The Sea Detective (20 page)

Mike retreated into the room which was full of equipment such as fishing nets, creels, and tools for tilling the land, and a small boat like a coracle. He was about to continue his talk when Cal asked from the door, ‘Is the log book here?’ His tone was impatient, almost aggressive. The others noticed it and glanced at him.

‘The skipper’s log book?’ Mike replied, put out by Cal’s manner.

‘Hector MacKay’s, yes.’

‘It’s next door, in the glass case.’

Without a word Cal crossed to the room opposite. Some of the others began to drift after him, leaving Mike complaining peevishly, ‘I thought I’d tell you about this first.’

The other room was arranged like a shop. There was a counter and a till by the door with racks of postcards of island scenes. More paintings and prints covered the walls except for the gable which had displays of souvenirs for sale. In the middle of the room were two glass cases. The first contained architect’s drawings and models of the new cafe/restaurant and the restoration of Hector MacKay’s house. The second, smaller case contained belongings of the man himself such as his pipe, prayer book and knife. These were arranged around an open leather-bound book, with yellowing, lined pages. Cal leaned over it. The book was open at 17 September 1942. The date and the boat’s position were written at the top of the page. Underneath, in large, rounded hand-writing, was a short passage of text.

‘God bless those who died today – my brothers Donal and Angus, the Gunn brothers, Alexander and Sinclair, and young Alasdair Murray. They were buried at sea with blessings said over their bodies. God be with them always and with us tomorrow for whatever perils we face.’

Cal read it silently while the others gathered round him. Mr Parsons put on a pair of glasses and began to read aloud for the benefit of his wife. There was a murmur of comment about the stoicism of the author recording the deaths of his two brothers, yet he let no emotion show. Mr Parsons looked around for Mike, who had followed behind, reluctantly. ‘I’d been expecting Gaelic.’

Mike said, ‘Once the Eilean Iasgaich began anti-submarine patrols his logs were written in English. I don’t know why; perhaps Navy regulations.’

A new hum of conversation followed as each visitor read the diary entry in turn. When everyone had seen it and after a contemplative silence, Mike said, ‘You can buy facsimile copies of that and some other pages of the log for £1.50 a sheet.’

Cal asked, ‘Is there a copy of the entry for September 29, when the Eilean Iasgaich was returning from Archangelsk?’

Mike shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He went to the counter and checked through the dated folders containing the facsimiles. ‘No. No, there isn’t.’

‘In that case can you turn to 29 September?’ Cal made it sound less a question, more a demand.

‘I’m sorry. The pages can’t be disturbed after all this time,’ Mike replied.

‘Two crewmen died that day … my grandfather was one of them.’

Another murmur started, sympathetic to Cal.

Mrs Parson said, ‘Oh which one was he?’

‘His name was Uilleam Sinclair,’ Cal said.

Mrs Parsons mentioned something to her husband about not seeing a Sinclair on the memorial ‘which was curious’ when Mike interrupted her. ‘Hector MacKay wrote each day on a new double page. It’d mean turning 12 pages. I’m sorry it’s not possible. The paper’s too fragile.’ He moved towards the cabinet, inserting himself between Cal and the others.

Before Cal could speak again, Mike turned his back on him and said, ‘Now if I might draw your attention to the other display case and the plans of the island’s owners to build a cafe and restaurant as a glass extension to the museum and also to restore Hector MacKay’s house.’

The boat party followed him obediently to the neighbouring display, leaving Cal on his own. ‘If you would like to make a donation, there’s a collection box on the counter.’ Mike looked round as Cal walked out.

A path led downhill from the museum to a broad grassy track under-laid with stone. Cal went along it, passed the ruined houses, each one giving off its own atmosphere of desolation and abandonment. He found Rachel sitting on the remnants of a wall two thirds of the way along, before the base of Cnoc a’ Mhonaidh.

‘He wouldn’t show you the page, would he?’ She squinted up at him, trying to work out his mood.

‘No.’

‘What will you do about it?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Who owns the museum?’

‘The Raes.’ Then she added, ‘Of course.’

It happened every time the Raes were mentioned. The shop assistant had said the same, now Rachel, ‘The Raes … of course.’

‘I could talk to them.’

‘You could.’ Rachel’s tone told him there wasn’t any point.

