A Small Death in the Great Glen (5 page)

“I heard it's Glen Affric he goes,” someone else joined in.

“Up the glens anyhow.” She never missed out on a conversation, overheard everything and was known locally as “radar lugs.” Her cruel metal curlers, half covered by a headscarf with a Stags at Bay Scottish landscape, were rumored to be antennae.

“Anyone heard anything about the sailor that jumped ship?” Rob asked around.

They had all heard of it, the police had been round asking questions, but Mrs. McLeary had to reluctantly admit to knowing nothing new.

“Thon big tinker camp down by the shore,” one customer suggested. “The river could have washed up a body or such like along there.”

“Nah,” said another. “A body would float down the firth on the ebb tide and be well upriver on the flood tide.”

“The tinkers miss nothing. Tell ye nothing neither.” The local gave Rob a mock finger wag. “An' if you go nosying around, mind the dogs don't get ye, and don't bother takin' thon shiny bike o' yours. It'll be stripped for spare parts afore you can blink.”

Talking to the tinkers was a great idea, Rob thought. He'd do it. But first he had to work out an approach. You didn't just walk into a tinkers' camp. All the old tales from childhood surfaced. Not that his parents had ever said anything. But the myths of tinkers kidnapping bairns, stealing everything not nailed down, and the all-round general mischief that ensued whenever their horse-drawn caravans appeared—the stories were still vivid. He had once asked his mother, after a tinker woman had come to the door selling lucky white heather, were the tinkers Gypsies? Scotland's Gypsies maybe, she had said, but no, she went on to explain, not the same people as Romanies. An old, old race of Gaelic-speaking people was all she knew.

So, yes, he'd go to the camp and ask questions. Impress McAllister. Make this a real story. His confidence in his ability to charm had yet to be dented.

Along the burns and rivers that tumbled through the glens, autumn reigned in bright scarlet and dull gold. Birch, oak, beech and rowan formed small thickets dotted among the rusting bracken. Higher on the hillsides, bands of gloomy conifers followed the contours of the land. A purple watercolor wash of heather softened the boulder-strewn hills of the upper glen, with snow lying lightly on the tops and deep in the shadowed corries.

Peter Kowalski knew this wild empty landscape well from his time on the construction of the hydro dam. Gangs of displaced men, locals and foreigners alike, lived and worked in the remote
glen, dealing with the cold, the backbreaking work, the scars of war, desperate to earn a stake for the future. Poland was lost to him, and he had worked hard for his new life. He shared the pain and he shared his skills with those who had neither country nor family to return to. He taught simple engineering, filled in forms in English, helped men apply to the Red Cross for news of lost family. And he listened.

Pleasure came from the small things; tickling for trout, watching the birds, the eagle hunting, stalking the deer. Cloudscapes of great beauty highlighted the four-seasons-in-one-day phenomenon that was called weather in Scotland, but often it was dreich for days, sometimes weeks, on end.

“Dreich, I like that word,” Peter had said when it was explained to him. The rolled “r” and the harsh “ch” conveyed the texture and color and feeling of the days of gray. He thought Scotland much like Baltic Poland in weather, if not landscape—drawn-out rains, mists and damp, cold, dreich days with an absence of light.

The directions from the tinkers were good and clear; trees, rocks, turns in the river were the markers. He had reached his destination.

A note had come to Peter's office. He had read the Polish words, surprised by the letter, but had agreed without thinking to help a fellow countryman. He knew that deportment to labor camps, imprisonment on false charges, starvation, any number of horrific things were still happening to those in occupied Poland. Escaping was no easy matter either. Peter Kowalski had no hesitation in making his decision.

The tinker boy who had brought the message told him the man was sheltering with them, that the man was well but frightened of being found by the police. The necessities listed in the letter were boots, cigarettes and vodka. Whisky would have to do.

He had picked up the man on the north side of the canal,
agreed with the plan to move him away from the town into another county and had taken him to the deserted croft in his work van. The tinkers were unhappy having him at their encampment; the town and the police had a bad enough opinion of them without giving another excuse to raid their caravans and campsite.

“A good hiding place.” Peter looked up to the high fold in the hills for the clump of birch and rowan that obscured the entrance to the hanging glen.

Now midafternoon and turning very chill, it had been two days since he had taken his fellow countryman to the ragged cottage and outbuildings. Even in the seventy years or so since the last of the Clearances, a small area around the fading settlement was clear of vegetation. As with the graves on the battlefield of Culloden, the heather had not grown back. Locals were reluctant to go there. Memories of exile were fresh in these parts. And this glen was the realm of the faeries, another good reason to keep away.

Peter whistled a well-loved tune from his childhood. Silence, then a figure materialized under the lintel of the long-gone doorway. Meeting his compatriot for the second time reminded Peter of approaching an unbroken horse. Food, whisky and cigarettes were offered. The gifts were accepted, but no thanks were given.

“The police are questioning everyone at the harbor, especially your captain and shipmates.”

“The police!” The man flashed a look of pure hatred. He had used the Polish slang word for the militia, the hated occupiers of their homeland. He was edgy, defensive; he paced through two cigarettes, glowering resentment at his rescuer.

“It's not like that here, they're decent local lads. And you did jump ship. No papers, no nothing.”

