“And how was Mrs Simpson?” asked Mhairi, straightening the jotters up. “Was it what you thought?”
“Yes. It’s not a serious illness in itself, but being generally weak makes it hard to shift. She is in her seventies and the house is a bit damp.”
“The better weather is coming now, so I suppose that might help.”
“You’re right. I think she will get better- and she has a good neighbour, you know Avril, who’ll pop in to check she’s all right and make sure she takes the medicine. Joan’s going to be calling too.”
“She’ll be lonely I expect, with her son away in Canada. The visitors will help with that as well, I’m sure.”
They sipped their tea. John kicked off his shoes.
“There’s a complication,” he said. Mhairi snuggled in a bit closer. “A young lad from the base is billeted there. He’s going to have to move out, in case he catches the infection.”
“The accommodation at the base; would there be a space for him there?”
“I doubt it. They’d only billet people with the locals because they needed to. In any case, more soldiers are being sent there all the time. The one who’s been staying with Mrs Simpson has only been there three weeks. Others will be on their way here, arriving soon.”
“Did you meet him?” She felt his head nodding. “What’s he like?”
“Young: frighteningly young really, in view of what he’s involved in. He was out chopping sticks and we had a chat. He seems helpful- a nice young lad.”
“Where’s he from?”
“I didn’t ask. Sounded like Birmingham or somewhere in that area, going by the accent.”
“He won’t get much enjoyment in that house, with Mrs Simpson. I wouldn’t have thought that would be a good place to have him stay,” Mhairi said.
“You’re right. Nettie keeps stealing his bicycle. You know- long downhills, feet on the handlebars, that sort of thing.”
Mhairi looked at him, to make sure he was joking, and cooried back in. There was a long pause.
“It must he hard to make an adjustment like that, from Birmingham to Nettie Simpson, him being on his own in her house.” A shorter pause this time. “Did he seem like someone who would be trustworthy?”
“Well, he was keen to help out, wanting to chop sticks. He seemed genuinely concerned about her too. So I would say yes, trustworthy.”
Mhairi got up, put the mugs and the plate on the tray and carried them into the kitchen. He could hear her giving them a quick wipe and rinse. Shortly after, he heard the closing of the cupboard door.
Her next question was a long range one, from the kitchen doorway, fired from there in case it was a dud. She was leaning against the door jamb with her arms folded loosely.
“John, how would you feel about him staying here? It would be a better place than with Nettie- and there’s that room upstairs we don’t use. We’d have to clear it out of course. Would that be worth thinking about?”
John put his paper down and thought for a moment.
“Yes, we would be able to do it. From a practical point of view we have the space and he’d have his ration book so that wouldn’t be a problem….How do you think Jamie might feel?”
“I think he’d be fine with the idea, because he’s a kind boy, considerate. But it would really depend on how well they were able to get along.”
“My impression is that he is quite young, if you know what I mean. He’s not worldly the way you’d expect a soldier to be. I suspect the old hands take a loan of him- silly errands and the like. He has an innocence to him. He’s just growing up of course… It could be that I could fix things so you could meet him before you decide. Another visit to Nettie, something like that…”
“No. That’s not necessary. If you think he’s a decent lad that’s enough for me. And let’s face it; the way things are going with more and more coming up here all the time, we could end up just being told to take someone without us having any idea what they might be like. We should think about it overnight and sound out Jamie in the morning, if needs be.”
That’s how it was left and John went back to his paper, whilst Mhairi went back to the anteater assortment, though both were really thinking of something else.
The morning, as usual, was rushed. The jotters were all in Mhairi’s bag, placed there the night before, though John and Jamie both needed some last minute organising. And the very last thing was the tie.
“That’s you all set,” she told John as she moved it a bit to the left. “Why do you always have it so slack? You must like me fussing around close to you.” She gave his ear a tiny nibble. Jamie was looking, so he was rather lost for a response.
“Any thoughts about, you know, the Mrs Simpson thing?” he asked quietly.
“You’ve to go ahead with it. Jamie thinks it is the right thing to do- and it’s quite exciting, isn’t it Jamie?”
John smiled and nodded.
“All taken care of. He can come any time if it’s possible for you to arrange it. That’s with or without the bicycle,” she said with a wink, as he climbed in to the Rover and pushed the starter.
26 The road to Lairg
2014
There had been a general brightening-up by the time they reached the junction, turning left, heading north. Tom had the map open, finding the names of the mountains. Ahead and to their right was Glas Bheinn. Further off and on their left were Quinag and Sail Ghorm.
“Someday,” he said to Alastair, “I’ll learn Gaelic, even just to feel a bit less clumsy handling the names…. Up behind that mountain there’s something mentioned on the map. It’s a waterfall; must be remarkable in some way or they wouldn’t have bothered.” He pointed to a long layby up ahead. “Pull in there for a minute.”
He reached into the glovebox and brought out “Secret Places…”
“The Falls of Glomach. It’s 650 feet tall, in three or four steps, the final one a long thin one that leaps straight off into the air. It’s Britain’s highest waterfall- and four times the height of Niagara.”
“Worth a visit?”
