Page 53 of Little Wing
They detoured to Mrs McKeon’s to pick up Ben the dog who was beside himself to see Dougie and they stayed for tea and her incomparable cake before heading for the house. There’ll be many who’ll be wanting to have a look at you, Shauna warned Dougie lightly.
The Munro house looked as it always had, looked as it should. Unlike his old school which now seemed to belong in Toy Town, or Mrs Mackeson who was actually a benign soul and not the terrifying harridan of his childhood memory, to Dougie his house never changed. It was as he remembered, always the same. Positioned at an angle to offset the wind, the house looked askance at the coast, its end walls solid and windowless, each bisected by the thick artery of chimneybreast. He’d always seen his house as a face, kind eyes either side of the deep-set front door, the dormer rooms in the roof liked raised eyebrows. His grandfather had planted many trees but only the conifer and rowan to either side had taken and these Dougie saw as the bushy whiskers to the house’s physiognomy. Sheep had made themselves at home in Gordon’s absence but mumbled off as they drove up. Ben scrabbled from the back seat as soon as the door was opened and performed joyous laps. None of the dogs ever strayed – they had all instinctively known where the perimeter of the homestead reached even though there was no proper fence. Gordon led on to the house, tipping his head at thecruach, the peat stack, as he passed. Dutifully, Dougie lifted afàd, a chunk as glossy and rich brown as chocolate, and brought it in.
The house. It smelt the same and nothing had changed. Everything about it was solid and steady and without whimsy. There was no place for trinkets and frivolity, only for decent furniture and functional rugs and throws; the pictures and maps on the walls alluded to places or people known and a gathering of framed photographs on the mantel, on the sideboard, further preserved memories. As Gordon lit the fire he could sense his son standing still on the flagstones just inside the front door, the worn topography familiar under his socked feet. If the boy’s mother were still alive, she’d say he wasjust having a moment. Dougie could hear her too. I know, Ma. That’s what I’m doing.A’ gabhail mionad. I’m just having a moment.
His room upstairs. Clean and welcoming. It wasn’t kept as a shrine. Over the years, the posters had been removed once the Blu Tack had ceased to hold the corners, rolled up and stored. And when the patchwork of photos above his bed had furled and faded they’d been taken down too and placed in a shoebox for safekeeping. All those trophies for running and swimming had been put inside the cupboard because otherwise they’d just attract the dust. The bed was stripped so that the mattress aired and the linen didn’t stale. But it was still Dougie’s room.
He unpacked his rucksack, returning his things to their designated drawers. Into the bathroom he took his wash bag, noting only the one bath towel. It struck him then how his father had not known whether his son would be returning with him. Momentarily, Dougie imagined Gordon arriving home today alone and his heart creaked. But I’m here. He took a fresh towel and placed it on the rail. On the landing, from the airing cupboard, he collected sheets for his bed and took them back to his room. I’m here.
Nell’s room at the Harris Hotel was cosy and clean and quiet. The furniture was satisfyingly mismatched and the pictures were unique little oils and faded watercolours of hills and lochs and blackhouses. The view was to the giant rise of the hill whose peak she could not see. Delicious wafts of chips and fish and pies had accosted her on her way to the hotel reception and now, an hour later and still sitting on her bed, Nell realized that beneath the exhaustion she was starving. She left her room, taking her notebook and pen even though she doubted that her first evening would bring someone who knew everything. It wasn’t a new notebook. There was a page with an old shopping list, another with a phone number with no name, film times for a movie she knew she hadn’t seen. These sheets she tore out. She needed blank pages for the facts, which she’d document in this notebook. This would be where she would write the final full stop. Draw a line under it all. Close the book and go back to life as she’d always known it.
The restaurant was quiet so Nell chose the bar which, though not crowded, had a buzz. The man behind the bar – he seemed the right generation. And that couple sitting over there. And him. And him. And those two ladies. See. Everyone friendly, everyone acknowledging her. Most said hello but Nell, who usually found smiling and conversation to be contagious, felt herself clam up. She was struck not so much by shyness, as she was unnerved by the presence of people who really might know. She felt a sudden reluctance to get the ball rolling because once it rolled she didn’t know how fast it would go, what route it would take and what it might pick up on the way. Ultimately, where would it come to a stop, where was the end? And was she really ready? No, just then she didn’t think she was. She considered going back to her room and making do with a cup of tea and the two shortbread in the packet by the kettle.
But the smell of chips. And the warm lighting, the comforting and characteristic swirls of hotel carpet and the snug conviviality of the bar. Nell took a seat and concentrated on the menu, ordered, and while she waited, she filled the first page of her notebook with awkward, hasty doodles and not very good ones. Her food arrived and she ate her fish and chips, staggered by how much she could shovel in and how profoundly delicious it was. She had pudding too and a cup of tea and she asked for a jug of water to take upstairs with her. She closed her notebook and made eye contact with no one.
It was not quite 8.30 when she returned to her room and there she stayed for a full twelve hours. Her phone was switched off – there was no signal anyway. She hadn’t told anyone she’d arrived. No one knew where she was staying. Just that she’d gone to Scotland. For a bit. She flicked aimlessly through TV channels. She did not know how to think about anything and was desperate to dream of nothing.
