Spirit of the Island

by Joan Fleming

  * * *

  The cloud of misery that had weighed heavy on her since she left Glasgow cleared a little as she began the thirty-mile journey to the village of Bunessan.

  In no time, the two lanes in the road became one, and Kirsty recalled the etiquette of driving on a single track: using passing places to allow oncoming or overtaking traffic to pass. As she caught sight of Duart Castle, the seat of Clan Maclean, she made a mental note to visit the ancient fortress while she was on the island.

  Soon she settled into the rhythm of her island drive. Dark clouds filled the sky–an echo of her gloomy frame of mind? She remembered travelling this route in happier circumstances, when a sunny day would illuminate the spectacular scenery.

  She drove through a forested landscape, rattling over cattle grids, then emerged into the mountainous area of the Glen. As her mood lightened–who could remain unaffected by the magnificence of these vistas?–she began to hum tunes of Hebridean music. She would have to buy a CD for the car.

  Leaving the tiny village of Pennyghael behind, she fancied she could glimpse, far ahead, the island of Staffa–site of famous Fingal’s Cave–and the Treshnish Isles, where she remembered once being taken to see the puffins. Under the glowering black clouds, a horizontal line of sunshine had opened up, dazzling her as she drove west to Bunessan. Was this a good omen for her stay in Mull?

  Chapter 3

  Lochside Inn. It sounded like the title of a romantic novel. Indeed, it looked like a venue for romance: set on a low hill close to the loch, the grey granite building was surrounded by heather-clad moorland that blossomed purple in the late summer. Wild flowers–primroses, iris, bluebells –appeared throughout their blooming period, interspersed with the fern which grew so readily in the peat bogs. The scent from the machair, the narrow strips of grassland that separated the sea from the land, varied throughout the year, but there was an underlying salty-sweet fragrance which Kirsty always associated with the island.

  The glass-fronted porch, added since her last visit, welcomed visitors with an array of pot plants on the window ledges. When she walked into the wide hallway, she stood for a moment. The pictures adorning the walls were all of beaches in Mull; a glass-fronted display cabinet held two bottles of whisky, surrounded by small whisky glasses. None of these were familiar to Kirsty; it was the aroma of home cooking that took her back to her teenage visits to Lochside.

  At that time, there were two large rooms downstairs–the dining room and the guest lounge. Elsa and Charlie’s private sitting room was smaller and, with its peat fire, was always a cosy place to enjoy Elsa’s scones with her homemade bramble jam.

  Although she had never spent the night in the inn, Kirsty knew there were three bedrooms on the first floor and two on the second, one of which was a tiny attic room with a skylight window. This was the one Elsa had offered her when she called to arrange her accommodation on the island.

  ‘It’s really only suitable for a child,’ Elsa had said. ‘But since you’re coming on your own…’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ Kirsty had replied. ‘I didn’t really expect you would have any availability at this time of year.’

  Once she was installed in the tiny bedroom, Kirsty had the opportunity to draw breath, to think about Adam’s parting shot at the end of yet another argument.

  ‘Go, then. And don’t be surprised if I’m not here when you come back,’ Kirsty had shouted at him.

  ‘With you behaving like this, I might not come back at all,’ he’d said, before slamming the door behind him.

  She’d tried several times to contact him on his mobile, but he was always unavailable. Against her better judgement, she checked regularly to see if he’d tried to get in touch with her. There was no message, no missed call.

  * * *

  ‘Amy Wilson.’ It still felt strange, answering the phone so formally.

  After she was made redundant by R&R Accountants in Glasgow, her boss Raymond had offered help to set up in business in her cottage on the Isle of Mull. With only one phone line for business and for personal use, Amy always had to be prepared for a call from a potential client, or indeed from one of the small number of people already using her accountancy services.

  On this occasion, however, the call was from a friend, albeit one she’d had little to do with for the last ten years.

  ‘Amy, it’s Kirsty here. Kirsty Mitchell.’