‘You’ve tried?’

‘I’ve mentioned it.’

‘Nothing doing?’

She shook her head. ‘I would have told you before but I didn’t think you’d want to hear it from me.’

He grunted. ‘Yeah.’ Then he said, ‘Is this it, the house?’

‘This is Grace Ann’s: number 13. Your grandfather’s is number 14.’ She nodded towards the ruined building no more than ten metres across the grass. ‘It’s that one.’

Like Grace Ann’s home, number 14 was a single storey cottage. They looked a matching pair since both had front walls constructed of rusted corrugated iron into which had been cut the shapes of a door and two windows. But the roof and back wall of 14 had collapsed, whereas 13 still had much of its back wall intact. The gables of 14 had also crumbled leaving only the chimney breasts still standing and some stone around them.

‘Grace Ann told me the corrugated iron made them hot in summer, cold in winter and noisy when it rained.’ Rachel said.

Cal had crossed the grass and was standing by the door to his family home. He went through it climbing on to the collapsed mound of stone, roof timbers and slate inside. Outside the air had been fresh: in there it stank of decay, damp and sheep droppings. Cal bent to pick up a flat stone. He threw it towards the doorway, and bent again to find another. He moved slowly around the rubble, testing each new step before trusting his weight to it. Every time he changed position he bent to pick up more stones. He rejected more than he selected but soon a pile was spilling through the doorway.

Rachel said, ‘What are you doing?’

The next stone rolled on to the grass outside, and Cal followed it. ‘They’re for my grandfather’s cairn.’ He looked towards the top of Cnoc a’ Mhonaidh. ‘I’m going to build it up there.’ Then he started to separate by size the stones he had collected.

When he stopped for a rest, Rachel went to sit near him. ‘No arguments today, ok?’ she smiled.

‘Yes, I know.’ He waited for what was coming next.

‘This documentary …’

‘I wondered when that was going to get a mention.’

‘Something wrong happened here. You can still feel it, in the atmosphere, in these two houses, at the memorial …’ She paused.

Cal crouched and plucked at some stems of grass.

‘Cal, a television programme can’t put it right but at least it can let people know a brave young man has been denied his place in this island’s history, for whatever reason.’

He stared at her, his expression more pensive than anything else.

She added, ‘It’s not about you and me, what happened in our marriage.’

Cal went on plucking at the grass. Then he said, ‘It’s my fight, Rachel.’

‘But I can help, let me.’

He shook his head. He was holding himself back. She saw it too.

‘There’s something I should tell you,’ she said quietly.

‘What?’

‘You’re not allowed to be angry,’ Rachel said. ‘You promised.’

‘I won’t be.’ He plucked at another spear of grass.

‘My producer was with Grace Ann MacKay today, filming. We couldn’t take a chance on her dying.’

How could he make her understand how personal this had become for him? Until that day, he’d regarded the wrong done here as something historical, something that could be corrected by a grandson’s homage, or its memorial equivalent, a cairn. Now that he was on the island, he experienced it differently. The wrong was active; being perpetrated daily, every time a boat load of tourists arrived at the pier and gathered around the memorial. Righting it was his responsibility, his alone.

It wasn’t something he could put into words to Rachel. On the track from the museum he’d come to realise his fight wasn’t with her. ‘Yeah …’ was all he managed.

While they had been talking, Mike had been leading the others along the grass track, on a guided tour of the township. Rachel saw them first.

‘We’re just going along to the end, to Hector MacKay’s house,’ Mike shouted.

She raised her hand in acknowledgement.

Now Mike was closer. ‘You can catch us on the way back.’

Cal said ‘Why?’ and without waiting for a reply went back to sorting through his pile of stones.

Mike studied him before shrugging and saying to Rachel, ‘The boat’s leaving in half an hour.’

Cal, his back turned, said, ‘I’m not going.’

‘I can’t leave you on the island.’ Mike looked at Rachel, silently canvassing her for support.

Cal spun round, a stone in his hand. ‘My mother’s family lived here for generations. They worked this land.’ His meaning was clear, even to those in the group ignorant of island culture. Mike was a blow-in, an incomer; what right had he to tell Cal, someone with island blood, where he could and couldn’t go?

