Island-in-Waiting (10 page)

“Now what's the matter?” he demanded unevenly.

“That's enough, and it's no use threatening me again.” I sat up and pushed back my hair. “Don't make the mistake of thinking I'll submit to anything for fear of being ‘punished' as you call it. What's the penalty for refusing to kiss you, anyway? A visit to Cronk-ny-arrey-lhaa?” I broke off, seeing his eyes widen. “There – isn't such a place, is there?” The name had come into my mind without thought.

“Indeed there is, a Viking burial mound. What's more, you pronounced it perfectly. Perhaps I need a yellow flower in my buttonhole after all.”

Protection against witchcraft – “It's your own fault,” I said shakily, “you deliberately triggered it off.”

“But you brought it on yourself, didn't you now? You were being rather stubborn, my love, and I felt it was time for a demonstration of how the land lay. I think you'll agree it was effective.”

“So far,” I said slowly, “you've always had the advantage of surprise. Now that I know what you're trying to do you'll find it isn't so easy.”

He gave a short laugh. “A challenge, is it? Right, my lovely, we'll see who's the stronger. Now, do we call a truce and go on with the tour?”

“Only if you promise to abide by it and not attempt any more take-overs.”

“Take-overs,” he repeated slowly. “A good description, that, though I'd prefer to think of it as a merger; a complete merger, body, mind and soul. How does that strike you, Chloe Winter?”

I shook my head. “Out of the question.”

“We'll see, we'll see. Now, after all this mind-bending I'm sure you're in need of a bite of lunch. Don't look so wary, my love! I won't play any more games with you today.”

So we stopped for lunch at an isolated little inn and then drove on along Foxdale and down the Sloe road through bleak mountain stretches with South Barrule towering over us and thickly wooded plantations on every side. And Ray, his good humour restored, started again on snippets of folklore – about the Rider of Sloe, the Ben-varreys or mermaids round the coast, the fearful Tarroo-ushtay that lived up in the Curraghs and the Nightman who blew on his bugle before a storm.

But though I listened to his stories and made comments where expected, I couldn't forget that a challenge had been offered and accepted, and while Ray regarded it simply as an exciting contest, for myself it was a question of survival.

On the hillside below Cregneish we stood looking across the sound at the low-lying Calf and the half-submerged rocks known as Kitterland and Ray told me the story of the drowned Norwegian baron they commemorated. “And we have our own Atlantis lying out there somewhere,” he added. “Fishermen say it rises up sometimes in the morning mist. It was once an island as big as Man, inhabited by a three-legged race who came across here on raids. Do you know the motto of the three legs, by the way?

‘Whichever way you throw me, I stand'. Very appropriate, wouldn't you say, since the island's been tossed about between the Scots, the Vikings and the English and still retains its independence.”

We turned back to the car and I knew there was a question I had to ask in spite of myself. “Isn't there a legend about Lugh the Harpist?”

He glanced at me sharply. “Back to Uncle Tom?”

“When he put us into the trance he played something he called Lugh's Sleeping Tune.”

“That's right. Lugh of the Long Arm was the son of Kian, who ruled Erin, and was sent over here to be educated with Mannanan's sons. He became a great harpist and played three wonderful tunes, the Laughing Tune, the Sleeping Tune and the Weeping Tune. I'd have to check the details with Granny Clegg, but I think his country was invaded and he went back to defend it, armed with Mannanan's sword The Answerer.”

“It's a pity he didn't have a Waking Tune,” I said ruefully.

We were silent as we drove back past Port St Mary clustering round its little bay and on to the ancient capital of Castletown. Something about the brooding castle and dark, narrow streets depressed me and suddenly I was longing for the warmth of Hugo's fire and curtains drawn against the approach of darkness.

“Hadn't we better be making our way back?” I asked tentatively. “It'll be getting dark soon and we shan't be able to see much anyway.”

“I'd thought we could have dinner somewhere.”

“Martha's expecting me for a meal and I am rather tired.”

