‘I’m telling you the truth. I was rigid with fear. I could not move. I sat, and it sat, and I could not break the hold of that wicked stare, and then, Mr Elder – it spoke!’
‘Right, that’s enough,’ I tell him. ‘Either go and get some sleep or phone for a doctor. You are clearly not well.’
He is on a roll now, however. ‘There is no telephone, and no doctor. The toad spoke in a clear, deep voice such as I never wish to hear again. It spoke of the sins of the past and the sins of the present. It spoke of the error of my ways. It spoke of my destiny.’
‘And what is your destiny?’
‘To repent. To put aside sin and to serve. You see, Mr Elder, you are blessed by the simple ignorance of modernity. Here in Glen Araich we still carry the burden of the old ways.’
I groan. ‘Don’t start on about them again, please.’ But he is unstoppable.
‘Years ago, these heather hills were home to many illicit stills, and the local men who made the whisky were at war with the excisemen who came among them, in the name of a hated government, to destroy their livelihood. Often by night the spirit they made would be brought by packhorse from further up the glens, down the whisky roads to this very building, which used to be the manse, for it was the trysting-place with the smugglers who would take the casks to the towns and cities of the south. Oh, the minister was in on the secret, be assured of that, and he and the people of the glens made a tidy living for themselves. But then the people left the glens, and without the people the old ways withered, and the Kirk too, and the manse became the hotel you see today. But it is as hard to make a living in Glen Araich now as it was two hundred years ago. So I revived the old ways, though there are no illicit stills now. It is not from these hills that today’s spirit comes. Today’s spirit comes from –’
‘Stop!’ I cry. ‘I don’t want to hear about this. It is a very dangerous subject.’
‘You are right,’ MacLagan says, ‘and that is what the giant toad told me. “You are deep in iniquity,” it said, “and if you do not desist you will be found out and cast into the outer darkness. You will go to prison or you will have terrible things done to your body.” And the monster spoke of a man who would skewer me and hack off my legs and arms with a sharp blade, and of the writhing agony of my death, and it altogether scared the wits out of me. “What must I do,” I asked, “to be spared such a fate?” “Avoid strong drink of all kinds,” it said, “except a little red wine for bathing, and have no more dealings with the chariot of death!” And though it spoke in riddles I knew of what it spoke, and I am resolved. Whisky no more, whisky-smuggling no more. For me, those days – those old days and old ways – are over.’
‘Pass me my trousers, MacLagan. I’m wide awake now so I may as well get up. Did the toad tell you what you should do instead?’
‘Yes. “Get thee to Oban,” it said, “or to Fort William or Glasgow, and become a servant of the iron horse.” By which, I deduced, he meant the railway. Your trousers, Mr Elder. “Relinquish the wages of sin for they are death. Seek out the vacancy that shall shortly appear for the post of Customer Experience Operative, and apply for it.” I had to ask the beast to repeat the message, so I could write it down. And then those terrible eyes seemed to glaze over, and it spoke no more. And I felt myself becoming drowsy, and I think that it cast a spell on me, for I went into a kind of trance, and when I came out of it about half an hour ago the thing was gone, and only your jacket was there, and I had to come to you at once. I am sorry to have disturbed you, but I had to tell you what has happened.’
I am up and about now, and more or less dressed.
‘MacLagan, it’s clear that you’ve had a nasty shock, and you need to go to bed. I believe when you’ve had a sound sleep you will realise that you have suffered an attack of nerves, brought on by financial worry and too much drink. I cannot say if there is a future for you here, but I doubt there is one on the railway as a CEO. You only imagined that advice. Do nothing hasty or drastic. There is no such thing as a speaking toad.’
‘On that we must agree to differ,’ MacLagan replies. ‘I know what I saw and heard. However, you are right, I do feel somewhat discombobulated, and will retire for an hour or two. Thank you for your advice, Mr Elder. It is a great relief to have talked to you. As you will not be leaving until ten o’clock, I invite you to fill the intervening hours by helping yourself to breakfast at no extra charge. You will find porridge oats and bread in the kitchen cupboard, milk, butter, eggs and bacon in the fridge. Now, if you will excuse me, I will depart, and if I am not there to wave you goodbye when Corryvreckan comes for you, please do not take it personally.’
