Women of the Dunes

by Sarah Maine

  And she wondered again, as she stood at the Gosse Harbour church door three days later, if one day perhaps she would tell her own children and grandchildren how she used to go out with the fishermen and describe the size of the lobsters and crabs they brought back, the whales they saw off the headlands, and the sculpted icebergs which drifted past the entrance to the harbour, calved from sea ice hundreds of miles away. And would she tell them about her grandmother and her grandmother’s grandmother and the legend she had brought across the ocean, unwittingly reshaping it just as the sand had reshaped the mound they had dug into at Ullaness? She too, after all, was a link in that chain.

  She turned back as Nan’s neighbour touched her shoulder and expressed condolences. It felt as if the whole community had turned out for the funeral, and the little church overflowed with goodwill. One after another the people had come up to her, some strangers, some known from years back, bringing anecdotes as if they were tributes, small threads in the fabric of her grandmother’s long life, and Libby thought again of the richness of the collective memory. But it was fragile. Only strong stories survived.

  She stood beside her father for what seemed like hours, gripping his hand, as people filed past, and waited for the coffin and then followed it up to the little cemetery on the hill, while the sun blazed in a cobalt sky and the wind swept the hillside, scooping up the old woman’s departing spirit. Her father was an undemonstrative man, but he was clearly moved as he watched his mother buried beside his father. Her grandfather had been a cheerful man who had died fifteen years earlier, and Libby paused a moment, remembering digging bait with him and then sitting for hours beside him on the wooden stage catching crabs. And on the other side was Ellen’s grave. Just a simple stone stating her name, Ellen Macdonald, date of birth and death, and those of her husband, John Macdonald, who had survived her by many years. And she wondered a moment about him, realising that she knew nothing beyond the fact that he had been a schoolmaster, and had cared deeply for Ellen. Rodri had remarked that the name had a ring of anonymity about it, and perhaps he was right, but that too was something she could never know. Had Ellen Mackay once been Ellen Sturrock, and if so, at what point had she become Ellen Macdonald? And with which man had she borne a son?

  When the will was read, Libby found that the house had been left to her. “It was that or sell it,” her father said, and from the smile on his face she saw that he had known. “I talked it over with your grandmother and we didn’t think you could bear to see it go, not yet at any rate. Nor, strangely enough, could I, for all that I couldn’t wait to get away when I was your age.” And she had smiled at him, knowing that there was still no place in his busy life for a clapboard house perched on a remote rock, a hundred miles from nowhere. But perhaps there might be in hers. “Do with it what you will, Libby, and maybe one day I’ll come and take my grandchildren crabbing.” He had left immediately after the funeral with the intention of returning later to sort through the contents of the house. Libby had shaken her head when he suggested they travel to the airport together, and resolved instead that she would sleep that night in the house. Neighbours had offered their own spare rooms, anxious at the thought of her being alone there, but she had refused, grateful but determined. That night, with her grandmother’s spirit so recently flown, she would sleep in the room where she had always slept and pretend, just for that one night, that the old lady slept in the room next door.

  Chapter 23

   Libby

  She left Gosse Harbour next day and flew from St. John’s to Heathrow, where she had a two-hour wait for her connection. The airport was busy, but when was it not? And as she sat there, sleep-deprived and weary, still coming to terms with her loss, she stared at the myriad of people who streamed past: scruffy students, businessmen, exotic figures in flowing robes, exhausted families, and uniformed guards, armed and alert. Then the flow parted for a moment and she looked beyond to see a woman, slender and immaculate, buying perfume across the way. Libby’s gaze sharpened, and then focussed. Surely not. It couldn’t be— But the woman raised unnecessary sunglasses in order to count her change, and Libby saw that, incredibly, it was, without a doubt. Laila Sturrock, as sleek as a cat, smiling and gracious as she paid for whatever it was she was buying, her blond hair falling forward as she put her purchase in her bag. Libby watched her put her sunglasses back in place and glide away, to be lost in the crowd.

