The Visitors (9 page)

‘I don’t get it.’

‘It’s like this. If you put a bear in a cage, what do you have?’

‘A bear?’

‘No. All you have is a cage. It’s the same with my story. Do you understand?’

I studied the fire, weighing it up.

‘Flora,’ he said, ‘tell me you understand. They’re my words. I don’t want them written down for some report.’

‘All right, all right. Not if you don’t want me to.’

He visibly relaxed.

‘Grand. That’s fine. And listen. If there’s anything else I do to help, come and ask. I’ll do whatever I can. Just don’t write the stories down for folk.’

‘It’s a deal. Cheers, Izzy.’

‘You’d better go, and I’ll off and have my bath. Pop back when you can and I’ll sort you out some more.’

‘Right you have it, O mighty shennachie,’ I said, and began to put my shoes back on.

‘That’s more like it. Oh, Flora – something else I wanted to ask you.’

‘Aye?’

‘Happen I’ve come across some cheap booze.’

‘Oh aye? Found it on the beach, I suppose.’

‘Something like that,’ he grinned. ‘Never know what’ll wash up next. Anyway, it’s almost sort of cherry brandy.’

“‘Almost sort of”?’

‘I want shot of it. To you, ten quid a bottle.’

‘I’m leaving now, Izzy,’ I said. ‘Stay safe.’

I cut across the fields to reach the road. Having already hiked as far as Izzy’s shack, it was just as quick to walk the few miles home, rather than return to Tighna and wait to hitch a ride.

Sheep moved like ghosts in the dusk, startled when I came too close, hooves knocking on the hard turf as they skittered away. The clouds above were glowing orange, but evening was falling hard by the time I vaulted a run-down fence, pushed through the barrier of birch trees and found the road.

As the sky turned ashen, I settled into a rhythm of walking. I thought about Izzy’s selkie story, weighing it against what I’d read in the Mutch book. The beachcomber’s story had been almost as mean as anything in the book, painting selkies as nasty and cunning. I’d need to write a section about shennachies, explaining the nature of the storyteller. I rankled
against Izzy’s demand. Traditional stories like that would be brilliant evidence. There was no good reason not to include the story in my homework. The Shetland selkie story was gold dust. I couldn’t let it go.

The headlights from an approaching vehicle appeared on the road behind me, throwing my shadow long onto the road in front. I stepped aside and let the post bus roll past. It went too fast to be sure, but I thought I’d seen Ailsa, her face in shadow as she leaned against the window. The taillights glowed as they took the corner, then vanished in the gloom.

Mum was right about me. I did cut myself off from people. I was close to a handful of folk – Mum, Ronny, my grandparents. I’d been close to Richard, too, but now he wasn’t Richard any more. He was a different person, a thousand miles away. A day away and already I felt completely removed from him. It was as though he’d never even lived on the island. Moss always springs back into shape.

I followed the island bus around the corner, and Still Bay opened up before me. A few lit windows in Grogport blinked between the overhanging lines of birch. The last bats of summer skittered low in the sky above me, weaving their lunatic loops and triangles, almost invisible against the violet gloaming. At this time of year, with autumn settling on the islands, the nights came in quickly, sunset leaching ink-drop pinks and blues into the horizon.

Ahead, there was a flicker of light. I pulled off my headphones. A small bright beam reflected in the dark mirror of the sea, then the high whining of an outboard choked into life. The inflatable dinghy. Ailsa was going home. The light traced a bumpy, weaving journey across the bay, then slowed to a stop at the shadow of Dog Rock, the house and islet silhouetted against that indigo sky. The little light was a headlamp. It paused on the mooring, bobbing about. I couldn’t see what
was happening. The light was laid low on the pontoon. There was a moment of nothing, then a dark shape dived headlong into the sea, held for half a perfect second against the low tan band of sunset in the west.

I stopped, astonished.

Ailsa dived into the Atlantic.

She was swimming.

The thought made me shudder. The water would be far too cold for me. I’d swum in Still Bay plenty of times, growing up. Even with the Gulf Stream washing through the Hebrides, the seas round Bancree were always cold. One summer, Richard and I had swum out to Dog Rock. He’d turned back after a couple of minutes, but I kept swimming, terrified of the riptide tugging at my feet. They’d sent someone to row across and bring me home. Mum had clipped me round the ear for going so far out. My feet had turned blue. Even now, I could remember the prickle as my body thawed, sensation returning to my fingers and toes.

My new neighbour was swimming in the dark, in the cold.

My new neighbour was weird.

