Red Skye at Night (30 page)

“So, ye were’na expected then, I gather.” Fiona announces the obvious as she perches one hip on the table to survey the room.

I am occupying the only other chair.

“That’s not the half of it. Would you like to sit down?” Harry makes to stand, offering his seat, but Fiona waves him back.

“I’m not stoppin’. Just making sure all’s well here. Angus? Ann-Marie?” She sips her tea as she shifts her gaze from one lined face to the other.

Ann-Marie McLeod’s answer is to grasp Harry’s hand even more tightly and cling to him as though she expects him to evaporate into thin air at any moment. Angus clears his throat. “We’re fine, lass. Just fine. Ye can finish yer tea an’ ye’re welcome to stay, but if ye ha’ work to be doin’ ye ha’ nae need to fret about us.”

“That’s good then.” Fiona smiles at Harry, then at me. “So, from what ye said up at Kilmuir, I gather ye’ weren’t expectin’ tae find Angus and Ann-Marie still here. So, what brought ye then?”

“Nae still here? Where else would we be?” This from Angus.

“Six feet under. They were under the impression ye’d died. The pair o’ ye.”

“Why? Why would ye be thinking’ that?”

“My granddad, Ritchie, wrote to you. Years ago. His letter came back, returned by the post office and marked deceased.”

“Why would they ha’ done that? We were here.” Angus appears nonplussed, which is fair enough, I suppose.

I chance a look at Ann-Marie, who is wringing her hands, her expression despairing as the reality starts to sink in. I suspect we’re all joining up the dots.

“I don’t know. A mistake, I suppose. Ritchie was disappointed not to have been able to make contact, but after that he believed you were dead. He was puzzled, wondered what happened. But he never doubted it.”

“And that’s why he never came back. Never wrote to us.” This from Ann-Marie, her voice a cracked whimper, the pain of so many wasted, lost years etched stark across her features.

Angus stands and reaches for her free hand. “Eh, lass, dinna fret so, it’s done wi’ now an’ canna be helped.”

Harry nods, seemingly in agreement with the facts, but from his exasperated expression I suspect he’s less sanguine about matters. I tend to agree with him. Someone at the post office should be accountable for this error that cost a family so many years together. Sadly, I expect the careless clerk who caused this will have long since retired, so to that extent Angus is right.

“I thought he hated us. Hated me. Wouldna forgive us for what happened.” She lifts her tear-stained face to Angus’, her lips trembling again. “Even after ye’ went tae Orkney tae find him. Them.”

He nods, frowning. Still grappling with the weight of what has happened, I daresay. “Aye. I met a cousin o’ Sarah’s there. She said Ritchie and Sarah went to Canada, but that she had nae address fer them. She said she’d let me know, though, when she heard where they were. She ne’er did.”

“Ritchie told her about the letter. She thought there was no point. They all thought you were gone.” Harry loops an arm across the elderly lady’s shoulders and squeezes her. “It was a misunderstanding, cruel and with dire consequences. But no one knew. We all, everyone, genuinely thought you had both passed away years ago.”

“We were here. All the time we were here. Waiting. Hoping.” Her voice does crack now, and the tears are flowing again. Neither man makes any attempt to stop her, though their sympathy and care is evident.

Fiona and I drink our tea in silence, each of us no doubt lost in our own thoughts.

“We so nearly didn’t come.” Harry voices what I’m thinking. The decision to actually make the trip to Skye was almost an afterthought. He did tell me this was our final destination, way back in Leeds, but by the time we’d been to Orkney and renewed the McLeod acquaintance with the Harrison clan, we were both ready to call it a day and just spend a bit more time together at our lovely mill.

“Why did you? If you thought all your family here were gone?” Fiona has finished her tea now and is preparing to leave. She is hoisting her bulky stab jacket back into place, which she had temporarily discarded while we were making the tea. I guess she’d decided by then that Harry and I posed no real threat to her or the people of Skye.

“My granddad asked me to. I was in the UK on a business trip, but the meetings I had lined up had to be canceled. I was already here by then, so I decided to take the opportunity to spend a few days rediscovering my roots. It was an impulse decision. I was in Leeds, so I hired myself a driver.” Here he nods in my direction.

I smile, not convinced that anyone’s buying that explanation, though it does enjoy the benefit of being true. At least then.

