‘Thank you, yes,’ Hamish replied. My uncle worships alone these days, and has done ever since his son left home to become a devout Capitalist (neither his wife nor his daughter had ever bothered with my Uncle’s unique brand of condemnationist Christianity; as a rule, the McHoan women, whether so by blood or marriage, have displayed a marked reluctance to take their men-folk’s passions seriously, at least outside the bedroom). I think that was why Uncle Hamish had been so delighted when I’d come to stay with the family, and also - perhaps - why he was in no hurry to help effect a reconciliation between me and my father.
We dined on spicy fish which repeated on me for most of the evening in the Jac, meeting pals, until I drowned it in an ocean of beer.
‘Happy New Year!’ Ashley yelled, flourishing a bottle of generic whisky with more enthusiasm than care; she cracked the bottle off the oak-panelled wall of the castle’s crowded entrance hall, but without, apparently, causing damage to either. Clad in a sparkly jacket and a long black skirt, wreathed in silly string and clumps and strands of paper streamers from party poppers, her long hair bunned, she enveloped me in a very friendly kiss, breathing whisky and wine fumes. I kissed right back and she pushed away, laughing. ‘Wo, Prentice!’ she shouted over the noise. The hall was packed with people; music spilled out from the main hall beyond; pipes and fiddles, tabors and accordions, guitars and a piano, several of them playing the same tune.
‘I thought you gave up,’ I said, pointing at the cigarette she had stuck behind one ear. Josh and Becky were still at the doors, greeting people they knew.
‘I did,’ she said, taking the fag from behind her ear and putting it in her mouth. She left it there for a few seconds, then restored it to its previous position. ‘See? Still given up; no temptation at all.’
Ash and I levered our way through the press of people while I undid my jacket and struggled to extricate my half-bottle of whisky from a side pocket. We made it into the hall, which was actually less crowded, though still full. A huge fire roared in the grate; people balanced on the fire-seat which ran around the hearth, and on every other available perch, including the stairs and the piano. A few enthusiasts within the midst of the crowd were trying to dance the Eightsome Reel, which in the circumstances was a little like trying to stage a boxing match in a telephone box; not totally impossible, just pointless.
Ash and I found a space over near the piano. She reached over the piano to a pile of little plastic cups, grabbed one and shoved it into my hand. ‘Here; have a drink.’ She sloshed some whisky into the cup. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Broke, and I can see that 2.1 disappearing over the event horizon, but fuck it; I’ve still got my integrity and my Möbius scarf, and a boy can go a long way with those things. You got a job yet?’
‘What?’
‘Let’s stand away from this fucking piano.’
‘What?’
‘Have you got a job yet?
‘Na. Hey.’ She put one hand on my shoulder. ‘Heard what David Bowie’s latest film’s called?’
‘This sounds Lewisian,’ I shouted.
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘ “Merry Christmas, Mister Ceausescu”!’ Ashley laughed like a drain; a teetotaller might have said her breath smelled like one.
‘Very funny,’ I yelled into her ear. ‘Haven’t laughed so much since General Zia got blown up. Where is Lewis, anyway? We were waiting for them to turn up at Hamish and Tone’s but they never showed. He and James here?’
Ash looked concerned for a second, then her smile returned. She put her arm round my shoulders. ‘Saw James over by the accordion earlier. Hey; you want to take a stroll round the battlements?’ She pulled a spliff half out of her breast pocket, let it fall back. ‘Got a number here, but Mrs McSpadden keeps wandering through, and I seem to remember she took inordinate and extremely loud interest in one of these last year when wee Jimmy Calder stoked up. You comin?’
‘Not right now,’ I said, looking around the crowd, acknowledging a few waves and some distant mouthings that were probably shouts. I stood on tip-toes to look round the hall; a paper-plane battle seemed to be taking place at one end. ‘You seen Verity?’
‘Not for a bit,’ Ash said, pouring herself more whisky. I refused. ‘Hey.’ Ash nudged me. ‘There’s dancing upstairs.’
‘Verity there?’
‘Maybe,’ Ash said, raising her eyebrows.
‘Let’s check it out.’
‘Way to go, Prent.’