  For a moment, Amy was puzzled. She knew several Kirstys, not only here on the island but also in Glasgow, where she’d been based for most of her twenty-nine years. Then, she remembered.

  ‘Kirsty! How nice to hear from you.’

  A voice from the past. Kirsty had been one of the occasional members of a group of youngsters, then teenagers, who had spent their holidays in Mull. Although they’d exchanged the occasional message on Facebook, Amy hadn’t seen her since those long, carefree days of her youth.

  ‘Where are you speaking from?’

  ‘I’m here in Mull at the moment, and I wondered if we could meet, perhaps have a coffee together?’

  ‘Of course. I’d be delighted to see you, Kirsty. Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’m in the Lochside Inn. I have my car here, so I could drive over to Columb Cottage.’ She was silent for a moment, and Amy could hear her rapid breathing. ‘Whenever you’re available. I can come any time,’ Kirsty added quickly.

  There was a slight tremor in the other girl’s voice. Was she nervous? Amy wondered. Or was it simply the island telephone line which seemed to have a life of its own at times?

  ‘Is this business, Kirsty, or is it a social call?’

  ’Just a social call. I’ll be staying here for a while, and I’d love some company.’

  ‘Fine. Why don’t you come for coffee on Saturday morning? About ten o’clock?’

  ‘Perfect. Thanks, Amy. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.’ Without waiting for a reply, Kirsty cut the connection.

  Strange call, Amy thought, still holding the handset. Curious to know what lay behind this unexpected call, she replaced the handset and dragged herself reluctantly back to work. How tempting it would be to take a break and reminisce about the times she and Kirsty, with the rest of their group, had spent on the island a decade before.

  Chapter 4

  Kirsty’s heart rate increased as she stepped out of her car. What on earth was she so nervous about? True, she wasn’t the pretty teenager she’d been last time the two women had seen each other. But that should have no bearing on her visit to Columb Cottage. What was she expecting? That Amy would make some comment about her scar? And if she did…how would she react? Kirsty had fallen into the habit of using her hair to cover half of her face, spraying her blond curls with liberal quantities of lacquer until it felt like a solid board lying against her cheek. But that, she knew, would never work in the winds that often whirled round the island.

  The sight of Columb Cottage brought back so many memories. Long summer days spent rambling over the island, fishing or sailing with someone’s dad or uncle; hot, freshly-made scones and pancakes from Amy’s aunt… Kirsty gave herself a shake. Nostalgia would weaken the defences she had built round herself to cope with the horrified reaction of people when they saw her scar for the first time.

  Amy, who must have seen her arrive from her cottage window, was waiting at the open door to greet her.

  ‘Kirsty, it’s great to see you after all this time,’ she said, throwing her arms round her friend.

  ‘And you,’ Kirsty said.

  The two women stood back for a moment, giving each other appraising looks.

  ‘Bonnier than ever,’ Kirsty said.

  ‘You’re looking not so bad yourself,’ Amy said. ‘For a woman of thirty, that is.’

  Kirsty’s pulse rate began to slow. There was no look of surprise or shock on Amy’s face.

  ‘No, no, I’m still twenty-nine–a year to go,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve beaten you to it, then. My birthday’s passed.’


  ‘Come in, come in,’ Amy said. ‘The kettle’s boiled. Let’s go through to the kitchen and we can chat while I make the coffee.’

  Both women enjoyed reminiscing about their teenage years on the island, then brought each other up-to-date on how life had treated them in the intervening years.

  ‘I’ve only recently come to live here on Mull,’ Amy said. ‘I worked in Glasgow after I left university, until last year, when I was made redundant. My aunt had died and left the cottage to me, so I was able to come here and set myself up as a self-employed accountant. The firm I worked with in Glasgow sends me some business, and I’ve acquired a few new clients since I started here. It’s slow, though. The menfolk here don’t like the idea of entrusting their money to a woman. Their children, their farm animals–yes. But not their financial affairs.’

