Star Gazing

by Linda Gillard

  I found a hollow, then another, then lots of them, some large and deep, some smaller and shallow. These must be our footprints. I turned back to retrieve my branch, ripped off a long slender piece of wood to use as a more sensitive cane and swept it in front of me, bending over so the wood reached the ground. The line of footprints was straight and easy to follow. I paused as one of my feet fell into Keir’s footprint, like a foot sliding into a large Wellington boot. I stood, swaying, wondering how I was ever going to find the strength to lift my foot, let alone climb a rope ladder, then with a lurch, I fell forwards and was moving again.

  The footprints stopped. The snow was churned up and there was no longer any trail. Was this where we’d stopped, where Keir had explained how I was to climb? I extended my makeshift cane, sweeping the air in front of me. It hit something. Not something solid, something that yielded. Oh dear God, please…

  I walked forwards, a hand stretched out in front of me. It collided with a piece of slimy wood at chest height. Smooth, worn wood. With ropes passing through it at both ends. The rope ladder.

  I clung to the ladder as if I’d found a friend, hugged it to me, weeping with relief and pride that I’d found it using nothing more than common sense and some twigs. I grasped the rungs, remembering Keir had said the ladder would swing unless he held it steady. It did. It swung wildly, but I climbed slowly, counting the rungs out loud to stop myself thinking about the drop.

  Hauling myself onto the platform was easier than I remembered and, crawling around, I soon located the door. But I found I couldn’t get to my feet. My legs had given out completely with the effort of climbing the ladder. I reached up with my hand, searching for the door handle, turned it and, as the door opened with its familiar groan, I fell into the room.

  My nose was assailed by a delicious smell. Chocolate. The chocolate we’d drunk here this morning. (This morning? Was it really only a few hours ago?) I pushed the door shut behind me and leaned against it, trying to remember where Keir had said the bedding was kept… ‘There’s a collection of old blankets and eiderdowns in a wooden kist.’ I crawled across the floor in search of something that felt like a wooden box. I found one and lifted the lid. I plunged my hand in but instead of the warmth and softness of textiles, I met hard edges, corners, a jumble of wood and metal. The toys. The Lonely Hearts Club. I grasped one of the wooden figures, clutched it, as if it were some sort of talisman. I sat back on my haunches, no longer cold, no longer feeling any sense of urgency. A vague calm had settled on me. All that seemed to matter was whether my frozen fingers could identify the wooden figure in my palm. It had curves. An elephant? A hippopotamus? No, a small head. And a face. A human face. It was Mrs Noah. Mrs Noah, waiting for her husband.

  Still clutching the figure, I found another box. Lifting the lid I smelled a mixture of camphor, lavender and old sweat. I knew what the box contained even before I put my hand inside. I dragged the blankets and quilts out on to the floor and lay down. With the last of my strength, I rolled myself up in them and curled into a ball. I could feel the figure of Mrs Noah under my chin, her head digging in to my jawbone. It hurt, but I couldn’t find the strength to move. I told myself it was a good sign, that I could still feel something, feel pain. It meant I was alive.

  So we lay together, Mrs Noah and I. Waiting.

  Waiting for our men-folk to come.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Keir arrives in Broadford, he pulls into the car park, performs a neat, fast three-point turn, pulls out again and sets off, back the way he has come. Murdo MacDonald, walking slowly on the arm of his wife Katie, stops to raise a frail hand in salute as the Land Rover speeds past. Unusually, Keir fails to acknowledge.

  Murdo turns and follows the speeding car with his eyes, then resumes his gentle pace. ‘That was Keir Harvey. Back home again.’

  ‘Oh, aye? He was in a mighty hurry.’

  ‘Aye, he was. Looked as if he’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘Och well,’ says Katie placidly. ‘If it was Keir Kenneth Harvey, maybe he had.’

  The Land Rover slews to a halt and Keir jumps out, landing softly in several inches of snow. He pulls on a hat and heads for the steps leading down to the house. They are still visible but now snow-covered. He scrambles down, using his hands for extra speed. Arriving at the bottom of the steep slope he jogs towards the house, then stops suddenly. He looks round, peering through the trees and calls, ‘Marianne?’