... No Verity in the Solar, loud with sounds and dark with light, and less crowded still. Ash and I danced, then cousin Josh asked her, and I sat watching the people dance for a while - the best way to extract any real enjoyment from dancing, I’ve always thought, but I seem to be unusual in not gaining any real pleasure from performing the movements - and then saw Helen Urvill, entering the hall holding a lager can. I went over to her, through the dancers.
‘Happy New Year!’
‘Hey, Prentice. Same to you ...’
I kissed her, then lifted her up and spun her round; she whooped.
‘How are you?’ I yelled. Helen Urvill, elegantly tall and judiciously lean, straight thick hair obsidian black, dress combat-casual, back on holiday from Switzerland and looking as thoroughly kempt as ever, passed the lager can to me.
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
I looked at the tin she’d handed me. ‘Carling Black Label?’ I said, incredulous. Somehow this did not quite seem Helen’s style.
She smirked. ‘Try some.’
I tried some; the stuff foamed, went up my nose. I spluttered, stepping back, dripping, while Helen took the can back and stood grinning. ‘Champagne?’ I said wiping my chin.
‘Lanson.’
‘What else? Oh you’re so stylish, Helen,’ I said. ‘Wanna dance?’
We danced, and shared the can of champagne. ‘How’s Diana?’ I shouted above the music.
‘Couldn’t get back,’ Helen yelled. ‘Still out in Hawaii.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘Yeah.’
Helen continued to circulate; I decided it was time for a pee and then maybe some food, which took me via the garden (there was a queue for the downstairs loo, and the upper part of the castle was locked) to the kitchen.
Mrs McSpadden was in command, over-seeing a production line of sandwiches, sausage rolls, bowls of soup and chilli, slices of black bun and Christmas cake and accompanying slices of cheese.
‘Prentice!’ Mrs McSpadden said.
‘Mthth MnThpndn!’ I replied, mouth full of cake.
She shoved a set of keys into my hand. ‘Will ye pop down to the cellar, for us?’ Mrs S shouted. ‘Get another litre of whisky; it’s the second archway on the left. Dinnae let anybody down with you, mind; keep that door locked.’ The microwave chimed and she hauled a still half-frozen block of chilli out on a big plate; she started breaking it up with a large wooden spoon.
I swallowed. ‘Okay,’ I said.
I went through to the utility room, cool and dark after the noise and chaos of the kitchen. I turned the light on, sorted through the keys for one that looked like it might match the door to the cellar. A movement outside caught my eye and I peered through the window; looked like I’d put on an outside light, too.
Verity Walker, clad in a short black dress, was dancing sinuously on the roof of Uncle Fergus’s Range Rover. Lewis sat cross-legged on the bonnet of the car, watching her. He glanced over, shading his eyes, and seemed to see me, looking through the window from the utility room. Verity pirouetted. Holding her shoes in one hand, she ran the other down over her body to one thigh, then back to her head and through her cropped blonde hair. The floodlight outside - harsh and white - lit her like she was on stage. Her hair glowed like pale flame.
Lewis jumped off the Range Rover (Verity wobbled a little as the car bounced on its springs, but recovered); he stood at the side of the car, between me and it, and held one hand up to Verity. She danced on, oblivious, then he must have
said something, and she danced seductively, fluidly, to the edge of the roof, hips moving slow, a big smile on her face as she looked down at Lewis, then she threw herself off the roof. Lewis caught her, staggered back a couple of steps, then forward, as Verity wrapped her arms round his neck and her legs round his waist; white glances of thigh against the black. Lewis put his arms round her as he pitched forward.
They thumped together into the Range Rover. I thought the impact must have hurt her back, but it didn’t look like it had. Her arms and legs stayed where they were, and Lewis’s head bent down to hers. Her hands started to stroke and caress the nape of his neck and the back and sides of his head.
After a while, one of Lewis’s arms disengaged, waving behind him. One finger pointed up to the bright flood-light that was showing me all this. His hand made a cutting, chopping motion.
When he did it a second time, I put the light out.
