Peter May - The Chessmen

There had always been a rivalry in the band between Roddy and Strings. They were the two major creative forces behind the original music that Solas was starting to produce. But that rivalry spilled over into the bike group, too, and it wasn’t long before Strings appeared with his own 125cc machine. I can’t remember the make of it now, but I’ll never forget the colour. It was bright yellow. The same colour as the tormentil that grew among the coastal bracken in summer. You always saw Strings coming.

I spent most of my spare time working on my moped just to keep it on the road. It was a Puch. A Dakota VZ50. It had a 50cc fan-cooled motor with a three-speed gearbox, and was on its last legs. I never took it back to Ness, not just because my aunt would have disapproved, but because I seriously doubted if it would ever have got me there.

On fine spring afternoons, after school, we used to motor out on our bikes, past Engie’s and Kenneth Mackenzie’s mill, over Oliver’s Brae towards the airport and the turnoff to Holm Point. This was a finger of land that extended out into the bay just before the narrow neck of beach and causeway that led to the Eye Peninsula. The fields around us were fallow and shimmered yellow, full of dandelions. There was a cluster of buildings at Holm Farm, but we stayed away from there, and congregated just beyond the road end looking out over the rocks that were known as the Beasts of Holm.

The oil-rig construction yard at Arnish was visible on the far side of the bay, as was the little squat lighthouse there on the rocks, and we had a splendid view back across the whole of Stornoway, sitting low and catching the sunlight in the shelter of the trees that climbed the castle hill behind it. You could hear the sounds of the town carried on the breeze, busy and distant, and dwarfed by the rush of the sea and the oystercatchers and wagtails that dipped and dived around us.

We didn’t do much there. Just loafed around in the sunshine, smoking, drinking beer if we had any, flirting with the girls who had ridden out on the back of the bikes.

I suppose if any of us had been aware of the weathered granite obelisk that stood behind its rectangular wrought-iron fence right out on the point, we might have thought it was a war monument of some sort. But I don’t think any of us ever paid it any attention. Until the day the old man shouted at us for disrespecting the dead.

It was a Friday afternoon. Some of us had free periods at the end of the day and had ridden out to Holm to profit from the spring sunshine before getting the bus home. We didn’t notice him at first, out there at the point, standing by the rusted railing, among the grass and weeds growing all around it. A solitary, stooped figure in black, thin white hair whipped up around his head by the wind.

I had clocked him when we were parking up, but quickly forgot about him when trouble broke out between Whistler and Big Kenny. I’m not sure how it began. I was busy trying to chat up a pretty little girl called Seonag, who had ridden out to Holm Point on the back of my bike. There was a lot of laughter, and some of the boys had cans of beer in their saddlebags. But it was the tone of the voices raised above the rabble that caught my attention. There was real anger in them. And menace. I turned to see Whistler shove Kenny in the chest with both hands. There was enough force in that push to send Kenny staggering several steps backwards, and Whistler was gathering his brows like an imminent storm.

‘I’ve fucking had it with you, Coinneach!’

I knew it was serious when Whistler used Kenny’s Gaelic name. Kenny gathered the remnants of his dignity about him and puffed out his chest. ‘You’re seriously off your head, Macaskill, you know that?’

The jibe was like a red rag to a bull, and Whistler went for him, fists flying. Kenny took one to the head, another to his midriff, before the two of them landed with a thud in the grass, one on top of the other. Kenny’s knee came up, trying to hit the sweet spot between Whistler’s legs, but just missed, and we saw blood burst from his mouth as Whistler’s big fist connected with his lips.

There were three or four of us on top of them in a moment. Hands grasping at the shoulders and arms of the big flute player, dragging him off the gasping Kenny. But Whistler was in a rage, one of those tantrums in which he lost all control. And he turned his fury on us. Unfortunately I was the nearest, and the first to make contact with knuckles like ball bearings. They struck me on the side of the head and knocked me to the ground, lights flashing in my eyes, in just the same way as they did all those years later.

By the time I had recovered my senses, Whistler had already turned back to Kenny and was advancing towards him with something like a growl rising in his throat. No one there was any match for him, least of all me. But that thrawn part of me which had always got me into trouble burned down my back like molten wax, propelling me into battle without thought or fear. Whistler and I, it seemed, were destined always to resolve our conflicts by the fist.

I dived, shoulder first, as I had been taught on the rugby pitch, and took him just above the knees. He went down like a sack of rocks, face-first into the ground, his own weight expelling all the air from his lungs, like the sound of the sea sucking at the cliffs. If it hadn’t been for the voice that rose above the shrieks and cries of alarm and encouragement, I think he might have killed me when he recovered his breath.

None of us had been aware of the old man’s approach. But his voice cut through the clamour, sharp and high, like a rapier.

‘What do you think you’re doing! Behaving like idiots in the presence of the dead. Have you no respect?’ Had he spoken in English perhaps his words would have had less impact. But the Gaelic somehow carried more weight.

Silence fell upon us like a shroud, Whistler and I still lying gasping on the ground. Everyone looked towards the old man. He wore a shabby black suit, and I could see food stains on his grey pullover beneath it. The cap he had clutched in his hand out at the monument was pulled firmly down now over his head. His eyes were part shadowed, but they were dark eyes full of anger. His face hung loose on a bony skull, his flesh goose-white and stained brown in places by age. He raised the hand in which he held his stick and pointed a finger deformed by bulbous joints in my direction.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself, young Finlay Macleod.’ I was startled to hear my name. I had no idea who he was. As I struggled to my feet, he turned towards Whistler. ‘And you, John Angus Macaskill.’ I could see Whistler’s surprise, too. ‘Both of you should know better. Neither of you would be here today if John Macleod hadn’t made it ashore with his line.’

He swivelled his gaze, then, in the direction of Big Kenny, and his eyes lingered for a moment on the blood around his mouth. ‘And you should be grateful, Coinneach Iain Maclean, that your grandfather was born during a home leave in 1916, or you’d not have been around either.’

No one knew what to say. And in the silence that followed we could hear the distant rumble of traffic along South Beach, and I don’t know why, but my eye fell upon the lines of headstones in Sanndabhaig Cemetery, sentinels standing in silent reproach for a misdemeanour we didn’t know we’d committed.

The old man bowed his head and walked through us towards the road end, supporting himself on his stick. And we watched him recede into the distance, making his slow, determined way in the direction of the main road.

‘What the hell was that all about?’ someone said. But I had lost interest in the group, focused now on the monument out on the point. The old man had aroused my curiosity, unsettling me, as if he had just walked over my grave. I forgot all about my fight with Whistler and left the group, their animated discussion carried away on the wind, and walked out to the point for the first time. The monument itself was a sad affair, weather-stained and neglected, the black engraved letters on it barely legible. Whoever had raised it there was long gone, and the reason they had done so long forgotten.