Dr John knew that staying for a cup of tea was a key part of his visit, though he was careful to make light of it. Yes, the weather was definitely improving: the daffodils were out at the roadside; the crocuses where looking lovely in his own garden; there were more sparrows about; Adam Henderson had heard a cuckoo…..summer was on its way.
From a medical standpoint, Mrs Simpson’s problem was a chest infection but he knew that loneliness was having an impact too. He hoped to do something about both. That’s why Avril would be visiting daily, with the messages as well as medicine. Adrian had picked up on this too.
“I will still come to chop the wood, if you’d like that, Mrs Simpson. I enjoy making the kindling. It all helps to build up my strength.”
For anyone who had noted Adrian’s rather weedy physique, this argument would be convincing- and Nettie Simpson didn’t miss much.
“I’m going to see Avril now,” John told Mrs Simpson, “so that she knows you are on the mend. She’ll be popping over to give you your medicine. You will probably feel chesty for a good few days yet but you are not to worry about that. Just make sure you take the medicine and remember- you need to rest. No more cycling!”
“Thank you, Doctor John.”
“It’s all right, Nettie; Adrian will see me out.”
“She’s looking weak,” he told Adrian quietly at the door, “but I’m sure she’ll pull through all right. She needs a rest, though and I’ll make that clear to Avril. They’ve been friends for years so she’ll be in good hands. Joan, the nurse from Poolewe, will pop in also.”
“You’re not too worried then?”
“No. If we all keep an eye out for her and if the medicine works, and it should, she’ll be fine. We have to remember, of course, that for a woman like Mrs Simpson, gossip is what keeps her going, and there’s so much going on here at the moment there’s no shortage of things to gossip about. What we also need to do is find new digs for you. I’ll see the quartermaster about that on the way home.
“That’s a nice bike, Adrian. Not nearly as heavy as I was expecting.”
“Yes. I think I was lucky, having seen some of the others. They were all requisitioned and this just happened to be the next one when I was at the front of the queue.”
“We all need to be lucky sometimes,” said John. “Make the most of it.”
“What a nice lad,” he thought, as he waved from the car en route to Avril’s house. A quick word there was enough to provide reassurance for Avril, who had contacted the nurse originally, and clarify the arrangements for the medication.
“This next bit might be trickier,” he thought to himself as he pulled up outside the administrative block.
“Good morning Doctor Macleod,” said a familiar voice. It was Margaret, another local doing her bit.
“Keeping well, then?”
“Oh yes. It’ll be the handsome young men coming in all day long. Like yourself, Doctor,” she added hastily. “They keep me on my toes, so they do. Now what can I do for you?”
“I want to see someone about billeting. Who would that be?”
“Second on the left, Doctor. Just go straight in.”
The sign on the door said Major Franks. John knocked and entered. The man was a similar age to himself, which would make things easier.
“Look at the state of that desk,” John told himself, “piles of paper everywhere. I’ll go for professional but convivial.”
He introduced himself, after which he was invited to sit down.
“I’ll keep it brief. You’ll be a busy man.”
He did indeed keep it brief. Private Adrian Fallows was billeted with Mrs Janet Simpson in Mellon Charles. She was ill. He needed to be moved. Then he just slipped it in.
“I was wondering, Major; would it help if I found a place for him? Being a local doctor I’m in and out of people’s houses the whole time. I can make some enquiries- if that would be helpful.”
“Yes, it would be helpful, though of course any new billet would have to be cleared through this office.”
“Naturally. Would it be alright to phone you back if I find somewhere? You know, for your approval.
The major nodded. They shook hands and he left, squeezing past a young looking Wren who was going into the office with another bundle of completed forms.
“If it’s the volume of paperwork that decides this war,” he thought, “we’re going to be on the winning side. Unless we’re killed in an avalanche first.”
24 Lochinver
2014
Whatever the map said about the journey up the coast, there were no distant mountains. The weather had seen to that. The spectacular views described so vividly in ‘Secret Places…’ were, well, ….secret. Had they not compared the little white number on the mileometer to the little blue number printed on the map, they would have missed the Lochinver turn-off. It was a triumph of navigation, using State of the Ark technology.
“Why are we doing this?” either of them might have asked, but they both knew why. Sometimes in the Highlands, the only way to experience better weather is to experience it somewhere else. A rainy day in Ullapool can be simply that- a whole day of rain; unremitting dark skies; wet pavements and gaudy anoraks. Perhaps it would be nicer in Lochinver. Or Scourie. Or Lairg. Or Inverness. Or somewhere you might pass through going between a particular one of these and a particular other.
“Get the book out,” said Alastair, after the turn-off, “so we can see what we’re missing.”
Tom obliged. Page 302. Ullapool to Lochinver. The voice was David Attenborough, with a South Lanarkshire underlay, to give it bounce.
“After the Lochinver junction the road takes a gentle sweep and the visitor will see, stretching out before him, a barren landscape relieved only by the towers of Ardvreck Castle at the side of Loch Assynt.”
They looked around. Yes, it was definitely barren. All of it was grey, right up to the windscreen.
