Last of the Line

by John MacKay

  Mary was light and flighty, so unlike her brother, and he found fault with everything she did. The tears in her eyes when she kissed Cal goodbye were the first he’d ever seen from her. ‘You be sure to come and see me,’ she’d implored.

  Not long after that, Cal moved into a room in a student flat and left his father to fester. Even university had been a source of tension between them. His father thought Cal should aim for medicine, law, the ministry or teaching and had been appalled when he had opted for business studies.

  ‘Business is the way to make money,’ Cal had argued.

  ‘What’s money, when you can do good?’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to know about money,’ had been Cal’s retort. And so it had gone on.

  His father died before he could retire back to the island he loved, his body and mind taut with resentment at all around him.

  Mary was all Cal had left and she made every effort to maintain the bond. There were cards and letters and each year she would come to see him. ‘I’ve come to the city to find a man,’ she’d joke. He made time for her and she asked for no more, but it seemed incongruous to him to spend time with his aunt. Still, her heart was so big and he enjoyed her spoiling him.

  Reflecting back to his school holidays, he saw that it had been the lack of choice that he had resented. The actual holidays had been fun, especially when he travelled up on his own as soon as the schools finished. For a couple of weeks it was just him and Mary and she allowed him untrammelled freedom. Restrictions would be imposed once again when his father’s leave began and his folks arrived. But it was then that he could see the man his father might have been. They would go fishing together and for a time there was peace between them.

  Now he was back. It had been twenty years and more. Perhaps it was time to bury the sourness of the past. He had been away too long.

  He spent almost the entire crossing of the Minch out on deck, lost in the hypnotic trance of the water, the movement of the sea never rising beyond a gentle swell. They docked at Tarbert in Harris. The port was little more than a village at a neck of land, with the Minch on one side and the mighty Atlantic on the other.

  Soon the Audi was bouncing from the ramp onto the pier. To the south were some of the best unspoilt beaches in the world, miles of empty white sands. Cal’s journey was taking him north.

  Since his last visit, the old single track road had been widened and resurfaced. It had been a trial of a journey before, stuck behind the slow vehicles which had disembarked ahead of you. Now, Cal could zoom past two and three cars at a time. But the zig-zagging twist down the side of the Clisham mountain was a real test, and his heart jumped when he felt the rear end swing as he took one hairpin bend just too fast, yet the screech of the tyres and the wisp of smoke thrilled him at the same time. This was truly burning rubber. He imagined that with some sunshine, this could be like the roads of Monte Carlo. The dramatic beauty of Loch Seaforth cutting into the land was lost to him as he pushed northwards out of Harris and into Lewis, the fabled heather isle.

  More than the roads had changed. The thatch-covered, stone-built blackhouses that had lasted a century and more, were fallen monuments to a lifestyle long gone. Even the sort of dwellings with which he’d been familiar, with their dormer windows and chimneys at the gable ends, looked cold and bare. So many houses now were large, ranch-type spreads, and he speculated that they would be beyond the pocket of most city dwellers.

  The village names were different too. In his youth they had all been anglicised on the road signs, but a concerted effort to protect the indigenous Gaelic language had seen them revert back to their traditional spellings; names drawn from the Norse and the Gaelic that had so shaped the island culture. Many of these small, struggling communities had been settled longer than the self-important cities of the mainland.

  Having driven north half the length of Lewis, Cal left the island’s east coast and headed towards the wilder west. Buildings changed, the cars and the clothes, but the landscape remained as ever it had been. The heather moorland that smothered the land, the rocks that heaved out from the peatbog and the ocean. Timeless. And restless.

  Emerging from the hinterland of the moor to the coastal townships, he knew he was almost there. In little more than an hour he had completed a journey that would have taken his grandfather more than a day.