  The encounter was soon forgotten, and she arrived back at her flat and hit the ground running. Just two days to get the rest of the gear together, double-check all the arrangements about tents, toilets, water, and so forth and then set off north, still fighting jet lag and an emotional numbness. The former must be worked through, the latter postponed. It would be good to talk to Rodri, explain her sadness, and she somehow felt that he would understand.

  She arrived to find that he had been true to his word: the old caravan had been moved down to the site and now stood in a sheltered spot behind the old manse. She walked around it, thinking that, given the forecast, a solid roof was going to be a godsend. The students had been arriving all day, many doubling up in cars to get here, others finding tortuous bus routes, and they were now cheerfully erecting tents and establishing themselves. Only eight had come in the end, making a company of ten with herself and her supervisor, Callum Lewis. He was a dependable young man doing postgraduate work, a rock, and Libby had been very relieved when he had agreed to come, stipulating only that his girlfriend came along too.

  She watched them from the window of the caravan, in T-shirts, shorts, and boots, spraying each other with insect repellent, a mixed bag of ability and attitude. The wind was providing riotous entertainment as tent fly sheets billowed like colourful spinnakers until cooperative effort secured them to the ground. Callum was supervising the erection of a sturdy army surplus tent, which would double as an eating and cooking tent and for finds cataloguing on wet days. “Not that I expect there will be many finds,” she had said to him, “and we’re going to have to stretch the work out to make this meaningful training. We’ll clear the mound first and start the building recording and wider survey work, and then, if we still have time, we’ll tackle Odrhan’s cell.”

  “Fine. No worries,” he had replied.

  No worries. If only that was true! The worries were hers, though, not Callum’s, and she was ready to get started. But where was Rodri?

  She left the caravan and glanced towards Sturrock House, but the path to the garden gate remained empty. She’d expected that he would come down when they arrived, but he hadn’t. Off for the day perhaps— Then she saw the truck with the portable toilets lumbering down the track and hurried across to greet it.

  “Can we build a bonfire on the beach?” one of the students asked as she was showing the driver where the toilets were to be placed. “There’s plenty of driftwood about.”

  “And dried cowshit,” said another.

  “We’ll have to ask,” she replied, glancing again up the path.

  She put up her own tent a little way from the others to give an illusion of privacy, something she reckoned would be in short supply these next two weeks. Once her mat and sleeping bag were unrolled, she was done; the car would serve as storage and wardrobe, the caravan for overflow.

  She stuck her head out, thinking that she heard the sound of a vehicle fading as if it had turned off into the courtyard, but still no one appeared.

  She’d left a phone message telling Rodri that she was back home and that everything would go ahead as planned, following it up with an e-mail this morning saying that she was on her way. He hadn’t responded to either, and in the confusion of last-minute packing she hadn’t noticed. But now it seemed odd. The door to Sturrock House had been locked when she had gone up there earlier, and that too was unusual. She looked again towards the path to the house, but it remained empty, and she began to wonder if something was wrong. And where were Maddy and Alice? A food fair maybe, and perhaps Rodri was with them. The possibilities were e
ndless, but she was conscious of disappointment.

  Perhaps she’d not heard a vehicle after all.

  Once the camp was set up, she took the students to see what remained of the mound. It had settled back into the dune landscape, just another sand-blown hillock, and the stone setting was now invisible. And as she described the various discoveries that had been made, she kept an eye on Sturrock House and saw that an upstairs window had been opened, but still he did not come.

  She led the students out onto the headland next and they stood in front of Odrhan’s cell while she told them about the work that was planned, and thought fleetingly of the night she had stood beside Rodri and watched the sunset. She made reference to the legend but not, not yet anyway, to the drawings that she and Rodri had pored over in the dining room. And, wafting away a cloud of midges which had risen from the turf, she led the students down to the church, wondering again about Rodri’s determined embargo.