I let myself into the cellar, locked the door behind me. The cellar was cold. I found the whisky, let myself out of the cellar and locked it, turned all the lights out, gave Mrs McSpadden the bottle, accepted a belated new-year kiss from her, then made my way out through the kitchen and the corridor and the crowded hall where the music sounded loud and people were laughing, and out through the now almost empty entrance hall and down the steps of the castle and down the driveway and down to Gallanach, where I walked along the esplanade - occasionally having to wave or say ‘Happy New Year’ to various people I didn’t know - until I got to the old railway pier and then the harbour, where I sat on the quay-side, legs dangling, drinking my whisky and watching a couple of swans glide on black, still water, to the distant sound of highland jigs coming from the Steam Packet Hotel, and singing and happy-new-year shouts echoing in the streets of the town, and the occasional sniff as my nose watered in sympathy with my eyes.
CHAPTER 8
Rory stood on the dunes, facing the sea. Lewis stomped away along the tide-line, kicking at the odd piece of driftwood and the occasional plastic bottle. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his camouflage jacket; his head - short-haired, these days - was down.
South Uist. Lewis seemed to be taking it as a personal insult that the family had come to the Hebrides for their summer holiday. People kept asking him what he was doing on Uist; Lewis was further north, ha ha.
‘He’s awful moody, isn’t he, Uncle Rory?’
Rory watched Lewis walk away along the beach. ‘Yeah.’ He shrugged.
‘Why do you think he doesn’t want to walk with us?’ Prentice’s thin face looked genuinely puzzled. Rory smiled, looked once more at Lewis’s retreating back, then started down the far side of the dune heading for the narrow road. Prentice followed. ‘I think,’ Rory said, ‘it’s called being at an awkward age.’
Kenneth, Mary and the boys had come holidaying to the Hebrides, as they did most years. Rory had been invited along too, as he usually was, and for a change had accepted. So far, they’d been lucky; the Atlantic weather systems had been kind, the days bright and warm, the nights calm and never completely dark. The big rollers boomed in, the wide beaches lay mostly empty, and the machair - between dunes and cultivation - was a waving ocean of bright flowers thrown across the rich green waves of grass. Rory loved it, somewhat to his surprise; a holiday from holidays. A place to stay where he didn’t have to take notes about flights and ferries and hotels and restaurants and sights. No travel book to think about, no articles, no pressure. He could laze.
He volunteered to take the boys on a walk after breakfast that Sunday. James had stayed behind and Lewis had been sullen for the half-hour or so they’d been walking before suddenly announcing he wanted to be alone.
Rory and Prentice walked on together, their short shadows preceding them. The road would be turning east soon, and taking them back to the main road so that they could turn south and walk back to the house. Lewis knew his way about the area, so Rory was happy to let him wander off alone.
A car passed them on the single track road, heading north; they stood aside to let it pass, waving at the single occupant when he waved at them. The surf was a distant wash of noise, rolling over the sparkling machair in invisible waves. Larks warbled, points of sound in the sweep of blue sky and small puffy clouds.
‘Is it all right to walk on a Sunday, Uncle Rory?’
‘All right?’ Rory said, glancing at the boy. In shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, he looked almost painfully thin. Rory wore an old cheesecloth shirt and cut-off jeans.
‘Aye; dad was saying you’re not even allowed to walk in some islands on a Sunday!’ Prentice rolled his eyes and puffed his cheeks out.
‘Well, yeah,’ Rory said. ‘I think they’re like that in Lewis and Harris. But that’s the hard-line prods up there. Down here they’re Catholics; bit more relaxed about that sort of thing.’
‘But not being able to walk!’ Prentice protested, shaking his head at his shadow on the grey-black tarmac.
‘I think you’re allowed to walk to church and back.’
‘Ho! Big deal!’ Prentice didn’t sound impressed. He was silent for a while. ‘Mind you,’ he said, sounding sly. ‘I suppose you could always take a very long way round.’
Rory laughed, just as his attention was caught by a little white blossom lying on the road surface in front of them. Prentice looked up, at first surprised, then smiling, when Rory laughed. Prentice stood on the flower, then jumped, shrieking with pain.
‘Ah; my foot! My foot! Oh! Oh!’