Tom read a few paragraphs before finding the bad news.
“It’s a three mile walk from the nearest bit of road. Bummer. So you’d be talking about two and a half hours to get there, look around and get back.”
On a nice day, when you could be sure of the weather, it would have been a good trip but when they looked at the sky their worst fears were confirmed: really, it wasn’t a nice day.
Reluctantly, they headed north again, passing through the tiny villages of Unapool and then Kylescu, where the post office was a shed, pulling in shortly after they had crossed the bridge. It is a white concrete structure but, like the Skye Bridge at the Kyle of Lochalsh, it had an elegance you didn’t expect in a concrete bridge. Well, you didn’t expect it if you were used to driving on the sort of underpasses and overpasses featured on the motorways of the central belt, especially the ones reputed to have the bodies of rival gangsters inside the supporting pillars. That elegance made it worth a few frames, Tom felt, as he moved along the grassy banks going down to the river to find the best angles. A dragonfly settled on a grass stem and let him come very close, so he captured that too.
The road continued round the coast, with attractive views of the rugged coastline from time to time. There was little in the way of conversation, both men being immersed in the landscape of mountains, grassy slope and rock. Tom did ask about red deer, fancying he had seen some travelling as a group on one of the slopes.
“They are very common here,” said Alastair. “I remember once going on the coast road to Lochinver- you know, the one we vetoed earlier. I was going south, taking the turn-off just before Unapool, about ten miles back maybe. It was just starting to dull over in the early evening and up ahead were the shapes of deer, just standing on the road. They had all come down from the hills. Big stags with their harems. I slowed right down and enjoyed their company.”
“God, I wish I’d been there. Wonderful crea
tures.”
“That’s the Romantic in you again. These wonderful creatures of yours cause a lot of damage, destroying trees, especially the newly planted ones which have been put there to restore the landscape. And for the deer themselves, life is hard.” He paused. “Remember that one in Dornie. It might have been a broken leg. It could have suffered for days, completely abandoned. And the crows find them, of course. They like the eyes. Humans,we’ve got it easy.”
It was indeed the Romantic in Tom, because he felt he’d already heard more than enough. Alastair was right- but he hadn’t come all that way to hear a truth like that. Illusions were preferable: he could enjoy them.
“Perhaps,” he thought to himself, “that’s really why I come here- to fill in the gaps, to make to illusions more complete, so I can enjoy them even more.” This was a very unappealing note on which to end.
The car rounded a bend, passed the sign for Scourie and pulled in at the petrol station.
“We’ll fill up here,” said Alastair, “just in case the one in Lairg is shut. You always need to bear that in mind in the Highlands.” He got out and spent a few minutes filling up.
“That place would be a real life-saver if you lived up here,” he said to Tom when he reappeared. “If you’ve got a croft and need some wire, or hacksaw blades, or chainsaw oil or whatever. They seem to sell just about everything.”
Tom glanced at the map. “What’s Durness like?”
“Another wee place. You’d probably have to drive down to Ullapool to be sure to get what you wanted. And that’s eighty-odd miles there and back.”
“A bit far. You could buy on-line I suppose but there might be a surcharge; and there’s always a chance that when the package arrived you might be out the back, somewhere in a barn with your arm up a sheep. Or something…. That could be embarrassing; awkward at the very least. ‘Excuse me sir, this delivery is for you. No, don’t bother to get up. Oh, I see that you’re already up. Sorry.’”
They were still sniggering when the next bit of conversation began. In fact there was quite an overlap, though it did not hamper communication. Nothing could have done that, because there was no real danger of communication to begin with. After all, it’s two blokes in a car: that is what we are talking about.
Trees were on either side as they drove down the long, gentle incline and then over the bridge at Laxford. It didn’t seem that special when you were on it but half a mile further on they came to a large parking area on the left, with low stone walls and parking spaces cut into the grassy banking. Before getting out, Alastair made sure the car was still in gear as well as checking the handbrake because of the extreme slope.
They walked over to the edge of the car park and stepped over the wall and on to the banking. The view was fabulous. They could see the road curving down on to the bridge itself, a graceful, white structure over the river which broadened out into a long attractive estuary with rocky islets. At the far side the road travelled up the long hill, dark conifers on either side.
“It’s like a scale model from up here, looking from this distance,” said Tom. “It reminds me of the view of the white bridge north of Tyndrum, just before you enter Glencoe.”
“I know it. Coachloads of tourists stop there all the time. This place is much quieter. It’s the old story- the further north you travel, the quieter it is. And you need quietness to get the feel of a place.”
For the next ten minutes or so quiet is what they were. Shutters clicked irregularly; binoculars were fished out; a car door opened and closed, but essentially it was a silence.
Heading south out of the car park, after recrossing the bridge, they took the turn-off to Lairg. It was a narrower road, relatively flat despite the mountains on either side. There were few signs of human habitation as they wound their way past lochs, first on the left hand side, then on the right before reaching Loch Shin, by far the largest of these.
They passed low, stone, slate-roofed buildings on the lochside, green timber buildings almost like village halls and, in one place, a small memorial to men of a Highland regiment. The impact of history registered even in this remote and desolate place.