  There is no sound, not even of wind. He runs to the house, opens the door, leans in and calls again. Barely waiting for an answer, he slams the door and runs round to the other side of the house. Despite the fresh fall, he can see the old snow has been churned up and a great pile has slid from the roof, narrowly missing the bench. Footprints travel back and forth, criss-crossing the garden. One line of prints leads to a black hole in the ground. Seeing it, Keir swears and calls Marianne’s name again, louder this time.

  He scans the garden looking for a trail of prints leading out into the woods. As he does so, he tries to estimate how old the prints are, how long Marianne has been lost in the snow. He follows a track away from the house, one that leads straight into a tree. At its base the snow is alternately churned and compressed where Marianne has reeled backwards, fallen and tried get her bearings again. Reading the eloquent pattern in the snow, something tightens in Keir’s stomach and he smashes a gloved fist against the trunk of the offending tree. Oblivious, he is showered with snow.

  He picks up a trail leading in another direction. Alongside this set of footprints is another track, of something being dragged. Keir looks back at the tree and notes the jagged edge of a broken branch. He murmurs, ‘That’s my girl… ’ under his breath and runs through the trees, following the broad sweep of the branch through virgin snow.

  Keir follows the trail but he already knows where Marianne was trying to go. Did she get there? He stops for a moment and lifts his head, as if he’s surveying the woodland, searching, but his eyes are closed. He breathes, ‘Hang on, Marianne… ’ and runs upstream, following the course of the burn.

  When he enters the tree-house, all Keir can see at first is a pile of blankets heaped on the floor. As his eyes adjust to the low level of light he sees a projecting foot and registers a pool of muddy water that has leaked out of Marianne’s shoe on to the wooden floor. He kneels and tries to locate her head without removing the covering of blankets. Spotting a long coil of wet hair, he removes his fleece hat, uncovers Marianne’s head and puts the hat on her, pulling it down over her ears. She stirs. Keir removes his gloves and reaches into a pocket. Flipping open the blade of a Swiss army knife, he slices through the sodden laces of her shoes, pulls them off, then peels off her wet socks. He pushes each of her icy feet into one of his gloves and then covers them again. Feeling under the blankets for her torso, his hands meet cold wet wool. Alarm catches his breath as he realises she isn’t wearing a coat.

  He tries to rouse her. ‘Marianne, wake up. Can you hear me? It’s Keir.’

  She groans. ‘Go away… I need to sleep.’

  ‘Marianne, I need to find out how cold you are. I’m going to put my hand under your jumper and feel your tummy, OK?’

  As he delves under the blankets she wriggles away from his exploring hands. ‘Stop that! What are you doing?’ A wooden figure falls from her hand and rolls across the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I need to know your body temperature. Listen, Marianne – I’m going to ask you a question. It’ll sound pretty stupid but can you answer anyway? Who’s the Prime Minister?’

  ‘Get your hands off me, Keir!’

  ‘The name of the Prime Minister, Marianne. Tell me. Please.’

  ‘Tony bloody Blair! Now will you just bugger off and let me sleep?’ She shrugs her way under the blankets again.

  ‘Marianne, you’re suffering from hypothermia and we have to get you back to the house and get you warm. You got lost in the snow, you fell in the pond and you’re very, very cold. So listen to me – Marianne? Are
you listening?’ He shakes her gently. ‘I’m going to lower you down. There’s a pulley system. I won’t be able to carry you down the rope ladder – especially if you’re not going to co-operate,’ he adds under his breath. ‘So I’m going to put you into a kind of sling. It’s a tarpaulin on a rope. You can sit in it and I’ll lower you down to the ground. You’ll be quite safe. Then I’ll climb down the ladder and carry you back to the house.’

  ‘But I’m tired, Keir. I just want to sleep.’

  ‘When we get back to the house you can sleep, I promise. Now I’m going to pick you up. Try not to move, I want you to stay wrapped in the blankets. We need to conserve what body heat you have left. I’m going to take you outside and then you’ll feel me putting you down on a piece of canvas. It’ll close up around you when I pull the rope and you’ll feel as if you’re in a kind of bag. It won’t be for long. I’m going to hoist you off the platform and then swing you round, out into the air. But you’ll be on a rope and I’ll be at the other end of it, so you’ll be quite safe. Then you’ll feel me lower you to the ground. When you get there, just sit still and wait for me. D’you understand? That’s important. Just sit still. You’ve no shoes on, so don’t try to walk away.’