  He drove by the lochside, past the church, to the crossroads. The main road swung north-east but beyond the old stone bridge he took the branch road west. This was single-track again and he took the bends cautiously, remembering to keep left to avoid oncoming vehicles but also aware that a miscalculation would send his wheels off the verge. The road began to meander more steeply and folds of land slipped away to reveal lochs and stunning rock formations.

  The house sat on a plateau at the very top of the hill which then fell away to the sea. It seemed an odd place to build a home, exposed as it was to the gales roaring in from the Atlantic. Mary could have told him why, but he’d never been interested enough to ask. This was the house in which his father had been born and raised. That was all he knew.

  Cal pulled into a patch of hard packed mud and stone next to the gate, careful to avoid the drainage ditch, then switched off the engine.

  The only sound was the sough of the wind round the car, seeking a gap through which to sneak. Sheep, disturbed by his arrival, returned to chomping at the grass in a neighbouring croft. A lone seagull glided in the breeze from the sea. The blend of peat smoke and brine in the air took him straight back to childhood. Yet something was out of place. In times before Aunt Mary would already have been out of the door to greet him. But not today.

  3

  ON THE WROUGHT-IRON gate, flakes of sky-blue paint scrapped for dominance with the brown of the rust. His father had painted it years ago. In the sea air, any metal left exposed corroded rapidly. He lifted the latch and used both hands to swing it back. Atolls of wild grass and moss strung their way up the length of the concrete path that had been the cause of another row with his old man, who had laid it with no help from Cal. Now it all just looked so old and in need of repair.

  The front door faced onto the road, but he had never known it to be used. The storm doors were closed and the lock and handle were rusty. The path split in two, petering out to the left as it reached the wall of the old blackhouse. To the right, it led to a small porch at the back. This was never locked during the day and unless the weather was foul, it was rarely closed. Now it was.

  He rapped on the glass panes, twisted the heavy handle and pushed it open, scraping the linoleum on the floor as he did so. It brought him straight into the kitchen. The silence was unnerving.

  ‘Hello,’ he called self-consciously.

  A teapot sat on the stove. Intermittent dribbles pushed up the lid and sizzled on a hotplate heated by the fire directly below.

  Cal went towards the glass-panelled door that separated the kitchen from the living room and as he did so he heard a floorboard creak and saw a shadow moving towards him. He stepped back and the door swung open. It was not his aunt. He had known from the speed of movement that it wouldn’t be. He was confronted by a woman he didn’t recognise, in her thirties with dark hair pulled back in a pony-tail. Her eyes were dark and warm. She wore a blue shirt over a white T-shirt, jeans and white trainers that gave her an air of athleticism.

  ‘Hallo,’ the woman said quietly. ‘You must be Calum.’

  This must be the woman who had phoned him in Glasgow. ‘People know me as Cal,’ he replied.

  There was an awkward pause. Cal realised he was the stranger here.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Asleep.’

  ‘Still with us then?’ It sounded callous even to him.

  ‘Your aunt is still breathing, yes.’ The woman looked at him steadily. ‘You’ve had a long journey. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d really prefer to see Mary.’

  ‘She’s asleep. Perhaps it would be best to leave her for now
.’

  ‘She will waken though? She’ll know I came?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She made her way to a cupboard and removed a bone china cup. She may be a stranger to him, but she clearly knew the house.

  ‘I’m Mairi. From in the road.’

  ‘Shouldn’t Mary be in hospital?’

  ‘She wanted to be in her own home. The doctors were happy enough when I said I would stay with her. They’ve been very good, a nurse has been calling daily. Palliative care is all that’s left, keeping the pain away.’

  ‘I didn’t even know,’ sighed Cal.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’ If it was a dig, it was subtly delivered.

  She brought over a cup of tea and laid it on the kitchen table. He sat down and she offered him a selection of biscuits on one of his aunt’s decorative plates. He had no appetite.

  ‘Is there any hope?’ he asked weakly.

  Mairi grimaced and shook her head.