I walked the rest of the way home, considering. Evening was drawing into night and Anders was snoozing on the sofa, snoring like an old dog. I stood above him, reassured by his sleeping bulk. His presence gave weight and certainty to everything. I tiptoed to the kitchen. There was some lamb in the fridge, and I decided to make a stew for tea. I rifled through Ronny’s albums and popped some Springsteen on the stereo, humming along while I diced onions, crushed garlic and peeled carrots. The stew was simmering nicely by the time Mum and Ronny arrived. Their ruckus woke Anders. He harrumphed for a while, then the three of them played with Jamie by the fire. Ronny came through to help me get tea on the table.

‘How was school?’

‘It was OK,’ I said, ‘but I tell you what. I saw Lachlan Crane today.’

‘Lachie? Where was he this time?’

‘Playing at Top Gun in the Sound, that boat of his packed with cronies.’

‘Jesus, really?’ said Ronny. ‘He’s supposed to be in Carlisle, securing a distribution deal.’

Ronny was one of Munzie Crane’s favourites at the distillery. He and Lachie did not see eye to eye.

‘He’s a shirker, that lad. The old man needs to crack his skull, else he’ll be the death of Clachnabhan. Mark my words.’

‘Be the death of himself, first, if he keeps on driving like that.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ laughed Ronny, and set bowls on the table. He called the others in from the living room. Mum posted Jamie into his high chair, and tried to feed him mashed carrot. Anders had to stoop to enter the kitchen.

‘Hey, Anders, did you go looking for Dougie?’ I said, remembering.

‘Yes. All day, with my hangover, all day up and down the coast near my house.’

‘You were sleeping on the couch when I came home.’

‘A man must rest, Flora. A man must recover. And also there is nothing in the fridge at home.’

‘Take you it you didn’t find anything, then?’

‘Alas, no. But tomorrow is another day, and I will be looking some more.’

‘I bet you’ll be hungover tomorrow, too.’

‘Ah! Now, Flora, you begin to understand the world.’

‘Because you and Ronny are getting pissed again?’

‘Because you know,’ he said, sagely, ‘what men want.’

‘And I took the day off work, too,’ said Ronny. ‘So we can do this properly.
Skøl
.’

He and Anders chinked their glasses.

‘Remind me again, Mum,’ I said, ‘how this lot wound up running the country?’

‘Your problem now, love. I’ll stick to running the Co-op.’ It was a good meal.

Anders hogged the conversation, keeping us in stitches with stories of his various mishaps, and updating us on the eternal saga of the distillery he kept hidden on the rig. Oil rigs were supposed to be dry, no booze allowed, but Anders used his spare time to make an infamous moonshine, halfway between a schnapps and a biofuel. All the rig managers knew he kept a still, and searched high and low to find it, but he moved it continually between dozens of secret spots, helped by a network of assistants bought off with free hooch. Once he’d moved the equipment, he’d booby-trap the previous hidey-hole. As I cleared the plates, he told us how one of the managers had finally located the still in an overhead cable locker, and had summoned Anders to witness the big reveal. He opened the compartment with a grand gesture, only to have a bucket of milk drop on him – and then, two perfect seconds later, a bucket of flour.

Ronny was weeping with laughter, and Mum was smiling wide.

‘You’ll get yourself fired,’ she admonished.

‘Ah, but, Cath, I can no longer stop myself,’ said Anders. ‘It has become a game for us all. It keeps me busy. People make many bets on them finding the still.’

‘Time to get off the rigs, you numpty.’

‘Aye, man, haven’t you had enough yet?’

‘This is easy for you to say,’ he said, pulling faces. ‘But what else could I do?’

‘I could ask Munzie, see if there’s work in the distillery?’

‘Anders already has his own distillery.’

‘Or the boatyard, then. You have skills. There’s work enough round here for someone like you.’

Anders shushed us with his hands.

‘It is not so simple for me,’ he said. ‘I have friends on the rigs.’

‘You have friends here,’ said Ronny.

‘I do, I do. But my friends here have families and small children. My friends on the rigs are men alone, like me, until they go home. In this way, the rigs serve a purpose.’

‘You need a woman, Anders,’ I announced.

He visibly winced.

‘Ah. This is also not so easy on Bancree.’

‘You sure as shite won’t find one on the rigs,’ said Ronny.

‘Enough, enough,’ said Anders. ‘Perhaps I can think about it. But only if you all will shut up.’

‘Leave the man in peace,’ said Mum, and started stacking dishes.