“And we drove to Scotland. Did a tour of the Highlands on our way to Orkney, then back down this way. Even though we believed you were dead, my granddad, Ritchie, wanted to know what had happened to you, how you died. He wanted to know where you were buried. We already paid our respects to my great-grandparents on Orkney. We were going to do the same here. If we could find you.”

“Well, lad, ye certainly found us.”

Harry smiles, the first genuine grin I’ve seen on his face since Fiona dropped her bombshell. “Yes, sir, we did. And I’m very glad of it.”

“How long will ye be staying’?” Fiona asks her question as she heads for the door. “Am I likely to see ye’ again?”

“Oh, ye’re nae leavin’ straight away? No, ye canna!” Ann-Marie grabs Harry’s arm again, as though to prevent him just standing and walking out of her life again.

Harry looks to me. I recall we checked out of our hotel, never intending to remain on Skye more than a day. Still, things have changed. I shrug. Leeds seems a long, long way away now and I have no particular desire to hurry back there. I have nothing pressing to rush back to.

I shrug. “I’m easy. We’ll need to see if we can get our room back in Portree.”

“Right.” Harry drags his phone from his pocket.

“Ye can stay here, wi’ us. That’ll be fine, will it not, Angus?”

“Aye, lass, if they want.”

“No. You haven’t the room for us. The hotel’s fine and it’s only twenty minutes or so down the road.” Harry has been tapping the screen as he speaks, and half turns away as the phone is answered. He quickly re-books our room, initially for three nights but with the option to maybe extend.

Ann-Marie seems satisfied, for now. I suspect, though, that our eventual departure will be a heart-rending affair.

The next hour or so is spent rediscovering the past. Ann-Marie is desperate for all and any information about Ritchie and his family and wants to know every detail of their lives in Canada. Harry is patient, explaining about his mother, his uncles, their family business. Angus listens, nodding occasionally. He seems to approve of Ritchie’s choices now, though why he was so totally opposed to them when it might have mattered remains a mystery to me. It’s not my place to ask, though, and today is not the time for recriminations.

In return, we learn that Angus and Ann-Marie continued to work the croft, raising sheep mainly and a few cattle, year after year, until she broke her hip. She spent a few weeks in hospital recuperating, and during that time they decided enough was enough. They had a bit of money put by, enough to buy this bungalow in the village. They could live off their pensions.

“Will you sell Kilmuir then?” Harry asks the question.

“Nay, lad. It’s Ritchie’s. An’ it’s not that simple. I own the buildings, an’ those’ll pass tae my son when I die, whether he wants ’em or nay. But the land’s rented. There’s laws now as would mean I could buy it outright, but what would be the point? I canna run it, an’ Ritchie doesna want it. He could buy the land an’ sell the whole lot on, I daresay. It’ll be his choice. He’d ha’ nae bother finding a taker. There’s a ready enough market, plenty o’ fools out there who fancy croftin’.” He gives a wry chuckle. “I did meself, at one time.”

“Not now?” I ask.

“Nay, lass. These days I prefer to put me feet up an’ watch the sheep on the hills, knowing’ some bugger else will be out there at three in the mornin’ in the middle o’ winter, freezin’ ‘is bollacks off.”

“Angus!” Ann-Marie looks from me to Harry, clearly embarrassed at her husband’s colorful turn of phrase.

“It’s all right, really. I’m a taxi driver in Leeds. I hear far worse than that when the pubs empty on a Saturday night.”

Angus reaches for his tea. “Ah, Leeds. Yes. I went there, just the one time. Caught the train from Glasgow.”

And so the conversation shifts to small talk, the cozy chatter that whiles away long evenings. Ann-Marie gets up at some stage to make some sandwiches. I follow her into the kitchen to help. We’re buttering the bread as she turns to me, her expression bland.

“Ye’re not really a taxi driver, are ye?”

“Yes, I am. My taxi’s outside.”

“I mean, ye’re not just Harry’s driver. Ye and him, ye’re…”

“Ah, yes. Yes we are. Is that a problem?” I’m not certain of the sensitivities here.

“No. I was just askin’.”

“Right.” We complete the sandwich making in companionable silence.

