Cry of the Panther

by Jeff Gulvin

  Back indoors, she ate breakfast and looked at the clock. Seven already. She had time to go up and check on her horse, but there was a lot of preparation to do at school this morning, especially if she wanted to get away sharp this afternoon. The horse would be all right: she had free access in and out of the stable at this time of year, so it wasn’t as if Imogen needed to let her out. With half a slice of toast in her mouth and a cup of coffee balanced between her thighs, she drove up the bumpy road and round the south shore of the loch.

  Loch Gael was shallow and flat, which was why the sunlight caused such a special effect early in the morning, and it was tiny compared to Duich or Alsh, which ultimately it ran into. Imogen had a seven-mile drive to the main road, single track, only laid with tarmac the previous year. That made a hell of a difference to how much coffee she spilled. The road wound past her neighbours’ houses till she crossed the river for the first time; it was more of a tributary really, eventually linking Loch Gael to the sea between Skye, Scalpay and Raasay. She would probably have lived nearer the castle or school given the choice, but the house had been in Gaelloch. When her great aunt had finally passed away, with her parents content to remain in Edinburgh and Ewan long dead, it had come to her.

  Ewan. She thought of him suddenly as she worked the heavy Land-Rover over the wooden bridge and across the cattle grid. She hadn’t thought of Ewan consciously in a long time. It was nearly thirty years since he’d died, yet the images of that day could be as vivid as if it were only yesterday. Sometimes his face would lift from where she housed it deep in the layers of memory. It was never as she remembered him alive, but always as in death, his skin white, eyes open and all of it underwater. She shivered and drove on, the Land-Rover bumpy and uncomfortable where a spring was sticking up through the vinyl seat. It was old and battered, but rarely let her down, and it pulled the horsebox over rough ground, which was absolutely vital.

  Curving round Loch Long, she could see across Alsh to Glas Eilean, a flat, grassy island on the eastern side of the point. Skye almost linked with the mainland beyond it, where the narrow strait of Kyle Rhea took you out past the Sandaig Islands, southwest to Eigg and Rum. One time she had taken a boat to Rum to paint when the rutting season had begun. Apart from Redynvre, she had never seen red deer stags the like of which rutted on Rum. The school she taught at was in Balmacara, halfway to the Kyle of Lochalsh. Once upon a time there would have been a school in every village, but the Thatcher years put paid to all that. Now the buses ferried primary-school-aged children in from miles around.

  Colin Patterson’s green Volvo was parked in his usual spot as she pulled off the main road into the car park. He was always there first, partly because he was the head teacher and liked to show willing, but partly because Imogen generally arrived before the other two teachers. She sat for a moment with the engine off and drank the dregs of her coffee, aware of the traffic coming east from the Skye Bridge. At £4.60 a throw, it was no wonder half the islanders still didn’t want to pay. She used to paint a lot on Skye, but it wasn’t the same since the bridge had been built; at least with the ferry running they could limit the number of visitors.

  She could see Patterson through the window of his classroom—tweed jacket, baggy at the pockets, with those leathery buttons and a strip of leather at the top of the breast pocket. He was from Glasgow and had moved north with his family at around the same time as Imogen, half a dozen years ago. The word was that he had been deputy head at an inner-city primary school and hadn’t quite been able to hack it. Still, that was nothing to scoff at, she had done much the same in Edinburgh, although perhaps she had left for very different reasons. Teaching, she would never have thought about teaching, not in the heady days of her late teens, when landscape and canvas were everything. Her art was why she hadn’t gone to London with her fiancé after college. Well, that was what she’d told herself at least.

