by Jeff Gulvin
Now he sat in his room, watching the road as a new storm blew in from the loch, kicking the smoothness of the surface into a mass of bone-coloured breakers which battered the stanchions under the bridge. He saw the short-wheelbase Land-Rover drive by and his heart stirred in his chest. He watched it cross the bridge, buffeted by the sudden strength of the wind, then disappear round the corner. He lay back on the bed for a few minutes, his arms stretched above his head, then sat up sharply, shook away the past and went out into the storm. The rain was almost horizontal, flashing across the tarmac in great breaths of spray, soaking him in seconds. He jumped behind the wheel of his rented truck and swung out onto the road. He hesitated, then turned left instead of right. Imogen had only just driven by and he would let her get settled at home before he ventured out to Gaelloch.
But he was restless and the tiny hotel bedroom was cramped, squeezing him between its walls like a cougar in too small a cage. He drove down to the castle, now closed and spectacularly sombre against the storm that raided its seaward walls. Connla drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then turned back on himself and climbed the hill road for the second time that day. He pulled over in front of the field and switched off the engine, then, taking his coat from the back seat, he got out and vaulted the gate.
The horse was nowhere to be seen and he guessed it must be sheltering in the stable. It was a ruin of a cottage; he wondered who had lived there and for how long. How many generations of Western Highlanders, islanders, perhaps, who had shifted across the inlet to the mainland? One room, it would have been; grey stone, like the dry-stone walls that encircled the farms he had seen in the north. He paced up the path, aware of the smell of mud churned by the rain, and paused to look back at the loch. As he did so, he saw the headlamps of a car coming up from the gloom of the village.
The horse was in the stable, tugging at the hay in her net. She looked back as Connla moved in the window space, snorted, then settled back to her dinner. Connla spoke softly to her, as he had spoken to Mellencamp when he’d scraped her battered body off the Keystone Road. The horse blew through her nostrils and lightly stamped her foot, as if to tell him his muttering was just fine but not to come too close. Behind him the car slowed and Connla melted into the shadows, not wishing to have to explain his presence in someone else’s field. The car was a station wagon; it slowed to a crawl, then stopped, engine idling, and the driver’s door was opened. He saw the shaggy head of a man inspect his truck over the roof, then glance towards the stable before dropping back behind the wheel. Connla was in the lee of the half-open door and couldn’t be seen from the road.
When the car was gone he went into the stable and looked at the racks of tack hanging from pegs on the wall. There was an Australian stockman’s saddle; it had been a long time since he had seen one of those. He looked more closely at it and saw the Queenstown stamp, not Australia, New Zealand. Imogen had got about. He stroked the horse’s long dark mane and eased his fingers along the length of her flanks. The skin felt a tiny bit pinched where the cinches had been. ‘Bet you’re glad that saddle’s off, huh?’ Connla flattened her ears and then left her.
He was climbing back into his truck when the same car pulled up. The driver’s window was rolled down and Connla looked into the face of the shaggy-headed middle-aged man whose jowls were just beginning to sag from his jawbone.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Excuse me?’ Connla was half in, half out of the seat.
‘Ah, you’re the American I’ve been hearing about.’ The man switched off his engine. Connla lifted one eyebrow. ‘Word sure gets around.’
The man stepped out onto the road, looked at him closely and then glanced at the field. ‘Have you been out walking?’
Connla pointed across to the scrubby gorse on the loch side of the road. ‘Down there. I wanted to sit a while and watch the storm.’ The rain rattled off the shoulders of his coat. The man lifted his eyebrows. ‘I suppose it can be spectacular,’ he said. ‘You’re the chap who’s been asking about Imogen.’
‘The lady who paints, yeah.’
‘She doesn’t sell her pictures. Well, not her originals anyway. You’re wasting your time.’
Connla stared at him for a moment. Was this another guy warning him off?
