by Ashe Barker
“Do you think we should? I mean, it’s trespassing, isn’t it? Or breaking and entering?”
“Not sure. As far as I know, and always assuming we’ve found the right place, this is still my family’s property. I think.”
He turns and strides back out into the sunshine and around the long, low building to reach the front door again. He tries it, as he did when we first arrived. Still just as securely locked. He rattles the door in its frame.
“I wonder if I could force this. There must be something we could use in that outhouse. You wait here.” He strides off again, purposeful, to return moments later with a hammer, a sturdy-looking shovel and a pick. He drops his housebreaking equipment in front of the door and turns to study it.
Meanwhile I decide to find out what I can from the outside, by peering in all the windows. The cottage is still furnished, though it all looks very old-fashioned to me. Oddly, though, I had expected total dereliction, and this is not like that. If the place is empty now, it hasn’t been this way for too long. Certainly not since 1970. Something doesn’t add up. We must be in the wrong place.
I hear the splintering of wood and rush back round to the front door. I’m sure now that we’ve made a mistake, and are in the process of smashing our way into someone’s home. I arrive in time to see Harry dropping the shovel back onto his pile of tools. The door is swinging open. He leans on the frame to peer inside.
“Hold it right there.” The female voice behind us is crisp, clear, and above all authoritative.
We both turn.
A police officer, decked out in regulation stab jacket and with a plethora of equipment dangling from her belt, is standing a few yards from us. She does not look amused. Shit.
“Oh, Officer, yes, we were just…” I stammer a few words, not sure how to explain this.
Daisy seems less fazed by the sudden appearance of the law, choosing this moment to amble up to the policewoman and nuzzle her fingers. The constable eyes the dog quizzically, but doesn’t seem to object. She turns her attention back to us.
“If ye wouldn’t mind stepping away from the door, sir.” The officer eyes the wreckage left by Harry’s shovel, her expression grim. “Criminal damage at the very least. Ye have been busy.”
Harry steps forward, his hand outstretched. He seems to think a charm offensive might work. Personally I doubt that.
“Officer, yes, perhaps you can help us. We’re interested in the people who used to live here.”
The policewoman briefly shakes his hand, though her scowl has not melted one iota. Harry has a lot of work to do.
“Indeed, sir. And ye are?”
“My name’s McLeod. Harrison McLeod, Harry. And this is my companion, Hope Shepherd.”
The police offer pauses, her pencil hovering above her notepad. “I beg yer pardon. What did ye say yer name was, sir?”
“Harry McLeod. And this is…”
“Aye, now ye mention it, ye do ha’ a look o’ the auld man.” The officious tone has evaporated, her Scottish brogue now more obvious. She smiles. Perhaps Harry’s overtures are working after all. Then it sinks in what she said.
“The old man? You mean Mr. McLeod. Angus? The man who used to live here? This is the right place then?” I’m excited now, breathless. Not only have we apparently found the right location, but we’ve also had the good fortune to meet someone who actually knew Angus, at least by sight. Now if we can just convince her that she doesn’t need to arrest us…
“Depends what place ye’re seeking. This is Kilmuir, and aye, Angus lived here. Wi’ his wife.”
“Ann-Marie. Yes. They were my great-grandparents. Holy shit, we found it.” Harry is incredulous, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He reaches for me and gives me a quick hug.
“Aye, well, that’s as may be. There’s no call, though, ter be wreckin’ the place. Ye’re not from round here. I ken that by yer accent. But in these parts we usually just knock on the door. It’s a method that’s served us well for years.”
“There’s no one here.” Harry is looking irritated, though in my view the officer’s comments are not unreasonable
“I ken that too. Even so…”
I break into the little exchange. “We’re sorry, Officer. Truly we are. We’ll pay for any damage, naturally.” Well, Harry will. “But we just wanted to find the place and find out what happened to Angus and Ann-Marie. Perhaps if you knew them, you might be able to help. Or maybe you could point us in the direction of someone who could. We’d particularly like to know where we can find their graves, if that’s possible.”
The expression on the officer’s face shifts. She looks thoughtful, dubious. She studies Harry’s features again, taking her time over them, then turns back to me. “Their graves? Ye’re wondering where we might ha’ buried them?”