Gordon was happy enough with his fire and his pipe and his dog whose eyes flicked between his master and the stairs. Dougie would come down when he was good and ready. There’d be stew for dinner and Mrs McKeon had picked up bread and milk for them so plenty to eat. The day drew dark and Gordon tuned in to the utter silence of the house. Followed by the dog, he went upstairs where the last of the light bathed the outside mauve and the inside sepia. The sea could be heard but hardly seen and the sky hung low and heavy.
Dougie’s door was ajar. Gordon had fixed the creaking hinge a few months ago and it opened soundlessly. There he was, his boy, sound asleep on top of his bed, facing away to the wall with an old tartan blanket pulled over him. Thirty-eight years old. What did that matter or mean? Meant Dougie was a man – but this man was also Gordon’s boy and that was that. Gordon rested his hand on his son’s head and then he backed away, leaving Ben curled on the rug beside the bed. He’d go downstairs, check the fire, put the stew on and listen to the radio. That’s what he did this time of day anyway.
Wednesday, Thursday
Nell spent her first day walking slow and self-conscious misshapen circles of only slightly increasing diameter, doggedly avoiding all eye contact. She justified that this was the day to get her bearings, just get a feel for the place and not worry about conversing with local folk, never mind asking questions to facilitate her search. The town was much smaller than she’d thought, just Main Street and Pier Road forming a T from the harbour to the top of the village though protracted traffic flow made it seem busier. But she felt conspicuous mooching about: it was a working day and people walked with purpose. Akram’s. John Morrison. A D Munro. Tarbert Stores. In her notebook she jotted downbank,postoffice,medicalcentre,garage. If she wanted sheep dip, she could buy it in Tarbert. If she needed a broom or a bucket, she’d find it here. The place felt sensible and moderate. Tarbert’s main focus was the islanders and, to that end, pandering to tourists was not a priority. Even a very old shop selling traditional hand-woven Harris Tweed was practical and not prettified. It was inside here that Nell wiled away a portion of the afternoon. Racks and stacks of jackets, coats, skirts, suits, hats, dog leads, table mats, slippers, shawls – there was a durable warmth to it all. The colours of the wool and the patterns woven reflected the spirit of the place; the hills, the heather, the peat, the machair, the salmon, the plumage of golden eagle and corncrake, the water. No one hassled her, they just let her be. Had Florence ever been in here? Had they responded to Florence the same way, with quiet equanimity, just letting her be? Or was there discredit and scorn for a pregnant teenager seeking shelter on their isle? Nell couldn’t know without asking. But she wasn’t ready to ask anything other than how much the cushion cover was. It was woven with mauves and pinks and shot through with a little mid-blue and just a touch of rust red. It would make her love seat look not so empty. Maybe she’d buy it tomorrow. Or before she left on Tuesday. She mumbled thank you as she headed for the door.
In the bar that evening, over fish and chips again, Nell busied herself with her notebook with its one page of doodles and one short list of businesses in Harris. She turned the page and wroteTHURSDAY, embellishing the letters as she thought about tomorrow. Tomorrow, she told herself, she would start work. She’d ask questions and would dig for details. Definitely. Because, she said to herself, I don’t even know if Florence actually lived in Tarbert. And if her home wasn’t here in the town, however will I find her?
She woke early but stayed in her room late until she felt fuggy and irritable with herself. She went downstairs, determined to approach the man who was usually at reception, a cheery fellow whom she reckoned was manager on account of the camaraderie and attention bestowed on him by clients and the scurrying efficiency he elicited from the staff. He was there indeed but chatting to someone, so Nell went through and had breakfast. He was deep in conversation with another person when she’d finished so she decided she’d just pop back to her room for a bit. However, he’d gone by the time she came downstairs again. She’d have some fresh air, then. It was almost lunchtime before she dawdled back to the hotel, determined now to speak to the man.
He was on the phone, having a good blether.
She loitered as inconspicuously as she could before deciding better of it and she was heading to the stairs, to her room, when he called after her.
‘And how are we today?’
Nell, though, faltered. ‘Oh,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘very good. Thank you.’
‘Anything I can help you with, missy? I was on the phone, there, to Morag Fraser. And can she talk!’
Nell turned to face him. There he was with his beaming face, ruddy and kind; his happy paunch and jaunty tie. ‘Um.’ She paused. ‘Maybe.’
‘And what would that be?’ He was perhaps forty years old. Too young to have known Florence. But still – he seemed to know everyone.
She clung to the banister. ‘I’m trying to locate someone,’ she rushed quietly. ‘A young woman – a girl really – who came to live here from England over thirty years ago.’
He tipped his head to one side and considered her expression, the way her eyes darted from her feet to criss-crossing his face. She looked pale, tired. He wondered what sort of a trip it was that this Englishwoman was making, midweek at this time of year. She wasn’t a hillwalker or birdwatcher, she wasn’t rugged enough. Perhaps some kind of artist, maybe a writer. Or perhaps she was an undercover detective, now that would be quite something. He walked over to her.
‘Alasdair Scott-Goddard, general manager – but please, you can call me Al. Paul Simon said so. Thirty years ago, you say?’
‘And I’m Nell. Well, 1969.’
‘And her name?’
‘Her name was Florence.’
‘Florence—?’
He was waiting for a surname. Nell faltered. What would it have been? Her mind had emptied. Nell had Jimmy’s surname – Hartley. That was what her mother still went by. Wendy Hartley. Or, to Sylvie and most of the staff, Mrs H. What was her mother’s maiden name? Whatwasit?