Mike tried again to recruit Rachel. ‘The owners don’t allow overnight visitors. That’s the rule.’

Mrs Parsons remarked sotto voce to her husband. ‘Well we have to get back. You’ve got your pills to take.’

‘I’m going to stay,’ Cal said.

‘It’s private property,’ Mike answered.

Now Mr Parsons joined in. ‘I think you’ll find Cal’s entitled, under right to roam.’

In an aside to the rest of the group, who had been listening to the exchanges in silence, Mrs Parsons said, ‘My husband was a lawyer before he retired. He knows about these things.’

Mike flipped open his mobile phone and wandered away out of earshot, speaking into it. Cal continued sorting stones. A few minutes later Mike returned. ‘Mrs Rae says it’s all right for one night only. Her husband will come over in the Rib first thing tomorrow and he’ll take you off. Ok?’

Cal said, ‘I’ll go when I’m ready.’

‘You’ll be leaving tomorrow morning like it or not,’ Mike replied.

When Mike and the boat party were out of earshot, Rachel said ‘quite the rebel’ and Cal let out a nasal snort. He placed the stone he was carrying between his feet and crouched on it. Rachel took off her red over-shirt and put it in her bag, zipping it up.

‘I’ve a couple of interviews to fix for the filming schedule.’ She glanced after Mike and the boat party. They were now at number 19. She had a few minutes before they’d cut across the grazings to the pier. ‘But I’ll see you tomorrow. Have breakfast with me at the hotel?’

He didn’t say anything at first. He plucked at the grass letting the sun warm his face.

Then he said, ‘I’m sorry about the phone call last night. I don’t know why that happens to me.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Neither do I.’

Both of them laughed. Then Rachel confessed that one idea for a programme had been to re-populate Eilean Iasgaich with relatives of the last islanders to see if the modern generation could hack it better than their forbears. Cal let out a groan.

‘Don’t worry – it got killed off at the pass.’

Mike and the others were now crossing the grazings, making for the pier. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, getting up and tying her shirt around her waist. ‘Be good.’

He nodded. She had begun to walk away when he said, ‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For today.’

She smiled at him. ‘It’s been a good day, hasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, it has.’

As soon as her back was to him, his face fell into a frown.

He’d seen the hope in her eyes. He couldn’t go on deceiving her.

There were 67 stones, one for every year Uilleam Sinclair’s death had gone without memorial. The first six, flooring slabs from inside the doorway of number 14, were the heaviest. Cal carried them two at a time and deposited them on top of Cnoc a’ Mhonaidh. Then he quartered the plateau searching for a site to build his grandfather’s cairn. He found it at the north-east corner where a spine of rock jutted above a sheer cliff. At the tip of the spine the ground flattened forming a natural platform which overlooked an uninterrupted sweep of the North Atlantic.

It took him another eight climbs of the hill to deliver the remaining stones to his chosen site. On each ascent he lugged one in each hand and more in his rucksack. When he completed the task after almost six hours his hair and shirt were soaked with sweat and he ached with exertion. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground, chest heaving. He remained like that until the sweat in his clothes grew cold in the evening breeze. Then he got up, stretched, and walked around the headland before placing the stones one by one until the cairn stood more than a metre high. Then Cal took from his rucksack a slate and a bent rusted nail he’d pulled from a collapsed roof timber. With it he scored onto the slate ‘In memory of Uilleam Sinclair, 1921–1942, who died in the service of his country and his island.’

Underneath, after leaving a space, he scratched, ‘Known unto God,’ the inscription he found in the Ardnamurchan cemetery 19 years before, a form of words originally devised by Rudyard Kipling for marking the graves of unidentified First World War dead.

Cal propped the slate against the bottom of the cairn and wedged it there. By the time he’d finished adjusting the stones and removing heather debris from the area around the cairn, the gloom of evening had set in. As the last sprays of sunlight glinted copper against the underside of the clouds, Cal pulled his anorak around him.

For the hours of darkness he sat beside the cairn, sleeping fitfully, listening to the constant motion of the waves on rocks below him, peering half-blind into the night which dropped an opaque shroud of sooty-grey over the ocean. Twice he stood and stamped his feet to warm himself and to get rid of cramps. He ended the night as he’d started it: sitting, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, each exposed hand tucked into the other’s sleeve.