Miss Pink at the Edge of the World

by Gwen Moffat

  “No. We’ll go down there now, wrap the gear in the tent, and it goes in the car immediately they return. They can turn round and head straight out of the glen again.”

  “They’ve come back,” Bridget said, entering the kitchen: “The Mini’s just passed.”

  Clive stood up slowly. The others watched him. “We’ll take MacKenzie with us,” Marcus said.

  “No, this is a personal matter.”

  “Oh God,” Bridget whispered as they left the kitchen. She threw a helpless glance at Miss Pink and followed the men. Leila started to clear the table. After a few minutes Bridget returned.

  “Clive’s taken his rifle.”

  “What about Marcus?” Miss Pink asked.

  “He’s got a shot gun.”

  Miss Pink sensed their fear rising uncontrollably. An arsonist. A rifle. Vermin. “Look,” she said comfortably, “landlords have been driving unwelcome intruders from their land for centuries and, if they have any sense at all, they go armed. I’m quite sure Clive and Marcus have themselves well in hand; in fact, I doubt very much if their guns are loaded.” Behind Leila’s back she stared sternly at Bridget who swallowed and responded gamely: “Oh no, of course they’re not loaded; they’re just for effect.”

  *

  The men returned in a surprisingly short space of time.

  “Only Rita came back,” Clive announced. “She took the others to Inverness.”

  “Inverness!” Bridget exclaimed. “I knew that piton hammer was a trick. Then why didn’t she bring them back? Perhaps she did.”

  “No. We saw MacLeod and he swears she was alone when she returned. She says the men met a couple of girls in Inverness and decided to stay there. She’s going back for them tomorrow. Yes,” he went on, interpreting their thoughts correctly: “I shall have to go down there again and see that she takes all the gear with her in the morning. I forgot that when we were at the broch. I felt sorry for the girl.” He looked at Miss Pink doubtfully. “Would it be asking too much for you to come back with me now?”

  “She seems nervous, he continued as they walked through the wood. “I was very angry when we went down there and yet I was thinking I must restrain Marcus who was quite beside himself — I remember my hands were sweating with the tension, and then, when we got there, we found only the girl. She’s a pathetic creature. It was a total anticlimax. Perhaps I blustered a bit, perhaps she was frightened of the rifle; in any event she wasn’t surly — as I understand she is normally. Leila told me about your meeting them last Saturday. She seems like a lost child trying to be defiant.”

  “What was she defiant about?”

  He stopped and considered. “Specifically? Her whole attitude was defensive. She’d be frightened about the fire, of course — but I didn’t mention it. I asked her where Stark was, but that was virtually the only exchange between us. I had to insist on an answer and that was when she told us they’d driven to Inverness and the men had picked up the girls. That would have hurt her — and then to be forced to tell us . . . Wasn’t she friendly with Pincher?”

  Rita sat in the little tent and watched them approach. She returned Miss Pink’s greeting but her eyes were wary. Clive said: “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “Rita.” But he’d meant her surname.

  “Yes, well — I want you to understand, Rita, that I have no objection to you and Pincher —” he faltered and Miss Pink guessed that he’d seen the error of this: that if Stark had fired the moor, then the others had been at the least passive observers. He continued firmly: “I don’t want Stark on my land again. When you leave tomorrow morning, I must insist on your taking the tent and its contents with you.”

  Rita said nothing.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you frightened of, Rita?” Miss Pink asked.

  The girl fumbled at the side of the tent and produced a packet of Players. She could have bought Gauloises in Inverness, Miss Pink thought irrelevantly. Rita found a box of matches, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She looked past them.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said coldly. Her eyes flickered towards Clive. “You wouldn’t use that gun against me —” (He had, in fact, left the rifle at the House.) “— and you can’t get me for the grass. I ain’t got any now.”

  “It’s Stark,” Miss Pink said.

  Clive turned away and walked to the entrance of the broch, standing there with his back towards them.

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?” Miss Pink asked quietly.