‘This conversation is not over, my friend,’ warned Ronny, and topped up Anders’ beer.

The pair of them made a halfhearted attempt at washing up before departing for the Bull Hotel and another night on the tiles. Mum lectured them the whole way out the house and halfway down the road, but her heart wasn’t really in it. She liked them both too much.

Once they’d gone, I made us both a cup of ginger tea and told her about Izzy the shennachie, rather than Izzy the beachcomber. This did nothing to improve her opinion of him, but she was as nosy as any other islander, and she was pleased to hear fresh gossip about the old man.

I took my mug to my room. Sitting at my desk, I made a few more notes on my history project. Then, hesitating only briefly, I took my old laptop and started a new document.

As a title, I wrote: ‘The Crofter’s Lament’.

I’d promised Izzy I wouldn’t take his story for my report. I meant to keep that promise. But the story was too good not to write down for myself, and that felt like it was a different matter. I’d include only basics in my homework, like I’d promised, but I’d never heard that selkie story before, and I wanted it kept safe.

I spent the rest of the night writing it out and redrafting it, fitting in as much detail as I could recall. When my memory flagged, I remembered what Izzy had said about the nature of these stories. Concentrating, I drew the smell of woodsmoke into my throat and listened to the grinding sea. I wrote down the story of the selkie, word for word. When I’d finished, I went back to the beginning and typed a new line underneath the title:

‘A story by Izzy, the Shennachie of Bancree’.

Standing at the bus stop, I ate an apple and watched Ailsa bounce over Still Bay in her inflatable dinghy. The sea was grey and white, the skies low and fat with cloud, but it was warm and blustery. My favourite weather. I walked down through the grass to help her carry the rib up the beach. Several metres out, she cut the engine and let the waves wash the dinghy onto the shore, then jumped barefoot into the shallows. She wore a faded denim skirt and a pale-green T-shirt, with a thick red-and-white plaid shirt as a jacket.

I grabbed a handle on the side of the little boat and helped her drag it over the sand.

‘Thanks for this,’ she said, panting as we heaved it high above the high-tide mark.

‘No bother. Cool shirt.’

‘Cheers,’ she said, and perched on one side of the inflatable. She took black tights from her bag and peeled them over her feet and ankles.

‘So how did you find the school?’

‘Spent all morning filling forms and getting the tour,’ she said. ‘I met all my teachers, I think.’

She hopped up and wriggled, hoicking her tights beneath the waist of her skirt. I looked away.

‘Sounds like fun.’

‘It was OK,’ she said. ‘The art teachers seemed sound, anyway. Jackson and um, Creil.’

‘Yeah, those two are pretty cool. Creil was in a rock band, way back when.’

‘Is that right?’

‘He didn’t tell you? Lead guitar.’

She nodded sagely. ‘That explains the winklepickers.’

I smirked. Ailsa laced her sneakers, then turned the dinghy upside down, covering the outboard engine.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’m good to go.’

We walked up to the bus stop.

‘Look, this might sound weird, but did I see you swimming last night? In the sea?’

‘Oh,’ she said, turning away, ‘you saw that?’

‘I think so, aye. I mean, yes, I did. I saw you diving in.’

‘Exercise,’ she shrugged, ‘just going for a swim. Yesterday took it out of me. When I got home, I wanted a dip.’

‘Were you not freezing?’

‘It’s cold, I guess, but I don’t feel it too badly.’

‘You’d better be careful. The currents are pretty tricky outside the bay, especially round Dog Rock. There’s a riptide out to sea.’

‘I’m strong enough. Don’t worry about that,’ she said, and flashed me that odd half-smile.

The bus trundled into view. We took seats on opposite sides of the aisle. Almost apologetically, she gestured at me, showing her headphones in one hand. I did the same, smiling, and plugged in. As we rode the bus towards Tighna, I looked out the window. Through the flicker of the birches, I daydreamed about Richard and his new life in Bristol.

I’d tried texting him a few times, during breaktimes at school, but never managed better than bland lines asking
how he was, was he OK, was he having fun, what was it like at uni … and press to send the text. Strange to watch the little icon flashing on the screen, the phone working out whether or not it could send the message. From Tanno, it usually sent. From Bancree, usually not. He didn’t reply, and I pictured all his texts suspended in the airwaves for days at a time, waiting for me to stumble into clear reception. Every day, on the ferry, I waited for the point on the Bancree Sound when the satellites would chatter, our phones would join the dots, and Richard would say hello. He was fine. It was great. But the message never came. Reception, I told myself. There’s no reception in a major English city, that’s it.