The Bark Cutters (41 page)

‘Stock?' Jim laughed, placing his hands behind her back to gently ease her upwards.

Reaching the top of the road, Sarah grimaced at the waiting men. ‘Sorry, I had no idea.'

Robert Macken lifted his eyes to the sky.

Sarah set off at a slow pace, her ribs aching with each breath as she trekked upwards behind the house whose back wall was dug well into the hill's soil. The green and purple vegetation blew in ripples. Here and there clumps of purple swelled, sprigs of violet appearing to dart towards her, gleaming with life amid the prevailing sombre browns. Navigating a crumbling stone fence, Sarah continued her ascent up the steep hill, her hand crumpling the now opened envelope shoved deep into the pocket of her coat. The memory of her submerged car made her swear quietly under her breath as she acknowledged that for the time being, she was stuck in one of the most northerly parts of Scotland.

On the hilltop she made out the outline of a cairn. The pile of rocks, statue-like in appearance, was in line with another cairn on a hill further into the distance. Standing on top of a boulder, Sarah turned slowly in a full circle. There was nothing behind her except hills and lochs, the cairns on each substantial rise silhouetted against the horizon. It was all so endless. She crossed the gully separating Mrs Jamieson's mound from the taller one with the cairn. She was not far from the ocean, yet there was only the musty odour of soil and dampness seeping upwards from the green–brown ground. The tussocky vegetation was deceptive. Twice Sarah found her heavy boots breaking through soil and grass to hidden streams below. They were only tiny trickles at this time of year, yet they were enough to twist an ankle if you weren't looking. By the time she reached the top of the next steep hill, where the cairn stood proudly, Sarah was exhausted. She touched the mound of stones; many had rolled
down and were lying at the base. Stooping to pick up a rock, Sarah added it to the pile.

Finally, her left hand closed around the crumpled telegram in the pocket of her canvas jacket.

It would seem that the doctor had taken it upon himself to contact Jeremy, whose booking details were included with the hire car paperwork. In her right hand she weighed a smooth rock, feeling its curved surface, squeezing her palm against it as if she could release its strength. It didn't matter where she was in the world, someone always had to stick their nose into her business.

The next morning Sarah felt much better, except that she only had one more night booked at the B&B, a slight problem considering she had no vehicle. She finished her coffee and scooped up the last piece of egg with her fork. Immediately Mrs Jamieson was out of the kitchen and clearing the table.

‘So lass, when are you leaving?'

‘I was hoping I could stay a few more days, if you aren't expecting more guests. I have to wait until I get a car.'

Mrs Jamieson paused in her clearing of the table as if considering her request. ‘I'll manage.' She peered through the narrow window. ‘You expecting anyone?'

Sarah walked outside.

‘Need some company?' Jim Macken pulled up in a screech of old tyres and spurting gravel with a broad smile. ‘How are the ribs?'

‘Oh, heaps better, thanks,' Sarah smiled warmly, standing cautiously to lessen the slight pain from her ribs as she zipped up the front of her jacket.

‘Good, then you'll be up for an adventure. Firstly though I hear you're to get a new car. A week, they tell me.'

‘A week.' Sarah looked out towards the mountains. ‘Damn.'

‘Tongue isn't that bad, Sarah Gordon. Unless there's something you need to be hurrying off to?'

Mrs Jamieson called out from the cottage door, her hands wiping the rumpled floral apron about her waist as if they were separate from her body. ‘The lass is still suffering from her recent accident, Jim,' she declared, crossing her arms and giving a stiff nod that caused a lock of grey hair to fall down over her forehead.

Jumping into Jim's old truck, Sarah slammed the door, trying not to wince at the pain the action caused. ‘I'm fine.'

‘Cranky,' Jim rolled his eyes as he accelerated. ‘She always has been, at least towards my family. Though I have often wondered why; people speak highly enough of her in Tongue.'