“It was here, in this grim, unyielding fortress, that the Marquis of Montrose, one of Scotland’s greatest military leaders, was held before being taken to Edinburgh where he was executed in 1650.”
“You did say ‘grim’ didn’t you?” asked Alastair. “We’re still on the right road then. What can we expect next?”
Tom skipped on a bit.
“The western half of the loch contains small islands, on which ancient pines still stand. They seem out of keeping with the surrounding landscape which is predominantly bare. The road winds round the loch’s irregularities past the mountain of Quinag to the north and then into Lochinver.”
Actually, I do remember the pine islands.Very dramatic. Maybe the trees were just too awkward to reach, so they were left alone when the foresters were cutting down the rest. And of course they simply kept on getting bigger and bigger on those tiny islands. They’d be a great subject for a photographer like you. A dead loss today though.”
The drizzle was starting to lift as they entered Lochinver. Even in the greyness of a wet afternoon they were impressed by the long estuary broadening out into Loch Inver itself. They parked in the big car park on the right, after the pie shop and the restaurants and creaked out, putting on anoraks and hats. An hour of sitting in the car, straining to see things, had stiffened them up.
Further on, where the road took a bend, they could see a very tall war memorial and they wandered down in that direction, past the shops and houses. Alastair stopped to look at the isolated houses on the other side of the estuary. Already they were becoming easier to make out: the fact they were painted white definitely helped. Why is it they were always white? Planning regulations? Simple tradition?
Tom was ten or fifteen yards ahead, gazing at the war memorial- a great white cross, like so many of the ones he had seen in the British and Imperial cemeteries in the Somme area he had visited years before. But this wasn’t a battlefield, of course. He called Alastair over.
“Look at the names. So many are the same- brothers, cousins, father and son. All these men from an
area like this, dying in France or dying at sea. You have to wonder about any system which leads to that happening. Try to imagine the impact of all these deaths in a close community like this. It must have felt as if their whole world was being destroyed.”
Alastair was looking at the plaque dealing with the Second World War. “And twenty years later they would have seen the whole process starting up again.”
Tom had wandered off. “What’s that? Some kind of factory?” He was pointing at a cluster of large structures further down the road.
“I think it’s the fish processing plant. This used to be an important fishing port, like Ullapool. Herring mainly, I think. It will tell us in the book. It’s an older place than Ullapool, I suspect. Ullapool’s a planned village from the late eighteenth century, that’s why the layout is so regular. Lochinver’s more of a slow burn, a few houses here and there from time to time, like the houses on the other side of the river.”
“Would there be crofts here too?”
“I would think so. There might still be: they tend to be handed down intact. Crofting would be a hard life though, scraping a living. Working under cars all day, that takes effort, but it finishes at half past five and you don’t start again until eight the next day. These guys have to be on the go the whole time because there are so many things to attend to.” He paused. “I can see that it appeals to the Romantic in you.”
“Well it certainly doesn’t appeal to any other bit. It would be nice, though- a piece of land that’s your own; a couple of cows; fresh eggs in the morning. I would have a donkey as well. I’ve always liked donkeys. I like the way the stoor comes off them when you clap them. They look like smokers. You know, the ones who stand around all day on street corners and outside public buildings and can’t be arsed…. You don’t see them outside council offices of course, because in council buildings the donkeys are on the inside.”
Alastair looked at his watch. “It’s brightening up a bit. That’s promising. Come on.”
They walked back up the road, past the car park and a hotel before entering the pie shop. Inside, there was a restaurant to the right and the shop part dead ahead. They paused for a moment, before going straight on. The counter was a very large construction of sloping glass, inside which could be seen the Great Objects of Desire.
These pies were quite unlike the Scotch Pies commonly found elsewhere. They looked more like the traditional Melton Mowbray pork pie. The pastry was shortcrust, unlike the Scotch Pie, and had an almost glazed, nut-brown appearance. In their enclosure these lovely creatures, gathering together in families, seemed to clamber over one another to reach the customer. And their names: Venison and Cranberry, Apple and Pork; Beef and Leek…the combinations seemed endless, beguiling. Each one seemed to be saying “Choose me”. Alastair could almost hear them purring and had to fight the urge to stroke them.
“We’re not quite sure whether to eat in the restaurant or buy pies to take away,” he said.
“You can do either sir,” said the very good looking Australian girl. “The pies are good hot or cold.”
“If we buy them to take away,” said Tom, “I’ll be surprised if they make it to the car. Let’s eat here and we can have them hot.”
They made their way to a table with a nice view. Australia. Alastair could see that Tom was starting to get fidgety. How many girls had that scared off, he wondered. A flashing green light on his forehead wouldn’t be any more obvious. He needed to be a bit more relaxed about things, especially female things.
“What did you make of the pie, then?” he asked.
“Absolutely fantastic. Strong flavour- just what you’d expect of venison, but with hints of other things too. I could have done without the chips, though: that huge cooked breakfast was only a couple of hours ago and I feel completely stuffed. You might have to help me into the car. How was yours?”