‘I won’t,’ I say, and Ruaridh MacLagan leaves my room and my life, never, I sincerely hope, to enter it again.
THIS PRESENT MADNESS
Having made myself a full breakfast from the aforesaid ingredients, I repack my case and bring it downstairs. As I am passing the reception desk I go to test the telephone: there is no dialling tone, which is somewhat disconcerting. However, I do not allow myself to doubt that I spoke to Miss Munlochy yesterday evening, and settle myself in the bar with a cup of coffee, to fill the hours until ten o’clock.
In one corner of the room is a little library of books, composed mainly of volumes of local interest, including some fiction. Among the latter is a copy of that perennial favourite Whisky Galore by Compton Mackenzie. It is many years since I have read this, but on a whim I open it and find the famous passage that lists all the whisky brands salvaged from the SS Cabinet Minister. In amongst them, as I anticipate, are the names ‘Glen Gloming’ and ‘Salmon’s Leap’. Wherever the whisky in the outbuildings originated, it has evidently been relabelled with these and other names: perhaps as each new batch arrives, a new title is selected for it. Where else to go for inspiration than to that glorious list? ‘It may be doubted if such a representative collection of various whiskies has ever been assembled,’ Mackenzie wrote. Quite right!
I feel I have narrowly escaped being caught up in a very murky affair. It was with considerable anxiety that I helped Gerry load contraband liquor into the hearse, and with considerable relief that I saw him drive away with it. Now Gerry is long gone and very soon I too will be on my way. Our paths will not cross again. The Corryvreckan character will appear, and I will make the final part of my journey without, I hope, further diversions or distractions. Later in the day – and it looks like being a fine day – I will do what I have come to do: interview Rosalind Munlochy. According to her granddaughter she is in good health, but what does that mean when you are nearly a hundred? How long will she last without a break? How long will I last? With all the complications of the last few days, I have not prepared properly for the interview. I should have a sheet of questions ready but I have nothing except the information I was given by John Liffield and a little more gleaned from the internet. Well, I will just have to wing it, but that will be all right. I am on an adventure. Winging it is exactly what I should do.
‘So long as your middle name isn’t Icarus.’
Where did that come from? I stare wildly around. I am alone. It must have come from within my head, but why, then, did it sound as if from somewhere else? Is someone hiding behind the bar? I stand up.
‘My middle name is Findhorn,’ I say loudly, approaching the chipboard facade.
Silence.
I peer over the bar. There is nobody and nothing there – except a guitar case. The guitar case of Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon.
I go round the bar to open it. The guitar is inside, but also, stuffed behind the neck of the instrument, are what appear to be the remains of a deceased animal.
Gingerly, I ease them out. They come apart in my hands and, revolted, I drop them.
Two deceased animals lie on the floor.
No they don’t. I bend, and pick up – a thin grey wig and a long false beard.
I return to my seat and swallow a mouthful of cold coffee. I check that I am alone. I check the clock. It will be anoth
er hour before Corryvreckan – Corryvreckan! – comes to rescue me from this present madness. I close my eyes and wait.
CORRYVRECKAN
At ten o’clock precisely the front door of the hotel bangs open and shut, and I hear somebody moving about at the reception desk. The bell is pinged. ‘Hello? Hello?’ a voice calls.
‘I’m in here!’ I shout, standing up in readiness.
The owner of the voice enters. He is clean-shaven but the presence or absence of hair on top of his head cannot be determined owing to a deerstalker, which is crammed down upon the ears. He wears a predominantly green suit of Harris tweed, a once-white shirt and a knitted tie the colour of dead bracken. Except for the deerstalker and the lack of beard he is the living image of the hotelier MacLagan, whom I last saw in a state of shock in my bedroom, and of the bard MacCrimmon, whom I last saw in a state of unconsciousness at the Shira Inn. But when the new arrival speaks it is in a slow, soft, West Highland voice that I have heard on the telephone, and that I associate with the name Corryvreckan.
‘Good morning. And it is a good morning, compared with what we have been enduring these last two or three days. Mr Elder? My name is Corryvreckan. I have come to convey you to Glentaragar House. Is that your suitcase? Allow me.’
