Ripped (105 page)

As
they
came
up,
the
man
lowered
his
gaze
to
them.
'Aye,
Bob,'
he
said.
'I've
been
thinking
–
all
this
talk
about
the
Lower
Paid
Worker,'
he
gave
each
word
an
emphatic
capital,
'it's
awful
degrading,
ken.'

Murray
walked
on
a
few
steps.
The
white
marker
stone
in
front of
him
was
incised:
To a Merchant Seam: Of the Second World War August 1940, Known Unto God

Behind
him
he
heard
the
man's
complaint, ‘even
if
they
do
get
a
productivity
agreement,
it's
not
right.
You're
digging
a
grave
and
he's
there
with
the
stop-watch.
And
you
stop
to
itch
your
brow
and
the
watch
stops.
And
it
starts
when
you
start
–
but
it's
just
impossible
to
dig
out
a
hole
without
catching
your
breath.
And
then
he
says
to
me,
Now
the
box
is
such – and– such
so
I'll
allow
you
a
time
that
takes
that
into
account.'

At
last
the
old
man
plodded
to
join
him.
Taking
it
for
granted that
Murray
had
been
listening,
he
said,
'Oh,
it's
sacrilege'
–
the
word
took
Murray
by
surprise
–
'just
sacrilege.
Folk
should
be
allowed
to
go
in
peace,
not
pestered
with
watches
over
their
coffins
and
burial
places.'

'You
were
going
to
show
me
where
the
Fletchers
stay.'

'Ah
.
..
where
Sandy
bides
now.'

His
tone
gave
it
away
for
Murray
even
before
he
pointed
to
the stone.
It
stood
beside
the
one
to
the
dead
seaman
.
Sacred to the Memory of...

'That's
Sandy.
Grace
lives
with
a
sister
now –
somewhere
down
South
Shields
way
I've
heard,
but
I
couldn't
swear
to
that.
He
turned
Catholic
when
he
married
her,
but
he
turned
back
later –
and
that's
why
he's
there.'

'Did
Mr
Sinclair
know
them?'
Since
there
was
no
Catholic church
in
the
village
or
even
near,
the
minister –
assuming
he
had
been
here
and
possessed
even
of
normal
curiosity
–
remained
the
likeliest
source
of
information
about
the
Fletchers
'
adopted
children.

'Certainly.
And
he
knew
his
father
as
well
–
he's
buried
over there.'

'I'll
try
the
manse
then.'

'Ah,
but
he's
not
there.
He's
away
down
to
Miss
Sturrock's.
You
can
see
the
gable
end
of
her
house
from
here.
You'll
have
missed
them
though.
He
was
in
an
awful
hurry.'

But
as
he
came
to
the
house,
a
stout
white-haired
woman
in
a
tweed
skirt
and
anorak
was
drawing
the
door
shut
behind
her.
She
had
a
stick
tucked
under
her
arm
and
a
binocular
case
of
scuffed
leather
slung
over
her
shoulder.
Only
her
ankles,
disappearing
into
sturdy
boots,
seemed
vulnerable
.
She
directed
at
him
the
look
of
a
woman
who
would
not
welcome
an
interruption.

'Miss
Sturrock?'

For
an
uncharacteristic
moment
under
that
steady
gaze,
he wasn't
sure
if
he
had
caught
her
name
correctly.

'Should
I
remember
you?'
she
asked.

The
oddness
of
the
question
made
him
hesitate
.
'My
name
is Wilson.
It's
the
minister
I'm
looking
for
–
Mr
Sinclair.'

'You've
missed
him
by
about
half
an
hour.'
At
his
look
of
frustration,
she
relented.
'But
we'll
catch
him,
if
you
don't
mind
a
walk.'

Despite
the
thin
ankles
and
the
boots,
she
set
a
brisk
pace.
'If
I
hadn't
been
in
the
middle
of
a
baking,
you
wouldn't
have caught
me
either.
He's
had
a
sighting
of
a
yellow-browed
warbler
up
by
the
loch.'
She
gave
him
a
sharp
glance,
looking
for
a
reaction.
'You're
not
a
birdwatcher
yourself.'

'I'm
a
city
man,'
Murray
said
with
a
sour
private
smile.

They
turned
off
the
road
on
to
a
grudging
space
left
between
the
barbed
wire
edging
a
field
and
the
grey
stone
of
an
eight-foot
high
estate
wall.
He
fell
into
single
file
on
the
path
behind
her.
'I
used
to
take
the
children
up
here
on
summer
days,'
she remarked
over
her
shoulder.

He
grunted.

They
squeezed
through
a
gate
swung
in
a
half
circle
of
iron
guards
to
keep
out
sheep.
It
was
like
stepping
from
a
room
into
the
open
air.
Below
them,
the
sea
was
patterned
light
and
dark
from
the
scoured
valleys
that
lay
under
its
calm
surface.