  They both smiled, forming that comfortable bond women have when they’re together.

  ‘Yes, I heard you’d started up here after leaving Glasgow.’

  ‘What about you? Tell me what you’ve been doing. You studied nursing at university, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes and no. I started the course, but I decided nursing wasn’t for me. I moved over to computer science, but again, I didn’t feel I would make a success of that. I had a number of temporary jobs, but eventually I found a post as a classroom assistant in a primary school. I love it, but the disadvantage is that I don’t have a permanent contract, which means I never know if I’ll have a job at the end of the summer holidays.’

  Amy refilled their coffee cups.

  ‘Adam, my husband, and I were planning a cruise this summer, but he has to work in London, so we’ve cancelled it. A friend suggested I come to Mull for a few weeks–and here I am.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear you had to cancel your holiday, but it’s great to see you here in Mull,’ Amy said. ‘Are you quite happy at Lochside?’

  ‘Yes. Elsa and Charlie are so kind. I was fortunate the little attic room was free, and since I’m on my own…’

  ‘Yes, if I remember correctly, that room is scarcely big enough for one, let alone two. It’s really a child’s room. If your husband comes…’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he won’t be coming, Amy. When he’s involved in a project, he doesn’t really take any time off. This London contract is worth a lot to the firm.’

  ‘It’s a pity it’s coincided with your holiday plans, but maybe you’ll be able to go away together later in the year? During the October school break?’

  ‘Yes, maybe…’

  * * *

  As she cleared away the coffee cups, Amy noticed how Kirsty lifted her hand to touch the livid scar on her pale face. Almost as if she was checking to see if it was still there. What had happened to her? Having succeeded, she hoped, in hiding her initial shock–thanks to the warning call from Elsa–Amy swallowed hard. How could Kirsty, always so conscious of her appearance, cope with the disfiguring effect of such an injury?

  Almost as if Kirsty could read her mind, she asked, ‘You’ll be wondering what happened to my face?’

  Amy put her arm round her friend’s shoulders. ‘I’d be lying if I said no,’ she replied kindly. ‘If you want to tell me, why don’t we go out for a walk? We can talk as we go.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Wrap up well,’ Amy said, as the two women prepared to set off. ‘There’s a chill in the wind, even if the sun’s shining.’

  ‘Don’t let’s go via the village,’ Kirsty said.

  ‘Good suggestion. We’d be sure to meet someone we know, and we could stand chatting in Fionnphort for the rest of the afternoon,’ Amy said, smiling. ‘There’s little opportunity to keep anything secret in such a small village.’

  ‘It would be good to see some old acquaintances, but I’m not ready for that yet.’

  ‘And don’t forget how far information can travel on the tongues of certain more garrulous members of the community. If you’re not prepared to see a report in the Oban Times, be careful what you say to the locals. There’s no malice in them, but they simply put everything they hear into a category of communal information,’ Amy warned. ‘And they love to be the first to pass it on.’

  ‘All for one and one for all.’ Kirsty smiled, no doubt remembering the unwritten code of living in a small, tight-knit island community.

  ‘Nothing much has changed since we spent our summers here–the shop’s still there, the ferry terminal. It’s quiet except when the busloads of tourists come to catch the ferry to Iona.’

  ‘That wee island has always been a tourist attraction, with the Abbey and its association with St Columba and the birth of Christianity here in Britain,’ Kirsty said.

  Their walk took them towards the sea, avoiding the village of Fionnphort. They pulled up the hoods of their jackets as protection from the keen-edged wind that blew off the water.

  Amy was relieved to see Kirsty smile. It was as if a veil of sadness had been lifted, perhaps only temporarily, from the beautiful, young woman she had turned out to be. In her younger days, everyone had considered her to be the beauty of the group, with her ice-blue eyes and blonde hair that owed nothing to any form of artificial colouring. With a figure that would have attracted the attention of modelling studios, she had been the envy of the other girls, the one who drew the eyes of all the boys in the group. Boys? They were on the verge of becoming men.

