by Peter May
‘That’s him.’
‘Squirrel, they call him.’
‘Do they? Why?’
‘I’ve no idea. He’s in the pebbledash cottage at the top of the hill. The last one in the village, on the right.’ Eachan paused. ‘What’s he got to do with what happened on An Sgeir?’
‘Nothing,’ Fin said. ‘I just want to look up an old friend.’ And he turned and ducked through the windchimes out into a freshening north wind.
III
Calum Macdonald’s pebbledash bungalow sat amongst a cluster of three houses just over the brow of the hill. When Fin was last in Crobost it had been semi-derelict, an old single-storey, tin-roofed whitehouse left to rot. Someone had spent a lot of money on it since then. A new roof, double-glazing, a kitchen extension built on the back. There was a walled garden, the wall sprayed with the same pebbledash as the house. And someone had spent a lot of time taming the wilderness, laying lawns and planting flowerbeds. Fin knew that there had been some kind of compensation paid, although no amount of money could compensate for a lifetime in a wheelchair. He assumed that the money had gone on the house, or that at least a part of it had.
Calum’s mother had been widowed before Calum was born — another fatality at sea — and the two of them had lived in a row of council houses near the school. Fin knew that Calum had never told her about the bullying, or about what happened the night he broke his back. They had all lived in terror of what would happen when the full story came out. But it never did. Like everything else in his life, his fears, his dreams, his secret desires, Calum kept it to himself, and the expected storm never broke.
Fin parked by the gate and walked up the pavings to the kitchen door. There was a ramp there in place of a step. He knocked and waited. There were two houses behind Calum’s, and a large breezeblock garage with rust-red doors. An overgrown yard was littered with the remains of cannibalized tractors and broken-down trailers. A stark contrast with the neat and tidy garden on this side of the wall. Fin turned, as the door opened, to find an elderly woman standing at the top of the ramp. She was wearing a print apron over a woollen jumper and tweed skirt. When he had last seen Calum’s mother her hair had been the purest black. Now it was the purest white. But it was carefully arranged in soft curls around a face almost as colourless, a face scarred by a tracery of fine criss-crossing wrinkles. Her eyes were a pale, watery blue, and they peered at him without recognition. Fin was almost startled to see her. He could never quite get used to the fact that people his age had parents who were still alive.
‘Mrs Macdonald?’
She frowned, wondering if she should know him. ‘Aye.’
‘It’s Fin Macleod. I used to live up near the harbour with my aunt. I was at school with Calum.’
The frown faded, but there was no smile. Her mouth set itself in a hard line. ‘Oh,’ she said.
Fin shuffled awkwardly. ‘I wondered if it might be possible to see him.’
‘Well, you’ve taken your time coming, haven’t you?’ Her voice was hard, the Gaelic giving it a steely edge. It also had the rasp of an inveterate smoker. ‘It’s almost twenty years since Calum broke his back, and none of you even had the decency to visit. Except for Angel, poor boy.’
Fin was torn between guilt and curiosity. ‘Angel came to see Calum?’
‘Aye, every week. Regular as clockwork.’ She paused to draw a wheezing breath. ‘But he’ll not be coming any more, will he?’
Fin stood for a moment, uncertain how to respond, before deciding there was no adequate response he could make. ‘Is Calum there?’ He looked beyond her into the house.
‘No, he’s not. He’s working.’
‘Where can I find him, then?’
‘In the shed, round the other side of the house. Angel built it for the loom.’ She took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her apron and lit one. ‘You’ll hear it when you go round. Just knock.’ She blew out a cloud of smoke and closed the door in his face.
Fin followed the path around the bungalow. The paving stones had been carefully laid and cemented to smooth out the passage for the wheelchair, and Fin wondered if Angel had been responsible for that, too. He ducked under a clothesline heavy with washing blowing in the wind, and saw the shed in the lee of the house. It was a simple breezeblock structure, harled to protect it from the rain, and had a steeply pitched tin roof. There was a window in each face, and a door facing out to a hump of peatstack and the moor beyond. Sunlight reflected in momentary flashes on fragments of water gathered in all its hollows.
