Last of the Line

by John MacKay

  Colin shook his head, but didn’t look at him.

  ‘What the hell’s that going to look like in the morning? My bloody car! These roads…’ Cal halted his outburst, realising how pathetic it sounded. ‘Your mother’ll be raging.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to know.’

  ‘No, she’s got to.’

  ‘Really. Everything’s okay. What’s the point of telling her?’

  ‘She’ll find out anyway.’

  ‘Who’s going to tell?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I nearly killed her son, that’s why.’

  Colin laughed aloud. ‘You should’ve let me drive.’

  ‘You’re not old enough.’

  ‘Aye, well, you are, and look what happened.’

  Cal jerked his arm up in a mock attempt to hit him.

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough to me?’ the boy joked.

  ‘You think you can drive better than me?’ challenged Cal.

  ‘Couldn’t be much worse.’

  ‘Come on,’ he protested, ‘it was a bad corner.’

  ‘That’s the thing with people from the city. They buy these flash cars and they’re only driving from one traffic light to the next. What’s the point?’

  ‘It’s more than traffic lights.’

  ‘Oh yeah, there’s roundabouts too. No, this is what you want. These are the roads to drive on, single track, full of bends and no idea what’s round the next one. That’s real driving.’

  ‘Alright smart arse, how do you know?’

  ‘I’ve done it.’

  ‘You’ve driven a car? How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?’

  ‘Me and the boys drive out the moor road. Getting a car’s no problem.’

  ‘You steal cars?’

  ‘No, we always bring them back. We’re going to get a banger and do it up ourselves.’

  ‘Whose cars do you take?’

  ‘Anyone’s. Family usually. Angie’s old man is usually so pissed at night he doesn’t notice.’

  ‘But you could get killed.’

  ‘You’re right. I should let an adult drive,’ Colin said with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘Don’t be smart.’

  They drove past Mary’s darkened house.

  ‘I’m here,’ said Colin seconds later.

  ‘I’d better come in,’ said Cal, pulling into the side of the road.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, it’s fine,’ said Colin, a young lad again, his cockiness gone.

  ‘Colin, I’ve got to tell her.’

  ‘Don’t tell her about the driving.’

  ‘I’ll just tell her what happened tonight.’

  Colin walked down the path to the bungalow, then round to the side door and into the kitchen. As he disappeared inside, Cal could hear Mairi asking him where he had been and why he was so late. Then a door slammed and there was silence. Cal knocked cautiously.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Mairi said. ‘Oh it’s you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he responded self-consciously.

  ‘Colin’s just in. My son. You’ve just missed him.’

  ‘No Mairi, we… we have met.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Mairi, her voice a query. ‘Take a seat.’

  Cal did as he was bid. The kitchen was substantial, with a table in the middle of the floor. The heat came from a stove with a sturdy, black iron flue. Storage cupboards stretched along two walls. The sink sat beneath the only window, which was three panes wide. A pine dresser stood next to an interior door. Cal absorbed all this in the time it took him to sit down.

  ‘It’s actually about Colin that I’m here.’

  ‘Colin? He’s not done anything, there’s nothing wrong is there?’

  ‘No, he’s done nothing. It’s me. I have to apologise. I was giving him a lift home and I went off the road. He got a bump on his shoulder. He’s fine, he had his seat belt on and everything.’

  ‘How did you go off the road? Where?’ Her words came in a rush. ‘Colin! Colin, come here!’

  ‘Down at the bend near the bridge,’ said Cal.

  ‘Did the car go over? How did it happen? Colin!’

  ‘It’s okay. We just slid off the road and he bumped his shoulder. I didn’t judge it right and we skidded off onto the verge.’

  Colin reappeared, silent and sullen.

  ‘I’ve been hearing what happened. Are you okay? Show me your arm. Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Because you’d make a fuss like you are now. It wasn’t a big deal.’

  He stood loosely as his mother grasped his arm and pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt. ‘See, it’s fine,’ he insisted.

  ‘It’s red. That’ll be a bruise. Is it sore?’

  Colin pulled his arm away as she prodded at it. ‘Course it’s going to be sore if you do that. It’s fine.’ He looked to Cal. ‘What did I tell you?’ With that, he left the kitchen and disappeared back through the house.

  ‘That boy,’ said Mairi despairingly, leaning against the drying bar on the stove as she had at Mary’s house. ‘He’s at that stage.’

  ‘He didn’t do anything. It was me, it was all my fault.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I thought you were back at the hotel.’

  ‘I decided to come back up to the house. Colin was outside the hotel with his pals and he was interested in the car. Then he told me he was your son and since I was coming this way, I offered him a lift. He knew who I was, so…’ the explanation petered out.

  ‘How fast were you going?’

  ‘Fast.’

  ‘On these roads?’

  ‘I was trying to show him what the car could do.’

  ‘Is that drink on your breath?’

  This took Cal aback.

  ‘Well, I had a whisky. Maybe two.’

  ‘You drove after drinking. You gave him a lift after you’d had a drink?’ Mairi’s voice had taken on a tone of rising anger.

  ‘Look I’m sorry, I…’

  ‘Are you mad? The two of you could have been killed. I should call the police right now.’

