discovered.”

  They both got out of the car.

  “So where would the crash site be from here then?”

  “About four miles over there.”

  “So that’s where it all began,” said Tom, thinking of the maps printed in the brown book, and the annotations, and the visit to Ellie in Annat.

  “Yes I suppose it is. At least it was the start of it for me…Come on, the drizzle is starting.”

  The last few miles to Kinlochewe were quite different. The mountains were gone from their left and the trees closed in on the right. Also, the flat road had morphed into a long, twisty downhill. It’s like that in the Highlands: everything can change so quickly.

  Half a mile from the village, the valley flattened out and they had to reverse into a passing place to let a timber lorry past. There were attractive new bungalows on the right hand side, opposite the Whistle Stop café, a long wooden building just before the junction. They pulled in to the gravel car park and entered. It was clean, with an old fashioned feel: a building very much in keeping with its surroundings.

  During coffee Alastair talked about what was ahead of them. “The Achn
ashellach road has had a lot of work done on it and it’s beautiful. I think it was EU money. After Achnacheen it has the railway alongside- and there are some fabulous views across the open ground.”

  “Any steam trains there, you know, like on the West Highland line to Mallaig?”

  “No. I don’t think so. We can check in Gairloch if you like. The road we’re going on now is one of my favourite stretches. You’ll see why.”

  When they left the car park they turned left. Leaving the thirty mile limits, the road quickly widened. On either side trees bordered the route but the smooth, wide surface encouraged a continuous acceleration. After the constriction of the Torridon road, it felt like a release; like the moment when someone loosens the top of a lemonade bottle and the bubbles rise to the top. The car just seemed to whiz along effortlessly.

  On their left they passed the signs for Beinn Eighe and the waters of Loch Maree emerged from behind the screen of trees on the right and widened out. Soon the trees were gone and they were winding along the loch side, huge flat rocks and small promontories separating the road from the loch.

  “I can see why you like this.”

  Two large motorcycles thundered past them, breathing deeply, relishing the open space. Beautiful. Joyous.

  Up ahead they could see a large building on the right hand side, on the shore of the loch. ‘Loch Maree Hotel’ the sign said, appropriately enough.

  “I want you to see this,” said Alastair, pulling in to the roadside just past the entrance.

  They crossed the road, a beautifully smooth ribbon of tarmac that he could see heading up the long, straight hill to Gairloch. He pointed out into the loch.

  “You see that island- the big one? It looks quite unremarkable, doesn’t it. Well, apparently, it’s got an interesting history, going right back to the Druids. It also became a sacred place for early Christians, as well as being a burial ground. For years I had driven past this place and known nothing about it, then I read about it in the ‘Secret Places…’

  Tom nodded.

  “There’s quite a lot about it. The island has buildings too, or traces of them at least.”

  “Have you ever gone there?”

  “No, but perhaps we should one day, if you fancy another trip. There are bound to be boats we could hire- perhaps even at the hotel. Yes, I’m sure I’ve seen boats on the loch. And up there,” he said, pointing to the road climbing up towards Gairloch, “up there there’s a sort of viewpoint parking area. That’s where the picture was taken from. It’s one of the loose snapshots in the book. We can stop there if you like.”

  “Maybe another time,” Tom said. “We’re bound to be here again.”

  As he closed the car door, the stiff breeze got underneath the map on the back seat. He retrieved it from the footwell and folded it up.

  “Have a look at it,” said Alastair, unclicking the glove box and pointing to the book.

  Tom reached in a flicked through it. A couple of photographs held the pages open. In one, a very old car stood between two huge pillars marking a road junction. The car was one of those very old ones- a huge open-topped thing which made the humans look tiny, as if the designers had got the scale wrong. Later on was a photo of Loch Maree, also in black and white. Clearly, it had been taken from the viewpoint on the hill; Tom checked when he looked rearwards as they passed it. The trees were much smaller in the photo, but the island and the hotel were clearly visible.

  He flicked the pages till he found the section about Loch Maree, which he marked with the photograph. Sure enough, there was the small rectangle with the circle inside, just where the loch was at its broadest. He then read out a passage.

  “Isle Maree abounds with oak and with holly, both of which were planted by a people who saw the island as a holy place. The oak was sacred to the Druids; the holly to the early Christians who arrived with St Maelrubha in the seventh century. This history is reflected likewise in the ruins to be found there: the remains of a chapel, a curious circular construction whose purpose is unclear, and a graveyard. The transition from the Pagan to the Christian appears to have been a seamless one, unmarred by violence, the destruction of these structures being the work of time rather than being at the hand of Man.”

  “Interesting right enough,” said Tom. “It would be good to visit. And you think we could maybe hire a boat at the hotel?”

  “I think so, though I can’t be sure.”