Rory stood, open mouthed for a second, watching Prentice hop around on the tarmac, clutching at one ankle, his face contorted. Rory thought for a second Prentice was pretending, but the boy’s expression convinced him he was in real pain. Prentice hopped onto the grass and fell over, still clutching at his foot; Rory could see something white stuck to the sole of the boy’s sandshoe.
‘What is it?’ he said, crouching down by Prentice’s side. The boy was shaking, and when he looked up at Rory there were tears in his eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ he sobbed. ‘Stepped on something.’
‘Let me see.’ Rory sat on the grass in front of Prentice and held his foot. The little white blossom he’d seen on the road’s surface was stuck to the boy’s sandshoe; it wasn’t a flower, it was a little paper charity flag for the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, the sort you secured to your lapel with a pin. The flag was still attached to its pin, which was buried in the sole of Prentice’s shoe. Rory sucked his breath in when he saw it; most of the pin must be inside the boy’s foot, near the middle of the broadest part of the sole.
Prentice’s foot and leg shuddered as he rolled on the grass. ‘It’s awful sore, Uncle Rory,’ he said, voice trembling.
‘It’s just a wee pin,’ Rory said, trying to sound encouraging. ‘I’ll have it out in a second.’
He licked his lips, rubbed his right index finger and thumb together for a couple of seconds and held Prentice’s foot steady with his left hand. He used the nails of his finger and thumb to find the head of the pin, itself almost buried in the tan rubber sole of the sandshoe. He grasped it. Prentice whimpered, foot trembling in Rory’s grip. Rory gritted his teeth, pulled.
The pin slid out; an inch of it, shining in the sunlight. Prentice cried out, then relaxed. Rory put the boy’s foot down gently.
Prentice sat up, face quivering. ‘That’s better,’ he said. He used one shirt sleeve to wipe at his face. ‘What was it?’
‘This.’ Rory showed him the pin.
Prentice grimaced. ‘Ouch.’
‘You’re probably going to need a tetanus injection,’ Rory told him.
‘Aw no! More needles!’
They took his shoe and sock off. Rory sucked at the tiny wound and spat, trying to remove any dirt. Prentice, eyes still watering, laughed nervously. ‘Is that not a horrible smell, no, Uncle Rory?’
Rory threw the boy’s white sock at him, grinning. ‘I’ve been to India, kid; that ain’t nuthin.’
Prentice put his shoe and
sock back on and got to his feet, obviously in some pain when he stood. ‘Here; I’ll give you a carry-coal-bag,’ Rory said, turning his back to the boy and putting his arms out from his sides as he crouched.
‘Really, Uncle Rory? You sure? Will I not be awful heavy?’
‘Hop on; you’re a bean-pole, laddie. I’ll probably go faster with you on my back; you walk too slow. Come on.’
Prentice put his arms round Rory’s neck and got up onto his back; Rory set off at a run. Prentice whooped.
‘See?’ Rory said, slowing to a fast walk.
‘I’m not too heavy, honest, Uncle Rory?’
‘What? A skelf like you? Never.’
‘Do you think this is a punishment from God for talking about walking on a Sunday, Uncle Rory?’
Rory laughed. ‘Certainly not.’
‘Do you not believe in God either, Uncle Rory?’
‘No. Well; not in the Christian God. Maybe something else.’ He shrugged his shoulders and shifted Prentice into a more comfortable position on his back. ‘When I was in India, I thought then I knew what it was I might believe in. But when I came back it all seemed to go away again. I think it was something to do with the place.’ He looked to one side, at the dazzling expanse of machair; endless emerald green scattered thick with flowers so bright they seemed lit from inside. ‘Places have an effect on people. They alter your thoughts. India does, anyway.’
‘What about when you went to America? Did that effect what you thought?’
Rory laughed gently. ‘Yeah; it did that all right. Kind of in the opposite way, though.’
‘Are you going to go away again?’
‘I expect so.’
Prentice elapsed his hands in front of Rory’s chin. Rory glanced at his wrists; thin and fragile looking. Prentice was still holding the little Lifeboat flag, twirling the pin between his fingers.
‘When did you stop believing in God?’ Prentice asked.
Rory shrugged. ‘Hard to say; I think I started to think for myself when I was about your age, maybe a bit younger.’