Alexander McCall Smith - The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

She heard the waterfall before she saw it: a soft, thudding sound, not unlike that of some distant engine. And when they came to the point on the path where it revealed itself to them, again she stopped, and stood quite still in wonderment, her gaze travelling up the wispy column of water that fell, so effortlessly, like the tail of some supernatural white mare. At the foot of the waterfall, a pool had been hollowed out in rock from which all superficial accretion had been washed away; the pristine water was clear enough to show that the pool was deep in parts, deep enough to swim in, as Hugh had promised.

She looked at him as they stood at the edge of the pool. The sun felt warm, even this late, even at this height, and his brow was damp from the exertion of the climb, as was hers too. She half turned to find out whether they had lost sight of the sea, which must be behind them now. They had not; the field of blue was still there, and she saw a boat ploughing a tiny white furrow through it, halfway to the island of Mull.

She glanced over at Hugh, who took off his shirt and tossed it down upon a rock. She turned away, involuntarily, and looked again at the sea in the distance.

“I know that boat,” he said from behind her. “It belongs to some divers from Tobermory. They dive for scallops.”

The remark – made as a casual aside – made it easier for her to turn round. She saw him standing on the edge of the water, his clothes abandoned on the rock. He said, “Am I brave enough?”

She wanted to freeze the moment. “Yes, of course you are.” She paused, her hand upon the buttons of her blouse. “And I’ll try to be brave too.”

It was cold, cold to the bone, as he had said it would be, but they became accustomed to the temperature within minutes, again as he had said they would. She swam beside him, letting her hair float about her on the surface; he held her hand lightly, under the water. The spray from the waterfall was delicate upon her face; touched it, and disappeared.

He said, “I love this place so much.”

“I know. And I can see why.”

He swept his hair back, a wet slick across his forehead. “I want to live here, you know. I have to.”

She spoke without hesitation. “I know that too.”

“My father’s got only one chance of staying here – staying on the farm – and that’s if I help him with the hydro scheme. He can’t do it himself.”

“Then you must do it.”

“And you?”

“I want to be where you are. That’s all.”

How easy, she thought; how easy it was to change a life, to give up everything. A few words could do it.

He pressed her hand. She felt his leg touch hers. He was holding her, cradling her, so that she need not swim. “There’s an old place, a cottage that was used by the shepherd. It’s been empty for years. We could do it up – we could take our time, and do a little bit each year, as we can afford it.”

She looked up at the sky. Under which I shall live, she thought; and her decision was made. “We can do it right away. I can sell my flat in London and we can use the money to do up the cottage and live on the rest for … well, for ages, I expect.”

“If you find a buyer. It can take some time, can’t it?”

“I have a buyer.” She would sell it to Rupert. He had always wanted it, and now she would give it to him. She did not want to leave London to begin her new life in anything but a state of grace, which was what this place, this holy place, now asked of her, and would be given.

William French’s son, Eddie, had been an utter disappointment to his father, and to his late mother, his teachers, his scout leader, and most of his friends – except, of course, the loyal, uncritical Steve. His failure to achieve anything had begun early – at nursery school, in fact – and had continued throughout his brief period of tertiary education, when he had been given a last-minute place on an under-subscribed course at a struggling university in a remote part of the city. The course in film studies was not unduly onerous, requiring not much more than the watching of a certain number of films each week, but even that proved a strain of Eddie’s staying power, and he had dropped out. After that he had taken to spending the morning in bed in the flat he shared with his father in Corduroy Mansions.

Eddie had ignored his father’s frequent hints that he should find a place of his own. These had become more and more direct, and had eventually included offers to help with a mortgage. But why move? If one had a comfortable, reasonably central flat with porterage (father) and all meals provided (father), then why rough it in a shared flat where cooking would have to be done (Eddie) and contributions made to electricity (Eddie), gas (Eddie) and telephone (Eddie) bills? No, in common with many contemporary twenty-something-year-olds, Eddie saw no reason to leave the entirely comfortable nest that his father so thoughtfully provided.

Eventually the worm had turned, and Eddie had been driven out of Corduroy Mansions by William’s friend, Marcia, who had stood up to him in a way his father had singularly failed to do. Smarting, Eddie had moved into a flat with his friend, Steve, a move that would eventually have resulted in trouble over unpaid bills had it not been for a singular stroke of luck in meeting Merle. She was ten years his senior, but endowed with an overwhelming advantage that would cancel out any drawback in age: she had a beach house in the Windward Islands, where she owned a thriving marina and yacht chandlery. Eddie liked Merle, and she for some inexplicable reason reciprocated his affection. They set up home together, spending six months each year in the Windward Islands and six months in London. Eddie thought the arrangement ideal. He took to wearing an ex-Greek merchant navy captain’s cap, and spending his mornings at the marina telling the staff what to do.

“Sure thing, Captain Eddie,” they replied. But they never did what he asked them to do, and Eddie never noticed. So everybody was content.

Eddie and Merle were now back in London, and Eddie had decided to visit his father, whom he had not seen since his return. William had hoped that Eddie would bring Merle – he had never met her – but apparently she had business to do in Southampton and was unable to come.

“Next time, Dad,” said Eddie. “Merle’s not going anywhere.”

William thought this remark applied very aptly to Eddie, but did not say so. Instead he said, “I look forward to meeting her. She sounds very … very nice.” The trite praise was lame, but he wondered what else he could say about a person whom he had never met. She would probably be blowsy, he thought, a bit like a younger version of Marcia … He stopped himself. That was a disloyal thought. Marcia was not blowsy, or perhaps only a little bit. It was disloyal to think such things about a woman who had offered him nothing but friendship, and brought round to the house all those marvellous surplus snacks from the diplomatic receptions for which she catered.

“So, what are you up to, Dad?” asked Eddie cheerfully. “Same old, same old, I suppose.”

William drew a deep breath. He would not allow his son to condescend to him. He should point out that at least he worked, whereas Eddie did the same old, same old nothing. But he did not say it; he simply replied, “The usual. You know how it is.”

“Yes,” said Eddie. “It must be pretty boring.” He paused, looking around the room. “Where’s the dog? Where’s Freddie de la Hay?”

William looked out of the window. “He’s …”

He broke off. What could he tell Eddie?

Eddie looked suspicious. “Yeah? He’s what? Has he kicked the bucket?”