by Gwen Moffat
“It isn’t as if he’s threatened her,” Leila went on.
“I’ll sleep on it,” Bridget said. “It might be better to tell him. I’d feel safer.”
*
She didn’t want to go back to the House in case Stark called during the evening so she stayed at Soutra for supper. They were in the kitchen washing up when the back door opened and Sadie came in with a can of milk.
“You’re late tonight,” Leila said pleasantly.
Sadie’s eyes were shining. “I was up on the Head with Stark. He was showin’ me how they climb the ropes.”
Bridget’s lips parted, then closed in an angry line. Sadie cried defiantly: “Why you lookin’ at me like that? He’s all right, he’s nice.”
“Keep away from him!” Bridget was furiously angry.
Leila touched her arm. “Let me handle it,” she urged. “Go in the sitting room.” But she was too late.
“You want him for yourself!” Sadie yelled.
“It’s not that —” Leila started, but she wouldn’t be silenced.
“You got as many men as you want up in London, and all of them down here, and the first one that comes and wants me, you think you got a right to him.”
“You know that’s not true,” Bridget said coldly. “You’re being childish: just repeating what someone else has said.”
“An’ what if I am? No one was after comin’ here before an’ tellin’ us what we were missin’. I could have clothes as good as yours, could buy them from a shop myself, not have to take your old castoffs — them’s not my style, anyway; ’tis like old Jessie wearing Miss West’s things. I’m not an old woman. I want a wage packet and have me hair done in Inverness and wear nail paint. Why shouldn’t I? Same age as you, should have the same things, see?”
She ended on a pleading note. The three women had listened carefully, with no sign of anger. Doubt crept into Sadie’s eyes.
Bridget said quietly: “Yes, we see, love. I’m sorry for what I said. Come in and have a drink, then we’ll walk home along the shore.”
But the advantage was lost. Sadie reverted shrilly. “I know what you’re after. You think you’ll take me home to Hector and he’ll stop me going out. Then you’ll go and meet Stark yourself — well, you got another think comin’. There!”
She turned and whirled out of the open door. Bridget ran after her calling her name, and the others followed. They stopped on the terrace and in the light of the rising moon they saw Sadie running along the wet sand.
“You’ll never catch her,” Leila said. “She runs like a deer.”
Bridget turned to Miss Pink. “That wasn’t Sadie talking,” she said earnestly. “I mean, about castoffs; they’ve never looked on our clothes as charity, have they?” Leila shook her head vehemently. “That’s Stark’s fine Italian hand — it didn’t need to be so fine though. Poor Sadie was a push-over.”
A man’s voice came from the side of the house: “What on earth’s going on?” Marcus asked inquisitively. “What’s Sadie done?”
“Oh God!” Bridget went back to the sitting room.
Marcus came into the light.
“Sadie’s a little upset.” Miss Pink told him. “Nothing to worry about.”
They went indoors and Leila checked further inquiries by making a ritual of his choice of whisky. He took his glass and, after glancing at their expressionless faces, addressed Bridget: “I’ve come to walk you home, my dear; we missed you at dinner.”
He started to tell her about the descent of Farrid Head but after a few minutes she stared meaningly at his glass and began to fidget. She gave him a further few minutes and then stood up. He frowned with annoyance as she moved towards the door, then drank his whisky and followed.
“Ladies are vanishing tonight,” he remarked. “I’d better keep my eye on this one.”
*
Leila collapsed in the chair opposite Miss Pink. She lifted her glass.
“We’re drinking too much,” she said abstractedly.
“A pardonable sin tonight.”
“I wish Stark had never come here.” The younger woman was intense.
“He can’t do any harm.”
The silence didn’t appear to confirm this.
“What do you think?” Leila pressed.
“Well,” Miss Pink was cautious. “She’s a passionate girl and I must admit that Stark has a strong attraction for women. It’s not unusual, of course: a love-hate relationship. It’s difficult.”
“Do you think he’ll try to make trouble?”
