The Last Wolf (32 page)

She polished some glasses before she spoke again. From the two or three words he understood, he gathered she was asking where he had come from.

‘I'm sailing,' he said. ‘Round the islands.'

‘Is that so? Most furriners wouldna' take the risk.'

By ‘foreigners', he thought, she probably meant anyone not bred to the islands.

‘I've sailed here before,' he said.

‘When wuid that be?'

‘About thirteen years ago.' He wisely didn't mention the other, later, visits. ‘With my father and brother. We didn't come in to Port Askaig, though; we sailed along the coast instead to Craigmore house. Perhaps you know it?'

‘Aye, I know Craigmore, of course.'

‘We met the owners: Sir Archibald and Lady Mackay.'

‘Och, they've passed on, God rest their souls. The grandson and granddaughter have it now. Hamish and Stroma. Did you meet them, perhaps? Hamish doesna' spend much time here – not now he's married to an English girl – but Stroma lives here. She's opened Kildare Mill again.'

‘That is interesting.'

‘Yes. They say she's got all sorts of ideas for it.'

‘Is it for making cloth?'

‘Aye. 'Twas a ruin for years but she got the old looms workin' again. The sheep's wool's spun in the cottages an' then woven at the mill. Very fine tweed, it is. Special to the island. 'Tis even sellin' in London now, so I'm told.'

‘I expect Miss Mackay is married now?'

‘Stroma? No, she's not.' The woman leaned closer across the counter. ‘Mind you, she's got a bairn, just the same.'

‘A bairn?' He didn't know the word.

‘A child. A boy. Three or four years old. Still, it's not fer us te judge, is it? The father was killed in the war, so we heard. A naval gentleman. Puir wee lad. Tragic to lose his father.'

A couple of hundred metres from the entrance to Glas Uig, Reinhard lowered the sails and used the engine to bring
Sturmwind
gently through the gap in the rocks and into the shelter of the cove. He tied up at the old jetty and walked up the track through the woods. When he reached the top he stood looking at Craigmore through his binoculars for a while – the gabled slate roofs, the great chimney stacks rising above them, the whitewashed walls, the black painted shutters, standing firm against the Atlantic.

He lowered the binoculars and walked on across the rough grass towards the stone wall and the iron five-barred gate that led to the bottom of the slope, rising to the croquet lawn. As he swung himself over the gate, he could hear a child laughing and a ball came whizzing over the top and bounced down towards him. It rolled to a stop in the long grass at his feet and he picked it up: not a hard painted croquet ball but a soft tennis ball, worn smooth and faded to grey.

A small boy appeared at the top. He was barefoot, wearing shorts and a blue shirt and he had very blond hair – so blond it was almost white – and there were fresh grazes on both knees. He plunged down the slope, searching in the grass.

‘Is this what you're hunting for?'

The boy raised his head, startled. He came closer and took the ball, staring up at him. Reinhard found that he was gazing down into his own eyes.

‘Archie! Where are you? Archie!'

Stroma was standing at the top of the slope.

‘The man found my ball, Mamma. He's given it back to me.'

‘That's very kind of him. I hope you said thank you.'

‘I forgot.'

She came down to where he was standing with the boy.

In a moment, she said, ‘This is Archie. I named him after his great-grandfather.'

He nodded. ‘A good name from a good man.'

‘We're forgetting our manners, Archie. Would you ask the gentleman if he would like to come up to the house?'

The boy smiled up at him. ‘We could go on with the game. And you can join in, if you want.'

‘That would be very nice, thank you.'

The child scrambled back up the slope.

She said, ‘So you didn't die after all, Reinhard. Why didn't you come back?'

‘Because I thought you would never wish to see me again.'

‘You were wrong about that.'

They looked at each other without speaking.

The boy had reached the top of the slope and waved his hands to attract his attention. ‘It's up here. Come on, I'll show you.'

‘Don't worry, Archie,' his mother called. ‘He knows the way.'