  Patterson suddenly looked up, saw her sitting in the Land-Rover and waved to her, a broad smile on his face. Imogen glanced at her watch—still early; she was reluctant to go in on her own, but it would be a good twenty minutes before Jean Law arrived. She had her boys to see onto the bus and her husband’s lunch to make. Why Malcolm couldn’t butter his own sandwiches was beyond her. She sighed, stuffed the coffee mug under the windscreen and shoved open the Land-Rover door. It was stiff and creaked, and she daren’t open the split window, even in summer, because she knew she’d never get it closed again. The door shut with an effort, and she noticed the rust chewing ever more urgently at the bottom of the panel. The Land-Rover was pre-suffix, so what could she expect. She had bought it from John MacGregor, the factor, when the Arabs bought out one of the McCrae estates. Mercifully, there were still some McCraes left and the castle hadn’t been sold. MacGregor was another one to watch, but not in the same way she had to watch Patterson. MacGregor was far more obvious, and he had been kind enough to her, making sure the Land-Rover was serviced and roadworthy. He had also been instrumental in getting that hill land for Keira, her highland pony. He wasn’t married, at least, but he was fifty years old.

  Patterson came out of his classroom, all smiles as usual. ‘Morning, Imogen.’

  ‘Good morning.’ She managed a smile.

  ‘You’re early.’

  ‘Aye. There’s stuff I need to get ready.’

  He seemed to block her path, hovering before her like an expectant fly. Her classroom was adjacent to the one he had just come out of, and his position in the corridor stopped her getting to it without physically brushing against him. This was what made her hesitate, and what he wanted, notwithstanding the fact that his three young daughters attended the school and his wife ran the village post office.

  ‘How are you?’ He smiled again, showing all his teeth.

  ‘I’m just fine. I’m very busy, though, Colin.’ She moved to get past him.

  ‘Anything I can help you with?’

  ‘No. No.’ She didn’t look back, but stepped into the classroom and closed the door. It was obvious, closing the door like that with the day warm and everything, but what else could she do. He opened it.

  She knew he would. She hadn’t even hung up her coat.

  She looked round and he stood there, hand on the door knob, leaning in the space with one foot crossed over the other, baggy corduroy trousers over brown Oxford brogues.

  ‘There’s a staff meeting this afternoon, remember.’

  ‘Yes, I hadn’t forgotten.’ She had forgotten, and it put paid to her plan to dash straight up the hill as soon as the bell rang. Her spirits fell. The ride to Tana Coire and back would have taken up most of the remaining daylight as it was. ‘Have we much to discuss?’

  Again he smiled. ‘A few things, aye. End-of-term stuff, you know.’

  She nodded, one hand fisted on her hip. ‘Well, Colin. I’d best get on. No point in coming in early if I don’t make the most of the time.’

  ‘No.’ He smiled. ‘You should make the most of the time.’

  He made her flesh creep with the obviousness of his arrogance. Some arrogance could be forgiven—when there was good reason for it, when the arrogant one had something genuine to be supercilious about. It was unnecessary but forgivable. Peter, her ex-fiancé, had had that kind of arrogance, a sort of smugness, based on his ability to make computers obey him absolutely, back when nobody else could. That was probably what finally broke them up, or maybe it was just another reason Imogen gave herself. That and London, of course. Peter had been English, studying at Edinburgh University. He played golf on Saturday mornings. Looking back, they had nothing in common.

  Patterson left her alone then and she got on with preparing her day, aware that there were only two weeks left of the summer term and then each day would be hers until September. The mountains beckoned as always, but with the knowledge of what she thought she had discovered the pull was stronger than ever. Her parents would come up sometime in August for a week, as they liked to every year. They would let her be, however, having l
earned that particular art form years ago. She just had to work through these final couple of weeks and then the time would be hers.

  The day dragged by and the children were particularly demanding. At lunch she had to watch them in the playground, along with Jean Law. Jean was west coast born and bred, older than Imogen at forty-five and heavy with red hair and freckles. Her eyes were pale blue and carried the expression of having seen a little too much of everything. They chatted about the up-coming vacation.

  ‘I’ve got my kids at home, of course,’ Jean said. ‘Which’ll put paid to any romantic notion of running off to the Riviera with some Italian lover.’

  Imogen laughed. ‘Is that what you’d do, Jeanie, if you had the chance?’

  ‘Of course I would. Sun, sea, sangria. Lots of suntan lotion and some bronzed god to rub it on me.’