  ‘Where are my shoes?’

  ‘Never mind. We’ll get them later. Can you count backwards from one hundred?’

  ‘Of course I can. What a stupid question!’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because if you can, it’s a good sign. So show me you can do it, then I’ll stop worrying. Backwards from one hundred. Ninety-nine… Go on.’ Keir opens the door, turns back and lifts Marianne, swathed in blankets.

  ‘This is ridiculous, Keir!’

  ‘Just do it. Ninety-eight… Please, Marianne.’

  She feels a wave of cold air on her face, the touch of snowflakes on her cheek. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake… Ninety-seven … ninety-six… ninety-five… ’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Ninety-four… ninety-three… ’

  Keir sets her down on a bench beside a hanging tarpaulin. He lowers it onto the platform and pulls the rope till the tarpaulin gathers. He lifts Marianne again and sets her down inside the canvas bag. ‘I’m going to hoist you up, then swing you out. Don’t be frightened – you’re perfectly safe.’ He pulls on the rope and grunts, ‘Keep counting.’

  Marianne’s voice is muffled. ‘I’ve lost count.’

  ‘Ninety-four.’ Keir swings the load round so Marianne dangles in the air.

  ‘Ninety-five… ninety-six… ’

  ‘No. Backwards. Ninety-three… ’

  ‘Ninety-two… ninety-one… ninety… ’

  Her voice fades as Keir passes the rope slowly through his hands. He feels her touch the ground, lets go of the rope and scrambles on to the ladder, descending quickly, jumping the last few feet. Disentangling Marianne from the tarpaulin, he pulls her hat down firmly again and wraps her tightly in the blankets, ignoring her protests.

  ‘I’m quite capable of walking!’

  ‘Not without shoes. Anyway, this’ll be quicker. We’d be quicker still if you’d stop wriggling. What happened to the counting? Come on, eighty-nine… ’

  ‘I passed that ages ago. On the way down. I’m into the seventies.’

  ‘Good. Carry on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it will make me very happy. Seventy-nine… ’

  ‘Seventy-eight… Seventy-seven… It’s still snowing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye. But we’ll soon have you tucked up in bed. Seventy-six.’

  ‘Seventy-five… seventy-four… ’ Her head flops suddenly onto his shoulder. ‘I’m so tired, Keir.’

  ‘Aye, I know. You’ve had a hell of a time and I was a stupid bastard to leave you behind. But you’re going to be OK. Seventy-three.’

  ‘Seventy-two… I wasn’t scared. Not very. I knew you’d come. I knew you’d find me somehow. How did you know where I was?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. Seventy-one… ’

  The stove is still alight and the house feels warm as Keir carries Marianne up to the bedroom. Sweating with the exertion, he sets her down on the bed, still swaddled in blankets. He kneels in front of her and takes her by the shoulders, raising his voice to be heard over the chattering of her teeth.

  ‘Listen to me, Marianne. We have to get you warm, and quickly. I want you to take off your wet things – your jeans and jumper. I’m not going to look at you, I promise.’ She sheds the blankets and fumbles with the zip of her jeans. Keir turns away and unzips his jacket. ‘I’m taking off my fleece and jumper now and I want you to put them on because they’re warm and dry. Or … if you’ll let me, there’s a better way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can warm you up much quicker with my skin.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I can get into bed with you and get you warm. I’m the warmest thing we’ve got. And after carrying you, I’m very warm. And,’ he adds, ‘there’s a lot of me.’

  She frowns, then her face crumples. ‘Keir, what’s happening? I don’t remember where I am!’

  ‘Don’t cry! You’re going to be OK, I promise. Just take off your wet clothes now and get into bed.’

  As she peels off her jeans, a sob turns to a snort. ‘I’ve got gloves on my feet.’

  ‘Aye, I had to improvise.’