Chapter Eighteen

We take our leave of Angus and Ann-Marie at around nine in the evening. It’s still light as we pull away from their garden gate, me driving, Harry waving from the passenger side, Daisy wagging her tail in the back seat. We’ve agreed to return tomorrow, in the morning. The plan is to go to Kilmuir together where first order of business will be to fix the door. Angus waved away Harry’s offer to hire a carpenter straight away.

“No harm’ll come tae the place o’ernight. We’ll see about it tomorrow.” A commendably laid-back attitude, and one not in keeping with the Angus I gather Harry imagined from Ritchie’s tales. He seems to have mellowed over the years.

Harry is keen to go back to the croft with Angus. He wants his great-grandfather to show him around, explain how it all worked, what the life there was like. He’s fascinated by it, though I doubt his view will be especially romantic given the tales he’ll have heard from his grandfather and now Angus himself.

We’re silent for the first few minutes as I negotiate the narrow road back in the direction of Portree.

“Quite a day.” I’m the first to break the silence.

“Hell, yes.” Harry’s tone is low. He sounds tired.

“I’m glad we came. So glad we didn’t miss them.”

“Shit. I have you to thank. If I’d been on my own I’d have headed straight back to the airport after Orkney. I know I would.”

“I’m not so sure. I think this was how it was meant to be. You’d have come.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, babe, I wouldn’t. No one would have. Not until it really was too late.”

“You don’t think it’s too late now then?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is I have some calls to make as soon as we get back to the hotel.”

“I half expected you to phone Ritchie from the bungalow.”

“I thought about it, but I’m not sure how he’ll react. I didn’t want Ann-Marie to be hurt if he…”

If he refuses to speak to them. Refuses to make up the quarrel, even after so many years apart. I consider this possibility for a few moments. From what I’ve heard it seems unlikely, after all, Ritchie did try to get in touch. Harry’s right to be cautious, though. He’s being considerate. Emotions will be running high. We were stunned at our discovery, so it stands to reason that others will be too.

“I know. And you’re right. It would be a pity, though, after all this time, if he still feels angry. I don’t think Angus harbors any ill will anymore. Do you?”

“It didn’t seem like it. There was that moment, though, when we first arrived and he learned what my name is. He mentioned that I’d been named after ‘her’ and I got the impression he wasn’t being complimentary. But there was nothing else, as you say. Still, if Angus still has some beef with my grandma, I know Ritchie won’t stand for it. He’s devoted to her.”

We pass the rest of the short journey in silence. I’m hoping that there won’t be any remaining animosity. I only met the elder McLeods today, but already I feel some stirrings of responsibility for them. I care about them. I want this all to be all right. Eventually. The Atlantic is no great barrier now, there’s no reason why Ritchie couldn’t come and visit, and it would mean so much to Ann-Marie.

* * * *

“I’ll take Daisy out for a walk. You make your calls.”

Harry hasn’t asked for privacy, and he won’t. I know that, but even so, this seems right. I clip Daisy’s lead on and head for the door. A nice stroll around the harbor will do us both good. I need to clear my head, and Daisy’s been cooped up in the bungalow all day with only short excursions to the front garden. By the time we return half an hour later Harry is lying on the bed flicking through TV channels. He’s barefoot, but otherwise fully dressed. He looks stressed.

“How did it go?” I splash water into Daisy’s bowl, setting it down for her before turning to face Harry.

“Could have been better. I think it’s fair to say he was shocked.”

“I imagine so. Does he want to talk to them?”

“No.” Harry utters the single word as he reaches out his hand to beckon me to him.

I go willingly and settle into his arms, my nose up against his chest. There’s more I need to say, though. “I’m not surprised that’s his first reaction. He’ll change his mind, when he’s had a while to think about it.” Privately I hope Ritchie McLeod doesn’t take too long over that. His parents are in their nineties, after all. I continue with my line of reasoning. “He was ready to make an effort, all those years ago. Geared up for it, I expect, and that’s why he wrote that letter. For God knows how long, though, he’s believed they were gone and he’d never have this conversation, never get this opportunity. He geared up for something else, for leaving it unresolved because he had no alternative. Or so he thought. Suddenly, that’s all changed. One call from you, and years of certainties have been swept aside. He’s rethinking. He must be. Give him time to adjust.”

Harry doesn’t reply at once, but his arms tighten around me. I wait. I’ve said my piece—he needs time to think too.