Vee: Lost and Found

by David Roberts

  “Should the sea be green or blue, Auntie Vee.?”

  “Make it green, Jamie. Then you will have blue to do the sky.”

  She looked at the drawing he had selected. All the fish were heading one way except for one.

  “Swimming against the tide,” she thought to herself. “It’s what we are doing now. Where will it take us?”

  Her thoughts were interrupted by an irresistible sense of falling forwards. Instinctively she braced herself and put her hand across Jamie’s chest as the book slid to the carriage floor. One walker was already on his feet, reaching up unsteadily to the overhead netting. The other, who was just rising from her seat, reached down and handed the book back to Jamie, who only began to wake up when the train lurched to a standstill.

  “What a lovely picture!” she said, pointing to the fish.

  Jamie smiled and rubbed his eyes.

  “You must be very proud of him. Your son is such a well-behaved little boy.”

  “Thank you,” said Mhairi, who smiled and looked away. Then, as quickly as she could, and before Jamie had time to organise his thoughts, they were on the platform with the two cases. She reached down and, with a swift bend of the knees, brought him up to cuddle height where she stood swaying gently from side to side.

  “We will be home soon, Jamie. Mummy and daddy will know where we are. No, they may not be there now, but they will be coming. We will get things ready for that.”

  “Now, though, we are going in a motor car. Have you been in a motor car before?”

  He nodded. “I was in one with daddy.”

  “Well this is a nice black one.”

  By then John was making his way up the narrow platform, squeezing past the two walkers who were swinging their rucksacks on to their backs.

  “Hello Mhairi. And you must be Jamie,” he said, resting his hand for a moment on the boy’s shoulder and smiling.

  “Good journey? You made good time.”

  “The journey was fine, though the ferry crossing was rough, but the train was good. There were lots of seats,” she said, stifling a yawn.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  He led them from the platform down to the car, helped them in and loaded the cases in the boot. He took a tartan travel blanket from the front passenger seat and laid it over them, tucking Jamie in.

  “It does actually have a heater, this one, but it takes a while to reach the back.”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Mhairi. “And John, thank you.”

  Then the black car scrunched its way across the gravel at the station entrance, turning left towards Kinlochewe and then Gairloch.

  10 The Pipeline

  Gairloch 2014

  The Volkswagen Golf struggled a little on the long incline- that’s what happens when you stop half way up a hill to admire the view. After an attempt at fifth gear, Alastair settled for fourth. Two bikes passed them again, their throttles wide as they accelerated, the same bikes which had overtaken them on the curves after Kinlochewe. One was definitely a Harley; Tom wasn’t sure about the other one. They had probably stopped at the hotel.

  At the top of the long hill, the road began to narrow and it soon began to twist down, especially after the small loch on their left. In the steepest sections a steep rock face marked the right hand side and a deep, wooded gully lay on the left. They had to stop at a large passing place to allow a tour bus to come up the hill.

  “What would it be like if two big buses met,” Tom thought, gazing at the fence, which looked decidedly flimsy.

  In the gully he could see huge pipelines running downhill, parallel to the road. He pointed them out.

  “It’s part of a hydro- electric scheme,” Alastair told him. “There’s a power station at the bottom of the hill. The pipes take water from the loch at the top.”

  “If it was raining and everything was wet and slippery and you straddled that, what kind of speed do you think you’d be up to at the bottom of the hill? Fifty, sixty miles an hour?”

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t recommend that as an activity. The pipe has to be smooth on the inside, so the flanges are on the outside. You’d get them ripped right off.”

  Uncomfortably, Tom looked at the map. “Loch Bad an Sgalaid it says. I never know quite how to pronounce these Gaelic words. Loch Bad. It sounds like something out of Noggin the Nog. Loch Bad the Bad, home of Nogbad the Bad.”

  They were on the move again, down to second sometimes because of a van in front. As they approached the bottom they could see the water of Loch Gair, then a junction for a road off to the left. Tom checked the map. It went round the peninsula, in the direction of Diabeg. It wasn’t for them.

  The downhill flattened out as they passed the signs for Gairloch, passing the pier on the left and some hotels.

  “It’s one of those we’re booked into,” said Alastair, “but the petrol station and the centre of the village is over this hill. We’ll go there first to fill up.”

  It was Tom’s turn, and when he was filling the car Alastair crossed the road and looked around. On the grass near the shoreline were the concrete foundations of the gun emplacement, low circular structures dating from the Second World War, or possibly the First. To his right, houses extended round the arm of the bay, but not in a continuous line- more of an occasional clustering. He wondered how many of the houses were new.

  On the main road, which would run on to Poolewe and Ullapool, he could see buildings of various shapes and sizes. Some were clearly new: the large hotel, the community centre, but there were old buildings too, mostly cottages or modified cottages. Like most Highland villages, the prevailing colour was white.

  “OK, that’s us.”

  He looked back. Tom was climbing back into the car. He looked at his watch- twenty to four. It must have been the stops. He nodded, re-crossed the road and got in.