  It was not until they had finished eating and the light was fading that he came. She was in the food tent sharing a beer with the students, conscious of a vague inexplicable unease, when he appeared at the open flap, bending to peer inside.

  Straightaway she knew that something was wrong. His face looked drawn and weary and that distinctive frown was etched deep. She rose. “Rodri! Come in and meet everyone. This is Mr. Sturrock, who has made all the arrangements for us to be here. Meet Callum, who—” He nodded, unsmiling, at her various introductions, and then asked if they had everything they needed. The students murmured a polite assurance, which she confirmed.

  “Good. Well, the weather’ll be fine tomorrow at least, and beyond that who knows,” he said, and turned to go.

  “It’s OK if we build fires on the beach, isn’t it?” the student who had approached her earlier asked with a casual drawl.

  Rodri turned back, and the frown went deeper. “No. Actually, it’s not OK.” The student coloured, recoiling at the tone. Rodri glanced at Libby, and gave a tight smile. “I’ll come down in the morning and see how you’re getting on.” And with that, he was gone.

  Libby stood a moment, staring at the blank space, and then went after him. He was already striding up the path that led to the garden gate, but he turned when she called. “I’m sorry about that. There’ll be no fires.”

  “Good, they make a mess.” He paused. “I barked, didn’t I?” And there was a shadow of his ironic smile.

  “It won’t hurt him.”

  For a moment she thought that he wasn’t going to tell her what was wrong. Then, abruptly, he did. “Laila’s back. I just collected her from the airport.”

  So that was it. “The Nasmyth?” she asked.

  He gave a short laugh and turned away. “If only— Look, let me know if you need anything, won’t you? I’ll come down in the morning.” He raised a hand briefly and strode off towards the gate in the garden wall.

  It was left to Alice to explain.

  They had been at work for a couple of hours next morning when she arrived with a laden basket and greeted Libby with a hug and a smile, but her eyes were clouded too. Even her ponytail had lost its bounce.

  Libby called a tea break and pulled her aside. “Gannets, aren’t they?” Alice commented as she watched shortbread, scones, and other fancies being rapidly consumed. Then: “Has he told you?”

  Libby nodded. “Laila’s back.”

  Alice paused. “And the rest?”

  “What rest?”

  “Hector’s fired him. He’s got three months to pack up and leave.”

  “What! No!” She stared back at Alice. “Because of the Nasmyth?”

  “No. But Hector’s coming back to live here, and plans to take over running the estate himself. And her ladyship’s finally expecting. They want to raise the child here, she says, so Rodri’s got to get out. They want us out of the old dairy too, but we’re going to fight that when Hector gets here.”

  “Oh, Alice!” This was truly a disaster.

  “And Hector didn’t even have the decency to tell Rodri himself, just sent a letter through his lawyer. It’s that as much as anything that’s gutted the poor man. After all he’s done holding the place together while they bled it dry.”

  It wasn’t just the dairy, but the walled garden, the restored hothouses, the raised beds, the glue which bound them all together. It wasn’t unreasonable that his brother should want to come back and to raise their child here, but why behave like that? The reality for Rodri was brutal. How much, she wondered, was Laila’s spite?

  Three months was nothing.

  Alice was looking up at the manse with a bleak expression and expressed the same thought. “It’ll take more than three months to get that old place in order. And the man has no money! Hector let him live rent-free but he paid him a pittance. And Rodri’s poured every bit of it into the business.” And whatever would it be like for them going forward, living here, right on the doorstep? Alice lifted her chin. “But we’ll manage. We’re a team. Between us and Angus we’ve space enough to give them a roof till it’s done, and we’ll move foodie operations into the old cottages beside us if we have to. Angus has started work on one already.” Then she gave Libby a hint of her old smile. “And we’ll have that old caravan back when you’re done with it. We’ll be needing it.”