  Cal had no response.

  ‘You risked my boy’s life. What possessed you?’

  ‘I’m sorry. What more can I say? If you want to phone the police, go ahead. I can’t stop you. I’d better go.’

  ‘Don’t you dare step in that car.’

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘To the hotel?’

  ‘I was going to Mary’s. I’ll stay there.’

  Cal was relieved to get out of the house and escape Mairi’s anger. He had expected her to be annoyed, but the intensity of her response had surprised him. He almost got back into the car, but stopped himself. What if she carried out her threat? He leaned against it and puffed his cheeks in exasperation.

  ‘Calum!’

  Mairi had followed him from the house.

  ‘I’ll drive you back.’

  She had drawn level with him now and leaned against the car beside him. ‘I won’t apologise for what I said. But at least you told me. He wouldn’t have.’

  ‘I’ll be fine at Mary’s. That’s where I was going anyway.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I can’t get her out of my head.’

  ‘You don’t want to stay there tonight, don’t be silly.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep at the hotel.’

  ‘What makes you think you’ll be able to sleep at Mary’s?’ She caught the look on his face. ‘You’re not still going on about this big mystery, are you?’

  Cal looked down.

  ‘You are.’ Mairi shook her head in gentle exasperation. ‘Okay, let me tell you something. Drinking and driving. That’s what killed my husband.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

  ‘He was killed by a drunk driver?’

  ‘He was the drunk driver.’ The revelation stung. She stared hard at Cal. ‘I can see you don’t know what to say. And there’s nothing more I want to say. Some thi
ngs are best left alone.’

  8

  CAL’S FACE BURNED as they passed the scene of the accident in daylight. Not that there was much to see, except for tyre gouges in the earth. Mairi noted it indirectly.

  ‘Colin says your car is okay. Just some scrapes, he said.’

  ‘Looks like we were lucky.’ Cal could now see how close they had come to real tragedy. The embankment fell away much more sharply than he had realised.

  Little more had been said the previous night. He’d sat slouched in Mairi’s car like a recalcitrant schoolboy and she had summarily dismissed his protest that he had been fit to drive.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, does it? Anyway, that’s not the point. You drank and you drove.’

  It had taken a couple more whiskies to overcome the delayed shock and allow him to sleep.

  Now he was returning to Mary’s house.

  ‘What about the funeral?’ he asked. ‘I’ll need to get things sorted out.’

  ‘It’s the day after tomorrow.’ She expected Cal’s look of surprise. ‘The minister and undertaker sorted it out and I confirmed the hotel when I was waiting for you. Mary had it all planned, right down to the coffin.’

  ‘The coffin?’

  ‘She was like that, not wanting it to be a burden. She had a bit put by so it’s done right.’

  ‘That’s a bit morbid.’

  ‘She was on her own. Never relied on anyone for anything. It was just her way.’

  Cal could see his car as they crested the hill before Mairi’s house and he studied it carefully as they drew up. He couldn’t avoid the incongruity of its urban sophistication against the rural simplicity of the surroundings. Some might see it as flash and perhaps, he was forced to reflect, that was how they viewed him here. He was an outsider and, in truth, it was not a perception he could challenge. He felt much the same. Connected, perhaps, but not belonging.

  The paint work on the nearside sill was scraped but there was no significant damage. For the second time that morning, Cal recognised that he had got off lightly.

  The engine rumbled as soon as he turned the ignition. The road was narrow, so he had to drive further into the village to find a turning space. On either side, the houses were empty and in states of disrepair. A house not unlike Mary’s was closed up, fading net curtains hanging forlornly at the windows, the roof collapsed, with snapped and broken beams jabbing pointlessly in the air. Another blackhouse, neglected and overgrown, open to the elements. This was the real village graveyard, a place that spoke powerfully of the passing of a community. The tombstones detailed dates and ages and words of loss, but the empty houses conveyed stirringly the lives lived by the dead and the gone. The cemetery was where they lay in peace, but this was where they had been born, lived, laughed and loved. This was where the children had squealed, the lovers kissed and the mourning moaned. Each house was a monument to the loss of a family. Here the village was empty, peaceful and silent.

  Cal was glad to turn. He was not a sensory man, but evidence of the village’s demise was unavoidable and it saddened him. As he drove back up the brae to Mary’s house he wondered how long before it too would be a crumbling memorial to a life gone before.

  It was cold inside but this time he succeeded in lighting the stove first time. He left the door ajar and sat back as the tapering flames grew and the aromatic peat smoke curled into the kitchen.

  His grandfather had raised a family here. His father had been born here. Mary had made it her home. Photos on the wall told of the generations who had lived here. Was this where it was all to end? With him?

  It was a theme of his father’s lectures that Cal valued nothing because he’d never had to struggle for anything. He could hear him now. ‘Your people had nothing, not even the land they lived on. And when, finally, it became theirs, by God they cherished it.’

  It had meant nothing to Cal. Home was not a concept to bind him. He had a loose connection to the city, but felt no nostalgia for the houses in which he’d lived. To him they were no more than bricks and mortar to be bought and sold. He’d never had the sense of belonging that was so strong in this house. Even as he’d travelled north for Mary’s final hours, he had been enticed by the prospect of the money the house could be converted into.