As he approached the door he heard the rhythmical clacking of the loom, the turning of wheels turning wheels, sending wooden shuttles shooting back and forth across lines of spun wool almost faster than the eye could see. When he’d been a boy, it was nearly impossible to walk down any street in Ness without hearing a loom in action somewhere, in someone’s shed or garage. Fin had always wondered why tweed woven on Lewis was called Harris Tweed. Whatever it was called, its weavers had never made much money at it. Harris Tweed was not Harris Tweed unless woven by hand, and at one time islanders had laboured at home in their thousands to produce the stuff. The mills in Stornoway paid them a pittance for it before selling it on to markets in Europe and America for a handsome profit. But now the bottom had fallen out of those markets, tweed replaced by more fashionable fabrics, and only a handful of weavers remained, still earning a pittance.
Fin raised his hand to knock on the door and hesitated, closing his eyes, and feeling again a surge of the guilt that had haunted him through all the years since it happened. For just a moment he wondered if Calum would remember him, before dismissing the thought as foolish. Of course he would remember. How could he forget?
THIRTEEN
It might seem like stating the obvious, but the Lews Castle School in those days was in Lews Castle. Many of the students and staff lodged at the school, in accommodation created amidst the castle’s rabbit warren of corridors and landings. I only mention it, because the year that Calum and I climbed up on the roof was the last year that the school was actually in the castle. The building was in a poor state of repair and deteriorating fast, and the education authority couldn’t afford the upkeep. So the school moved elsewhere, even though it was still called the Lews Castle School.
Oddly enough, the place it moved to was the Gibson Hostel in Ripley Place, where I lodged during my first year at the Nicholson, which was my third year of secondary school.
Because of his poor results at Crobost, Artair had been sent to the Lews Castle for vocational studies, and found himself in the delightful company of such old friends as Murdo Ruadh and his big brother, Angel. Calum had the good fortune to be sent to the Nicholson. He never said anything, but it must have been a huge relief for him to escape the endless bullying and beatings he had suffered through all the years at Crobost.
I never had very much time for Calum at school. He sort of tagged around after us, I think in the hope that he might pick up some of our cast-off girlfriends. Calum wasn’t very good with girls. He was crushingly shy and would blush to the roots of his ginger curls if one even spoke to him. The only way he would get to meet any girls was if he was part of a crowd. And that way he would never have to make a fool of himself by making his own introductions. It’s hard for teenage boys. Girls don’t realize it. You have to put yourself out there, vulnerable to rejection if a girl turns you down when you ask for a dance, or offer to buy her a fish supper in The Narrows. All those hormones that flood a teenage boy’s system force him into risking such rejection, then leave him frustrated as well as humiliated when it comes. I am happy not to be fifteen any more.
We were all at the St Valentine’s Day dance that year in Stornoway town hall. Usually we would go back to Ness for the weekend, but because of the dance everyone was staying over at the hostels. There was a band playing the latest songs from the charts. It’s funny how at that age music provides your memory markers. Usually it’s olfactory, a scent associated with some place
or moment in your life, that catches you by surprise and transports you back through space and time, evoking with startling resonance a memory you had all but forgotten. But it’s mostly music that takes you back to your teens. I have always associated certain songs with certain girls. I remember a girl called Sine (her name was pronounced like the English Sheena). It was Sine I took to the dance that February. Whenever I hear the Foreigner single ‘Waiting for a Girl Like You’, maybe just a fragment of it caught on some golden oldies show on the car radio, or some TV repeat of an old Top of the Pops, I think of Sine. She was a pretty wee girl, but a bit too keen. I can remember jumping about at the dance like an idiot to XTC’s ‘Senses Working Overtime’, and Meat Loaf’s ‘Dead Ringer for Love’. But ‘Waiting for a Girl Like You’ was the Sine song. As I recall, that night I didn’t wait for her at all. I abandoned her and left early with Calum to get back to the hostel before they closed the doors. That was my excuse, anyway.