“I don’t see what he could do here. He’s not violent; he’d get short shrift from the crofters if they knew he was persona non grata. He might upset Sadie — he’s done it already, but I hardly think he could corrupt her. He won’t be here long enough. Although Sadie’s very vulnerable,” she added thoughtfully.
“How soon could we hope to get rid of him?”
“I hope he’ll go as soon as they’ve climbed the stack, and if today’s progress is anything to go by, they’ll be on top tomorrow. I can’t think why they’re making such a big thing of it; you’d think it was well beneath their notice and yet they show no interest in anything else. He seemed disgusted with Farrid Head: said it was chossy.”
“It is. There’s nothing here to interest them.”
Unspoken the comment hung between them: “Then why are they here?”
Miss Pink gave herself a mental shake. “How did your day go?” she asked politely.
“I was quite busy.” The tone was as evasive as the eyes. “There’s always an appalling amount to do at this time of year: the garden, you know, and lambing, and guests. Don’t think we don’t love having people, but one wants to look after them properly and I’m afraid I’m a hopeless organiser.”
She sympathised. She didn’t believe a word of it. They chatted for a while and then Miss Pink, seeing that her friend appeared exhausted, suggested that they have an early night. They were collecting glasses and plumping cushions when there was a knock at the front door. Leila froze.
“Now who’s that?” she whispered.
“Shall I go?”
They went together. Marcus stood on the terrace. He was pale and angry.
“I’ve got to talk to you,” he said roughly as they got in each other’s way in the passage. “I know she’s told you. I can’t believe it. He’s followed her here, that’s obvious. I’m going to see that he leaves tomorrow.”
He was glaring at Miss Pink. Leila murmured something inaudible and slipped out of the sitting room, pulling the door to behind her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you as late as this,” Marcus began, but he didn’t sound apologetic. “I wouldn’t have come but for the urgency. I can’t talk to Clive. I’m not going to be the one to break it to him.”
“Where is Bridget now?”
“At Morrison’s place. She won’t go in the House. Stark’s there; we saw him through the window as we came up the lawn. When she wouldn’t come in, I insisted on knowing the reason why. I’d guessed it was Stark because she’d said she was tired and longing for a bath and then suddenly she dug her heels in and wouldn’t go another step — when she saw him. So she told me. We’ve been sitting in the stables. It was damn cold. She’s had a hell of a raw deal, Melinda. What are we going to do?”
“First,” Miss Pink said firmly: “You’re going to sit down and have some of Leila’s whisky, then we can discuss it in a civilised fashion.”
“Civilised!” he snorted. “Where that psychopath’s involved!”
She ignored him and poured a good measure of Chivas Regal, commending her own prudence in bringing it from Perth.
“Now,” she began, when they were both furnished with drinks: “Why psychopath?”
“What? After he tried to kill her?”
She stared at him. “This is news to me.”
“So she didn’t tell you everything.” He couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of his voice.
“Not that.”
; “Did she tell you he was inadequate?”
“That can mean so many things.”
“I see. So you’ll be wondering what all the fuss is about?”
“You’d better tell me now.”
“Stark,” he began with relish, “on the surface is a charming and virile scoundrel who has all the women tearing each other’s eyes out to leap into bed with him (yes, she told me about Sadie) — and at the penultimate moment he turns off.”
“Shorthand,” Miss Pink murmured.
“Impotent. Virtually.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Bridget was sorry for him. She lived with him for two months — did you know that? Left him towards the end, went back at his insistence but couldn’t take it. Stark can’t face reality: everything that’s wrong is the fault of anyone and anything but himself, and with those types the blows fall on the nearest person. They quarrelled, made it up and went to Derbyshire for a weekend’s climbing. He seemed much better, she said. Then he tried to kill her. Do you know a climb called Genghis Khan?”
“No.”