  Cal sipped the tea. It was the strong, strong, scalding tea favoured by the older island folk, made with loose leaves, a big spoonful for each cup and always ‘one for the pot’. It was too strong for his palate now, even the sugar left an aftertaste.

  Mairi stood against the stainless steel towel rail on the stove, both hands wrapped around her cup. She waited for him to speak.

  ‘How long have you been staying here?’ he asked directly.

  ‘For the past two nights. There was no one else who could.’

  ‘Well, I’m grateful to you for that.’

  ‘Mary’s a wonderful woman. She’s been good to me.’

  Cal stared hard at the rug on the worn linoleum. Outside the wind played with the grass and somewhere a clock chimed the hour.

  ‘Did she say why she wanted to see me?’

  ‘Maybe there are things she has to say.’ Mairi finished her tea.

  ‘Now that you’re here I’ll go back home to get some things done.’

  Cal looked startled.

  ‘I’ll be back. My number is on the pad by the phone if you have to call me.’

  ‘Okay. Good. Yeah, good.’

  She pulled on her anorak. Cal didn’t want her to go. He didn’t know her, but she was in control and would be calm and practical through whatever lay ahead. She would know what to do. In contrast, he felt an unfamiliar gnawing in his stomach. He stood up uncertainly, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets to stop from fidgeting, effectively blocking her exit, then awkwardly moved out of her way, hoping that she stay after all.

  She sensed his unease. ‘Listen out for her. It’s unlikely she’ll be needing anything. Just the fact that someone is there with her… there’s nothing else you need to do. I’ll see to her when I come back.’

  Cal nodded and watched her walk round the corner of the house, the wind flapping her anorak.

  He was shaking. Mary was approaching death and he would have to be there for her. His ability for sales showmanship would count for nothing in the room next door. He would have to rely on his basic humanity stripped bare and he was unsure whether it was up to the task.

  The living room was cool compared to the kitchen. Although the heavy drapes had been pulled back, the light that penetrated the thick net curtains was absorbed by the room, the dark carpet, the wood of the furniture and the brown leather of the settee.

  Cal walked into the hall and listened outside the bedroom door, delaying having to confront what lay behind it. Finally, he pushed it open. He was struck immediately by the heat of the room, a swirl of bedroom mustiness, body odour and perfume.

  Daylight glowed in burnished amber through the tawny curtains. He could see Mary’s shape on the bed and his breathing eased a little now that reality had usurped the fear of anticipation. She was on her back, her head resting on two pillows, her mouth slightly open and her face sunken. Her breathing was shallow and intermittent.

  There was a chair next to the bed, a wicker armchair that he had never seen before. Beside it lay a women’s magazine and a bag from which knitting needles protruded. The chair creaked as he sat down and the sound caused Mary to stir. There was a change in her breathing and an almost imperceptible movement of her head. Then her eyes flickered open.

  Cal tensed. What could he say that wouldn’t alarm her? She spoke first.

  ‘Calum?’ Her voice was weak and tired.

  ‘Yes Aunt Mary, it’s me.’

  She took a deeper breath and turned her head towards him.

  ‘Oh my dear, you came.’ The words were whispered.

  ‘Of course I came.’ He felt better now, talking with her.

  She breathed again. ‘Maybe you could open the curtains to let in some light.’

  The chair creaked again as he pulled himself out of it and moved over the draw back the curtains. The light, grey again, fell across the bed. He could see her hair irregularly fanned out on the pillow. It struck Cal that he had never before seen Mary in bed. She had always been up and about.

  He sat down again. The chair was slung low, and his head was level with hers.

  Her hand moved across the bedcover towards him and he rested his own gently on top of it. She tried to pull herself up, but the effort was beyond her.

  ‘Here, I’ll help you,’ he said earnestly. Putting her head onto his shoulder and supporting her back with one hand, he eased her forward and pulled the pillows up against the headboard behind her. He could feel her rib cage and shoulder blades pressing through the cotton of her nightdress. How frail she was. Delicately, he laid her back on the pillows again.