‘I figured as much,’ he said. ‘You can always hope, though, so I guess I’ll talk to her anyway.’ He paused. ‘I’m told she’s away. You have any idea when she’ll be back?’ The man squinted at him for a moment. ‘She is back,’ he said. ‘She was only gone for the day. This is her field. You came by this afternoon, I believe. Her Land-Rover was parked here.’
‘Really? Well, there you go. I just wanted to see where the road led. Spent most of the day on Skye.’
The man nodded, then opened his car door. ‘She won’t sell you a painting,’ he said. ‘Believe me, you’re wasting your time.’
Connla drove out to Gaelloch, wondering just how many men in this tiny place had staked their claim on Imogen. Then he wondered if she would recognize him. It had been thirty years. As far as he was concerned he didn’t look anything like he had done as a child, not even around the eyes, which they say don’t alter much. He doubted he would recognize her. As he drew closer his heart began to race and he slowed his speed almost to walking pace. What would he say to her? He had told everyone he was John Brady and he still hadn’t figured out exactly what had made him lie. But then he remembered Imogen’s eyes from way back when and he knew; even at the age of only eight her eyes were like twin dark drill bores.
Imogen lay back in the bath surrounded by lighted candles, her head in the water and her hair spreading like the snakes of Medusa. The water was hot and shot through with Radox to ease the quiet cold from her muscles. It had been a good day, yet she couldn’t shake off the image of Atholl McKenzie’s brutal face and the knowledge of what he had done. A diesel engine sounded on the gravelled section of road between her house and the Morriseys and she sat up in the water. The bathroom window faced north over the loch, and her aunt had deliberately set it low in the wall with the glass unfrosted in order to maximize the views. Leaning on the chilled enamel and straining her neck, she could see twin headlights through the gloom of the storm. It was a Land-Rover, she could tell by the engine note. John MacGregor? He was the only person she knew with a Land-Rover. What the hell did he want? But then MacGregor never came out without phoning her first.
She didn’t want to see him and resolved to lie in the bath and ignore any persistent knocking. The Land-Rover seemed to pause, though, as if the driver was hesitating at the gate, then slowly it crawled up the drive. She looked more carefully now, and watched as the door opened and a man stepped out. Tall and lean, he flipped the door closed behind him. It wasn’t John MacGregor; she would know his uninspiring bulk anywhere. Who then? And then it occurred to her: the American.
She jumped out of the water, wrapping her head in a towel as the first knock sounded downstairs. She reached for a second towel, then decided that she couldn’t answer the door to a perfect stranger like this. He knocked again, and she opened the window and called out through the rain: ‘Just give me a minute.’
His face was caught in the porch light, longish hair, falling in shadow. She saw him smile. ‘Hey, you’re in the tub,’ he said. ‘Look, I can come back.’
‘No.’ She flapped a hand at him. ‘Just give me a sec’ and I’ll be down.’
Connla stared up at the partially lighted window, seeing her head swathed in a towel, but unable to make out her features. She had a softly undulating accent, cultured and gentle, not guttural like some of the Scots women he had heard. The last time he had heard that voice the accent was more small-town hick than his own and the owner was eight years old. So many memories; he had a knot now in his gut like a heavy immovable stone. Why had he come here after all these years? And with a lie on his lips already. He wanted a cigarette, but didn’t wish to light one now that he was here and had disturbed her, and any moment now she would b
e down. So he waited in the gradually easing rain, watching droplets of water glinting like crystal as they fell through the arc of light round the porch. The upstairs window was closed and he stood with his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight, almost subconsciously, from one foot to the other. The waters of the loch were tossed by the wind behind him and he could hear the waves chewing at shingle.
Inside, Imogen rubbed at her hair with a towel, then shook it out and slipped on a bathrobe. It reached to just below her knees and she made sure there were no gaps at the front, then she went downstairs. She really ought to get dressed to receive a guest, but if he came unannounced like this then he would have to take her as he found her. He was wasting his time anyway: there was no way on God’s earth she would sell an original painting. Everything she had ever done was either hanging on her walls or stored in the loft with the work left by her aunt.