“It’s hard — savage, hence its name. He led to the foot of the top pitch which is about ninety feet long but easier than the rest. He told her to lead that. There was a strong wind and they couldn’t communicate by shouting. They were both cold and damp because the cloud was down. He told her not to bother about a belay: just to stand on top and take the rope in and give three tugs for him to come on — you know the signal. She got to the top and, ignoring what he’d said, looked round for something to tie on to. She couldn’t find anything but there was a huge boulder like a pulpit. She got behind it and took the rope in. When it was taut she gave the three tugs. Then there was one hell of a pull and she was jerked forward so hard against the boulder that she was winded. She thought she’d cracked a rib, and was badly grazed. Only the rock stopped her from being catapulted over the edge and the ground was nearly two hundred feet below. She wouldn’t have pulled him off, d’you see; she’d have hit the bottom before the rope came tight to him.
“After a while she managed to take some rope in, then he arrived carrying the rest. He stared at the rock and at her, then asked nastily what had happened. She didn’t know what to say nor how to look at him. She was, of course, shocked. She began coiling the rope and he snatched it away and started shouting obscenities at her but she pretended she’d heard someone in the mist, said: ‘Oh, that’s so-and-so,’ and darted off. Fortunately she did find some walkers almost immediately and she tacked on to them until they reached her car. Then she threw all his gear out and drove back to London. She moved out of her old flat and went to share with another girl. She left his stuff from the flat with one of his friends. He hadn’t much, anyway.”
“That’s a terrible story,” Miss Pink said. “He’d told her not to tie on, and if she’d been standing on the edge taking in the rope, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. But she maintained he wasn’t violent!”
“She meant in the sense of thrashing women: the kind you’ll be used to putting away for a time. No, Stark isn’t a simple brute; he wouldn’t beat anyone up, woman or man, when a quick tug on the rope would serve the same purpose and at almost infinitesimal risk to himself. Stark’s violence is carefully disciplined, and — don’t you see? — he’s even got escape routes if the plan misfires. Who could prove that a pull on the rope was deliberate? She thinks herself that if she’d said anything at the time, he would have protested that he got the rope tangled and pulled it by mistake, or he’d have told her that she was suffering from delusions. That was another of his foul little ploys.”
“Are you suggesting that he tried to pull her off the crag merely because she knew —?”
“Because he’d come to hate her. He thought she despised him. As I said: he’s a psychopath.”
“So last night,” Miss Pink said thoughtfully, “the worm had turned and she was getting some of her own back at him. Not much though, in comparison.”
“How’s that?”
“Teasing. I suppose, in this context, you’d call it goading: about deep water and the killer whales. He must be afraid of water. It’s certainly an unhealthy relationship.”
“Now that, Mel, is the understatement of the year. How are we going to break it up?”
“You’ve taken it on yourself to do that?”
“She’s got to be protected.”
“Clive is her family.” The reproof was gentle but firm.
“He doesn’t know. She says she’ll tell him tomorrow.”
“She shouldn’t be alone, and definitely not alone with Stark.”
“I shall stick to her like a leech tomorrow — and until he’s left the glen.”
“Yes, I think you’ll have to —”
For the second time that night there was a knock at the front door. Marcus stood up, his face set.
“If that’s him, I think I’ll kill him.”
Miss Pink said quietly: “There are enough of us here to deal with him —”
“Don’t say in a civilised fashion, Mel.”
There were voices outside and they strained their ears. They heard Leila say: “She left a long time ago, Hector. She only came with the milk, not to visit.” The door was pushed open. “Here’s Hector,” she announced superfluously, staring hard at them, her back to the crofter. “Sadie hasn’t come home. What time would you say she was here, Melinda?”
“About eight. We were washing the supper dishes.”
Hector shifted uneasily in the passage.
“Will you take a dram?” Leila asked him.
“I’ll no’ stay.” He flicked a shy smile at the others. “It’s late.”
“Does she often come in late?” Miss Pink asked.
“Ach, aye, it’s nothin’ maybe. Perhaps she’s with that girl from the tent.”
