by Ashe Barker
Ann-Marie’s gaze swung from one to the other, her bafflement plainly etched across her face. “Angus, what’re ye sayin’? Of course the bairn’s ours.” She spared an admonishing look for her son. “Bloody careless, I thought we’d taught the lad better, but we’ll cope. Sarah’s a grand lass, a clever girl…”
“She’s a sassenach and a bloody whore…” Angus was ready to expand further on his view but Ritchie’s fist once more connected with his jaw to put a stop to his tirade. He was laid out among the purple heather again, and it was left to his wife to help him to his feet. Ritchie turned and strode for the long, low cottage nestled in the bottom of the valley, the McLeod family home for three generations.
* * * *
What was behind all this? Why did his father hate Sarah so? Her English heritage was part of the explanation, perhaps, but Angus’ hatred, his sheer rage back there on the hillside, went beyond the rational. Angus McLeod was stubborn, that was true, but Ritchie had never seen his father so beyond reason, so impervious to any level of compromise. Perhaps his mother might succeed in reasoning with his father where he had failed, though he doubted that. And what if she did? Given the vile things Angus had said about Sarah and their baby, there was no prospect of the new family making their lives here, not now. He couldn’t ask that of Sarah, wouldn’t expose her to it even if she were willing.
Crofting was a hard life, but it was the life his father loved. Or perhaps it was the only existence Angus saw for himself and his family, a timeless bond between the McLeods and their few acres of Skye, a mutual dependency forged over the generations and seemingly unbreakable. Until now. At some level Ritchie understood that Angus saw Sarah as a threat, her education something alien to him. Reading and writing were necessary skills, but beyond some basic level, Angus had no use for them. He saw no need for books on an isolated croft perched on the edge of the Sound of Shiant, unless it was to provide extra weight to hold the roof on in a storm. Sarah represented change, and Angus would resist change to his dying breath. Sarah had new ideas—Angus often accused her of filling Ritchie’s head with dangerous talk of progress, mechanization, commercial reality. None of those had anything to do with him, with his croft, with his traditional way of life. So in Angus’ thinking, Sarah Harrison had no place here.
Knowing that, they’d talked—he and Sarah. They had tried to work something out, some way of preserving the McLeod way of life whilst moving with the times. Sarah could teach, after the baby was born. His mam could help with the littl’un— he knew she’d love a bairn to fuss over. Ritchie could continue to work with his father, and would run the place alone if, when, Angus returned to the sea where he eked out extra funds from fishing. Angus was often gone for a couple of weeks at a time, working the trawlers in the North Sea, and at those times, Ritchie was needed here. When he could be spared from Kilmuir and when an opportunity presented, he hired himself out doing odd jobs, laboring on farms or helping with construction. Ritchie was strong. He had no objection to hard work. Now he had someone to work for, a family of his own to make it all worthwhile. If only his da’ would have listened, understood, shifted just a little bit to make the space.
Ritchie peered out of the small window of the croft and could just make out the two figures of his parents far up on the hillside. They hadn’t moved since he’d stormed away from the fight with Angus. His mother’s smaller figure was positioned in front of the tall, wiry silhouette of his father, her hands on her hips as she jutted her determined chin at her husband. Ritchie smiled bitterly to himself, imagining what she would be saying. She’d be telling Angus what a fool he was—ignorant and prejudiced, intolerant and self-centered. She was correct on all scores, and Angus might even agree with most of her assessment himself, though he’d never say so. And on this matter, he would never shift.
Ann-Marie had hardly turned a hair at the mention of Sarah’s condition, which led Ritchie to suspect that she’d already worked it out for herself. She was sharp that way, and if he was right, his resourceful mother would already be planning how to ‘manage’, as she put it.
She’d have her hands full managing Angus, let alone their baby. Not that the latter was going to be her concern after all. Ritchie turned from the window, saddened, frustrated that he’d so spectacularly failed to gain even the smallest inch of ground with his father. He had to leave. He knew that.
He glanced around him at the small, spartan room that served as kitchen, dining room, living room and bedroom for his parents. The two fireside chairs, the small hearth glowing with a peat fire, surrounded by a gleaming cooking range. The mutton stew his mother had mentioned was no doubt bubbling merrily in the pot on the stove. Ritchie could smell it, mingling with the fresh, earthy aroma of today’s bread, still warm from the oven.