  “Hungry?”

  “And thirsty.”

  They retraced their steps over the hill and took the turn-off to the left.

  “A variety of real ales,” said Tom, admiring the sign. “Perfect. I like having to make decisions like that.”

  For a full minute they savoured the possibilities at the bar before ordering.

  “Right,” said Alastair “I’m having a pint of An Teallach.”

  The barman poured and waited for him to finish the order.

  “OK, Nutless, what’ll it be?”

  11 No News

  Gairloch 1936

  It may be possible to capture the feelings of a four year old losing both parents. Perhaps this can be done in a painting, through the interplay of light and shade; or in music where a note can be sustained, unsupported by what has gone before and with no clue to what comes after. There might be a way- but it is much harder in words because words impose an adult’s understanding on an experience which was not understood in an adult way.

  To us, looking in, and to Jamie looking back in later life, these events could have been described as ‘tragic’, leaving him ‘bereft’ but these words imply a wider view of things. To Jamie at the time there was no such perspective. The experience was simply unfathomable. Causes were not to be figured out. The way forward was not something to be planned. There was just a great gaping emptiness and an impulse to seize hold of anything which passed close by.

  The terrible events of August 1936 had an impact on Mhairi too, of course. Firstly, there was the matter of her post, as a teacher in the village primary school. Initially, when there was at least some possibility of Jamie’s parents turning up, the headteacher did all he could. Thus, Jamie went to school with her in the morning and spent his day with the youngest primary class they had, the six year olds. He was a bright boy but much smaller than the others and he knew nothing about fishing or farming, their main passions.

  A month of this was enough to convince Mhairi. Reluctantly, the headmaster accepted her resignation, saying he hoped she would return some day. As he said, Jamie would be of school age in only one or two years. That was
a hopeful note which Mhairi and Mr Clare were keen to leave hanging in the air. “Whatever happens in the short term,” it seemed to say, “things will be better soon.”

  In the short term, however, things became worse quite quickly. At least once a week she was in contact with Elizabeth, her sister-in-law in Glasgow. For the first few weeks this was her way of reassuring Elizabeth that Jamie was coping well. Once or twice she had to make a conscious decision in the correspondence not to minimise the problems he was experiencing. He was Elizabeth’s nephew after all; she did miss him and she did want to help.

  This contact was also her way of finding out if any light had been shed on the mystery of the disappearance. She knew that the police are always busy on the latest thing but perhaps Elizabeth had been told more when Euan and Margaret’s belongings had been sent to her. It was even possible that the minister in Glasgow might have heard something, however small.

  It was in late November, three months after the disappearance, that she received new information from Elizabeth. The police had found nothing in their searches and the witness statements of those who had seen Euan and Margaret on the bus had thrown up no more leads. Appeals in the local newspapers, as far away as Campbeltown and Fort William, had proved fruitless. In the light of this, there would be no further police investigation, pending new evidence.

  This was confirmed in a letter from the police sent to Mhairi in Gairloch.

  Elizabeth had also found it necessary to terminate the rental agreement on the Glasgow flat and, with the help of the local church, Euan and Margaret’s possessions had been taken to her house in Greenock.

  Mhairi and Elizabeth discussed developments, courtesy of John Macleod’s telephone, and it was agreed that Jamie’s things would be sent to Gairloch. He seemed to be settling in there and a return to Glasgow would only set him back.

  Elizabeth would also come to visit; a promise she honoured. It was a strange reunion in that they had only met three or four times and had really only exchanged pleasantries. Now the changed circumstances created an entirely different bond and they were able to discuss the practicalities: Jamie’s future would be centred in Gairloch; spending time with Auntie Elizabeth would be important (either in Gairloch or in Glasgow); there was the issue of schooling and the matter of money.

  This last point was plagued by uncertainty. If Euan and Margaret did not reappear, their estate would be wound up but when that would be was anyone’s guess. Of course, there was the matter of the will, if one had been made. Throughout these discussions Mhairi was adamant: with her part time job in the local shop and some housecleaning work, she would be able to look after Jamie. His needs were few and the rent was small, especially by Glasgow standards. The nature of the work meant that he could accompany her- and after all it would only be for twenty months. There was no need to send money to her.

  The resolution was this: Jamie would visit Elizabeth in Glasgow during the summer, and possibly at another time also. Elizabeth would organise and pay for these visits.

  This, then, is an unadorned description of how Jamie’s life proceeded following the disappearance of Euan and Margaret. There was to be no subsequent reopening of the investigation because no new evidence came to light. This is of course like the description of a portrait which ignores the central figure. These bare facts are merely a backdrop to Jamie’s actual experience: the countless daily reminders of his parents and their love for him; a piercing sense that he had somehow been responsible (despite all reassurances to the contrary); a pervading feeling of emptiness. For him, these were the reality- far more so than mere facts about the case and the situation- but this is a reality which cannot fully be described. It is best left to the imagination.