  There would be no shortage of buyers if he chose to sell. City folk looking to escape the rat race only for as long as it took them to realise that the adjustment to the isolation of island life was too great a change. What then for this house? Sold and sold again, or left to collapse in on itself, on its past?

  That decision would be Cal’s and it was troubling him more than he might have thought, the prospect of all that he was letting go. Perhaps, despite himself, all that he rebelled against had taken root in a shadowy corner of his soul.

  The faces entombed in the picture frames on the walls looked out at him. Their memories had lived on in this house. Mary had known who they were and they had remained alive through her. To Cal, they were mostly unknown. With the loss of the house, they would be left only as names recorded in national archives.

  Cal’s musings were disturbed by a ‘Hello?’ from the door. The minister appeared, a greying man of middle age and medium build, his trousers neat and pin-striped, his jacket and vest black, his collar brilliant white.

  ‘Hello,’ he repeated, advancing into the room.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I know we spoke briefly before the service last night, but I thought I should call by and see that everything was all right.’ His voice was soft and unexpectedly quiet for a preacher.

  ‘Seems to be. Mary’s left everything in order.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the minister laughed gently. ‘She would have.’

  He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen and Cal invited him to sit down.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘That’s very kind, but I’ll say no. You can have too much tea. Some of the congregation are very kind, but they won’t take no for an answer. It seems like I drink gallons some days.’

  Cal sat across from him at the table and paused, waiting for the minister to say his piece.

  ‘As you say, Mary had everything organised. She spoke to me about it some time ago and said she didn’t want to trouble anybody. I just wanted to make sure you were happy with that and if you had any questions.’

  Cal agreed readily and the minister explained what would be expected of him at the funeral.

  ‘How was Mary… when she was speaking to you about it?’ Cal asked.

  ‘She had her faith and that gave her great strength. She faced what was to come with great courage.’

  ‘You knew her well?’

  ‘Indeed. She was one of those people communities are built upon. Always willing, always supportive. A great loss. As you’ll know, she was a Sunday School teacher for many years. She had a special affection for children. I expect the turnout at the funeral will show that they thought the same of her. There’s scarce anyone under thirty who wasn’t taught their Bible stories by Mary.’

  ‘Did she ever confide in you, about her life?’

  ‘Well now, I’m sure she must have, but she wasn’t really one for talking about herself. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She never spoke of being in Canada?’ Cal pressed on.

  The minister looked of vague. ‘She may have done, she may have done, but I can’t rightly remember that she did. Had she been there?’

  ‘It seems she might have been.’

  ‘Your aunt and I spoke about a lot of things and I don’t recall any mention of that. There are plenty of people from here in Canada, right enough. Some in the congregation would know. I’m sure I could find out easily enough.’

  Cal let the suggestion hang. Perhaps people might be more open with the minister, if there was anything to tell.

  The minister left soon afterwards. Over the years Mary had always talked of her nephew in uncritical terms, but his opinion was based on what she didn’t say. She would mention phoning
Cal, never the reverse, and there had never been any word of him coming to see her. If anyone ever suggested that he might help with a given situation, her reply was, ‘Oh I don’t want to be troubling Calum.’ And now this man was sitting in her home asking about details of her life. He might have made the effort to ask her himself, the minister reflected, then admonished himself for his unchristian attitude.

  Oblivious of the minister’s private opinion of him, Cal returned to examining the photos on the walls. On the upstairs landing he heard the door of the guest bedroom rattle and remembered that he had not closed the window. The simple action of closing it returned the room to silence and reminded him of all that had changed in the house since he opened it. Everything.

  Turning from the window, Cal looked around the room. This had been the guest bedroom. A double bed stood against the outside wall, tidily made up, covered with a gold-coloured, padded quilt. Above the headboard hung a faded watercolour of the coastline. A dressing table dominated the back wall, its mirror reflecting his silhouetted image back to him. On the third wall was a wardrobe, partially hidden by the open door, which was why it hadn’t registered with him before. A tall, substantial chest of drawers sat in the corner between the door and the window. On top was a thin white vase with linen roses.

  He noticed two leather cases beneath the bed and an old cardboard one sitting on top of the wardrobe.

  He knelt down to pull one of the cases out. It slid out easily. The spring-loaded snaplocks were rusty and reluctant to open. Eventually they flipped up. He lifted the case onto the bed and pulled up the lid. Folded on top was a tweed blanket of thick stitching and rough texture and underneath that another blanket of rough wool, cream coloured with pale black trim. There was nothing else. Cal didn’t know what he hoped to find, but the blankets were a disappointment.

  He turned his attention to the case on top of the wardrobe, teasing it forward with his fingers until it toppled into his hands. It was heavier than he had anticipated and he nearly dropped it. This time the locks were very stiff and out of alignment. At length, with reddened fingertips and a bent fingernail, Cal had them open.

  The case was neatly packed with aged photo albums, two shoe boxes and some smaller boxes that looked as if they might hold trinkets and mementoes. If there was anything to be found, it would be here.