“Just as you like. By the way, I meant what I said about painting you. Out on the hills somewhere. I have a place in mind, not far from Ballacarrick.”

“How long would it take?”

“Two or three sittings, perhaps, a couple of hours at a time. I've a feeling it could be the best thing I've done.”

“But I'll only be here for another week.” As I spoke my mind went unbidden to Neil.

“Do you never listen to what I tell you? Didn't I say the day we met you'd be here a long time? Don't be thinking you'll escape me that easily!”

An apprehensive shiver ran down my spine. “You can say what you like,” I declared roundly, “but one more week is my limit. After that I must go back and decide how I'm going to set about earning my living.”

“I'll not argue with you. I've a free day every second Tuesday and it falls next week. Shall we make a start then, weather permitting?”

I hesitated. The thought of being alone with Ray on a deserted hilltop was not enticing but a numb kind of acceptance was closing over my mind and somehow I felt that this had to be and it was useless to try to avoid it.

“All right,” I said, “provided Annette St Cyr is well enough to do the lunch by then.”

We drove up the mountain road, dropped down into Ramsey and so through Sulby to Ballacarrick. The shadow of the hills crept closer as evening approached. Winter was coming too, I thought with a touch of sadness. There were drifts of leaves lying in the gutters like spendthrift gold and by the corner of the old school house two small boys were trundling a grotesque-looking guy in a wheelbarrow. Tonight the clocks would go back an hour. The long-drawn-out concession to summer was coming to an end.

“When will I see you?” Ray asked as we drew up outside the cottage.

“Tuesday will be quite soon enough.” I reached for the door handle but he gripped my arm.

“Come on, now. You'll not be going without a goodnight kiss.”

I bent forward swiftly and kissed him on the mouth.

“Good-night, Ray. Thanks for showing me round.” And before he could stop me, I slid quickly out of the car.

He leaned across the passenger seat and looked up at me. “The truce is over Chloe. From now on it's each of us for himself. O.K.?”

“O.K.”

He started the car and I stood looking after him until the red tail-light turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

We went to the college chapel the next morning as Martha had promised, and sitting with the staff in the gallery were able to look down on the serried rows of unusually tidy boys in their Sunday uniform. The building was Gothic in style and the stained glass window above the altar reminded me of Holman Hunt's famous picture
The Light of the World.

But despite the deep peacefulness of the atmosphere and the sweetness of the boys' voices, I found it impossible to anchor my thoughts. There was too much in my mind of pre-Christian folklore on this sunny morning for the comfortable words of the Prayer Book to reach me, and though I joined in the familiar hymns my thoughts continued to circle round Celtic burial grounds, sun-worship and the lovely hillside above St John's, where the atmosphere was still charged with terror after three hundred long years.

I was also aware that several of those near us had been giving me curious looks, and I wasn't anxious to linger after the service but a group had gathered at the door and as we passed Simon Fenton called, “Shall we be seeing you all at the King Orry this evening?”

Hugo paused. “Possibly. We haven't really thought about it yet.”

“Well, the gang will be there, if you can make it. You coming, Pam?”

Pam Beecham flung me a spiteful glance. “Yes, Neil and I'll probably go along as usual.”

And it happened again. I heard myself say urgently, “Don't go out this evening, Pam, please!”

Everyone turned to me in surprise and Pam regarded me open-mouthed.

“Well, I must say –!”

“I mean it. Whatever happens, please stay in. It's desperately important.”

“I've heard some things in my time, but really!”

“Listen, there'll be a phone call – a vital one. You'll never forgive yourself if you're not there.”

She continued to stare at me and I saw the uncertainty in her eyes. After a moment she said jerkily, “You're turning into a regular little sybil, aren't you? And what
is
this phone call, may I ask? Tell me now and I needn't bother staying in!”

The urgency drained out of me as suddenly as it had arisen. “I don't know,” I said dully. “I just know it's terribly important.”

“Better listen to her, Pam!” Carol said with an uneasy laugh. “She was right about John.”

“Nonsense, it was just a fluke. I don't believe a word of it.”