He looked around him, knowing he was seeing all this for the last time. The solid oak dresser against the far wall, the tiny table and three home-made chairs tucked under the window. The floor was partly covered by a multi-colored rag rug, originally crafted by his grandmother and lovingly repaired by Ann-Marie over the years. His parents’ bed was fitted into an alcove on the wall opposite the fireplace, an old-style box bed hand-carved by his great-grandfather. Ritchie had been born in that bed.
He told himself he wouldn’t miss crofting. It was a harsh, unforgiving life, and one that he knew was dying out, whatever his father might want. The future his father saw for him, for all of them, was an illusion, a dream. It was Angus’ dream, not his. But even so…
Ritchie straightened his shoulders and went to his room off the kitchen. He needed to pack.
* * * *
By the time Angus and Ann-Marie arrived at the cottage, Ritchie had managed to cram most of his possessions into a large sailor’s rucksack, an old one of his father’s. The bag was dumped in the middle of the main room. He was rummaging in the large dresser as the older couple entered the croft.
“Ritchie…” his mother began.
He turned to glance over his shoulder at her and shook his head. “Enough, Mam. I’m leaving. I have to, an’ I won’t be back.”
“Ye’ll fucking sit down and listen to me. Yer home is here. Ye’re needed here.” Angus was at least managing to keep his voice down now, though his words offered nothing in the way of reconciliation.
Ritchie didn’t even turn to face Angus as he replied, his tone now even. He was resigned to the inevitable. “I’m done listening. It’s ye who needs to listen, and adapt, though it’s too late now. I love Sarah. I love our baby. We’re going to be a family, with or without you.”
“No, no…”
Ritchie’s own words had had no effect, but he thought Ann-Marie’s wail of anguish might have been enough to give his father pause even now had the older man not been so blinded by his own rage and locked into his stubborn intransigence. Despite Angus’ taciturn demeanor, Ritchie knew that his father loved his mother and he was not in the habit of ignoring her wishes. But this… This was…
Ritchie found what he was searching for in the bureau—his birth certificate. He pocketed that then grabbed his holdall.
“Don’t go, oh please don’t go. Angus…” Ann-Marie was pleading, the tears already streaming down her cheeks
Ritchie hefted the bag over his shoulder. He stopped to hug his mother, wrapping his arms briefly around her slim shoulders. She was starting to weep in earnest, helpless to prevent this disaster unfolding in her living room. Angus turned his back on the scene, his shoulders stiff as he glared unseeing out of the window.
Ritchie ignored his father, past caring now what was going on in Angus’ head. “I’m sorry, Mam, but I have to look after Sarah—and the bairn. I have to put them first. Ye do see that, don’t ye? We canna live here. That’s plain. I wouldna ask it of her.”
Ann-Marie didn’t answer, and Ritchie’s heart twisted as she clung to him. She was sobbing, murmuring incoherent pleas, as though wishing hard enough could make everything right again. Ritchie peeled her fingers from his jacket, kiss
ed her forehead and headed for the door. As he stepped through it for the final time he heard Ann-Marie’s voice, hard and cold behind him. Her words were directed at his father.
“I’ll never, ever forgive you for letting it come to this.”
Chapter One
Leeds, April 2012
Uh-oh, pushchairs and juice. Not a good combination.
I don’t want to seem uncharitable. It’s not that I don’t like children. I do. They’re cute and cuddly and they do things that make me laugh. But they tend to be messy. There can be no denying that. They are invariably noisy. They scream for no obvious reason, they’re prone to leaking and they’re sticky. The din doesn’t bother me at all, but mess needs cleaning up and that means lost fares while I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing God knows what unmentionable stuff from my upholstery. Small children are less inclined to leave stains behind than drunks are, but in my opinion, both are best avoided during the course of the working day.
I lean against my bonnet, enjoying the late afternoon spring breeze as I watch the long queue of recently disembarked passengers swelling by the second as they pour from the airport arrivals lounge onto the flagged forecourt where we taxi drivers await their pleasure. According to the app on my phone, two flights have just come in—one from Majorca and the other from Dusseldorf. The returning travelers are mingled together in a happy, chaotic crowd.
