Chapter five
The single-track road from Leverburgh cuts through the hills above the southern coastline, before winding down into the tiny settlement at Rodel, where the sixteenth-century St Clement’s Church stands on a pinnacle above the harbour, facing out across the Sound. The church is clad in scaffolding, platforms erected on different levels to facilitate restoration work. We drive past its high stone wall, and gate, to turn down the narrow loop of road that drops steeply to the harbour below.
The harbour itself is tiny, built within encircling headlands that almost meet. Through the gap between them, the mountains of North Uist can be seen simmering darkly beyond clearing skies. The wind has dropped a little, and flashes of blue break the monotonous undulations of grey and silver that lie low across the sea.
There are eight or ten boats berthed here within the protective arms of stone and concrete that mirror the larger, encompassing arms that nature has provided. A couple of fishing boats and half a dozen powerboats of varying sizes. And three small sailing dinghies. At the innermost end, reflecting on still, deep water, stand the huddled grey buildings of the Rodel Hotel. And parked out front, a blue Ford Mondeo.
‘That’s your car,’ Sally says. She pulls the Volvo over on to the grass and we walk around to it. The door is unlocked, key in the ignition, two other keys hanging from the fob that I imagine must be my house keys. I reach in to take them, and the small disc of polished wood through which the keyring is looped feels oddly, comfortingly familiar. Otherwise the car is empty, apart from the stale smell of wet dog. I lean over to open the glove compartment, but find only a couple of road maps, one of the Hebrides, another of Scotland. I straighten up and walk around to open the boot. There is a set of oilskins and a pair of mud-caked wellington boots. I slam it shut and gaze out over the boats that bob and shift on the gentle swell.
‘Which is mine?’
Sally follows my eyes. She shrugs, puzzled. ‘It’s not here.’ And somehow I am not surprised. But still I ask, ‘Are you sure?’
‘I should be. I’ve been out in it with you often enough. You may have hidden your penchant for bees from me, but your passion for boats was no secret.’
A voice carried on the breeze and calling my name startles us, and we turn to see a man in jeans and wellies and a knitted Eriskay jumper climbing from one of the powerboats up on to the far quay. He pushes his hands into his pockets and walks around to greet us, a wide grin on a weathered face. Hair loss makes him seem older than he is, for as he reaches us I see that he has a young face. He thrusts out a large, calloused hand and we shake. ‘I was getting worried when you never brought Dry White back and your car was still sitting there.’ He glances at Sally and nods acknowledgement. ‘Mrs Harrison.’ She nods back, and the ‘Coinneach’ she responds with is clearly for my benefit. I recognise it immediately as the Gaelic for Kenneth, but beyond that there is nothing else familiar about him.
‘When did I take her out, Coinneach?’ And as soon as I ask I realise what a foolish question it is.
He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
Sally says quickly, ‘He means what time. We were trying to work out how long it took him to get out to the Flannans.’ Coinneach sucks in air through thoughtful lips. ‘Couldn’t say exactly. Early afternoon. But it must have taken you a good while to get out there. The weather was already deteriorating. You must have made it before the storm, though.’ I nod quickly. ‘Yes.’
‘What did you do, spend the night out there?’
‘That’s right.’ I am almost grateful for his prompting my responses.
‘So where is she now?’
I am aware of returning a blank look and feel panic rising. ‘Dry White,’ he clarifies for me.
And Sally steps in again. ‘He took her up to Uig. We’re going to explore some of the caves up along the coastline there if the weather improves. I just brought him down to pick up his car.’
I glance at her, marvelling at how easily she can lie, while I become tongue-tied and completely unconvincing. Somehow, though, Coinneach seems less impressed, and he gives us an odd look, blue Celtic eyes flickering from one to the other.
We drive both cars back up to the road and park one behind the other outside the church gate, where a sign reads Fàilte Gu, Tùr Chiliamainn. Welcome to St Clement’s Church. Earlier, as we drove into Rodel, Sally told me we had made love once in the tower, while a party of tourists was being given a lecture on the history of the church in the nave below. ‘It was insane,’ she said, laughing. ‘But the risk of being caught made it... I don’t know, exciting.’ And I wonder now if perhaps revisiting the scene of our folly will stir memories.
Sun reflects on the wet stone path as we follow it up through the graveyard to the door. Inside, it is completely empty, ancient Lewisian gneiss green in places with the damp. Cruciform in design, there are tiny chapels in each of the transepts, and three walled tombs. We climb narrow stone steps leading to the chamber at the top of the tower, which stands at the west end of the nave, and squeeze into a tiny room lit only by a narrow slit from which archers might once have fired arrows to repel attackers.
I stoop and peer from its leaded window out across the Sound towards the Uists. The wind has dropped almost entirely now, and there seems no dividing line between sea and sky. ‘How could we possibly have made love in here?’ I say. ‘Apart from the lack of space, any noise we made would have echoed through the whole building.’
She laughs, and as I turn and straighten up, her face is very close to mine and I am aware of the heat of her body. ‘Actually, we were quite noisy. But they were noisier down there.’ I feel her breath on my lips before she kisses me. A soft kiss, full of tenderness. She draws back just a matter of inches, and I can barely keep her in focus. Her voice whispers around this stone chamber. ‘Anything coming back to you?’
I purse my lips thoughtfully. ‘Not yet. Maybe we should try a little harder.’
This time the tenderness in the kiss is replaced by something more feral, and I feel my whole body infused with desire. When we break again, her breathing is rapid. ‘This is so weird,’ she whispers. ‘Everything about you is familiar, and yet it’s like being with a stranger.’ She kisses me again, and I feel her hand move down to close around my arousal. I take a half-step back and she pushes me against the wall. The surface is hard and cold and rough. ‘Still nothing?’
‘No. Keep going.’
And we make love for the second time in my recollection. A strange, animal act, somehow beyond our control. Awkward and bruising in this confined space, each of us undressed only enough to make union possible. But extraordinarily intense, leaving us once more breathless and perspiring. I pepper her face and neck with tiny kisses, and she holds on to me as if she might never let go.
When finally she catches her breath she says, ‘And now?’
I shake my head again. ‘Nothing. But if at first...’
Her laughter reverberates around this tiny room, and something about the wanton quality of it provokes powerful feelings inside me. Until it dies away and her smile fades, and by the light of the window I see the intensity in her eyes. She runs her hand over my face, tracing all its contours, and I close my eyes. ‘Was I in love with you?’ I ask her.
When she doesn’t respond, I open my eyes to see her gazing at me, a quizzical look now in hers. ‘That’s a strange, past-tense way of asking me. As if you no longer are.’