  She struggles with her jumper for a moment, then gives up and whimpers, ‘My head’s stuck. My hands are useless!’

  ‘Here, let me.’ He helps her out of the wet wool, retrieves the hat and replaces it on her head.

  ‘Now what are you doing?’

  ‘Putting your hat back on. To keep your head warm. Under the duvet with you now.’

  She sniffs. ‘I must look a complete idiot.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know, I’m not looking.’

  Marianne climbs under the duvet and lies on her back, shivering violently. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Taking off my jumper. But not my jeans. Now don’t be frightened – this isn’t what it looks like. Ach, sorry! You know what I mean. I’m going to get under the duvet with you and use my skin to warm you. Believe me, it’s the quickest way. Standard procedure, in fact.’ He lifts the duvet and she feels the mattress subside as he gets into bed beside her. ‘Lie on your side, facing me. I’m going to put one arm round your waist and put my hand in the small of your back. Like that… And this one – lift your head now – I’m going to put round your neck and shoulders. Now… I want you to press yourself up against me.’ Marianne hesitates, then edges across the mattress. She feels him flinch. ‘Christ Almighty, you’re cold! Try and get as much of your skin in contact with mine as you can… That’s right, that’s good! We’ll have you warmed up in no time. Then I’ll make you a hot drink and get you some food. Are you comfortable?’

  ‘The hair on your chest is tickling my nose.’

  ‘You can feel your nose? Och, that’s a good sign. Turn your face to one side. Lay your cheek against my chest. Better?’

  ‘Mmm… Shouldn’t I be moving about though?’ she asks drowsily. ‘To get the circulation going?’

  ‘No, it’s not safe to do that. The warm-up has to be gentle. You’re very, very cold. Your body is struggling to keep your core warm. We mustn’t take blood away from your organs.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I’ve friends in the Mountain Rescue team. And I’ve heard tales of folk being treated for hypothermia.’ He moves his hand gently over her chilled flesh. ‘Your back’s still really cold. Turn over, we’ll try a different position.’

  She turns away from him and says with a weary sigh, ‘This is like the Kama Sutra.’

  ‘Now that would get your circulation going. Draw up your knees.’ He curves his body round hers, enfolding her with his arms. ‘I’m going to put a hand here, on your midriff and I’m going to leave it there. Press your back up against me. Aye, like
that!’

  They lie still, breathing in unison, until Marianne says, ‘I walked into the pond. Fell straight through the ice.’

  ‘I know, I saw. You must have given the frogs a hell of a fright. But the pond’s not close to the house. Why did you move so far away?’

  ‘I was frightened. Snow fell off the roof. It was like an avalanche. I just heard a strange noise… and I ran. Ran away from the house. Then I couldn’t find it again.’

  ‘But you managed to find the tree-house.’

  ‘Eventually. I followed the burn. And I managed to find the stepping-stones. It was just luck.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it! That was excellent navigation and hillcraft. You’re a wonder, Marianne.’ He squeezes her gently. ‘A bloody wonder.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He feels her body relax against him and wonders if she’s falling asleep when she announces, ‘I’m starving. I hope you bought us something nice for supper.’

  He hesitates before saying, ‘I didn’t do any shopping. I got to Broadford, then turned round and came back. I’m afraid it’ll be baked beans on toast. Unless you’re any good with loaves and fishes.’

  ‘You caught some fish?’

  ‘I was thinking more tinned sardines.’

  ‘Sardines on toast is one of my favourites. But Louisa can’t stand the smell,’ she says absently. ‘Keir, I don’t understand. Why did you come back early?’ She is aware of his chest rising and falling behind her, feels the pressure of warm air on the back of her neck, as if he has let out a great sigh, but he doesn’t reply. ‘I suppose you heard me… Calling out.’

  ‘Aye. In a manner of speaking.’

  After a moment, she turns her head and says over her shoulder, ‘You can’t have! Where from? You heard me shout from inside the Land Rover? Up on the road? But you must have been miles away by then.’

  ‘Lie still now… It’s hard to explain. And I don’t think you’re going to understand anyway. I picked up a kind of… distress signal. I thought you might be in trouble. So I turned back.’