  The girl laughed. “You got it wrong. It’s you in trouble, him rather —” she jerked her head at Clive. “That’s the point.”

  He turned round, and now the wariness was on his side.

  “Stark started that fire,” Rita said with a return to her surly tone. He nodded. “You knew? Well, what chance have you got against him?”

  “No, Rita.” His tone was gentle but firm. “We have the law behind us. It works, even in Scamadale, particularly in Scamadale. Stark has nothing behind him.

  “That’s what you think. He’s got big business.”

  “Now what do you mean by that?”

  She nodded to herself. “And you never guessed! He come here to make a film for the telly: on that stack. It’s a — what do you call it — a recky —?”

  “A reconnaissance?” Miss Pink breathed.

  “Yeah. He’s got it all worked out now: where the cameras are going to go, how much scaffolding they’ll need on the cliffs, how many boats. They didn’t do much climbing, he was making notes all the time. Didn’t you wonder why they took so long getting up the first bit of the stack yesterday? And the slings he placed above some slab: the cameraman’s got to be able to see all the climb; that’s why he rigged the slings. He said the proper route’s out of sight from the cliff.”

  “Why are you telling us now?” Miss Pink asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s all set up; there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You’d know soon enough anyway. Besides — I don’t like Stark.”

  Clive was fingering the rough rock of the gateway, his hand moving like a separate entity. He looked emotionally shocked. Miss Pink regarded him with compassion and said quietly: “He can’t do it; you own the cliffs.”

  “He thought of that long ago,” Rita put in. “They’re going to use helicopters. Everything’s been worked out in London. The film’s paid for. They’re spending a fortune on it.”

  Clive started to walk away.

  “Do as he says and take the rest of the gear with you when you go,” Miss Pink said quickly.

  “I can’t,” Rita whispered. “I’m scared.”

  “I’ll come over in the morning and help you pack.”

  She didn’t mean it. She intended to see that the girl left the glen, and early. Scamadale had taken enough from Stark. She pondered giving Rita a few words of advice: to find Stark, hand over his car and walk away, even without the sycophantic Pincher, but this could be left until the morning. She hurried after Clive.

  *

  There was no question of going back to Soutra. Ian was at the House when they returned and they all gathered in the drawing room. There was a feeling of ranks being closed. When Ian was told the news, the mention of helicopters threw him into a cold rage.

  “Even if you can take out an injunction,” he told Clive, “they may steal a march on you and come to look at the cliffs. These big concerns are arrogant: think they’re above the law. It only needs one visit of a helicopter to this part of the world and every nesting bird will be driven away.”

  “It’s not just the birds,” Clive said hopelessly. “It’s everything we stand for. A film would make us popular overnight.”

  “But they’re not going to make a film,” Bridget put in hotly. “You can stop them!”

  “Think of the money behind it.”

  “Oh, come now,” Marcus exclaimed. “They can’t touch the cliffs. You own them. They’d have to put cameramen and scaf
folding there. How can they without your permission?”

  Ian said: “They could film from boats — even from the helicopters perhaps —”

  “No!” Marcus interrupted.

  “Don’t you own the stack as well?” Miss Pink asked.

  Clive passed a hand over his forehead. “Do we?” he asked helplessly.

  “Of course,” she prompted: “Offshore islands, skerries . . . everything above high tide mark, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the mainland shore.”

  “Surely all land above high water —? Why not ring your solicitor?”

  He brightened. “Of course, if I do own the stack —” He patted his pockets, got up and found a scribbling pad and pencil. He started to make notes.

  “‘Trespass’,” Marcus reminded him, looking over his shoulder. “Will he have the temerity to come back for those ropes now?”

  “He can’t know Rita told about the film,” Bridget said. “He intends coming back because of the gear and the tent.”

  “After the fire?” Leila had been very quiet until now. They all turned to her. “He’ll know you suspect him, and I think he’ll stay in Inverness now he’s there.”

