Page 56 of Little Wing
Nell could see the problem. She shook her head. ‘I only know that she must’ve arrived in 1969.’
‘’69.’
‘Yes.’
‘Florence Lawson.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t know where in Harris she lived.’
‘No.’
These weren’t questions; the woman was just stating the facts that Nell had dispensed. There was more, of course there was, but just then Nell felt reluctant to mention Florence’s pregnancy, as if aspersions might be cast. To reveal that actually, she was Florence’s daughter just made the whole thing sound unhinged.
‘I wasn’t here, back then. I’m from South Uist – I came here in 1974, when I married.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve been here ever since and I’d know anyone from 1974 onwards, but your Miss Lawson – before my time, dear.’ She watched Nell’s shoulders slump. ‘Will I refresh your tea? It’ll be cold now. Let me make you a hot cup. Looks like you need it.’
Nell sipped gratefully, looking out of the window at the comings and goings at the pier. Someone, somewhere, must know something. The name Florence Lawson had to ring a bell, even if muffled. Nell thought, if I was here for longer, I could put a notice up in the newsagent, in a local paper. But she had only four more days.
‘You should try at Leverburgh too.’
Nell jotted it down in her notepad.
‘Any news?’ Al greeted her, halting his conversation with a whiskery old boy.
Nell shook her head. ‘Any news at your end?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Al. ‘Nothing yet.’
It was ridiculous the amount Nell had brought with her, but she had packed for all eventualities. Just because there was no hint of Florence in Tarbert, there had to be signs elsewhere and that, Nell told herself, was why she’d lugged her walking boots and all this other waterproof stuff. That afternoon, she decided, she’d drive off in the little hire car and work her way along the few roads which traversed the island like veins on a hand. She spread the map out on the bed, drew her finger down the main road she’d taken from Stornoway to Tarbert. Should she head into South Harris and if so, branch off to the east of the island or stay on the road as it tracked to the west? Nell had seen pictures in the guidebooks of the stunning beaches along the Atlantic coast but Florence hadn’t come here for a holiday and neither had she. She’d also read about the Bays on the east side, to where islanders had been expelled during the Clearances, having to survive on the thin soil of the rocky and torn coast of jagged inlets. Was that where Florence was sent, as some sort of penance? Nell tapped the map with her fingertip. It seemed to call to her. That’s where she’d head.
‘I’m going east to the Bays,’ she announced to Al, as if embarking on an epic expedition. ‘And I’m going to follow the Golden Road.’
Al chuckled. She made it sound so exotic. ‘So called because of its expense,’ he explained. ‘It’s not an easy drive – but it’s rewarding, aye.’ He helped himself to her map. ‘The views of Skye from here.’ He pointed, shaking his head. ‘Unbelievable. Have you been to Skye?’
Nell didn’t want to chat, it was almost midday and she wanted to get going. ‘No,’ she said. She tried to take her map back.
‘Aye, you’ll want to visit Skye at some point,’ he said. He was putting his glasses on and her map was all his. ‘You know they filmed2001: A Space Odysseyalong here?’ He tapped at the map. She didn’t. He drew breath dramatically. ‘You’ll see why.’ He handed it back to her thoughtfully. ‘And you’ll have heard of the whalebacks?’ She hadn’t. ‘Aye. You’ll see.’
He watched her go; her anorak looked like it had seen better days. It was dull in areas where the waterproofing had gone, creased and cracked across the back, its hood hanging thin and misshapen. It was old and cheap. They didn’t make them like that any more; they used performance material now, concealed zips, ergonomically shaped and taped hems and cuffs, breathable fabric in crucial places and you paid, aye, you paid high for them now. Al thought she looked ill at ease in her walking boots, as if she’d bought them for one rugged holiday and they’d been back in their box ever since. He’d guess she lived in a city, that one. And he didn’t think she was in the film business if she didn’t know about2001: A Space Odysseybeing filmed right here. He no longer thought that she was a detective of any sort – she seemed too soft. And she didn’t know how to find this Florence Lawson. Nor, he feared, did he.
Never had Nell been frightened by a landscape but she was now and the emotion was rather thrilling. This was a coast created by some sort of extreme elemental violence; prehistoric rocks sheared off, spliced and thrashed at by Ice Age glaciers; bays and inlets sharp and tattered that had endured millennia being ravaged by the sea. The whalebacks, Nell came to see, were the vast boulder humps breaking through the ground. Everywhere, there was a pervading melancholy. A fair few houses stood empty and occasionally a rusted car or disintegrating boat slowly being absorbed into the landscape. It struck Nell that if it was hard to live along here in the twenty-first century for those who chose to do so, what had it been like for those with no alternative during the Clearances? Was this where Florence ended up? Negotiating perilous terrain, hands on her belly, protecting unborn Nell? Craving stability in a house that sat uneasily on its precarious plot? Had her mother navigated the ankle-twisting trudge along the tracks which clung, almost desperately, to the coastline? Had Florence stood, as Nell stood now, looking down on the swell of seaweed choke heaving in the inlets, gazing over the sea to Skye? Did her mother automatically sing ‘Speed Bonny Boat’ to herself, just as Nell was doing?
Was this where I was born? In a brave little cottage like that – in this stone-hard lunar landscape?
A few miles on, she came to a small gallery in a valiantly renovated cottage with a sign for refreshments. It was open and Nell stopped. She felt rattled. The cake, though, came in a large wedge and the tea was strong and served by the mug. The proprietors were happy for her to sit, lost in thought, cupping the mug, long after its contents were finished. Quietly, it was refilled.
‘I love these paintings,’ Nell said in a sudden rush. ‘Did you do them? And I’m wondering if you can help me. I’m looking for someone. Her name was Florence Lawson. She came to Harris in 1969. A teenager.’
‘Florence Lawson?’
Nell anticipated the answer before it was given.
‘Sorry – no. I don’t know that name.’