  Chapter 24

   Odrhan

  Folk from the scattered settlements used to bring food for Odrhan, but they rarely came now. At first he had kept Ulla hidden, and he would meet them instead at a place where there was a flattened rock behind the dunes. He raised a wooden cross there to encourage this practise, but people came less frequently. Ulla must have been seen and judgements made, but he found that he did not care.

  Gradually he forgot a time when Ulla had not been there. She became his soul-mate and his comfort, helping him to gather wild berries and harvest the rough crops he had planted in sheltered places away from the shore. She would make flat bread and smile at him as she tore into it with her white teeth.

  And as her waist swelled, she grew even more lovely, a wild rose in full summer bloom.

   Ellen

  Once a week, usually on a Friday when Mr. Drummond was visiting his flock or thinking about his sermon for Sunday, Ellen would walk the three miles across the ridge which separated the two bays and visit her grandmother, who lived in a cottage beside the long estuary. Mungo Sturrock had not repeated his invasion of the manse, and Ellen had begun to feel settled there and safe.

  “The man needs an occupation—” she had heard Mr. Drummond say to Alick during one of his frequent visits.

  “I think Pa is seeing to that, so Mama must have said something,” she heard him reply.

  And the two men had assured Ellen that the work at the headland was finished and that the stones would soon be restored, so she could be content about that too.

  She walked slowly, listening to the birdsong and savouring the balmy summer air. Mr. Drummond was a kind and considerate master, and her duties were light compared with those at Sturrock House. It was a lonely life for him, she had come to realise, and he seemed pleased to have her company, breaking off his work to talk to her and to ask after her mother, thanking her for her efforts, his eyes following her with a kindly warmth. He encouraged her to go across to the cottage two or three times a day, and they laughed about having a bell wire rigged up across the path so that her mother could call for her. Life had developed a calm rhythm, and Ellen was happy.

  Alick called frequently, and if Mr. Drummond was out he would linger and talk to her, and it was almost like when they were children. Once he came when she was pegging out the washing and he stayed for a while, handing her the pegs, running after a shirt that blew out of her hand and caught on a thistle, returning it to her with a grand gesture. She smiled at the memory as she lifted the latch on her grandmother’s door and went in.

  The old woman had lived in the cottage all her life and was a very great age, but she was spent now, confined to her chair beside the hearth with her
memories. Ellen loved to hear the stories of times when Sturrock House was more of a castle than a house, before the third baronet had altered things, and today had been no different. The old stories had come out again, delivered between noisy slurps of tea. Tales of folk hiding in the heather, of houses burned, crops ravaged, and cattle driven off. Hard times and good times, and Ellen had listened patiently, feeding her morsels of scone sent by Mrs. Nichol wrapped in a square of linen, thinking that it might be the men who drove events but it was the women who kept the tales of them alive.

  When it was time to leave, she tucked the square in her pocket and kissed her grandmother. “I’ve made up the fire, and Annie will be in later to help you to your bed.” And with that she departed, leaving one bedridden old lady for another.

  It was warmer outside than in today, she thought, as she pulled the cottage door closed behind her and stood a moment looking up at the sky, a cloudless blue. The wind had dropped enough for the land to absorb the sun’s warmth, and her shawl slipped to the crooks of her elbows. Tomorrow it might rain, so best enjoy it now, and she looked down the estuary to where the fishing boats rode at anchor on a turquoise sea. They looked bonny, mirrored sharply by their reflections, and she sensed that little pause there was when the bay was full just before the tide turned and began to ebb away, exposing rank seaweed and leaving the boats awkward and askew.

  She started homeward. On either side of the rough track there was a riot of yellow and purple vetch; buttercups grew amongst a miniature forest of silken meadow grasses and sorrel. Behind the verges the gorse was ablaze, and sheltered spots hid the last of the primroses and delicate bluebells. Could there be a place more lovely than this when early summer had the land in thrall! And there was not a sound except for the occasional cry of a gull in the skies above her and the drone of bees passing from flower to flower. The air was heavy with fragrance, the sweet-sour fecundity of spring.