Time for a little game, just to pass the time. When I’m on airport duty, I like to amuse myself when I get the chance by observing potential fares as they wait their turn in the taxi queue. I try to guess where they’ve just flown in from. The harassed couple have to be from the Majorca flight. They’re lugging two folded baby buggies and wrestling with three under-fives, several cartons of juice and small bags of jelly tots, which I know full well are a bugger to get off the seats. The elderly couple wearing his and hers shell suits probably are too. The three lads now starting to sing merrily about the merits of Liverpool Football Club as they sway in the spring breeze…undoubtedly so. There’s no way this trio are getting anywhere near my cab. No amount of disinfectant can quite mask the distinctive aroma of regurgitated Carlsberg.
I cast my eyes along the queue, grouping the bunches of passengers together, mentally allocating them to the taxis in front of my vehicle in the long line of cars. This is another little game of mine, trying to work out just which fare I’ll get. I usually get it right, more or less, to within a couple of people either way. On this occasion I settle on Mr. and Mrs. Shell Suit. I don’t mind. They look harmless enough. Certainly sober. The only challenge they’re likely to present is the affront to taste that is their matching attire.
I wonder where they’ll want to go. Hopefully not too far, then I’ll have time to get back to the airport and pick up another fare or two. Several smaller trips pay better than one long one as a rule, especially if the tips are generous.
I need the cash right now to meet the payments on my car loan and relieve the pressure on my strained credit card. Come to think of it, I’ll probably be working most of the night. I’m not fond of the night shift but I can charge an unsocial-hours top-up and I’ll probably be able to get some sleep in the morning once my neighbors clear off for their lectures. I live in Leeds’ bedsit land, surrounded by students. They’re noisy, but tend not to be there during the day. And the place is cheap.
I continue to peruse the waiting passengers, and start trying to pick out a few who might have arrived from Dusseldorf. The group nearest to me chatting in German are a dead giveaway and too easy. The couple speaking French—at least I think it’s French—are more difficult to place, though why they would be coming into a provincial airport in the UK from a Mediterranean hotspot is beyond me. Dusseldorf seems more likely.
The cars roll forward a few yards and it’s time to hop back aboard. I slide into the driver’s seat and start my engine. We’re on the move. I edge forward, watching as groups of passengers lean into the drivers’ cabs before slinging their piles of luggage and duty frees into the boot and scrambling into the rear seats. Occasionally a front seat is required, but in my experience, fares generally prefer to keep themselves to themselves in the back. It’s a good habit, if you ask me. It suits me just fine.
I notice a man strolling alongside my car as the queue dematerializes and can tell at a glance that he looks way too attractive for my liking and way too formal to be even remotely connected to Majorca. Dusseldorf. Definitely.
He’s tall, with dark hair, short at the sides, long on top and brushed back. His tailored jacket and smart trousers look expensive. He’s wearing proper shoes too—black leather, very shiny. He looks to be not much older than me—perhaps late twenties, early thirties at the most—and as sexy as they come. No way is he returning from holiday. He looks more suited to a meeting with his bank manager, or maybe he’s kitted out for a court appearance. He has a small black suitcase, on wheels, which he tows easily behind him as he passes my taxi. His phone is in his hand and he’s studying the screen intently.
The queue stops and I crawl on, passing the now stationary man. I take the opportunity to peer up at him as I pass—no harm in looking, after all—at the exact moment he loses interest in his phone. He glances across, straight at me.
Shit! I drop my gaze immediately, embarrassed to be caught ogling. Christ, what was I thinking? It’s not even as though I’m overly fond of men, except in a purely functional sense. I like them well enough on the television or in films, but here in real life I generally manage to avoid them for the most part. The occasional tumble across the mattress with a randy student after a night out in Leeds is okay, but not something to get terribly excited about—not in my experience. And I don’t much like clearing up afterwards. If children and drunks seem messy, how much more chaos could Mr. Sex On Legs cause? My upholstery was never designed for the likes of him.