“Stark and Pincher are at the House,” Marcus told him. “So the girls have probably joined forces.”
“They’re at the House, you say. She’ll likely be back at home when I get there. I’m sorry to have troubled you, Miss West; I’ll say goodnight to you all.”
“Wait,” Leila said. “I’ll speak to Mr Perry.”
The telephone was in the sitting room. No one sat down while she dialled.
“Clive — were you in bed? I am sorry . . . Sadie hasn’t come home and Hector’s here looking for her. Has she been at the House? . . . No, I see . . . That’s quite likely; it’s a beautiful night. She’ll turn up, I’m sure; she could be at Catacol now . . . Goodnight — Clive.”
“She hasn’t been to the House,” she told Hector.
Miss Pink and Leila went out on the terrace when he left. Back in the sitting room Leila said: “Stark and Pincher left the House at nine-thirty. Bridget came in soon afterwards so we know where she is.”
“Well, that’s fine,” Marcus said in relief.
“Is it?” Miss Pink asked. “There’s no light in Catacol. Where’s Sadie?”
Chapter Six
Sadie returned, but at what hour wasn’t generally known. Bridget and Marcus came to Soutra at breakfast time. There had been an unhappy scene when Sadie came up early to the House, carrying her cat. It’s skull had been severely fractured and Clive was forced to put it down with an injection. Sadie had been upset and no one had the heart to question her. A rock must have fallen on the cat, perhaps in a rabbit hole, or she had been kicked by a cow.
Miss Pink wondered if Bridget had talked to Clive about Stark. Evidently not, for the girl forestalled questions by telling them that her uncle had gone to Kinloch to look at a dog.
It was another glorious day and they sat on the terrace, Miss Pink with her binoculars by her chair. From here she had all the settlement in view, and she saw Stark and Pincher leave the broch to take the cliff path, carrying big packs. Rita went across to the burn to wash the pans.
“Clive suggested you might like to go out with Hector in his boat,” Bridget said to Miss Pink. “Would you like to go? He can take two.” She looked a
t Leila.
“That would be fun,” Leila said. She turned to her friend. “Would you like that?”
“Very much. When do we start?”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be till this afternoon,” Bridget told them. “Hector has to go round the sheep first. There were three lambs born overnight at Thundergay.” She smiled. “I’m sure Clive’s mistaken his dates; he says we’re starting to lamb a week early. But he should be back around lunchtime and Hector can go then.”
“There’s Murdo,” Marcus pointed out, “and MacKenzie. And Sadie’s wonderful with lambs. What are they all doing?”
“MacKenzie’s hands are too big. Murdo’s gone with Clive because it’s he who needs the dog. He lost his old one last year. A shepherd in Kinloch has died suddenly, and Murdo and Clive hope to buy a young bitch from the widow.”
“What’s happened to Sadie?” Miss Pink asked.
“She’s sloped off again. She does that when she’s unhappy. We buried the cat behind the stables and then she walked up the back. The tears were streaming —” She stopped and fumbled for her handkerchief. “It was a lovely cat,” she said between sobs: “A blue short-hair.”
Marcus got up and squeezed her shoulder. Bridget put her head on her knees and abandoned herself. He stared at the others helplessly.
“Elspeth’s cat is pregnant,” Leila said comfortably: “A fine black and white one. I’ll ask her to keep the best kitten. I want to see MacKenzie about prawns anyway. Shall we walk along the shore?” she asked Miss Pink.
They left Marcus making coffee and strolled along the sand, crossing the river by planks balanced on stones. The tide was on the ebb and oyster catchers were feeding round the rock in the middle of the bay, slipping like clowns on the weed and banging their chins.
“How peaceful it seems,” Miss Pink remarked, breaking the silence between them.
“She’s put it off,” Leila said, showing how her mind was occupied. “Clive wouldn’t have left the glen if she’d told him. There’ll be trouble.”
“But it won’t affect you directly.”
“Clive and I are more than good friends; you must have realised that.”