Connla waited on the step, butterflies fluttering in his stomach, as the light grew through the glass rhombus at eye level. He heard the pad of bare feet, then locks were turned, the door swung open and he looked down at the smooth, even features of Imogen Munro. Her skin shone with the heat of the bath water and her eyes were large and dark and oval.
There was character and depth in her face rather than obvious beauty. Her hair, though, was jet black and hung long and wet to her waist, where already it gathered in ringlets.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’ve sort of been expecting you.’
She could smell the rain on him, mixed with the scent of his hair and skin; it nibbled at her senses. He was tall, with angular features and stubble on his chin. She put him at about forty, maybe slightly less, it was hard to tell.
‘Come through.’ She nodded to the kitchen and Connla moved past her.
The house exuded a warmth that was nothing to do with heating or insulation; there was a peacefulness about it. Strangely now he was inside he felt fractionally easier. She need never know who he was; he could just be there, see her. Perhaps he might lay a few ghosts to rest. He paused in the kitchen, not sure if she meant him to go on to the lounge, and rested his palm on the back of a pine chair. The room was large, lived in and dominated by a huge table in the middle of the floor with six chairs round it. There was an old gas range against the wall and wooden units and draining board. Connla’s eyes, though, were drawn to the walls where her original paintings were hanging. He recognized the same hand immediately, not just from the subject matter, which was far more varied than what he had seen in Dunkeld, but from the tone of each composition.
He stepped closer, staring at one picture then the next. Imogen watched him, the way he moved, the way his gaze roamed the walls as if she wasn’t there. His eyes bunched slightly, wrinkling the skin at the edges as he studied her work without speaking. He moved easily, long limbed and graceful, almost like a cat. His hair was thick and dark auburn in colour, accentuating the green of his eyes. He had a straight, almost aquiline nose and skin tanned to a light fawn colour. He looked round at her suddenly and she felt colour burning her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I guess that was kinda rude. Walk right into your house and gawp at your pictures without so much as introducing myself.’
She smiled. ‘No, it’s all right. I was flattered.’
‘They’re very good.’ He looked again at the stag. ‘You paint a lot of pictures with red deer in them, don’t you.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘Is it the same stag?’
She smiled again and lifted the kettle from the ring on the stove. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘I’d love some.’ He shook his shoulders. ‘Get this rain outta my bones.’
‘Here.’ Imogen held out a hand for his coat. He slipped it off and passed it to her, then watched as she reached up, stretching one foot to her toes, and hung it on the back of the door. The robe lifted slightly against the smooth skin of her calf. She turned and he smiled at her, then extended his hand.
‘John Brady,’ he said. ‘I’m the guy the store called you about.’
‘I thought you must be.’ She laughed then. ‘They said you were American.’
‘Did they?’ Connla smiled, nodding a little knowingly. ‘You figured some Yankee tourist looking for Braveheart, huh?’
‘No, no. I don’t know what I thought. But everyone likes to take memories of a place away with them, don’t they.’
He nodded his head slowly. They shared memories of a place, although they were different, at least in perception. Right now she had no idea, and that fact ought to give him confidence, but it didn’t. ‘I guess they do, at that,’ he said quietly.
She gestured to the chairs round the table. ‘Take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ Connla sat down, one leg stretched out in front of him. He wore Levi’s, Timberland boots and a denim shirt. He pushed the hair away from where it fell across his eyes. Imogen leaned against the Welsh dresser and folded her arms. The sleeves of her robe were dragged up, and Connla couldn’t help but notice the rich smoothness of her skin, tanned quite dark with just a dusting of fine hairs.
‘Where are you from?’ Imogen asked him.
‘South Dakota. The Black Hills. A place called Keystone. I’ve got a one-room shack up there.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, I guess you could call it a cabin. And the room is pretty big. I could’ve divided it up a bit, but I’ve never gotten round to it.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘There particularly, or just any place?’
