Alex Gray - A small weeping

‘What are they?’ Solomon wanted to know.

‘Think that’s the Sheant Isles,’ Lorimer replied, trying to recall the OS map he’d pored over the previous night.

A smoky green horizon unfolded as the light played over the contours and curves of the landscape. Then the shadows deepened and became the hills of South Harris.

A lighthouse stood bravely amongst a cluster of black rocks, dazzling in the spring sunlight. Somewhere, Lorimer had read, these southerly shores boasted miles of deserted, white sandy beaches. Now he could make out a rocky shore with dots of white here and there along the coastline. As they drew nearer the dots became small houses.

‘What’s that?’ Solly asked, pointing into the waters ahead. Lorimer followed his gaze. Orange marker buoys bobbed up and down quite far from the shore; too far for an anchorage.

‘Creels, I think,’ Lorimer answered. ‘They’re probably floats to show where the lobster creels are kept.’

The boat rounded the rocks and suddenly they were coming inshore to what appeared to be a tiny hamlet. This couldn’t be Tarbert, the largest town in Harris, surely? Lorimer looked over the harbour. The colours seemed to have been washed with a different sort of rain from the slate grey stuff that fell on his city. Or was it the light? It was as though everything was being magnified. Details were sharper, like the cluster of men in orange jackets who were working on the pier; uncoiling the thick mooring ropes, pulling the gangway into position, standing by the few motorists who were about to leave those shores. A knot of people stood around the edge of the pier waiting for the boat, but not passengers. He could see that. Waiting for the mail, perhaps?

There were women whose heads were wrapped in scarves and men in flat tweed caps. Bunnets. His dad had worn a bunnet, Lorimer remembered. He had a sudden vision of that tall, spare figure doffing his tweed cap to any ladies passing by; a gesture from a bygone age. Would Harris have retained any of the dignity of yesteryear or would it be just like every where else, in pursuit of the latest trends?

Lorimer’s reminiscing came to an abrupt halt as a voice called over the loudspeaker system.

‘We are approaching Tarbert. Would all drivers please return to their vehicles. Thank you.’ The voice was taped, of that Lorimer had no doubt, but it had a soft melodious quality that he recognised. It sounded just like Niall Cameron.

They made their way down the very steep staircase leading to the car deck and located the Lexus wedged between a British telecom van and an ancient Ford Transit. Two men in overalls and thick-soled boots were squeezing their way amongst the vehicles.

As they passed, one of them nodded briefly, saying, ‘Aye, aye. Grand day,’ as if he were exchanging pleasantries with old friends, instead of total strangers. Solomon gave Lorimer a meaningful look. This was certainly a world away from their city streets.

Then they were inside the car and all around them engines were roaring into life in the bowels of The Hebrides. There was the unmistakeable sound of wood against steel as the boat docked and Lorimer waited impatiently for the moment when he could surface again. If there was one thing that made him uneasy it was being locked in below water level like this. Maggie even teased him for his dislike of war films depicting life in a sub.

At last it was his turn. As Lorimer accelerated off the metal ramp and onto the safety of the Tarbert streets he glanced at Solly and smiled indulgently, noticing how he twisted around to catch a glimpse of the tiny shops and houses as they passed out of town. The gesture reminded him of his wife and her zest for anything new and unfamiliar. Suddenly Lorimer wished that he, too, could recapture Maggie’s vast capacity to enjoy life. He’d lost that feeling long ago, somewhere between the back streets and the City Mortuary.

Kirsty MacLeod’s last known Harris address was c/o Mhairi MacLeod at Borve Cottage in Rodel. There had been no telephone number. Rodel was not so far away in terms of mileage but it took Lorimer the best part of an hour before the road sign proclaimed that they had reached the village. Several times he’d had to swing into the curve of a lay-by to let another car pass. Lorimer hadn’t minded. They weren’t running to a time schedule after all, and had booked into the Rodel Hotel for one night, so all the stopping and starting had given him the opportunity to look over the coastline. The day was still fine, although he’d noticed more clouds gathering overhead. The blues and greys of sky were reflected in the water but it was the green that really struck him; everything from a dark bottle green where rocks undoubtedly lurked, to a dazzling emerald reflecting light above the white shores. The brochures hadn’t exaggerated.

These beaches were endless swathes of white sand licked by curling waves; and not a soul to be seen.

‘We could be on another planet,’ Solly had murmured, gazing round from the shore to the hills crouching around them. He’d been pretty impressed by this Hebridean island and Lorimer was gratified. OK, so it was his first visit to these parts too, but he still felt proprietorial. Scotland was his country.

Rodel, or Roghadal as the Gaelic sign proclaimed, appeared to them suddenly around yet another winding corner between the hills. A quick glance told Lorimer that he was below the infamous site of the quarry that had caused so much public dissension amongst the islanders. As they drove past a lone cottage a man rounded the side of his shed, stopped and caught their eye. Suddenly he waved and smiled. Lorimer was struck by the expression of open friendliness on the man’s face. it was as if he were welcoming them home rather than saluting a pair of strangers to his island.

Lorimer had only moments to absorb the man’s working dungarees and shock of weather-bleached hair as they drove by. Looking in the rear view mirror, he could see the man leaning on the cottage gate, following them with his eyes. It was a small thing, maybe, but it impressed itself on Lorimer. Suddenly the city seemed light years away.

‘The natives are friendly,’ quipped Solly, nodding into his beard as if the incident were being filed away for future reference.

‘Looks like we’ve arrived,’ Lorimer replied, indicating a sign for the Rodel Hotel.

‘Not exactly a metropolis, is it?’ Solly joked. There had been very few houses along the road and now they were passing an old church.

‘That looks interesting.’

‘It is,’ replied Lorimer. ‘That’s not just any old church. What you have here is the ancient cathedral of Saint Clements. I fancy having a look around it while we’re here,’ he added to himself. But business would have to come first.

The road took them on a loop and soon he was driving through a courtyard to a large edifice whose grey stones rubbed shoulders with the harbour walls. So this was Rodel; one hotel and a scattering of houses strung out along a windswept stretch of land.

‘Hardly surprising that Kirsty came away to the city,’ he told Solly.

‘Interesting, though,’ replied the psychologist. ‘I expect it’s a close-knit community. The sort of place where it’s well nigh impossible to keep things to your self.’ Solly gazed over the harbour wall at the stretch of ocean.

‘This is the sort of place where people would know each others’ secrets,’ he added, turning to raise his eyebrows at Lorimer.

‘See you in the bar,’ Lorimer gave Solomon a nod and made his way up the narrow stairway. He pushed open the unlocked door of his bedroom and shivered as an icy blast came from the open window. They were a hardy lot up here, then. Telling himself that he’d had enough fresh air during the crossing to last a good while, Lorimer pulled down the sash window. For a moment he looked out at the waves beating against the harbour wall. Had Kirsty MacLeod stood on that very pier watching for a boat that never came home, he wondered. He’d ask a few questions downstairs. Bars the world over were a perennial source of information.