  Although it was obvious Kirsty was conscious of her appearance, she wore her beauty lightly. Yes, she took pains to make the best of what she had, as she herself termed it, but it was her lack of awareness of her physical attraction that had always ensured her popularity in the group. That, and her sense of humour. It had never taken much to make Kirsty laugh, a slightly throaty chuckle that was guaranteed to inject a light-hearted atmosphere into the activities of the group. It was the kind of laughter that was defined by its absence: if Kirsty wasn’t around, they had all missed the buoyancy of her humour.

  ‘Do you feel at home here on the island?’ Amy asked as they fell into step, hugging the coastline. ‘It must be different from the days when you were staying with your granny.’

  ‘Yes and no. I don’t feel like a visitor, but when Granny was alive, I simply took it for granted that I belonged. Now, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Amy said. ‘The islanders set great store by their ancestry, though, and you’re the granddaughter of a Mulleach. I think that means you’re one of us.’

  ‘But I have no home on the island,’ Kirsty said.

  ‘I don’t think that makes any difference.’

  ‘Good.’ Kirsty smiled. ‘You’ve made me feel better already.’

  * * *

  As they rounded a small headland, a figure dressed in black appeared in the distance, silhouetted against the skyline.

  ‘That’s Mary Benview,’ Amy said. ‘Do you remember her?’

  ‘Is she still alive? My granny used to call her the cailleach. She never explained exactly what that meant, but I think it’s an old woman, maybe even a mythological figure.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She came from time to time to my granny’s and had tea. Her visits were always unexpected–she never came by arrangement. I think Granny felt sorry for her.’

  ‘That’s her dog, Bess, with her,’ Amy said. ‘Apparently she originally belonged to a farmer but she couldn’t work the sheep. Then she attached herself to Mary, although she roams around the neighbourhood, sometimes just appearing at your door looking for something to eat.’

  ‘Does she come to you?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘Yes. She stays the night sometimes, but she always seems to find her way back to Mary.’ Amy chuckled. ‘She’s a really affectionate dog. She always gives you the impression she’s happiest when she’s with you.’

  ‘And Mary Benview–does she still wander around the countryside in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I think so. But, to be honest, I’ve never been walking a
cross the moor at midnight to prove that one way or another.’

  A strong gust of wind whipped up off the sea and blew Kirsty’s hood off, taking hold of her long, blond curls and entwining them round any available part of her jacket it could find.

  ‘Stop here a minute,’ Amy said. ‘Let me fix your hood.’ Shielding her friend with her own body, she unwound Kirsty’s hair from buttons and toggles. ‘There,’ she said at last. ‘That should hold now. Let’s move away from the shoreline–it’s a bit exposed here.’

  The two women walked on in silence for a while, until Kirsty spoke. She had been moving with her shoulders slightly hunched, but suddenly her head jerked up and she looked straight at Amy. ‘I said I’d tell you about my face,’ she said.

  ‘Only if you want to, Kirsty. And if this is the right moment,’ Amy said.

  ‘There’s never a right moment,’ Kirsty said, her voice flat. She took a deep breath. ‘It happened about six months ago. We were driving home late one night after a function in the city centre. Adam was at the wheel–it was only a short distance. We were stationary at traffic lights. When they turned green, Adam pulled away, then a car shot the lights from our left and rammed straight into my side of the car.’

  ‘So the other driver went through a red light?’

  ‘Yes. We learned later that he’d been drinking. He was only eighteen, and he and a friend in another car were racing through the centre of town.’

  ‘What a shock you must have had!’ Amy said.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t remember much about it. There was a loud series of screeching noises, metal on metal, then a terrific bang that forced the air out of me. After that, I woke up in hospital.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, what a dreadful experience.’

  Kirsty resumed her story, speaking in the same lifeless voice. It sounded to Amy as if she was recounting an incident that had happened to someone else; she seemed somehow disengaged from any emotional involvement.