  “Rita said nothing about taking their gear when she goes to pick them up,” Miss Pink said. “Surely, if that was what they’d intended, she’d have made some remark like: ‘I was going to pack the gear anyway’ when Clive told her to do so.”

  Bridget said slowly: “So the idea was that she should drive back to Inverness and then all return here tomorrow evening? But, as Leila says, he’d know you wouldn’t allow him in the glen after the fire.”

  “He loves infuriating people,” Marcus reminded her.

  She shook her head. “He’s got this catastrophic scheme which he knows will cause Clive a hell of a headache when he knows about it (he’ll be chuckling away, thinking of the storm that’s going to break, not realising we know already — and it is a headache at that). That’s one thing, and typical of him. The fire is too — but coming back to a minor confrontation and just being sent away again — he wouldn’t defy you physically . . . no, that’s out of character. There’s something wrong somewhere.”

  “Perhaps they never went to Inverness,” Ian said.

  Clive rose. “I’m going to do some telephoning.” Marcus went out with him.

  “We must have dinner when they come back,” Leila said. “If you’ll excuse me: Jessie and Elspeth aren’t here tonight.”

  They all went to the kitchen, Ian in the rear. “You don’t mind?” he asked diffidently. “I’ll peel some potatoes or something. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts; they’re unpleasant.”

  “Oh, poor darling!” Bridget exclaimed. “All those lovely birds! Don’t worry; they’re not going to make a film here, I promise you. Sit down and we’ll have a large whisky each.” She cleared a corner of the big table and set herself to the task of reassuring him. Good girl, Miss Pink thought approvingly and then: if Clive’s lawyers have the typical cautious legal mind, she’ll have to rally him as well.

  Their low spirits were emphasised by their fatigue. They had all been exhausted after the fire, then there had been the stimulation of whisky at tea time followed by the shock of Rita’s revelations; now, Miss Pink thought, only alcohol kept them going. She looked at the sirloin sizzling in the oven and felt slightly squeamish.

  “God!” Marcus stood in the doorway. “He’s at a bloody banquet!”

  “God?” Bridget asked.

  “Holmes. Clive’s lawyer. We can’t get hold of him. Incidentally, the man at the garage in Kinloch saw the Mini this afternoon. Only Rita was in it and she stopped for petrol, so he didn’t make a mistake. She didn’t bring them back.”

  *

  Dinner was not a happy meal, the talk going round in circles as it tends to do in the face of the kind of looming disaster which reason maintains cannot take place, but the results of which would be so cataclysmic that reason cringes before primitive fear, knowing that, in the short term at least, justice can go down before force. Every now and again someone would reiterate a different version of the statement that Clive owned the cliffs; in the end it was sounding like an incantation.

  In the drawing room Marcus fell asleep and snored. His friend’s lapse appeared to put new life into Clive and he recovered some of his quiet authority, breaking up the party, asking the ladies if he could escort them to Soutra — an offer which they declined, saying goodnight but making no mention of tomorrow. No one else did either.

  Miss Pink and Leila walked home through a moonlit but strangely busy evening. Owls were calling in the woods and there was constant movement in the fields where someone was going the rounds of the sheep. Looking back from the cottage, Miss Pink caught the occasional flicker of a torch in dark places. Below the susurration of the sea she could hear the sound of an engine. Leila was exasperated when her attention was drawn to it.

  “MacKenzie’s had a bit of trouble with his boat,” she explained. “And I want some prawns tomorrow. What a time to start mending the engine!”

  “It’s not nine-thirty yet; we’re early.”

  “Of course. What a day it’s been! Thank God it’s over.”

  Miss Pink thought this might be tempting Providence. There were two and a half hours to go till midnight. She sat on the terrace wall and looked thoughtfully at the lights of the settlement. The cliffs were black in the moonlight and the Old Man was a fairy pinnacle under Farrid Head. She thought of seal-women, and whales, and then of Stark. It was not until she was speculating on his whereabouts that she realised the significance of this: that she didn’t believe he was in Inverness.