“Well, yes. Or cremated, I suppose.”
She offers us a wry smile. “It’s true we ha’ some odd ways, here in the Highlands. But we generally find it best tae wait till folk are cold afore we plant ’em.”
Harry shakes his head, exasperated. “Look, Officer, we’d really appreciate any help you can give us. And I’ll arrange for the door to be secured again…”
I’m watching the police officer, trying to make sense of her odd remark. She looks directly at me, and smiles. The penny drops. For once, I’m there ahead of Harry.
“They’re not dead.”
She shakes her head. “Nay, they’re not.”
“What? How can…?” Harry has heard it—at some level perhaps he has understood the words, but not the sense of what they mean. He’s gaping at the policewoman with the sort of rapt amazement I would have thought normally reserved for none less than the Archangel Gabriel. His mouth moves, but no words come out. Yet. I know better than to expect him to be struck dumb for long. I decide to try filling in a few blanks, since I’m the one thinking straight right now. More or less.
“Angus and Ann-Marie? Both of them? They’re both still alive?”
“Aye, last time I saw ’em they looked to be. Verra much so.”
“How long ago was that, if you don’t mind my asking?” I strive to keep my tone polite, but it’s all I can do not to grab her and dance around the old peat oven with her. Still, we do need to be cautious. The elder McLeods must be ancient by now, so if the officer hasn’t seen them for a while…
“This mornin’. I passed the time o’ day wi’ auld Angus just afore I started my shift. Met ‘im in the paper shop.”
“The paper shop? Angus was out this morning, buying a newspaper.”
“Aye. Same as every other mornin’.”
“Shit.” Harry’s contribution is still not up to his normal incisive best.
I continue to assemble the relevant facts. “So I’m assuming they still live in the area then? If you saw Angus just today?”
“Aye. Ann-Marie had a fall a couple of years back, broke her hip. She’s fine now, but it shook the pair of ’em up, made ’em realize this place was too much fer ’em. They took a retirement bungalow down in Uig.”
“Uig. The village we came through on the way up here?”
“Aye. Ye’ll ha’ passed their place, I daresay.”
“Could you give us the address, please? We need to go there. We have to see them.” This from Harry.
The officer shakes her head. “I canna do that. Even though ye do ha’ the look of a McLeod, an’ I’m minded to believe yer tale, I canna just send a perfect stranger tae the home of two elderly people. It’s more than my job’s worth.”
“Please, Officer, we…” Harry tunnels his finger through his hair, clearly at a loss as to how he might convince this officer of the law that he’s an honest, upstanding citizen fit to be let loose on vulnerable old folk. The treatment meted out to the Kilmuir door is not a good advert.
The officer hasn’t finished yet, though. “But, as long as my sergeant agrees, I could take yer both there. If Angus and Ann-Marie will vouch fer ye, confirm ye’re who ye say ye are, then I’ll be sat
isfied. An’ ye can work out wi’ them how to get this repaired.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this.” Harry is beaming now, his excitement all but palpable. “But I have to tell you, Angus and Ann-Marie won’t be able to confirm my identity. They’ve never even met me, or my mother. They don’t know I exist.”
“Then it’ll be a nice surprise for ’em. An’ if yer story is true, I reckon they’ll ken who ye are well enough. Like I say, ye ha’ the look.”
* * * *
Our unexpected assistant is Fiona Douglas, the police beat manager covering the whole of the Isle of Skye. It was just pure dumb luck that she was driving past the end of the track leading to Kilmuir just as we were making our way up the hillside. She spotted us and was curious. She wondered what we might be doing up there and decided to follow us. She explains this as the three of us stroll back down to the main road where her shiny police car is parked behind my rather grubby-looking Ford Focus.
Harry is still gathering information. “So, how old are they? They must be, what, in their nineties?”
“Aye, Ann-Marie was ninety-three last birthday. Angus is a couple of years older.”
“Right. And are they fit? Healthy? I mean, apart from having had to move into the bungalow?”