  If they had turned round in the car park at the viewpoint and driven back down to the hotel they would have seen the small boathouse and two jetties, and also perhaps one of the white-hulled fibreglass dinghies used by fishermen staying at the hotel. They would have seen the notice giving information about fishing permits and boat hire. But they would probably have overlooked the decaying posts which were all that remained of the old jetty and, just along the shore, the bleached timber remains of a much earlier craft, whose blue paint remained only on dry undersurfaces, peeling even there.

  And if they had gone to the island they would probably not have found a small penknife wedged between two stones in the low circular wall. After all, its owner had searched and searched, returning late to a nearby farm so many years before.

  What they would not have missed, had they been there on Saturday August 21st 1936, at 3.20 in the afternoon, was a black Rover saloon climbing the long hill on its way to Gairloch. Alastair would have noted with a smile the distinctive whine of straight cut gears in the transmission. They all did that back then, even cars renowned for their quality like the Rover, a popular choice with doctors and bank managers.

  Tom would probably have noticed only its occupants- or, rather, two of them: the driver in his mid forties and a younger woman, red haired, tired looking and preoccupied in the back seat.

  9 Colouring-in

  1936

  The seventy minute train service from Kyle of Lochalsh had made good time, despite the blustery weather. There had been a brief stop at Strome Ferry, and some walkers had embarked at Achnashellach (unmistakeable, with their big boots and rucksacks) but traffic had been lighter than Mhairi had expected.

  “How beautiful this is,” she said to herself as the locomotive began its steady pull from the station, the walkers slightly unsteady as they swung their rucksacks on to the netting overhead. Not for her the bleakness of Rannoch Moor. Mountains and a craggy coastline- that’s what she needed to feel at home- and home was where she was headed.

  Even as she thought of this, John Macleod was driving towards them on the shore of Loch A’Chroisg, thinking of her and thinking of Jamie. He looked at his watch. Good: he would be there waiting in Achnasheen station when they arrived

  Mhairi looked down at the small child who slept as he leant against her, and smiled to herself. She moved her arm, making Jamie’s position more upright for the last twenty minutes of the journey so he would not wake up stiff and sore.

  Gazing out at one of the lochs, her eyes focussed for a moment, quite unintentionally, on the reflection of the walkers who had settled opposite. They were smiling at Jamie too. She looked at them directly and they both smiled at her. How little they knew about this small boy and his aunt, she thought, and the tragedy they were working through. But then, she reflected, not knowing can be good: not knowing what had happened to Euan and Margaret, that is what protected Jamie and herself from what had actually happened. It had been three days: nothing in three days.

  She looked down at Jamie. The colouring book lay open on the second page. A large red shark was heading for some fuzzy, dark green fishes, indistinct against the light green of the water. In his hand the yellow pencil lay between thumb and forefinger, just inches away from a sun with alternate red and yellow petals, half coloured in. She slipped the pencil out and put it back in the little box.

  They had been the last coloured pencils in the shop that morning. The shopkeeper had raided the window display, which is why the Lakeland box was faded on one side, vivid on the other.

  As promised, they had
visited the quayside and seen the fish being unloaded. They were mostly herring but with some mackerel and the occasional stranger. The men had been busy unloading- too busy to be asked, she thought. In any case, the names weren’t important. Jamie had seen ‘the fishes’ and the promise had been kept. Perhaps the other promises would be unremembered

  The ten forty-five departure of the ferry had given them enough time to walk around the harbour and visit the shop. Her purchases had been few: the colouring book; colouring pencils; a bag of boiled sweets and, very secretively, a small bar of chocolate. They also spent time looking in the shop window of the chandlers, where the huge range of goods could be made into a guessing game.

  Ferry times and the Skye bus timetables were checked and rechecked; tickets were purchased and finally, at ten thirty-five, they walked up the ramp to board “Dunottar Castle” for the crossing to Armadale.

  The crossing itself was horrible. The wind was strengthening and there was a heavy swell, even at the jetty, where the ferry chafed against the old tyres and the ropes strained. Mhairi felt better when they were actually under way- initially at least, because this seemed to smooth out the vertical movements. Once they reached the centre of the channel, however, the swell simply increased and she felt caught up in an unpredictable swirl of movements: back and forward, side to side, which only settled down as the approached Skye twenty minutes later. The two held on to one another throughout the journey.

  The bus journey to the Kyle of Lochalsh was a twisty, though scenic route following the coast and seeing the ferry lurching crabwise from one swell to the next, she was thankful the crossing had been short. When she had visited her friend in Stornoway the journey across the Minch had taken over four hours. She shuddered just to think of it.

  The crossing to the mainland at the Kyle of Lochalsh didn’t even qualify as a ferry trip, in her mind. The ferry itself was more like the double ended barge she had seen at Stromeferry a year or so previously. It seemed to take longer to embark and disembark, lugging the cases around, than the actual journey did. Once in Lochalsh, she had time to telephone John from the station foyer, keeping her eye on Jamie as he started the colouring in.