  ‘You don’t get sangria in Italy, Jean.’

  ‘Chianti then. Darling, I’d settle for Lambrusco.’ Jean watched the football some boys were kicking fly over the school gates and land in the soft grass by the loch. She nodded as the kicker looked her way imploringly then raced off after it. ‘What will you do?’ she asked.

  Imogen thought about it and smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll take my horse and ride and paint and listen to the silence.’

  ‘Solitude?’ Jean squinted at her. ‘I’m jealous of you, lassie. But I’m not sure it’s all that good for you.’

  ‘You think I spend too much time on my own?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘What’re my options, Jeanie? MacGregor, or an affair with Colin Patterson.’ She shook her head. ‘It might be just me, but I’ve not noticed the plethora of quality males in Galleoch.’

  ‘There’s always Andy McKewan.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I forgot about Andy.’ Imogen rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Now there’s a man with conversation to enthral you.’

  Imogen taught arithmetic in the afternoon, and then at a quarter to three she settled the children down for their story. Thirteen six-year-olds, all cross-legged on the cushions in the storytelling corner she had designed with some of her own paintings. She never used a book, but sat cross-legged herself and told them mythical tales of the Celts which she had picked up over the years. They loved the fact she didn’t read them, but told them in the old way, from memory, with a conspiratorial edge to her voice. Jean asked her where she acquired the skill, and Imogen had to admit to too many nights in obscure highland pubs where the art of storytelling was still to be found.

  ‘Miss Munro?’ Connie McKercher, the daughter of a forester, put her hand up. ‘Can we have the story of Olwen?’

  ‘Not again, Connie. I only told you that on Monday.’

  Colour brushed Connie’s cheeks and she sat with her hands under her thighs and her head bowed for a moment. Imogen smiled at her. ‘I’ll tell you the story of Hudden and Dudden, two Irish scallywags, and the neighbour they tried to get rid of.’ She glanced up and saw Patterson through the glass partition in the door. He smiled at her. She ignored him and looked into the children’s expectant faces. Two of the boys were talking and, raising a finger to her lips, she silenced them.

  ‘There once were two farmers called Hudden and Dudden,’ she began. ‘They had chickens in their yard, cattle in the meadows and dozens of sheep grazing on the hillside. In fact, they had everything a man could wish for, but still they were never happy. Now so it was that right in between them lived a very poor man indeed, so poor that he had but a hovel shack to live in, a tiny patch of grass and one bony old cow called Daisy. His name was Donald O’Neary.’ The children listened, an innocence in their faces that delighted her. She told them how Hudden and Dudden plotted against Donald O’Neary and killed his only cow. But Donald was smarter than they were and took his quiet revenge by making them think his old tanned cow hides could produce gold coins by magic, knowing full well that they would steal the hides and make off. It all ended with their drowning in the Brown Lake. As she was finishing, Patterson opened the classroom door and listened. Imogen did her best to ignore him, but his shadow fell across the floor and she couldn’t help but focus on it. She finished the story and looked up.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you,’ he said. ‘The meeting’ll be a wee while getting going. I’ve got a parent who wants to see me.’

  Imogen’s heart sank. That meant even longer before she could get away. She knew now that a trip to Tana Coire was all but out of the question.

  She packed the children off with their parents, then wandered down to the staff room and found Jean making a pot of tea. ‘You’re a wonder, Jean Law. I could just murder a cup.’ Imogen sat down in an easy chair. Tim Duerr was in the bursar’s office next door and she could hear him on the telephone.

  ‘Colin Patterson and his damn meetings.’ She accepted a cup from Jean, who sat down opposite. She sipped her tea, watching Imogen over the rim.

  ‘You’re restless, today, lassie.’

  ‘Am I?’ Imogen made a face. ‘To tell you the truth, Jean, I’d forgotten all about this meeting. I had plans for this afternoon.’

  ‘What were you going to do?’