“Champion. I’ll just go and get these now: we can square up later.
By the time Alastair reached the till, Miss Australia was back serving and he knew the two spherical scanners located at the other end of the restaurant would be on full magnification. He paid the bill by credit card and said how much they had enjoyed the food. She smiled.
“Tell me,” he asked, “do you still do mail order?”
“Yes, it’s very popular.”
He looked down at the bill. “I see there’s nothing about opening times. Could I please borrow your pen to write them down?”
She handed it over and he scribbled as she spoke.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
She smiled broadly before moving on to the next customer; a cyclist who must have thought he looked good in Lycra. Bad mistake.
Outside, it had brightened up a little, though the sky was still overcast.
“That place was well worth a visit,” said Tom. “I can see us coming back here. And the girl at the checkout- very attractive. She seemed quite chatty too. How much do I owe you, by the way?”
“I’ll need to look at the receipt. We can do that later. There’s no rush.”
They stood together at the side of the car park, looking down the estuary, then Alastair glanced towards the War Memorial.
“We’ve got to leave behind the kind of thinking that causes that. All that imperial stuff; it’s not good for anybody.”
They picked their way out of the car park and headed back. Tom opened the map.
“I see there’s a coastal road. Could be interesting.”
“If you really fancy it we can use it, but I don’t like it. There are some lovely beaches, beautiful white beaches, especially at Clashnessie: a huge expanse of sand where the tide comes in quite quickly. There’s also a wee bookshop in the middle of nowhere, but it’s very, very twisty with lots of blind corners. I always worry about what might be coming the other way. You know- white van man.”
“Lots of steep bits too, going by the arrows on the road,” said Tom. “It’ll be very slow. Let’s not bother. We can go back the way we came.”
It looked different on the way back, in the sense you could actually see things this time. They pulled in at the castle and read the information boards, which showed the internal layouts as they would have been centuries before. They wandered over the grassy approach until the ruin was in plain sight. Impressive- and in the greyness of the day it looked complete and habitable.
They cast their minds back to the Marquis of Montrose, imprisoned there before his execution in Edinburgh. To be held in such a place, utterly helpless in the hands of an enemy…
“There’s a story about Bothwell,” said Tom. “You know, the lover of Mary Queen of Scots.”
“The one who blew up her previous husband, Lord Darnley?”
“So they say. It’s what they believed at the time. He was certainly violent enough. Anyway, Bothwell ended his days in a castle in Denmark. It might even have been Elsinore. He was kept prisoner there for ten years, chained to a pillar in the cellar. The only journey he could make was to walk backwards and forwards between two fixed points. Apparently you can see where he walked even today, because he wore away the flagstones going to and fro, to and fro for ten years.”
“God, that’s horrible!” said Alastair, shivering visibly. “Come on, let’s get back to the car. We need some cheering up. Scotland can be a very dark place sometimes.”
25 Anteater Assortment
1942
It was dark in Gairloch when John turned off the main road and up the coast road to his house. Just after nine. Jamie would already be in bed.
When he went in, Mhairi was in the kitchen boiling the kettle. On the way through he glanced at a pile of jotters on the living room table. How America was discovered: drawing of sailing ship, dotted lines from Spain to South America- that sort of thing. Draw the animal exercises… It all looked much more interesting than what he remembered doing in primary school.
“That’s modern teaching methods for you,” he told himself. “Or it might be that
, but it’s probably just Mhairi.”
She popped her head through from the kitchen. “Tea, John? I’m making some”
“Thanks,” he said, looking up from the jotters briefly.
She came through with two mugs and some biscuits on a tray. This was one of the best parts of the day for both of them. Warmth. Comfort. No stress. Occasional biscuits. Love- always that.
“If you think that drawing’s funny you should look at this one.”
She flicked through the top four or five till she found it. The jotter said ‘James MacGregor, Primary Four’ on the front.
“I read them a description of a South American animal, taken from the notebook of an English doctor who sailed to South America with Columbus. They had to draw the animal as he described it. It was a description of a Giant Anteater. What do you think of that?” she said, turning the jotter to face him.
It was a riot of body parts- part camel, part lion, in zebra colours. Some other bits were unrecognisable.
“The front and back are the same, so he got that bit right but he couldn’t work out where the eyes and mouth would be, so he put them there.” She pointed to two entirely different locations on the body.
“Tell me, doctor, how useful do you think a mouthful of teeth like that would be if you were eating ants? And what do you think of its feet? He did get the black and white stripes, true, although he made them vertical instead of horizontal.”
John shook his head and laughed. “I didn’t know that an English doctor accompanied Columbus…”
“Oh that’s a very recent discovery,” said Mhairi seriously. “I only made it up last week but already more than twenty people know all about it.”
They had a moment of guilty pleasure looking through some of the other drawings. The boys had focussed more on the ‘fearful’ but most of the girls had converted it into a pet. One of the farming boys had given it an udder, thereby avoiding (or possibly embracing) both categories. Or perhaps he just liked udders. There’s hope for humanity yet.
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