Artair was still going out with Marsaili at the time, and they went to the St Valentine’s dance together. There was a song in the charts then called ‘Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do)’. I thought it was really weird, because the lyrics seemed to fit Artair so well. All about just having a good time and not caring about other people’s aspirations for you. Artair’s Song, I called it. When they played it that night, Artair and Marsaili were dancing together, kind of close and smoochy. I was dancing with Sine, but I couldn’t help watching them over her head. I hadn’t listened to the first verse before, which wasn’t the verse about Arthur. But I caught it that time. It was about finding a girl who turns your heart around, and then losing her and not really knowing quite how you managed it. And those words stirred something inside me, some latent sense of jealousy or regret, and I found myself dancing with Sine and wishing it was Marsaili. Of course, it passed. Hormones again. They played havoc with my head in those days.
Calum was having a frustrating night. He’d been dancing with a demure little dark-haired girl called Anna. But only when it suited her. He asked her for every dance. Sometimes she would say yes. Other times she turned him down. He was completely smitten, and she knew it and was playing games with him.
About halfway through the night, a group of us was standing shivering out in the street, smoking, and drinking from cans of beer that someone had planked outside. The thump of music and the rabble of voices from the dance followed us out into the wet February night, along with Calum. Murdo Ruadh and Angel were there in the crowd and saw an opportunity to do a little Calum-baiting.
‘Aye, you’re on for a bit of nookie the night, son,’ Murdo said, leering at the miserable Calum.
‘That’ll be fucking right,’ Angel said. ‘She’s a wee prick-teaser that one.’
‘What would you know about her?’ Calum said moodily.
‘What do I know about her?’ Angel guffawed. ‘Everything, boy. Been there, done it.’
‘Liar!’ Calum shouted. In other circumstances, Angel might have taken offence and given Calum a doing, but for some reason he was in a benevolent mood that night and seemed more intent on taking Calum under his wing than doing him any harm. I know now, of course, that he had already formed a plan.
‘Anna works up at Lews Castle,’ he said. ‘She’s a maid at the school. Maid Anna, they call her.’
Murdo Ruadh slapped Calum on the back. ‘Aye, boy, and you’ve never lived until you’ve made Anna. Everyone else has.’ And he fell about laughing at his own joke.
Calum went for him. Like a cat. All claws and flailing arms. Murdo was so taken aback he dropped his can, and beer fizzed out of it all over the pavement. Artair and I pulled Calum off, and I really thought then that Murdo was going to kill him. But Angel stepped in, pushing a big hand into his wee brother’s chest. ‘Lay off, Ruadh. Can’t you see the boy’s smitten?’
Murdo was fuming. This was a serious loss of face. ‘I’ll fucking kill him.’
‘No, you won’t. The boy’s just not thinking right. I remember the first time you got all soppy over some lassie. God, it was pathetic.’ Murdo’s humiliation increased with every word his brother uttered. ‘You need to … what’s the word …empathize.’ He grinned. ‘There’s maybe a wee favour we could do the boy.’
Murdo looked at Angel as if he thought he had lost his senses. ‘What’re you on about?’
‘Bath night.’
A look of complete incomprehension scrawled itself on Murdo’s face. ‘Bath night? For Christ’s sake, Angel, we’re not sharing that with a wee shite like him.’
Calum struggled to free himself from my grip and straighten his jacket. ‘What do you mean?’ Out in the bay a foghorn sounded, and we turned to see the lights of the Suilven as she ploughed her way out into the Minch on the start of her three-and-a-half hour crossing to Ullapool.
Angel said, ‘The staff at the school have got rooms up at the top of the castle. They share a bathroom up in the gods, and because the window looks out on to the roof, they never pull the blind. Wee Anna takes her bath every Sunday night, ten o’clock on the dot. I don’t think there’s a boy in the school who hasn’t been up there for a peek. She’s got a great wee body on her, that right, Murdo?’
Murdo just glowered at his brother.
‘We could arrange a private viewing for you if you want.’
‘That’s disgusting!’ Calum said.
Angel shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. We’ve made the offer. You don’t take us up on it, that’s your loss.’
I could see that Calum was torn, but I was relieved when at length he said, ‘No way,’ and went strutting off back into the dance.
‘That’s pretty shitty,’ I said, ‘winding him up like that.’