  Chapter Eight

  The sun had not yet reached the glen when Miss Pink approached the broch next morning, but Rita was up and, to the older woman’s surprise, the girl was wearing a shabby anorak and boots and looked more as if she were going climbing than driving to Inverness.

  “I’m glad I caught you.” Miss Pink was carefully casual.

  Rita stood still and stared at her, scraping her knuckles with her teeth.

  “Before you left, I mean,” the other went on. “Shall we take the tent down?”

  The girl’s eyes shifted restlessly but stayed on nothing. Miss Pink moved closer.

  “Where are you going now?” she asked firmly.

  “Up the cliff.” It was almost inaudible.

  “What are you going to do there?”

  “See what’s keeping them.”

  “Keeping whom?”

  “Pinch. Stark.”

  Miss Pink shot a glance at the rock band now touched by the sun. “Pincher and Stark are on the cliff?” she prompted carefully.

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?” A pause. “When did they leave for the cliff, Rita?”

  “After he started the fire.”

  “Yesterday morning?”

  “Yeah. They went straight across the moor to the cliff. I just drove around all day. It was a long time ago, wasn’t it? I’m worried about Pinch; I don’t care about Stark. He said they might get stranded on the stack: cut off by the tide, but Pinch can swim, although I s’pose he wouldn’t leave Stark. He can’t. Can’t swim, I mean. Do you know when they could get back?”

  Miss Pink was thinking hard but her voice was kind. “We’ll go to the House now, have some breakfast, and then we’ll go up to the top and see how they’re getting on.”

  She took the other’s arm and they started along the track. As they were passing Catacol the back door opened and Sadie stood on the step. The crofter girl didn’t greet them but, with no acknowledgement of Miss Pink’s presence, she looked at Rita, whose arm was still held by the older woman, and who walked as if slightly drunk. Miss Pink was puzzled by Sadie’s expression; it wasn’t dislike or fear or resentment. She seemed intensely interested but if any emotion was there, it was too deep to show. They walked through the wood, Miss Pink talking a little: not chattering, just making a noise because silence would have seemed sinis
ter. Rita said nothing but kept walking. It was surprising that she should prove so amenable at this moment but Miss Pink didn’t speculate; she was grateful for small mercies.

  A wisp of smoke was rising from a chimney at the back of the House and they found Bridget in the kitchen making coffee.

  “Rita could do with some of that,” Miss Pink said meaningly. “Where’s Clive?”

  He was in his study making notes of more questions for his solicitor whom he’d not yet managed to reach on the telephone. She told him what Rita had divulged.

  “So,” he commented heavily, staring at her over his reading glasses: “That was merely a ploy about the broken piton hammer, to gain them time — and they started the fire to keep us occupied all day and to ensure that Hector didn’t go out to his pots. What happened to them, then?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “They could have got back during the night when the tide went down, unless they were stranded on the top section of the Old Man.”

  “Oh no, definitely not; it’s well within their standard.”

  His face brightened. “They’re afraid to come back. They must have walked straight to Kinloch from Farrid Head; it’s only thirteen, fourteen miles.”

  “Leaving the car and the contents of the tent?”

  “That’s simple. They’ve arranged with Rita to pick them up in Kinloch today.”

  “No, she thinks they’re on the cliffs; she’s distraught with worry, almost shocked, it seems.”

  “Isn’t that like some brutes: to go off and let her think — he’s — that they’ve both —”

  “We’ll have to go up there.”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “Of course you’re right. We’ll take MacKenzie’s boat.”

  *

  It was a good little boat, and faster than Hector’s. There were four of them in it besides MacKenzie: Clive and Marcus, Miss Pink and Ian Morrison. Rita had been prevailed on to stay at the House in the company of Bridget and Leila, the latter hastily summoned by telephone.

  MacKenzie steered straight for the stack and no one this morning had any interest in the cliffs before Farrid Head. What they could see of stack and headland appeared quite innocent and, as it were, untenanted except for the birds, but then none of the routes with which they were concerned would be visible from this approach.