Peter May - The Lewis Man

The church at Scarista stood proud on the hill above a strip of mown grass peppered with headstones marking the final resting place of generations of worshippers. A hell of a view, Fin thought, to take with you to eternity: the smudged and shadowed blue of distant mountains beyond the yellow of the Scarista sands; the ever-changing light from a neverresting sky; the constant refrain of the wind, like the voices of the faithful raised in praise of the Lord.

Fin looked up at the church building. As plain and unadorned as the church at Crobost. ‘I want to see if there’s a boat inside,’ he said.

Gunn scowled. ‘A boat? In the church?’

‘Aye, a boat.’ Fin tried the door and it opened in. He passed through the vestibule into the body of the church, Gunn at his heels, and of course there was no boat. Just a plain beechwood altar draped in purple, a pulpit raised high above it from which the minister, in his exalted and privileged position closer to heaven than the masses to whom he preached, would deliver the word of God.

‘What in heaven’s name made you think there would be a boat in the church, Mr Macleod?’

‘Tormod Macdonald spoke of a boat in the church, George. A church built by fishermen.’

‘He must have made it up.’

But Fin shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I think Marsaili’s dad is confused and frustrated; he has trouble with words, and memories, and how to communicate them. And maybe he’s even hiding something. Consciously or otherwise. But I don’t think he’s lying.’

Outside the wind had, if anything, grown stronger and less forgiving. They felt the blast of it as they stepped from the church.

‘The whole of Harris is pretty much a Protestant island, George, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is, Mr Macleod. I suppose there might be one or two Catholics around, like sheep who’ve strayed from the fank, but for the most part they’re all in the southern isles.’ He grinned. ‘Better weather and more fun.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I hear the supermarkets even sell you booze on a Sunday.’

Fin smiled. ‘I think hell will freeze over before we ever see that on Lewis, George.’ He opened the car door. ‘Where to now?’

‘Back to Tarbert, I think. I’d like a copy of Tormod’s birth certificate from the registrar.’

The office of the registrar was to be found in council offices occupying the former school hostel in West Tarbert, a drab, flat-roofed building erected in the late 1940s to provide accommodation for pupils from far-flung corners of the island attending the town’s secondary school. The house opposite hid in seclusion behind a profusion of trees and shrubs, almost certainly cultivated to hide the ugliness of the building on the other side of the road.

An elderly lady looked up from her desk as Fin and Gunn brought the cold in with them.

‘Shut the door!’ she said. ‘It’s bad enough that the wind blows in through every ill-fitting window in the place, without folk leaving the doors wide open!’

A chastened George Gunn quickly closed the door behind them, then fought to retrieve his warrant card from the depths of his anorak. The old lady examined it through half-moon spectacles, then looked over the top of them to conduct a thorough examination of the two men on the other side of the counter. ‘And how can I help you gentlemen?’

‘I’d like an extract from the register of births,’ Gunn told her.

‘Well, you needn’t think you’ll get it for free just because you’re a police officer. It’ll cost?14.’

Gunn and Fin exchanged the hint of a smile.

Fin tilted his head to read the nameplate on her desk. ‘Have you been here a long time, Mrs Macaulay?’

‘Donkey’s years,’ she said. ‘But retired for the last five. I’m only standing in for a few days on holiday relief. Whose is the extract you would like?’

‘Tormod Macdonald,’ Gunn said. ‘From Seilebost. Born around 1939, I believe.’

‘Oh, aye …’ Old Mrs Macaulay nodded sagely and peered at her computer screen as she started rattling age-spattered fingers across her keyboard. ‘Here it is: 2 August 1939.’ She looked up. ‘Would you like a copy of the death certificate as well?’

In the silence that followed, the wind seemed to increase in strength and volume, moaning as it squeezed through every space left unsealed, like a dirge for the dead.

Mrs Macaulay was oblivious of the effect of her words. ‘A terrible thing it was, Mr Gunn. I remember it well. Just a teenager he was at the time. A real tragedy.’ Her fingers spidered across the keyboard again. ‘Here we are. Died 18 March 1958. Would you like a copy? It’ll be another?14.’

It took just fifteen minutes for Fin to drive them back down to the church at Scarista, and less than ten walking among the graves on the lower slopes to find Tormod’s headstone. Tormod Macdonald, born August 2nd 1939, beloved son of Donald and Margaret, accidentally drowned in the Bagh Steinigidh on March 18th, 1958.

Gunn sat down in the grass beside the lichen-covered slab of granite and leaned forward on his knees. Fin stood staring at the headstone, as if perhaps it might rewrite itself if he watched it long enough. Tormod Macdonald had been in the ground for fifty-four years, and just eighteen years old when he died.

Not a word had passed between the two men on the drive from the registry office. But Gunn looked up now and gave voice to the thought which had occupied them both since Mrs Macaulay had asked if they would like a copy of the death certificate. ‘If Marsaili’s dad is not Tormod Macdonald, Mr Macleod, then who the hell is he?’

I’ll just sit here for a while. The ladies are all in the activity room knitting. No kind of job for a man, that. The old boy in the chair opposite looks like a bit of an old woman to me. He should be in there knitting, too!

There’s a square of garden out there through the glass doors that would be nice to sit in. I see a bench. Better than having to put up with that old bastard staring at me all the time. I’ll just go out.

Oh! It’s colder than it looks. And the bench is wet. Dammit! Too late. But everything will dry in time. I see a square of sky up there. Clouds blowing across it at a fair old lick. But it’s sort of sheltered here, even if it is cold.

‘Hello, Dad.’

Her voice startles me. I didn’t hear her coming. Was I sleeping? It’s so cold.

‘What are you doing sitting out here in the rain?’

‘It’s not raining,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just seaspray.’

‘Come on, we’d better go inside and get you dried off.’

She wants me to go in off the deck. But I don’t want to go back to the Smoke Room. It’s even worse than steerage. All these men smoking, and the stink of stale beer. I’ll throw up again if I have to sit in there on those worn old leather benches with no air to breathe.

Oh, there’s a bed here. I didn’t realize they had cabins on board. She wants to take off my wet trousers, but I’m not having any of it. I push her away. ‘Stop that!’ It’s not the done thing. A man has a right to his dignity.

‘Oh, Dad, you can’t sit here in wet clothes. You’ll catch your death.’

I shake my head and feel the rolling of the boat beneath me. ‘How long have we been at sea now, Catherine?’

She looks at me so strangely.

‘What boat is it we’re on, Dad?’

‘The RMS Claymore . Not a name I’m ever likely to forget. First boat I ever was on.’

‘And where are we sailing to?’

Who knows? It’s almost dark now, and we left the mainland behind us so long ago. I never knew Scotland was so big. We’ve been travelling for days. ‘I heard someone in the Saloon talking about Big Kenneth.’