Angel made a great show of extravagant innocence. ‘Nobody’s winding him up, orphan boy. You get a view into that bathroom up there as clear as day. You fancy a wee peek yourself?’
‘Fuck off,’ I said. I was good at the witty comeback in those days. And I went back into the dance in search of Sine.
I was pleased to see that Calum was dancing with Anna when I went in, but over the next hour or so she must have knocked him back seven or eight times. On a couple of occasions I saw him sitting on one of the seats along the wall, all on his own, watching miserably as she danced with other boys. She even danced with Angel Macritchie, the two of them chatting animatedly and laughing together, and I saw her rubbing her body against him and glancing over to see if Calum was watching. Of course, he was. He was a poor soul, really, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.
And then I forgot about him, and started working on how to extricate myself from the Sine situation. Every time I sat down she was all over me. She even put her tongue in my ear, which I thought was disgusting. Ironically, it was Calum who rescued me in the end. He came up to us with his hands thrust deep in his pockets. I remember the band was playing the Stranglers’ song ‘Golden Brown’.
‘I’m going.’
I made a great show of looking at my watch. ‘Oh, my God, is it that time already? We’ll never get back to the Gibson before they lock the doors.’ Calum opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off before he got me into trouble. ‘We’re going to have to run.’ I jumped to my feet and turned to Sine. ‘Sorry, Sine. See you next week.’ I saw her jaw drop in amazement before I took Calum by the arm and hurried him away across the dance floor. ‘But not if I see you first,’ I muttered under my breath.
‘What’s going on?’ Calum said.
‘Just getting myself out of a tight corner.’
‘Lucky you. I can’t even get into a tight corner.’
The smell of the sea was strong on the wind that night. An icy February blast that would have cut you in two. The rain had stopped, but the streets were all shiny under the streetlamps, like wet paint. The Narrows were jammed, and Calum and I pushed our way through to the inner harbour and along Cromwell Street to Church Street, before climbing the hill to Matheson Road.
It was only when we turned into Robertson Roa
d that Calum told me he was going to do it.
‘Do what?’
‘I’m going up to the castle tomorrow night.’
‘What?’ I couldn’t believe him. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘It’s all arranged. I spoke to Angel before we left the dance. He’s going to fix it for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Angel was right. She’s just a wee prick-teaser. It’ll be like getting my own back on her, getting to see her naked in the bath.’
‘No, I mean why would Angel fix it for you? All he’s ever done is beat the living crap out of you. Why would he suddenly be your best pal?’
Calum shrugged. ‘He’s not as bad as you think, you know.’
‘Aye, right.’ I was unable to conceal my scepticism.
‘Anyway, I was wondering …’ He hesitated. From up here we could just see, over the rooftops, the crenellated towers of the castle, floodlit on the hill across the bay.
‘What were you wondering, Calum?’
‘I was wondering if you would come with me?’
‘What? You’ve got to be joking! No way.’ Not only would it be a Sunday, and we’d get hell if we were caught sneaking out at that time of night, but I was highly suspicious of the whole thing. Calum was being set up. For what, I had no idea, but I was pretty sure that Angel had not suddenly discovered a philanthropic side to his nature.
‘Oh, please, Fin. I can’t do it on my own. You don’t have to go up on the roof or anything. Just come to the castle with me.’
‘No!’ But I already knew I would. Reluctantly. It was certain that they were planning something for the poor wee bugger. And someone had to look out for him. If I went along maybe I could stop him from getting into too much trouble. I wish now that I hadn’t. Maybe things would have turned out differently.
It was a bitterly cold night, a stiff wind sweeping frequent squally showers of sleet and hail in off the Minch. I really did not want to leave the dry, warm security of the hostel to embark on some insane adventure, nature unknown, outcome uncertain. But I had, in the end, promised Calum, and so we ducked out into the night just before nine-thirty, waterproofs turned up around our necks, and baseball caps pulled down low on our heads, peaks obscuring faces in case we were spotted. We had left a window open on a first-floor corridor at the back of the hostel, accessible by rone pipe, so that we could get back in. Although I did not relish the climb on a night like this.