  She closed her eyes, concentrating on catching her breath, her chest barely moving. Cal sat still and waited.

  Mary’s hand stretched towards the black leather-bound Bible that had rested on her bedside table for a lifetime.

  ‘Would you like me to read for you?’ asked Cal gently.

  Her chin moved closer to her chest in an almost imperceptible nod.

  He thumbed through the thin, well read pages. As a child he would have known an appropriate passage, but all that inculcated knowledge had long dissipated. He scanned the flickering leaves, hoping that he might chance upon something that would touch his memory. Matthew. Mark. Luke. The Gospels. John. John. Why did John strike a chord? From his mother’s funeral. What was it? Chapter Eleven. It all came back to him. Jesus comforting the sisters of the dead Lazarus. It seemed right. His throat was thick as he read out loud. ‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.’

  Cal wished he could have read in the Gaelic, Mary’s mother tongue, the way she had most often heard these words through the years. But he sensed that she found calm enough in what he said. Soon she drifted back to sleep. He sat watching her breathe for an indeterminate time before falling asleep himself, the combination of a late night and the early start overwhelming him.

  When he was woken by the sound of a movement in the house, it took some moments for his mind to catch up. When it did, he jumped up and leant across Mary, fearful that she had already gone. The seconds were long before her shallow breath fell again.

  Footsteps came lightly across the hall and there was a gentle tap. The floor creaked as Cal moved to the door and pulled it ajar. It was Mairi. She appeared to start a little when she saw him, her hand moving protectively to her chest. Cal couldn’t stop a smile.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Just the same.’

  Mairi retreated back towards the kitchen. ‘Did she ask for anything?’

  ‘No, nothing at all,’ Cal replied reassuringly.

  Mairi switched on a light just as he rubbed his hands vigorously over his face. She would know he had been sleeping.

  ‘She did ask for something actually,’ he added quickly, to demonstrate that he had been attentive. ‘Her Bible. She wanted me to read it to her.’

  Mairi nodded. ‘Look, I’ve brought something in case you haven’t eaten. It’s just some chilli.’ She gestured towards a small casserole dish on the kitchen table.
>
  ‘Great!’ Cal hadn’t realised how hungry he was. ‘You shouldn’t have, but thanks all the same.’

  He sat down and realised he had nothing to eat the food with, but Mairi was already bringing him a fork from a drawer. He smiled his thanks.

  ‘You know this place well.’

  ‘It’s like I said, Mary was a good friend.’ She corrected herself. ‘Is a good friend.’

  Cal was already scooping the chilli into his mouth.

  ‘Don’t you want a plate?’

  He looked at her, embarrassed.

  ‘No, this is fine. Thanks.’

  Mairi stood by the oven range again.

  ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do? Will you be staying here?’

  ‘I haven’t thought of anything except getting here,’ he said, licking his teeth.

  ‘It’s not a problem if you want to stay at the hotel. I’ve been here the last couple of nights.’

  Cal sighed. ‘The thing is, I’m here because she asked me to come. She was awake for a short spell, but I haven’t really spoken to her. She’s sleeping now. I don’t know when she’ll waken again… and she might not, I suppose. Anyway, she asked me to be here and that’s what I’d better do. How are you fixed?’

  ‘I can be here. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘How long d’you think it’ll be?’ Cal grimaced. ‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’

  ‘She was failing fast last night and that’s why I called you. But, she seems to have rallied a bit since I told her you were coming.’

  ‘Do you think she might pull through?’

  ‘The doctor said it was a matter of time.’

  Cal finished the chilli and leant back in the chair. Mairi was looking at him, waiting for him to decide.

  ‘I’ll certainly be here tonight. I’m sure you could do with a break.’

  Mairi chewed on her lip and it was Cal’s turn to watch her. She was clearly uncertain.

  ‘Have you got other things to do?’ Cal’s question was a leading one. He was intrigued by this woman.

  ‘It’s okay.’