  ‘Oh nothing much really,’ Imogen lied with difficulty. ‘I just wanted to ride Keira up the glen from the field. There’s an outcrop of rock there I’ve always wanted to paint. I wanted to have a good look at it with the light as it is just now.’ That wasn’t what she was going to do at all, but the lie was a white one and told for good reason. If her initial instinct was right, she would be telling nobody what she had found.

  ‘Light’s important?’

  ‘In painting? It is, yes, particularly if you’re outdoors.’

  Jean smiled. ‘Why don’t you try to paint for a living? Then you could take off whenever you wanted.’

  Imogen thought about that. She could still hear Duerr on the phone next door. ‘It’s easier said than done, Jean. I sell enough bits through greetings cards. And besides, I’d only miss the children.’

  Duerr put the phone down and came through. His face was the colour of rain clouds. ‘Parents. Oh how simple life would be without the children’s parents.’

  Jean laughed at him. ‘Then there’d be no children to teach, Tim. Have you thought about that?’

  Duerr’s face brightened considerably. ‘Even better,’ he said.

  Patterson’s staff meeting lasted an hour and a half, and it was almost six o’clock by the time Imogen turned off the main road, past the hotel and headed up the hill.

  Eilean Donan jutted from its little island, grey and brown between the chilled waters of Loch Duich and Alsh, a perfect vantage point against any would-be invader. Imogen had always marvelled at the structure, originally a Pictish fort, which gradually evolved into the castle the McCrae’s had rebuilt in the Twenties.

  The Land-Rover climbed the hill in second gear, the engine whining a little. It had been smoking a bit lately and Imogen wondered if it needed oil. Long ago she had learned to decipher such requirements herself rather than constantly have to ask a man in the village. The road wound steadily higher, climbing the hillside, past the houses that belonged to Colin Patterson and his neighbours. She had often thought about their view of the loch, with the castle in the foreground and Skye across the water. Patterson had invited her round more than once, always when his wife was away in the city, and she had declined. It was getting worse of late, and more and more people were beginning to mutter about it.

  Keira was at the top of the field, chewing at the longer grass as Imogen pulled off the road and parked outside the five-bar gate. One hinge was loose and the gate hung at an awkward angle, its bottom in the mud on the right-hand side. Imogen kept a battered horsebox parked in the field, and she had perfected the art of swinging wide on the narrow road and backing it in. It wasn’t so much of a field as a hillside really, and a steep one at that. Land only fit for sheep and a solid highland pony. Keira was hardly a pony, standing well over fifteen hands and sturdy as a mountain goat. She looked up nonchalantly when she heard t
he rumble of the Land-Rover. Imogen whistled to her, and she tossed her head once before returning to eating the grass. The stable was a ruined stone cottage that, once upon a time, had belonged to an enthusiastic crofter. The roof was good and it had garage-style wooden doors. Inside it was dry, though there was one permanently open window, just a gap cut in the stone, which overlooked the loch.

  Leaving the Land-Rover where it was, Imogen climbed the gate and strode up the muddy path. She kept one stable door open in summer, allowing the horse free access, and a wheelbarrow rested against the other one with a shovel standing next to it. Keira watched disinterestedly as she set about muck-clearing, before hauling fresh bedding in from the horsebox. Part of the stable formed a tack room, an open section which the horse had access to. She could have chewed the leather off her own saddle if she had a mind. Fortunately she didn’t.

  Imogen caught her and led her down the hill, where she stood patiently while she was saddled. Her ancestry reached back to the islands, but Imogen felt sure there must have been some mainland horse in her somewhere to account for her size. Like all highlands, though, she was short-headed and broad between the eyes. Grey in colour, her mane was black and flowing, and an eel stripe ran the length of her spine. The feathers on her legs were silver and ended in little tufts at her fetlocks. Imogen had had her since Keira was a baby and had given her the Gaelic name meaning, black haired one.

  She brushed her now before she saddled up. There were still three hours till darkness fell, but that wouldn’t be enough time to reach the coire and get back again. There was nothing she could do about it. It would have to wait till the weekend, or even till the beginning of the vacation. The yearning to find out was intense, but there was nothing to do but accept it. She just prayed to God that no-one else had seen them.