I was up half the night working it out, making lists. And in the morning I drew all my cash out of the bank, booked a seat on the night train for Mallaig and began a hectic six hours, shopping for the equipment I needed.
CHAPTER TWO
(March 1–6)
There was news of Iain in the papers that night. It was in the Stop Press — MISSING MAJOR SEEN AT STIRLING. A motorist had given him a lift to Killin at the head of Loch Tay. And in the morning when the train pulled into Glasgow I found the Scottish papers full of it, his picture all over the front pages. He’d been seen on the railway station at Crianlarich and again at Fort William. A police watch was being kept on the quay at Mallaig in case he tried to board the steamer for the Western Isles and all the villages along the coast had been alerted. The net was closing in on him and in that sparsely populated district I didn’t think he had a chance.
A man who boarded the train at Arisaig told me a stranger had been seen walking the coast towards Loch Moidart, and with Ardnamurchan so close, I toyed with the idea that he might be making for our old croft. But at Mallaig there was more definite news, a lobster boat stolen during the night from a cove in Loch Nevin. The whole town was talking about it and an old man on the quay told me it was an open boat, 30 ft. long with a single screw and a diesel engine. ‘An oldish boat, ye ken, but sound, and the bluidy man will wreck her for sure.’ I was certain he was wrong there; just as I was certain now that Iain was making for Laerg. He’d push across to Eigg or Rum or one of the smaller islands and lie up in the lee. But to cross The Minch and cover the eighty-odd miles of Atlantic beyond he’d need better weather than this; he’d also need fuel. By taking the steamer I’d be in the Outer Hebrides before he’d even left the mainland coast.
It was late in the afternoon of the following day, March 3, that I reached Rodil. The passage across The Minch had been bad — the steel-grey of the sea ribbed with the white of breaking waves, the sky a pale, almost greenish-blue with mares’ tails feathering across it like vapour trails. Later the black outline of the Western Isles had become blurred by rain.
I had planned to pitch my tent at the head of Loch Rodil, well away from the hotel, but the boatman refused to attempt it and landed me at the jetty instead, along with my gear and two other passengers. ‘Will you be staying long this time, Mr Ross?’ He eyed me doubtfully. ‘Last time you were here …’ He shook his head. ‘That was a tur-rible storm.’ The two passengers, Army officers in civilian clothes, regarded me with interest.
I dumped my gear and got hold of Marjorie. I was in too much of a hurry to consider how she would react to my sudden unexpected appearance. All I wanted was to contact Cliff and get away from Rodil before the Army discovered I was there.
As she drove me in to Northton, she said, ‘It’s true, then, that Major Braddock has stolen a Mallaig boat. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
I didn’t want to be questioned and when I didn’t answer she gave me a wry grin. ‘For one wild moment I thought you might have come to see me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I ought to have managed this meeting better, but it couldn’t be helped. She was wearing the faded anorak she’d had on when I’d first seen her. Wisps of her black hair escaped the hood, glistening with moisture. She looked very attractive and at any other time …
‘That rubber dinghy, the outboard, all that gear on the jetty — it’s yours I take it.’ And when I nodded, she said, ‘I’m afraid you haven’t chosen a very good time. It’s been — like this for almost a fortnight, nothing but rain and wind.’ She meant it as a warning. And she added, ‘It’s Laerg. isn’t it? You’re going to Laerg.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m going to Laerg.’ No point in denying it when she’d known it instinctively. ‘But please don’t tell anybody. I’m hoping Cliff will give me the local forecasts and then I’ll get away from here just as soon as I can.’
We were driving into the camp then and she stopped. at the main gate. ‘I’ll wait for you here. I have to pick my father up anyway.’
My luck was in. Cliff was on the afternoon shift and he was still there, standing by the sloped desk, checking through a teleprint sheet. ‘Ross.’ He put down the teleprint sheets. ‘Damn it, man, what are you doing here?’ He hadn’t changed — still the same old cardigan, the open-necked shirt, the quick, volatile manner.
‘I want your help,’ I said. And I told him about my plan to go to Laerg.
‘Good God! I should have thought you’d have had enough of the place after what you went through there.’ The quick brown eyes stared at me curiously from behind their thick-lensed glasses. ‘What makes you want to go back?’
‘You forget I’m an artist,’ I said. ‘And my father was born on Laerg. Now that the Army’s evacuated, it’s an opportunity to be there alone. The birds will be back now. I want to paint.’
He nodded and I thought he’d accepted my explanation. But he was still looking at me curiously. ‘Have you got the Army’s permission?’
‘No.’
‘What about Nature Conservancy then?’
‘I haven’t got anybody’s permission,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to go there.’ And I explained what I wanted from him; a weather clearance at the first possible moment, the certainty of at least twenty-four hours of light winds; and one, preferably two, personal weather forecasts during the voyage. ‘I want to sail as soon as possible and it’s essential that I have calm conditions on arrival at Laerg.’
He asked then about the sort of boat I’d got, and when I told him, he reached for his cigarettes. ‘You know what you’re doing, I suppose.’ He didn’t expect an answer to that, but went on to inquire about my radio. Could I take Morse? What speed?
‘Fast enough,’ I said.
‘And you’ll be on your own?’
‘Yes.’
He lit his cigarette, staring thoughtfully out of the window.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘will you do it?’
‘And you need calm weather at the other end.’ He seemed to be thinking aloud. ‘That means you’re not planning to land in Shelter Bay.’ I thought he was much too shrewd where weather was concerned. But instead of pursuing the matter, he turned abruptly to the maps on the wall. ‘Well, there’s the situation.’ The lower one showed a low pressure area south-east of Iceland and another Low coming in from the Atlantic. But it was the upper one that interested me, the one that gave his forecast for midnight. It showed that second Low just west of the Hebrides. ‘A southerly air stream, you see, with the wind veering south-westerly some time during the night.’ Behind the depression with its wedge-shaped lines marking the warm and cold fronts was a shallow ridge of high pressure. Beyond that, farther out in the Atlantic, another Low.
‘It doesn’t look very promising,’ I said.
He had walked over to the map and was standing there, staring up at it. ‘No. Fine tomorrow with the wind falling fairly light, and after that high winds again. But it’s not quite as bad as it looks. The Azores High is strengthening — I was just looking at the figures when you came in. Maybe in a couple of days …’ And then without a change in his voice: ‘You know Braddock’s been seen on the mainland.’ He turned abruptly and faced me. ‘There’s talk in the Mess that he’s stolen a boat — one of those lobster boats. He could reach Laerg in a boat like that.’ He was staring at me, his gaze fixed on my face. ‘The last time you were in this office, Braddock came in. Remember? They questioned me about that at the Inquiry. They asked me whether you’d recognised each other. Did you know that?’ And when I nodded, he added, ‘I told them no.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re not being quite frank with me now, are you? It’s because of Braddock you’re going to Laerg.’