Sarah pulled the fraying seat belt across her shoulder and settled back into the lumpy seat of Jim's old truck. Ignoring Mrs Jamieson probably wasn't conducive to a happy holiday, but then she wasn't exactly in the mood for interference.

‘Holidaying?' Jim was asking. ‘Or have you come to look up ancestors?'

‘Not either, really.' Sarah noticed the strong hands grasping the ancient steering wheel and searched for an explanation. An easy one eluded her. She gave a wan smile imagining how uninterested he would be to hear about her ex-fiancé and her grandfather's manipulations. Besides, Jim was quite cute actually, in a freckled skin, reddish hair sort of way and it felt good to be with someone who knew nothing about her baggage and, more importantly, didn't have an agenda where she was concerned.

They followed the bitumen for ten minutes, before turning off down a narrow road and into weather that became progressively worse as they continued. For the age of the vehicle, it handled the
road well, and soon they were passing through a heavily wooded area, over two ramps and towards a small shed. Light rain fell as they drew up next to the building. Sarah wound her window down.

‘Ah, Jim lad, you've brought us a visitor.'

Sarah smiled, noticing the money belt and dog trial sign. ‘Hi! How much to get in?'

The man, aged somewhere in his fifties, wore a kilt, perky cap and a mischievous grin. ‘For you, lassie? Nothing.' Then he added, winking at Jim, ‘You'll excuse me if I return to my position and warm myself with a few drams.'

Driving up a steep incline, they parked at the end of a row of cars, Jim pulling at the park brake twice before giving Sarah a lopsided grin. He was about Cameron's age if he'd still been alive, Sarah decided. It was the first time a memory of her brother was not accompanied by an overwhelming sense of loss.

‘Now it's time to meet the family.'

Mrs Macken was a slim woman with a beautiful complexion. Her green–blue eyes positively glimmered when she smiled, managing to soften her husband's face immediately.

‘Jim told us about your predicament, Sarah. We hope you'll let us look after you while you're stranded,' she offered.

‘Oh, thank you. Actually everyone's been very kind since I arrived in Tongue.'

Robert Macken nodded and passed her steaming coffee and a hard barley biscuit. A whistle blew shrilly and Sarah found herself following the Mackens to the front of the old truck, the three of them leaning against the bonnet. The spectators, of whom Sarah saw there were few women, were ringed around a large paddock. At the far end, the top of a hill, two men, who looked more like stick figures, were standing near a gap in a stone wall. Halfway down was a freestanding gateway; a little further on, a post. Barely fifty yards away, close to where Sarah sat with the Mackens, was
a small sheep pen. Sarah turned her collar up against the mizzling rain, as Robert Macken sat a cap on her head. His grey eyes stood out prominently. He was short-necked and nuggety-looking. His sombre dress, combined with the pipe clenched between his teeth, reminded Sarah of a bad-tempered cattle dog.

‘So,' Sarah asked. ‘Do you always have dog trials on a weekday?'

Mr Macken looked at her with an expression of forced patience. ‘Sheepdogs are a ritual part of our way of life, lass. The day of an event is unimportant.'

The mist curled and eddied on the distant rise, giving everything an eerie quality. While the spectators circled the paddock, the thick mist circled them. Sarah thought of Jim's words that day in the ruin. It would be horrible to be captured in the folds of the mist, left to die on the exposed rocks and heather, with only the biting wind from the lochs as company.

‘Where's Jim?'

Robert Macken nodded out towards the field.

At the top of the rise, sheep appeared, smallish specs thrown into relief by the stone wall and the dense mist. A man, dressed head to foot in tweed and shiny black gumboots, patted the large black-and-white sheepdog sitting at his feet. The dog scratched and yawned, then lay down beside his master. Sarah thought they were spectators, but when the whistle sounded a second time, the dog was gone.