‘MacLagan!’
‘No, I have not seen Ruaridh MacLagan this morning. Have you settled your account with him?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Very well. Then there will be no need to disturb him. The car is outside. Please follow me.’ He extends the handle of my suitcase and sets off at some speed, wheeling the case behind him.
I pick up my raincoat and go in pursuit. The rusty yellow car is parked at the front door and Corryvreckan is putting my case in the boot.
‘That’s MacCrimmon’s car,’ I say.
He closes the boot. ‘Would that be Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon the folksinger?’
‘Who else?’
‘Does he have one of these too? I have never met him. It was made in Russia. It is very economical and not too precious about the potholes.’
He holds the passenger door open for me.
‘He also has a guitar and a beard,’ I say pointedly. ‘As does Ruaridh MacLagan.’
‘No, no, Ruaridh MacLagan does not have a guitar. Please get in, Mr Elder. You are expected at the big house.’
I consider my options. I do not appear to have any. I get in.
‘Drive on, MacDuff,’ I say to myself, as Corryvreckan slams the door shut and walks round to the driver’s side.
CONVERSATIONS WITH A TOAD: CONVERSATION #8
Douglas Findhorn Elder opened his suitcase and contemplated whether or not to unpack it. The case contained some changes of underwear, two shirts, a spare pair of trousers, a woollen jumper, socks, handkerchiefs, pyjamas and a sponge-bag. There were also sundry papers bearing information on Mrs Rosalind Munlochy, a notebook in which, among other things, he had recorded details of minibus travel to and from Glen Araich, and a small tape-recording device, old-fashioned but reliable. He decided not to unpack. It didn’t seem worth the trouble. If he interviewed Mrs Munlochy that afternoon, and if Corryvreckan returned him to the hotel next morning, he could catch the bus to Oban and from there a train south. This was Wednesday. By Thursday evening he could be home.
Douglas felt a little shaken. The road up Glentaragar had been ferocious. A barely legible sign at the foot had declared it unsuitable for caravans: this was an understatement, akin to saying that the Sahara Desert was unsuitable for penguins. There were collapsed embankments, perilously angled trees, many broken branches, gravel and mud being scattered across what remained of the tarmac by brown rivulets, alarming cambers and gradients – and that was just for the first two miles. When they came to a crumbling stone bridge, where the road divided, Corryvreckan took the left fork.
‘That was the Fairy Bridge,’ he said when they were safely across it, ‘so-called on account of an ancient legend that fairies once lived beneath it.’
‘Folk believed anything in those days,’ Douglas remarked.
‘They were not as gullible as you might think.’
‘Nor, it may surprise you to learn, am I.’
Corryvreckan ignored this. ‘The fairies have great powers and are not to be mocked,’ he said.
‘If you say so,’ Douglas said, not without a sneer in his voice.
‘I do say it. One never knows when one may fall under their spell.’
He halted the car and pointed to his right. ‘You will notice on the far side of the burn some old houses with their roofs off. Only thirty years ago there were people living in them.’
‘Where does that other road go?’
‘Nowhere. It ends just beyond the last house. Further up the road we are on you will see other habitations – just rickles of stone now, where the deer take shelter from the wind. But in the old days there was a whole community of folk in the glen. Sad it is today to see it so empty.’
He sighed – a rather practised sigh, Douglas thought, that went with the inverted syntax and high pitch of his lament.
‘Ah, the good old, bad old days,’ Douglas said.
Corryvreckan did not rise to the bait. ‘I will not be able to speak for the next while,’ he said, releasing the handbrake. ‘The road becomes difficult from now on, and I must concentrate.’
In addition to all the former hazards, the way then became dotted with potholes, many so full of water that Douglas had no idea how deep they were. Corryvreckan drove slowly but steadily, mostly in second gear, and knew which holes to go round, which to navigate gently, and which required a burst of speed to get through with the least impact. Reduced to silence and a slight nausea, Douglas took in what he could of the surrounding scenery: it was composed entirely of rocks, trees, heather, grass and water. Although the sun was shining in an almost cloudless sky he did not have the impression that the glen could ever really dry out. It seemed a hard country to care about much, and yet, he thought, it possessed a ragged, wild beauty that, if it were home, one might not wish to leave and never see again. On the other hand, perhaps people couldn’t get away fast enough when the opportunity arose. Corryvreckan had spoken of a good number of glen dwellers, but nobody, surely, could make a living off this land today?