She smiled. ‘What do you do for work, I mean?’
Connla pulled a face. ‘Well, I guess you could call me something of a hybrid. A cross between a lecturer in zoology and a photographer.’ Again he looked at the picture of the stag on the wall. ‘Is that the same guy?’
Imogen sat down opposite him. ‘Redynvre. Yes.’
‘Redynvre?’ He smiled. ‘D’you always name your subjects?’
‘I did him. After the Stag of Redynvre in the story of the Wooing of Olwen.’
‘Celtic mythology, isn’t it? King Arthur or something.’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘You know it?’
‘A little.’ He tugged at his hair. ‘Got some Irish in me. I think we’re pretty much the same stock, aren’t we. Scots and Irish.’
The kettle boiled and Imogen got up and poured water into the cafetière. Connla watched her as she placed two earthenware mugs on the table and bent to get milk from the fridge: Imogen Munro after almost thirty years. His head was choked with memories, images from the past, some of them disturbing, and yet the longer he sat there the less disturbed he felt. In a weird way it began to feel strangely comforting, almost like some kind of affirmation. Part of him wanted to tell her who he was right then, but it was simpler this way: just to see her, say hello and then leave. She would not sell a painting and he didn’t really want to buy one anyway; it was just a ruse to see her after the shock he had received in Dunkeld.
‘What brings you to Scotland, Mr Brady?’ she asked him as she sat down again. Connla looked at the plunger on the glass cafetière, watching as the particles percolated beneath it. ‘I was visiting an animal park in England.’ He sat forward. ‘I specialize in big cats; pumas in particular.’
‘Is that what you do in South Dakota?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve tagged most of the population of the Black Hills and Powder River Basin and got their territories mapped. Habitat, game availability, that kind of thing.’
Imogen looked at his long slim fingers, which were spread before him on the table, empty of jewellery; no tell-tale band of white on the third finger of his left hand. She was amazed at herself; her eyes had strayed almost instinctively. Who was he? Was he married? These were the first questions to pop into her head. Perhaps it was the circumstances of the past couple of days? Perhaps it was the innate sense of aloneness she felt as the summer grew longer? She didn’t know, but all at once it seemed strangely important.
‘How long have you lived in South Dak
ota?’ she asked him.
‘Off and on for twenty years, I guess.’
‘In a one-roomed cabin?’
‘Yep.’
She smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you’re married then.’
Connla laughed. ‘You got that right.’
Imogen flushed, shaking her head. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I have no idea why I said that.’
‘That’s OK. There was somebody once, but you’re right, she didn’t like the cabin. Having said that, I didn’t like the apartment, either.’ He indicated the plunger on the cafetière. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Be my guest.’
He poured coffee for them both, then added milk and sugar to his own. ‘Are you married?’ he asked her.
‘No.’ Imogen sipped coffee, self-conscious all at once. She had taken the conversation too far much too quickly. ‘I thought all you American men drank your coffee black and sugarless,’ she said, trying to change the subject.
‘I like to break with tradition.’ He sipped and smiled, then looked beyond her once more to the paintings. ‘You’re very good, you know.’
She twisted her mouth down at the corners. ‘I’m OK. But it’s nice of you to say so. Do you know much about painting?’
‘I know about pictures. I know how to make a good photograph. The principles aren’t dissimilar.’
‘Light, character, feature.’
He nodded and scraped back his chair. One picture, hanging by the open doorway to the lounge, intrigued him. It was a mountain scene, with a single shaggy-coated goat high up on a precipice. He moved closer to it and stared for a long time. The rock was black and grey and purple in places, with cracks running through it, shadows where the sun fell across it, the detail immaculate. He wanted to reach out and touch the texture. He didn’t. He turned, looked her in the eye and said, ‘What’s the main subject here, the goat or just the rocks?’