I make a point of keeping my eyes locked on the taxi in front, refusing to let my gaze slide so much as a fraction sideways, even when I’m fully aware he’s again alongside. No point tempting fate.
Suddenly the family with the children and buggies seem to have some sort of epiphany. They realize they’re booked on a minibus shuttle service and won’t be needing a taxi after all. With a great deal of fuss and a frantic gathering of bags, toddlers and jelly tots, they collect their brood together and head for the row of bus stops, leaving a gaping hole in the cluster of eager passengers. There ensues a deal of shuffling and dragging of suitcases, checking who’s before who in the line, and before my very eyes, the shell suits disappear into the taxi two cars ahead of me.
Ho hum, so much for that little game. But I really cannot be held accountable for the vagaries of parents who clearly are getting even less sleep than I am.
To my relief the Liverpool fans clamber into the back of the taxi in front. I’m next. The rear door of my car is opened and I turn just in time to see Mr. Smart and Sexy Dusseldorf easing his long frame into my back seat.
“Excuse me…” I start to form some sort of protest. There’s a queue. It’s not his turn. Can’t be. There were people in front of him.
“Queens Hotel please. Leeds.”
He has a trans-Atlantic drawl, and I’m stunned to note that he is considerably more devastating up close than he was on the airport forecourt. Who would have thought that was even possible? His accent is as sexy as his hair, which is just starting to flop over his forehead. He swipes it back with his hand as he hauls the small case onto the seat alongside him. He opens the lid with a decisive snap and pulls out a sheaf of papers.
I don’t move. I stare at him, transfixed. What? What did he say? Where…?
“Is there a problem? Do you know the Queens Hotel? Just head for Leeds and follow signs for the station.” He glances at me under his brows, just a fleeting suggestion of eye contact before he returns his attention to the papers in his hand.
“I know where it is.” I don’t go out of my way to snap at my customers, not usually. It’s not good for repeat t
rade.
A raised eyebrow signals that he caught my waspish tone. He makes no comment, though, just offers me the merest hint of a nod before gazing out of the window at the now almost deserted airport frontage.
The lack of other potential fares decides the matter for me. Business is business. I turn my back on him and put my nearly new Ford Focus into gear. The sooner I can get Mr. Dusseldorf to Leeds and dump him on the steps of the Queens Hotel, the better I’ll like it.
I punch my car into first gear with perhaps slightly more force than strictly necessary and pull out into the now thin stream of traffic heading for the exit. Despite my annoyance at my passenger, I do enjoy the drive from Leeds Bradford airport to central Leeds. It’s early evening, the afternoon rush of traffic has cleared, the weather is pleasant, and my new car is performing beautifully. I stretched my financial limits to buy it, and I do realize a Ford Focus is not everyone’s dream machine, but it suits me fine. It represents the start of my business empire.
I like driving. I like people—mostly. So I put the two together and came up with my dream job—I’ll drive people. Ergo, I’m a licensed private hire driver. This means I’m allowed to pick up fares from designated stands and I also work on a sort of freelance basis for a taxi firm in Leeds. The money’s not fantastic but it’s good enough. I can generally earn enough to meet my bills and put a bit by. The plan is to pay off my loan for the car and perhaps invest in something else as well—a limousine hopefully. I could do weddings, hen nights, that sort of thing. Eventually I’d like to have a few drivers perhaps working for me, but I’m still a long way from that.
I didn’t always intend to drive for a living, but it’s odd how things turn out sometimes. How the best laid plans can be overturned by some twist of fate, just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In my case, I chose the wrong time to jog along Roundhay Road in preparation for the under-sixteens county trials. I was in serious training for the five thousand meters, and even though I say it myself, I should have been a decent prospect for London this summer if all had gone according to plan. A van driver turning right wiped out that glittering future when he hit me and broke my right leg in three places. I spent two months in traction and a further two on crutches. The medics at St. James’ hospital did a smashing job. There’s hardly any scarring where the surgeons pinned my femur back together. Intensive physiotherapy helped too, and these days I hardly limp at all. But competitive sport became a thing of the past as far as I was concerned. I’d do well to run for a bus, let alone my country. I’ll never compete as an athlete. I might still go to London, but as a spectator.