I shrugged and turned away, anxious now to escape from the curiosity on their faces. Pam came after me and said in a low voice, “I suppose you think if I cry off this evening Neil'll ask you instead? Sorry, my dear, you'll have to be a bit less obvious than that!”

I said wearily, “You're wrong, Pam, but it's up to you. I've tried to warn you, that's all. If you won't listen there's nothing more I can do.”

Martha came up and took my arm. “Come on, love, we left a joint in the oven, don't forget!” And she guided me swiftly back to the car.

“You really meant that, didn't you?” Hugo said as we drove out of the gates.

“It just suddenly came into my head.”

“And you don't know what this phone call would be about?”

“No.”

“Well, you're certainly livening things up around here, I must say!” But his eyes in the driving mirror were troubled and I regretted the compulsion which had once again forced me to make an exhibition of myself.

“Martha, who was Illiam Dhone?” I asked suddenly during lunch.

“William Christian – Brown-haired William. Did Ray mention him? He's by way of being the Manx national hero.”

“What – happened to him?”

“He was shot for treason on Hango Hill, though it seems he was innocent. The Earl of Derby trumped up charges against him.”

‘A prompted and threatened jury' –
the few words I had caught.

“When was that?”

“His alleged offences were during the Civil War but he wasn't shot till 1663. The King's pardon arrived just too late to save him.”

1663. Had I slipped so completely into that year that the national grief had become mine, his death, as the ballad had it, broken my own heart? And was this just one more legacy from Tom Kelly?

“I think I'll go for a walk this afternoon,” I said abruptly.

“By yourself?” queried my shrewd brother.

“If you wouldn't mind. There are a few things I need to make my mind up about.”

I felt their exchanged glances, but all Martha said was, “Try Tholt-y-Will, then, in Sulby Glen. The scenery's superb. It's quite a Way from here but we can run you to the top and leave one of the cars lower down for you to make your way back to.”

Later that afternoon I was glad I had accepted her suggestion. Sulby Glen was spectacular indeed. The road wound through a narrow tunnel of trees which gradually opened out until we were running along one side of a widening valley. On our right the hill rose steeply from the road, thickly covered with gorse and bracken above which the closely packed trunks of majestic pines and firs towered overhead blotting out the sweep of mountainside. On the left the ground fell steeply away to the floor of the valley, where the torrents of centuries cascading down the face of the mountain had eaten into the rock causing an enormous fissure. On one side of this a waterfall still fell, swelling the quickly flowing river at its foot and creaming round the pile of jagged rocks and slate which formed a natural dam. Above this dramatic foreground whitewashed cottages perched precariously amid the folds of the hillside and low walls of Manx stone ran over the greenness which was liberally dotted with the snowflakes of grazing sheep.

At the inn halfway up we waited while Martha, who'd been following behind in her car, parked it in the forecourt and came to join us. “Here are the keys. I think you'll have had enough by the time you get back here.”

“I'm sure you're right!” I commented, peering up the steepening road ahead of us. A few minutes later we came out at the top of the glen. To the left a grey stone wall curved away screening the view down the valley and ahead of us the ground levelled off into patches of scrubby gorse and bracken. Hugo stopped the car and pointed out a gate in the wall.

“That's the way you go. It's fairly steep on the way down, so be careful.”

“I will. Thanks for the lift.” The wind whipped my hair stingingly across my face as I got out of the car. With a wave Hugo turned back down the glen and I manoeuvred my way through the gate. A breathtaking panorama met my eyes, fold after fold of rounded hills blazing with different coloured trees and sweeping stretches of rust bracken. The air was full of the noise of rushing water.

“Hello,” said Neil Sheppard.

I spun from my contemplation of the view and saw a wooden bench set back against the wall, from which he had risen. “All by yourself?”

“Yes.”

He came over and stood beside me, staring out to where the sea lay between the farthest hills. “It's magnificent, isn't it? I often come up here on a Sunday afternoon. A little solitude is very salutary now and again; there's not much, opportunity for it at college.”