The road became little more than a muddy track between boulders. The head of the glen was reached, the track levelled out, and suddenly Corryvreckan was swinging in between two stone pillars from which hung rusting iron gates, fixed permanently open against ranks of rhododendrons. The approach to Glentaragar House was short and straight. It passed through mixed stands of larch, pine and birch, and finished in a courtyard at what was apparently the rear of the building. This was disconcerting to Douglas: after such a journey, he had expected to be met with an imposing frontage in the baronial tradition. It was almost indecent to sneak up on the house from behind, especially as it was quite modest in size and style.
However, when they got out and entered through a cold basement corridor punctuated by a number of doors, and then went up a stone spiral staircase and through a heavy door into a hallway, it made sense: they had come via the old servants’ quarters. There was a doorless booth of dark varnished wood beside the door, in which Douglas noted a telephone, a model with a circular dial, set on a little shelf next to two or three ancient-looking directories. At the other end of the hall was an enclosed lobby of ornately carved oak, inset with coloured glass. This lobby had doors on each side, and beyond them was a further great door, also of oak. Corryvreckan led Douglas into the lobby, in which were stands containing walking sticks, crooks and umbrellas and, under a bench, assorted items of outdoor footwear. He opened the massive front door. Half a dozen wide steps led down to a broad stone avenue, which bisected a long, mossy lawn enclosed by a low drystone dyke on the left side and a much higher, mortared wall on the right. At the lawn’s far end were gates and a row of impressive oaks.
‘You will understand,’ Corryvreckan said, ‘that in the old da
ys everything and everyone came up the loch, which you cannot see from this level but which is beyond those trees. The house looks south and west. It has the sun upon it all afternoon and all evening.’
Douglas saw the truth of this statement. The sun was behind them now, but very soon it would come over their left shoulders and its warmth would be upon their faces. He glanced up at the front of the house. The stonework was simple, the windows large but unpretentious. The house, he thought, was plain and sturdy, and sat like a creature used to bracing itself against westerly winds.
Then Corryvreckan took him up the main staircase and he noticed signs of fragility: stains down one wall where the rain had got in; woodwork badly in need of repainting; a cracked windowpane; loose boards at the top of the stairs. They turned right, along a short corridor hung with oil paintings of historic Strivens, and Corryvreckan – having shown him the bathroom he was to use, which was at the far end of the corridor – left him in his room. ‘I will give you a little time to settle in,’ he said, ‘before taking you to Mrs Munlochy.’
It was an enormous room. Most of the Elder residence back in Edinburgh could have fitted into it. It had one vast window stretching from ceiling to floor, from which Douglas saw a long stretch of water – the loch, presumably, that Corryvreckan had mentioned. It was odd – he had not thought of there being a loch anywhere near the house. He would need to consult a map to get his bearings.
The window had no curtains but it did have working wooden shutters, which might counter the draughts. A ladder would have been handy to scale the formidable double bed. There was a wardrobe of some dark wood, empty but for a couple of spare blankets and a few wire hangers, and a matching chest of drawers. The fireplace, of stone and slate, was also empty. There was a cast-iron radiator, stone-cold, against one wall. A chandelier, which had been elaborately decorated by a spider, boasted half a dozen bulbs, but when he flicked the switch beside the door he could see that the light it would throw out would, come evening, be feeble. He noted also that the switch and electrical sockets were of brown Bakelite, and that the plug of the bedside lamp had two round pins. Glentaragar House, or at least this bit of it, was seriously electrically challenged. This made him check his mobile phone. Previously the screen had displayed the words EMERGENCY CALLS ONLY. Now, beneath that, was a legend he had never seen before: NO EMERGENCY CALLS EITHER. Hopeless. He dropped the phone into his jacket pocket. Then, feeling a little cold, he took the jacket off and replaced it with his jumper.
To Be Continued Page 25
