The Bark Cutters (40 page)

‘You all right in there?'

‘She was travelling very quickly!'

‘Do you know where the doc is, Jim?'

‘No, Dad.'

‘Hmm.'

A red-bearded face appeared in Sarah's window. ‘Are you all right, lass?'

‘Yes, yes, I think so.'

The door opened and Sarah found herself lifted up and out of her vehicle. After a few unbalanced moments, they reached dry ground and she was released from the grasp of the burly red-beard.

‘I'm Robert, and this is my son, Jim.'

‘Dad, I met her this morning.'

Beginning to shake, Sarah gave a broken thank-you. ‘Can we get my car out?' Her white sedan, having slid down the embankment appeared to be stuck fast, right on the water's edge.

‘I think we should find the doc for you first, lass,' the red-beard announced gruffly.

‘At the old ruin. She's from Australia.'

‘Australia,' Sarah mumbled before collapsing.

Sarah woke in a double bed, light streaming in from a narrow window. She looked about the room, saw her suitcase and handbag and gingerly got out of bed. Someone had rummaged through her belongings to find the T-shirt she was dressed in, her clothes were resting over the back of a wooden chair. On the bedside table she saw some brochures on items of local interest in the area and realised she was in the B&B she had booked. She dressed slowly, tied back her hair and walked slowly down the narrow staircase outside her bedroom.

‘Did you sleep well, then?'

A grey-haired woman bustled her through a doorway.

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘Good. There's porridge ready.'

Squeezing through the partially opened doorway, wedged in place by a protruding bookcase, Sarah entered the small, cluttered sitting room, managing to slip down between a solid pine table into a high-backed wooden chair. The pain hit her sharply.

‘Doctor says you've a fractured rib. I'm Mrs Jamieson. You were booked in here so,' she hunched her shoulders as if to suggest the entire situation was out of her control. ‘Nothing too serious that a good few days' rest won't cure.'

‘Oh.' Sarah looked around the small, cluttered room.

‘The publican will be here soon to take your statement.'

‘Statement?' Sarah breathed in, holding her ribs, until she managed to wriggle into a more comfortable position. ‘My car!' Water appeared in front of her eyes. ‘Do you know –?'

‘Lass, the Mackens brought you here. Didn't talk to them any more than that. Suffering from shock, the doctor said. You've been asleep since four o'clock.'

‘Oh,' Sarah replied weakly. The space in front of her was laid with a single vinyl place mat, cutlery and an assortment of jams.

‘The fish man will be here today. Dinner's at seven. How will you have your haddock? Creamed? Steamed? Baked? Breaded? There you are.' She placed a bowl of porridge down and flicked a tea towel over her shoulder. ‘Now would you like one or two eggs with your bacon, sausages and beans?'

Beneath Sarah's nose, steam from the porridge rose in huge bursts, almost matching the size of the serving. ‘Just one, thank you, Mrs Jamieson,' she sighed.

‘Just one? Dear, you're not used to our weather up here.'

‘Well I …' She hated to offend, especially when she was a guest.

‘You people always do so much walking about, and it's a long time before dinner. Changes every minute, you know. Look out there.'

Sarah rose awkwardly, leaning over her cooling porridge to peer through a small window set back in two-foot-thick walls. The house, situated on the side of a low hill, gazed down over a valley where creeping mist was only just beginning to recede from the paddocks. On the opposite side, a slightly larger hill was doing its best to block out the struggling summer sun. Sitting, Sarah pulled the sleeves down on her cotton shirt, thinking instantly of Wangallon's long, hot summers.

Discovering she was starving, Sarah quickly shoved five spoonfuls of watery meal into her mouth, her gaze straying to the crack of the kitchen door barely four feet away. She noted the bashed-looking two-seater and large armchair. A bookcase, crammed with wedding and christening photographs in cheap plastic frames, filled one wall. Shots of what could only be the woman's children and grandchildren intermingled with men in military-type jackets and kilts.

‘It was really very nice.' Sarah held up her bowl, as her hostess re-entered the room, ‘but I really can't eat anymore.'

A slight crinkle appeared between the older women's eyes. ‘It's a staple, you know, lass.'

‘Really?' Sarah gasped at the plate of eggs, bacon and sausages placed before her.

‘It makes oatcakes, scones, pudding, gruel and porridge. My personal favourites are “brose”, which is hot, and “crowdie”, which is cold, lass.' She fetched a pot of tea and four large slices of toast. Sarah gulped at the huge mound of food and ground a sprinkling of pepper over a dietician's disaster.

‘Anything else you need, just let me know.'

‘I will, but I'm sure I'll be fine, thanks.'

As Mrs Jamieson crossed the few steps to the kitchen, Sarah
took two large forkfuls of burnt bacon and overcooked sausage and poured herself a cup of tea.

‘Anything you need?' Mrs Jamieson enquired as she continued to hover in the kitchen doorway.

‘No, no, thank you,' Sarah replied.

The woman started scrubbing the woodwork surrounding the kitchen door. ‘With brose lass, you pour boiling water over a handful of meal and add a pinch of salt. Although butter, vegetable or bone-stock work just as well as variations.'

Sarah took another mouthful. ‘Call me, Sarah, Mrs Jamieson.'

‘Aye, lass.' The scrubbing continued. ‘Crowdie is my favourite, though. Some go for buttermilk or cream, but myself, I like whisky. Poured straight over. So, you're a Gordon?'

‘Well, yes.'

‘When did they emigrate?'

‘The 1850s.'

‘Hmm.' The reply sounded faintly disapproving. ‘Is your allegiance to Clan Gordon?'