“Oh aye. Both sprightly enough. They’re a tough breed round here. They only gave up the croft because the walk up that hill got too much for ’em, and then only two years ago. Angus goes back up there every few weeks or so, just to keep everything tidy.”
That explains why the place looks well cared for.
Fiona peers at Harry. “And may I ask where might ye be from, sir? Is that an American accent?”
“No. I’m Canadian.”
“I see. Ye’re a long way from home then.”
Harry shrugs. “Oh, I’m not so sure.”
We arrive at the cars and Fiona opens her driver’s door. “Just follow me back down into the village. I’ll explain who ye are to Angus and Ann-Marie.”
Yeah, right. I somehow think our presence will take some explaining, but we have to start somewhere. An introduction by the local bobby is a good as anything, I suppose. Harry and I climb back into my car and Daisy leaps into the back seat as usual. We manage to execute a three point turn in the road just as the tail lights of the police car are disappearing around a bend.
A couple of minutes later, no more, we pull up behind the police car again. Fiona is already getting out. The bungalow is small, tidy, the tiny front garden immaculately kept. The low fencing is painted a bright white, as are the doors and windows. The door is ajar, perhaps in recognition of the fine summer weather. Fiona smiles at us, nods, then reaches for the gate latch.
“So, here goes…” I clutch Harry’s hand as we follow our police escort up to the cottage door.
“Hallo there, anyone in?” Fiona calls out and taps on the door frame. She doesn’t enter the house.
“What d’ye want?” The gruff voice emanates from somewhere inside. There’s a shuffling and the sound of a door opening.
“It’s me. Fiona.”
“Aye, lass, I ken who it is. What brings ye back?” He doesn’t sound displeased at the visit, despite his terse words. I get the impression our Fiona is a popular figure around here.
“I found some folks up by yer old place. They were wantin’ tae see ye.”
“Well, if they want to buy the property it’s not fer sale. I’ve said that all along.” The old man comes into sight, framed in his doorway. He’s thin, wiry, though, rather than emaciated, not a spare ounce of flesh. His face is lined, but still keen, still sharp. He peers past Fiona at me, his expression puzzled. Then his gaze shifts to Harry. A moment. A brief instant, then recognition hits. The elderly man blanches, staggers.
Fiona reaches to grab him. His mouth forms one word. “Ritchie.”
Harry comes into his own. He’s quick to skirt around Fiona to reach Angus. He seizes his outstretched hand and shakes it firmly. “Not Ritchie, sir. Ritchie is my grandfather. I’m Harrison McLeod, but everyone calls me Harry.”
“Harrison? They called you Harrison, after her?”
“Her? Yes, my grandmother, Sarah Harrison.”
“And you’re Ritchie’s lad?”
“His grandson, yes.”
Angus seems to take all this in slowly, his initial astonishment replaced by disbelief, then, at last, pleasure. I heave a sigh of relief, only now realizing I’d been holding my breath.
“Well, it’s good tae see ye, lad. Verra good. Won’t ye come inside?” He gestures for us to follow him into the bungalow.
We troop in, Harry remaining close to Angus as though not entirely convinced his new-found relative is not about to collapse in shock. Fiona and I are next, with Daisy bringing up the rear. We crowd into the tiny living room. There’s no one else here, though the sound of pots and pans clattering can be heard from what I assume to be the adjoining kitchen.
“Lass, stop whatever ye’re doin’ and come see who’s here,” Angus calls out to his wife, his tone clipped.
I recognize that voice. I hear it every day. That’s Harry’s Dom voice, but coming from this frail-looking old man. I’m not sure Harry realizes yet, but I’m pretty sure I know where he gets his idiosyncratic tendencies from.
The sounds cease instantly—well, they would—and Ann-Marie McLeod steps through the door from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. She’s clearly taken aback at the sight of the throng of people filling her tiny parlor.
“Och, we have visitors. Please sit down. Shall I make tea?” She recognizes Fiona, of course, and smiles. She nods her acknowledgment at me, her expression questioning but polite. Then her eyes land on Harry, and the tea towel flutters to the floor.
She steps forward, once, then another step. Her arms are raised, reaching. Angus steps back, his hand on Harry’s elbow, nudging him forward. Fiona and I remain still, watching.