Then she saw the dog racing directly uphill towards the sheep and, gathering them, brought them smartly down the hillside. The dog's master used a series of whistles and commands, as the four sheep ran towards the open gate.

‘He's got to drive them fair through the middle, first go,' Robert Macken chewed the end of his pipe.

The sheep stopped halfway through and reversed, causing the owner to increase his verbal commands and the dog to work
harder. The second time, the mob was through and headed for the post. Only now did the dog's barks drift over to where Sarah sat.

‘They have to veer to the right of it, lass,' Robert Macken explained in a flat voice, a stubby thumb and forefinger scraping contemplatively at the light stubble on his chin.

The dog turned the sheep smartly, shouldered them around the pole and headed for the pen. The rain increased. Sarah held her breath as the owner rushed to the pen gate and opened it. Unfortunately, the dog lost control and the sheep flew in all directions. Three times he reeled them to the gate and just as often, they broke free. Eventually, he ran out of time and the whistle blew. The dog wandered back to his master, head and tail dragging, drenched by the rain. He was rewarded with a gentle pat on his head.

‘So what do you think, Sarah?' Mr Macken asked.

‘It was great. The owners have so much control and that dog, wow, could he move!'

Mr Macken's mouth twitched up in one corner. ‘The next one should interest you, lass.'

A few feet away, Jim squatted, ruffling the neck of a small sheepdog. In one hand he held a long wooden staff, the top of which was curved, almost like the staff in Sarah's old nursery-rhyme book. He looked up and winked at Sarah. She winked back. The dog turned towards her instinctively and she winked at him too. Jim burst out laughing as the whistle blew.

The dog came to attention immediately. His tail moved furiously, his neat black face turning continuously from the direction of the sheep to Jim. Then Jim leaned down and appeared to whisper in his dog's ear. The dog stilled. The second whistle blew, and he was gone. Sarah could never remember having seen an animal run so fast. Even her grandfather's dog, old Shrapnel, had never moved the way this dog could. The black body streaked
uphill to reach the sheep in one smooth arc, the running circle was then completed as he directed the sheep downhill at a hurtling pace. Sarah looked in awe at the Mackens on either side of her, and by the time she looked back to where the dog was, the sheep were through the gate and just rounding the post.

Jim was already at the pen, gate wide open, when the rain poured down in such torrents that Sarah lost sight of the field. Robert Macken moved around to the side of the vehicle, while Mrs Macken made clicking noises. Sarah stood waiting, peering through the sheet of water. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. Jim was squatting again, talking to his dog. The sheep were penned. Sarah clapped loudly.

Mrs Macken fiddled nervously with her gloves as Jim rose to speak to a bespectacled man dressed in a brown suit with matching waistcoat, his baggy trousers tucked into knee-high dark brown leather boots.

‘Well? What's the result?' Sarah leaned down to pat the bedraggled animal at Jim's side when the twosome arrived back at the old truck minutes later. ‘You're a great dog. Fantastic! Hey, aren't you fantastic?'

‘Easy, Sarah,' Jim laughed. ‘He'll get enthusiastic about himself if you keep on at him like that.'

‘He deserves it. How would you like to come back to Australia and work for me?'

The dog looked up at her then walked to the truck.

Jim chuckled. ‘Well, there's your answer.'

‘Worth a try,' Sarah grinned. ‘Besides, we do have better weather. Now what happens?'

‘Nothing. I'm disqualified.'

‘What? Why?'

‘The judges couldn't see my dog, sheep or the pen. They can't judge what they can't see.'

‘That is ridiculous! Where's the judge? I'll go and speak to him.'

‘M'am?'

Sarah turned to find a well dressed man standing behind her.

‘Eliot, Eliot Andrews.'

Sarah clasped his offered hand.

He was balding and moustached, in his mid-sixties. ‘So you're Sarah Gordon. I met your father once. Ronald, isn't it? Heard of your misfortune. If there's anything I can do, please call.' He inclined his head to one side.