  12 Continental Breakfast

  Gairloch 2014

  As usual on these trips the day started with discussion, over breakfast, of what was ahead. Rain was forecast for late afternoon but that was no great inconvenience. Ullapool was only about sixty miles away, which meant they would have the whole morning to explore- and exploring was what it was supposed to be all about, not the driving.

  One option was to drive the three miles or so back to the coast road. South Erradale looked promising, as did Redpoint, as a base for tramping the westerly or southerly part of the peninsula. A three hour walk would give them enough time to explore a bit of both.

  Another option was to take the coast road leading from the village of Strath (which was right next to Gairloch) through to Melvaig.

  “According to this,” Tom said as he scanned the ‘Secret Places…’ “there are beaches just south of Big Sand. They might be white shell beaches, like the ones further north. I’m not sure. There’s a big cave nearby too, at a place called North Erradale.”

  “Sounds interesting and it shouldn’t take long- say two hours…If we went there it would leave us enough time to have a look up here.”

  He pointed to a headland projecting north west at the far side of Loch Ewe.

  This was the moment the cooked breakfasts arrived, putting everything on hold. Maps were folded up and put away, glasses were shifted to one side and chairs shifted to make way. For the dedicated highland rover, this is a defining moment, because making the right choice here means you won’t have to bother buying lunch. Of course it’s only right and proper to consider all the options on the menu: the light, refreshing Continental Breakfast for example, or kippers (which are neither) but for Tom and Alastair, like most of their compatriots, the Full Scottish Breakfast is de rigueur: eggs, bacon, sausage, haggis, black pudding, scone, mushroom, beans and tomato. Even for people like Tom, who only ever have a quick bowl of cornflakes and a cup of coffee at home, seeing other men struggle with a huge plateful of food brings out that competitive streak. What you see around you isn’t a breakfast, but a mindset.

  At the coffee stage, in the aftermath, the conversation resumed.

  “Why do you want to go there?”

  “Well,” said Tom, “it might look innocuous, here in the back of beyond, but it was a very important place in the Second World War. You’ll know about the Arctic convoys to Murmansk and Archangel?”

  “That was to support the Russians, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. At that stage in the war the Germans had conquered large parts of the Soviet Union- the Ukraine, the Crimea – and Russian industry was crippled. They had to move whole factories thousands of miles across the Urals to get them out of reach. Leningrad was besieged; Moscow and Stalingrad were under attack. The Red Army was fighting for its life- and up till then the Germans had been undefeated. Then the Americans had entered the war and of course their manufacturing capacity was huge. They churned out aircraft, tanks, vehicles, guns and so on in enormous quantities. They had no invasion to deal with on their own soil of course. What they needed to do was find a way of getting them to Russia, even though Russia was blockaded.”

  “That would take them up past Norway. Wasn’t Norway occupied by the Nazis early on in the war?”

  “That’s right,” said Tom. “The convoys had to go round the top, beyond the Arctic Circle to get to the Russian ports of Archangel and Murmansk. That’s where Loch Ewe came in. Other places were used too- like Oban and Liverpool, but Loch Ewe was handy because it was close to the north coast and on the western seaboard. Also the loch is a decent size for the ships to collect in.”

  “I suppose some of the material would come up here by rail and by road transport.”

  “I would think so. There’s a railway line to Achnasheen, about forty miles away. Plus of course there are villages round the side of the loch which could be used for billeting. Gairloch’s nearby too.”

  “This is all making me feel a bit ashamed,” Alastair said. “I’ve been coming up here for years, either going to Ullapool or on the way back and I’ve never visited the place.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. Most people who head north on this road know nothing about it. There are no signs to tell you about this and not much to see. It’s only in the
last wee while that it’s been recognised. In fact the British Government wouldn’t even let the Russians give the men medals for what they did. Maybe that’s changing now.”

  “Bloody scandalous.”

  Tom offered the last triangle of toast, now cold in its metal rack, before he felt able to finish it off. The last of the coffee was pressed out of the cafetiere. Then they headed off to load up the car, pay the bill and visit a collective past.

  13 Stretchy Jumpers

  Gairloch 1937

  “And thank you, Mrs Johnstone,” said Mhairi as she handed over the change. “Three and fourpence.”

  She smiled to herself as the door closed. Why on Earth had she been anxious? It certainly wasn’t the job: that was very straightforward. She had been worried about how he would do.

  “And look at him now,” she thought to herself, turning round to have a fly peek at him.

  There he was, sitting on a little stool. In front of him a wide board bridged two large on-end cardboard boxes. One said Omo and the other said Daz. He was concentrating on the drawing. She could tell by the way his legs dangled: back and forwards, back and forwards. He reached for a rubber and the swinging stopped, then started again.

  “Jamie, that is lovely!” she said.

  Yes, those were definitely waves. The ship was taking shape- hull first, superstructure later. He was like a miniature architect. She stroked his head and looked up as the doorbell rang.

  “Good morning Mhairi. Just the usual please.”

  Mhairi reached up for the sweets and lifted a newspaper from the pile next to the counter.