Then the floodgates burst open. With a cry of “My boy! It’s my boy come back” Ann-Marie launches herself at Harry who leaps forward to catch her. She flings her arms around him, around his neck, hanging on as though drowning. She’s sobbing, grasping at Harry. Maybe it’s the Dom training that comes into its own here as his arms close around her. He knows, he instinctively knows how to deal with this, holding her, murmuring to her, all the while edging toward a chair. He manages to maneuver the pair of them onto the small sofa, Ann-Marie continuing to weep into his shirt.
Fiona nudges me with her elbow. “Come on, lass. We’ll put the kettle on.”
I nod and follow her into the kitchen, glad of the respite. I half expect Angus to follow us, but he doesn’t. Instead, he positions himself in the one remaining chair facing the pair on the sofa and settles in to wait.
The voices in the living room are hushed, but this is a tiny bungalow so Fiona and I are able to eavesdrop with no particular difficulty. Unashamed, we do so.
At first it’s mainly Harry’s murmuring we can hear as he comforts and steadies his great-grandmother, punctuated by her gulping sobs. A few minutes pass, and the room next door subsides into silence. Fiona and I exchange a glance and decide that now might be a good time to take in the tea tray. I hold the door open for her.
“Everyone all right in here?” Fiona’s cheerful, no-nonsense tone jars the awkward silence, but it’s exactly what’s required to move the family drama on.
Neither of us is directly involved, but our presence lends a degree of normality, perhaps, dilutes the intensity somewhat. Fiona lays the tray down on a side table and proceeds to pour five cups of tea. She never asks anyone what they want, a familiarity born of long acquaintance as far as the elderly McLeods are concerned, I expect. As for Harry and me, I suspect it’s the police training. She just takes charge. It’s her default setting. Whatever, it works, and I’m inordinately glad she’s here.
“So, ye were’na expected then, I gather.” Fiona announces the obvious as she perches one hip on the table to
survey the room.
I am occupying the only other chair.
“That’s not the half of it. Would you like to sit down?” Harry makes to stand, offering his seat, but Fiona waves him back.
“I’m not stoppin’. Just making sure all’s well here. Angus? Ann-Marie?” She sips her tea as she shifts her gaze from one lined face to the other.
Ann-Marie McLeod’s answer is to grasp Harry’s hand even more tightly and cling to him as though she expects him to evaporate into thin air at any moment. Angus clears his throat. “We’re fine, lass. Just fine. Ye can finish yer tea an’ ye’re welcome to stay, but if ye ha’ work to be doin’ ye ha’ nae need to fret about us.”
“That’s good then.” Fiona smiles at Harry, then at me. “So, from what ye said up at Kilmuir, I gather ye’ weren’t expectin’ tae find Angus and Ann-Marie still here. So, what brought ye then?”
“Nae still here? Where else would we be?” This from Angus.
“Six feet under. They were under the impression ye’d died. The pair o’ ye.”
“Why? Why would ye be thinking’ that?”
“My granddad, Ritchie, wrote to you. Years ago. His letter came back, returned by the post office and marked deceased.”
“Why would they ha’ done that? We were here.” Angus appears nonplussed, which is fair enough, I suppose.
I chance a look at Ann-Marie, who is wringing her hands, her expression despairing as the reality starts to sink in. I suspect we’re all joining up the dots.
“I don’t know. A mistake, I suppose. Ritchie was disappointed not to have been able to make contact, but after that he believed you were dead. He was puzzled, wondered what happened. But he never doubted it.”
“And that’s why he never came back. Never wrote to us.” This from Ann-Marie, her voice a cracked whimper, the pain of so many wasted, lost years etched stark across her features.
Angus stands and reaches for her free hand. “Eh, lass, dinna fret so, it’s done wi’ now an’ canna be helped.”
Harry nods, seemingly in agreement with the facts, but from his exasperated expression I suspect he’s less sanguine about matters. I tend to agree with him. Someone at the post office should be accountable for this error that cost a family so many years together. Sadly, I expect the careless clerk who caused this will have long since retired, so to that extent Angus is right.
