Ken McClure - Crisis

On his first traverse along the main street he did not see a single living soul. He turned and came back to where he had seen a hotel sign and this time he caught a brief glimpse of a figure flitting out of one doorway and into another. There was no one in the small hotel reception area when he entered, clutching his bag and brushing the rain off his shoulders. He read some of the notices that were pinned up on a wall by the door while he waited, hoping to get a feel for the place.

They were typical small town notices; one concerning the progress of the darts team, some adverts for properties owned by the National Trust in the area — all depicting gloriously sunny days, and a couple of receipts from local charities for collections made at Christmas in the bar. One notice in particular caught Bannerman’s eye. It said that the sum of one hundred and eighty-three pounds had been raised for the fund for Mrs May Buchan. Bannerman recognized the name; one of the dead farm labourers had been called Buchan. The woman must be his widow.

‘Can I be helping you?’ inquired a soft highland voice behind him. He turned to find a man in his fifties wearing a heavy-knit cardigan over corduroy trousers, looking at him through thick-rimmed spectacles that sat beneath an unruly mop of grey hair.

Td like a room,’ said Bannerman.

‘Would you, now,’ replied the man, almost absent-mindedly as he appraised Bannerman virtually to the point of embarrassing him with his stare. ‘And what kind would you be wanting?’

‘Ideally a warm, dry comfortable one with its own bathroom,’ said Bannerman.

‘Well two out of three isn’t bad, as the Americans say,’ replied the man. ‘We don’t have rooms with bathrooms but as you’re the only guest you’ll not be having much bother with queuing.’

‘Sounds fine,’ agreed Bannerman, who was so tired after his drive that he would have taken a stable. ‘I’d like to go up right away if that’s all right.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said the man softly.

‘No?’

‘I’ll have to have Agnes make the room up first. We don’t get much in the way of passing trade at this time of year. Perhaps you’d like to wait in the bar?’

Bannerman said that he would. He opened the door that the man pointed to and found himself in a small, smoky bar with a coal fire at one end. There were three men seated at the counter and a boy in his late teens was serving behind it. They looked at Bannerman as he entered. ‘It’s a rough night out there,’ said one of the men.

‘Certainly is,’ agreed Bannerman. The men looked to be local, two were wearing caps, one of whom was resting his elbow on a shepherd’s crook, the head of which had been carved out of horn. The third man was wearing dungarees and a woollen hat. He was considerably younger than the other two and smiled a welcome.

‘You’re English?’ said the younger man who had commented on the weather.

“Fraid so,’ said Bannerman with a smile.

The smile was returned. ‘We won’t hold it against you,’ said the man.

‘In that case perhaps I might buy you a drink?’ said Bannerman.

All three opted for whisky. Bannerman invited the barman to join them and the boy said he’d have a beer. The ice had been broken and faces relaxed into smiles.

‘What brings you to Achnagelloch?’ asked the man with the crook.

‘I’m a doctor,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ve come to talk to the local health authorities … about the three men who died.’

There was very little reaction from the men. One of them did shake his head and say. ‘Bad business, meningitis. My sister’s boy died of it.’

‘Did you know the men?’ Bannerman asked.

‘It’s a small place, most folks know everybody,’ said the man with the crook.

‘You look as if you work out on the hills yourself,’ said Bannerman.

The man nodded.

‘You too?’ Bannerman asked the other man wearing a flat cap.

‘Aye.’

‘How about you?’ Bannerman asked the younger man.

‘I’m in the quarry,’ replied the man.

The quarry?’

‘The stone quarry.’

‘I didn’t realize there was a quarry near here,’ said Bannerman.

There wasn’t until the Dutchman bought the Invergelloch estate. Everyone thought he was mad buying a barren wasteland, but next thing we know he’s got himself a licence to quarry road stone and is making a fortune.’

‘Bloody foreigners,’ grumbled one of the farm workers. The Scottish highlands have got more bloody Dutchmen in them than Amsterdam.’

‘I’m not complaining,’ said the quarry worker. ‘I’ve got a good job and one that doesn’t involve bloody sheep!’

Bannerman smiled, and the quarry man warmed to his theme. He said, Tm telling you without a word of a lie, if you removed sheep as a topic of conversation from this town there would be a great silence.’

‘Get away with you!’ exclaimed one of the farm workers with a lazy swing of his arm, but there was no malice in it. The man’s face wore the smile of the old tolerating the foibles of the young.

‘Did the quarry bring many jobs?’ asked Bannerman.

‘About fifty,’ replied the quarryman, ‘between men from here and Stobmor.’

‘Coolies,’ said one of the shepherds. The Dutch keep all the cushy jobs for themselves. The workers are just coolies.’

The quarryman shrugged but didn’t rise to the bait.

‘Are there many Dutchmen?’ asked Bannerman.

Ten or twelve.’

‘Making a fat living out of Scotland,’ growled one of the others.

‘Maybe a Scotsman should have thought of it first?’ said the quarryman.

The topic of the quarry died out and Bannerman asked the farm workers if they knew the farm where the three men had died. Maybe they even worked there themselves?

Both men shook their heads. ‘We work the Liddell estate,’ said one. That’s well to the south of Inverladdie.’

‘I hear Inverladdie had trouble with Scrapie,’ said Bannerman. ‘Have you had any bother?’

‘No, touch wood,’ said the man with the crook. ‘We’re clear.’

Bannerman watched to see if any tell-tale glances would pass between the two farmhands but saw none. He knew that sheep farmers were often reluctant to admit to the presence of Scrapie in their flocks.

The landlord came into the bar and told Bannerman that his room was ready. ‘Would you be wanting anything to eat?’ he asked.

Bannerman found his eyes straying to the dried tomato stain on the front of the man’s cardigan. ‘What have you got?’ he asked.

‘We could do you, bacon and eggs?’

Bannerman fought off notions of homicide and was relieved to hear the man continue with alternatives. He ordered a steak and wished goodnight to his new-found companions in the bar before taking his bag upstairs. Bannerman noticed a distinctive smell as he climbed the stairs. It was the smell of small hotels all over the country, a mixture of dust, dampness and carpeting. He supposed that it had something to do with the fact that so many of these places had lain empty for quite long periods in their history. They had not been built as hotels of course, but had been large family houses at one time and had become too expensive to continue in that role. As a consequence, they had suffered neglect and decline, before eventually being rescued for sub-division or, as in the case of this one, conversion for use as a hotel. Bannerman suspected that during the times when such buildings had lain empty the cold and damp had crept into their floors and walls like ink spreading through blotting paper and had remained there ever since.

His own room appeared to be warm enough, thanks to an electric radiator that had been turned on to FULL, but it was surface warmth, a cosmetic warmth. He sat on the bed and found it firm and comfortable. There was a picture hanging above it depicting a trawler with waves breaking over its bow, which held the caption, ‘Heading for Home’ written below it in ornate writing. A gust of wind drove rain hard into the window pane and made Bannerman smile. ‘What a bloody good idea,’ he murmured.