Sarah shrugged, ‘Well, we have the same surname, so I assumed …'

‘No doubt you've got your piece of tartan, bought from a store in Edinburgh.'

‘Well, yes actually I do.' Sarcasm wasn't something Sarah was expecting to be dished up at a B&B. She placed her knife and fork down on her plate with emphasis. ‘My great-grandfather Hamish Gordon lost nearly everything he owned crossing a flooded river in New South Wales in the mid 1800s. It was my grandfather who showed me a picture of the Gordon colours. So yes, I purchased a woollen scarf.'

The scrubbing stopped. ‘It was him that emigrated then? This great-grandfather Hamish?'

Sarah nodded before resuming her meal. Clearly this snippet of information immediately gave her a modicum of respect.

Mrs Jamieson drew her eyes together, peering at her closely. The woman's creamy-skinned hands rose to her face, as if in recognition, but just as quickly she resumed her scrubbing. ‘You know, lass, just because you hold the same surname, doesn't mean you belong to the clan.' The dishcloth, scrunched and shoved into the pocket of a flowery apron, spread its wetness through the material. ‘Are you visiting relatives up here, lass?'

‘No.'

‘Looking up your forebears?'

‘No. Just interested to see where my family came from.'

‘Well, never mind. I expect you won't be staying long. You can wait here for Mike O'Reily and dinner's at seven.' The kitchen door shut firmly.

So much for Scottish hospitality, Sarah sniffed, pushing her half-eaten breakfast away from her. She could only assume that this O'Reily fellow was the publican. With a sigh she carefully manoeuvred her aching ribs away from the small table as the noise of a vehicle carried through the walls of the cottage.

‘How are you feeling?' A small weedy man, almost jockey height and dressed in dark trousers and braces walked into the cluttered room.

‘Much better, thank you. You are?' Sarah asked, a little affronted as three more men crowded into the room. Clearly they didn't stand on ceremony here.

‘The doctor. It's Sarah, isn't it?'

‘Yes. Sarah Gordon.' At her name, an obvious glance passed between the doctor and an amiable-looking man beside him.

‘Well, I'll check you, Sarah Gordon.' The doctor rose.

Unsure if he intended to examine her then and there, Sarah held her palm out. ‘If you don't mind, Doctor, I'd prefer not to have an audience. Besides, I'm fine.'

‘Well, with a name and temper like that, she must be Scottish.'

Sarah turned slowly at the familiar voice. ‘Do I know you?' she asked.

Piercing violet eyes struck her. ‘My name's Jim.' He smiled.

They were the same as hers and her grandfather's …

‘We met in the ruin. She didn't talk much then, either. It was my father and I that nearly hit you yesterday.'

‘I think she may still be suffering from shock.' The doctor was kneeling beside her, studying her face.

‘Your, your eyes?' Sarah finally spoke, conscious of the room watching her. ‘I'm all right, Doctor, please sit down. I'm sorry, Jim just reminded me of someone.'

Mrs Jamieson cleared her throat and introduced the room. ‘Lass, that's Jim and his father Robert Macken, the doctor of course, and Mike O'Reily, the publican. And this came for you.'

Sarah accepted the envelope and then thanked the Mackens for rescuing her. In return they all commented politely that it was no problem at all. Sarah had the distinct feeling her accident provided them with some entertainment, for although they no doubt all had reason for being there, she doubted she warranted such attention. ‘You obviously don't have too many accidents,' Sarah said lightly.

‘Well, Sarah …'

She tried not to stare at Jim but it was difficult. He was almost six feet, about as tall as her father, dressed in heavy cord trousers, grey bulky jumper and a tweed cap.

‘Mike's here to take down the details of the accident. He'll also inform the hire car company for you. So you don't have to worry. And, of course, you have your luggage.'

‘Yes, thank you,' Sarah answered quickly. ‘How soon before we get my car out?'

‘Ah, Sarah.' The strong accent came from Jim's father, Robert Macken. ‘Your car is gone, lass. The edge of the Middling Loch is pretty boggy.' He finished stuffing his pipe and lit it.

Sarah grasped the armrest of the chair and pulled herself forward into his circle of smoke. ‘What do you mean, gone?'

Robert Macken puffed heavily on his pipe and blew the smoke out noisily. Sarah momentarily envisioned herself stuck in Tongue for the rest of her life. Somehow, the idea did not bother her as much as it should have.

‘It sunk, Sarah,' Jim answered.

‘Sunk?' Sarah echoed. ‘It can't have sunk. It only went to the edge of the loch, not into the bloody thing.' Her ribs pulled painfully as she rose. ‘Will someone please take me out there?' she asked through gritted teeth.

‘Settle down now, lass,' suggested Robert Macken.

Sarah stomped to the front door, trying not to hurt her ribs as she struggled to pull her boots on.

Sardined between the Mackens, they reached the loch in silence. Sarah walked carefully down the embankment. Horrified, she felt her feet sinking deeper into the silty ground until she reached her car. She stopped at the tracks leading down through the soft, boggy ground. Surrounded by oozing mud and water, only the hire car's roof showed. Shaking her head disbelievingly, she took a few steps backwards before sitting with a thud on the ground, her ribs paining at the impact. ‘Shit!'

‘It's the ground around here, you see.' Jim squatted beside her. ‘You can get these peaty bogs anywhere in Scotland.'

Sarah turned to look at him. ‘But it's so dangerous.'

‘Not really. You saw yourself how boggy it was. You didn't go any further.'

‘That means no stock can use it, though.'