“This is Reay Forest,” said Tom. “According to the ‘Secret Places…’ it’s famous for its eagles, and the river is famous for salmon. I don’t suppose a place like this could support much of a local population.”
“I’m not quite sure about this part of Sutherland, about whether it was affected by the clearances, but the place we will be visiting tomorrow- Strathnaver- it definitely was. You can see where the biggest village was- it was called Rosail. About ten thousand people were cleared from the glen to make way for sheep, so the land could support communities but of course sheep were more profitable.”
Tom flicked through the book. “There’s a section here about the clearances in Sutherland. Fifteen thousand were evicted from 1810 to 1820. Their homes were burned and they were taken to the coast, to places like Bettyhill. They were farmers but they had to learn to survive by fishing, gathering seaweed and so on.”
Tom read on for several minutes. “I hadn’t realised the extent of this. I knew that many thousands emigrated to America, Canada, Australia, New Zealand etc. That’s why there are so many Scots communities there now. But I hadn’t realised these clearances went on till the 1860s at least.”
“The funny thing is,” Alastair added, “they seem to value our culture more than we do ourselves. Speak to Canadians and you realise that.”
They drove on along the side of Loch Shin.
“Terrible things have happened here,” Tom said, “caused by people who knew what they were doing. They didn’t care.”
It was on this happy note that they found themselves, after a final few turns on the lochside, entering Lairg.
“It’s got the largest lamb sales in Europe,” said Alastair. “And we both know why that is.”
27 Two Dragons
1942
John’s early visits that day were south of Gairloch. At Badachro he wanted to check on Willie McIntyre, who had a poisoned foot. The wound had stopped suppurating. Cleaning it out the previous week had done the trick: the wound looked good and the skin was reforming. Replacing the dressing was really all that was required.
The other case was in Charlestown, just a mile or two from Gairloch, at the other side of the hill. Another chest infection: par for the course at this time of year. He recommended a steam basin, with mustard if they had any, and a good slap of goose grease rubbed into the boy’s chest. Mrs Williams said she’d just do the rest of the family while she was at it. Boy or girl, age six or sixteen (and her brood included both) it would make no difference to Mrs Williams. Hopefully, though, it would make a bit of a difference to them.
The thought of the whole family queued up in descending order seemed curiously familiar to John, but it took him several minutes to work out why. It was only when he pictured the flying ducks in the living room of his parents’ house in Inverness that the connection became clear.
He had finished both visits by ten past eleven, so he stopped off at the house. Mhairi and Jamie were at school so he had the place to himself. He stuck the kettle on as he thought things over. Better to phone through to the base, he told himself, rather than turning up and possibly having to hang around.
Margaret picked up the phone on only the third ring: she had always been efficient. Gossips often were because they wanted to know everything right away.
“This is Dr Macleod, Margaret. Could you put me through to Major Franks please.”
After about eight or ten rings it was picked up. On a desk as chaotic as his he might have needed that amount of time just to find it.
“Franks.”
“Hello Major. This is Doctor Macleod here. I saw you about finding a new billet for Private Fallows.” He put an upward inflection at the end of the sentence, to strike the right sort of deferential note. The situation was outlined. Yes, the new arrangement was suitable. He would get one of his girls (John
wondered if that was how they saw themselves) to check when Fallows was off-shift. The desk would phone right back.
He hadn’t even finished his tea when Margaret returned the call. Fallows would be at Nettie Simpson’s house by six o’clock. She’d sent one of the girls to tell him to go straight there after his shift.
“Must go now, Doctor,” she said. “One of my nice young men has come in- the one from the Bofors gun. One of those nice quiet boys. I mustn’t keep him, though I’d like to.”
John could picture him, just standing there, red-faced and having to listen to all of this. The Bofors is a good gun, but you can’t expect it to penetrate a personality like Margaret’s.
_________________________
It was six-fifteen when John pulled up outside Nettie Simpson’s house. Since Margaret’s phone call he’d been able to talk things through with Mhairi and Jamie. As he expected, their feelings were unchanged: the sooner Adrian came, the better. He knew they would already have started work on sorting out the room. Hopefully, Adrian had started to gather his things too.
He had barely knocked on the door when Adrian answered it. He found his question answered too, because a large kit bag was just inside the doorway, on the left. As he passed he could see a pair of boots and two pairs of shoes lined up. Obviously matters were in hand.
“Hello Nettie. How are you today?” he asked.
Nettie coughed a reply. Much the same then, he surmised.
“Are you taking the medicine all right? Is Avril coming round with it?”
“Yes, Doctor,” she croaked. “She was in earlier.”
“Good, very good. It’s lovely and cosy in here, Nettie.”
Nettie pointed to the big stock of kindling. “The boy did them,” she replied.
John moved to the window to see the logs- a large pile of quarters. He nodded appreciatively. “Aye, you’re being well taken care of Nettie, and you’ve done a great job in looking after Adrian but now you must concentrate on taking care of yourself and getting better. Avril will still be popping in, and so will I. Adrian is keen to help with the kindling and logs so you will still see him now and again.”
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