“What about that thieving murderous bastard of a captain? He tried to kill me. Why is he not locked up?”

“Because he has papers. According to the law he's done
nothing wrong. He reported you missing a whole day after the event. Late, but not illegal.”

“He only reported me to keep the ship's manifest in order—and to spite me. He stole everything. My papers, all the money I had left, and he took . . .” He stopped, lit another cigarette. “He meant to kill me.”

“He pushed you overboard. Maybe it was an accident.”

“He beat me. Hit me on the head. Put me into the water semiconscious, in the dark.”

“The ship sails this afternoon.”

“Now you will abandon me.” This was a statement. No blame was implied.

“We are Polish. You need help. I will do all I can to get you legal here.”

Of course Peter would help, had already helped, but the stranger's surly manner did not aid his own cause. And Peter suspected he could not talk about it. Whatever the reason, the man was a walking suppurating wound. He had briefly told Peter of his escape from the Polish coast to Tallinn, through the Baltic marshes, through the minefields that studded the coastal waters. He mentioned the Nazis, years in a Russian labor camp and a large bribe. Why he had to leave and not endure as his fellow Poles were still enduring was another mystery.

“I must return to town. I'll get you out of here as soon as possible, but I still think you should turn yourself in. They are good people here.”

“No.”

The man turned and faded back into the black of the ruins without farewell.

Gino Corelli could feel the heat of the tears hovering on his daughter's long thick lashes. She was his life and his soul, he
would often declare, but this time he could not reassure her. He had promised.

“Where is he?” Chiara asked again. “You're treating me like a child. Why all the mystery?”

“Maybe your future husband couldn't cope with any more discussions about bridesmaids' dresses.” Joanne walked into the middle of the argument and hugged her dearest friend.

“I didn't hear you come in.”

“Too busy harassing your poor dad.”

“Peter is supposed to be here. Now I hear he's off up the glen fishing. Honestly, I thought he wasn't like some other men”—she glared at her father—“disappearing whenever I want to talk about our wedding arrangements. It's only six weeks away.”

“Well, I hope you've not forgotten your promise to help me get ready for the ball,” Joanne reminded her. “That's tonight.”

“I'll leave you two beautiful girls to talk.” Gino kissed them both, glad of the reprieve from his daughter's questions. The sooner Peter got back the better. He hated secrets. For him, the marriage of his only child was sad and joyous all at the same time. Peter Kowalski was a wonderful man, Gino knew this. But Chiara was his only child, all he had left. His wife, his parents, two brothers and a sister had disappeared along with most of their village during the liberation of Italy. Gino had been lucky. Captured in North Africa, he had ended up in a prisoner-of-war camp in Scotland. Along with British Italians interned for the duration, he had worked on local farms, made friends in the camp and stayed on as there was nothing left, nothing to go back to. He sent for his daughter and his only surviving sister after the war had ended.

“The band, Papa,” she called after him. “Don't forget, that is your job. I want Italian dancing. Scottish as well.”

“Your cousins from down South bring their accordions. We'll have Italian-Scottish dance music.”

Chiara grumbled to Joanne about her elusive fiancé but was soon distracted by the problem of the bridesmaids' dresses.

“Two of my cousins are so short and round that most dresses make them look like the dancing baby elephants in
Fantasia.
Anyway, enough. I'll punish Peter by asking him to decide on the designs. Let's get you ready for tonight.”

Laughing, teasing, gossiping, Chiara finished the hem on Joanne's dress, laid it on the bed, then started on her hair.

“This is the first real dance I'll have been to since we were married, nearly ten years.”

“Finished.” Chiara looked critically at her work, then enveloped them both in a choking mist of hair spray. “You'll be the belle of the Highland Ball.” Joanne picked up the dress, held it against her, caressing the deep forest-green silk taffeta.

“I love this. Thank you, Chiara. I'd never have chosen the design myself. Far too daring.” A moment of panic seized her. “I hope Bill approves. This evening means a lot to him.”

“You look gorgeous. Like Ava Gardner but far prettier—and not nearly so much showing.” They laughed. “Your pearls, they're perfect with the dress.”

“My grandmother left them to me.” The memory of her cherished grandparent, the only one to keep in touch with Joanne after her disgrace, saddened her.

The doorbell rang. Bill had arrived to collect her for the ball. He waited in the doorway looking equally splendid in his regimental Fraser tartan dress kilt. Joanne felt a lurch of animal attraction when she saw her handsome charmer of a husband, grinning at the two women like a fox at the henhouse door. Chiara gave a wolf whistle.

“You're almost a married woman. What would your fiancé say?” Bill teased Chiara and smiled at Gino but wouldn't come in.

“I'm not his possession, I think what I like.” Chiara was quick.

Joanne walked toward him, a mohair stole draped over her shoulders, and did a quick birl for his benefit. Bill was delighted.

“You look beautiful.”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“It's a bit revealing.”

“She looks like a film star.” Chiara turned to her father. “
Sí,
Papa?”

“More beautiful than any fil'im star.” He kissed Joanne's hand and escorted her to the car. There was not much Bill could say after that, but when they reached the entrance of the Caledonian Ballroom he reached for the stole, pulling it over her cleavage.