‘Be my guests,’ he said, indicating for them to step down into the water. ‘Take care of your first few steps. The water bed can be gie slippy and you do not want to fill your waders with water. I cannot stress that enough. It can be very dangerous.’
He stood back and watched them all get in. Then he pointed downriver. ‘I suggest that you each select a spot twenty yards apart. That way you will be out of range of each other’s cast and you will all get a decent shot at the fish.’
And indeed, with him wandering back and forth between them, giving little pointers according to their level of ability, they soon had two decent fish in their net. Dan Farquarson and the footballer had both surprised Bruce McNab.
Wee Hughie had been reprimanded three times, once by Dan Farquarson and once by Bruce for keeping up a flow of inane chatter. When he started to give them another commentary on how he was going to go for the big catch, Bruce determined to silence him.
‘Mr Thompson,’ he said, trying to relax so that his ire did not show too much. ‘If you want to catch anything at all, you will need to keep quiet. Fish can see you and they can hear every—’
He did not finish because from the bank behind and above them someone started to laugh.
‘Don’t believe him, my friend. Fish don’t have ears to hear with. Don’t believe this gillie.’
They all looked round and were surprised to see a man in his mid-thirties dressed like them in waders, but with an anorak and a mesh helmet, such as bee-keepers wear. Hanging from a shoulder strap he was carrying a large box with numerous flasks and containers and in his free hand he had a huge gossamer net on a pole.
‘Who do you think you are?’ quipped Wee Hughie. ‘A mad butterfly collector?’
‘A mad scientist some say,’ the man replied. ‘Doctor Digby Dent, at your service.’ He grinned behind the mesh of his helmet. ‘And I am just about to join you gentlemen.’
‘Not here, you aren’t,’ snapped Bruce. ‘You have no licence to fish here.’
Digby Dent chuckled and tossed his net down on the bank. Then he proceeded to clamber down into the water. ‘And a good morning to you too – Mr McNab, isn’t it?’ Then before Bruce could reply, ‘I have no need of a licence to retrieve my specimens. I have thirty traps embedded all the way along the bank here. It is time to collect them. They should give me a good idea of the midge larval population along this stretch of the river.’
Without more ado he started moving slowly along the river behind them, delving with his gloved hands into the muddy bank to locate and pull out a series of cone shaped plastic containers.
Sandy King noticed that there were small green tags embedded above each one.
‘I think you should clear off, pal,’ said Dan Farquarson. ‘We have paid good money to fish this water and—’
‘Then fish away,’ replied Dr Dent. ‘You won’t disturb me.’
Bruce took a step towards him. ‘Did you hear my client, Dent?’
‘Oh yes, but I won’t be long. I am conducting a serious scientific survey here, not kow-towing to the rich folk like you.’
‘You should watch your mouth, pal,’ said Dan Farquarson.
‘Should I give him a ducking, boss?’ suggested Wee Hughie.
Dr Dent laughed again. ‘Look, enough of your prattle. Just let me get on with my work then you can go back to your tiddler-catching, or whatever it is you are doing.’
‘Are you the midge man that we heard about?’ Sandy King asked.
Whether or not Dr Dent recognized the footballer, he gave no indication. He went on collecting his specimen containers, wiping the dirt off each one before adding it to the box.
‘I am an entomologist, but to the folk round here that means I am the midge man. I am the chap who is going to free Scotland of the tyranny of the midge forever.’
‘You are a fool, Dent,’ sneered Bruce. ‘The midges have been here long before man and they will be here long after we have gone.’
In the shade of the bank none of them had really seen the fine haze of the swarm that descended upon them. All the fishermen, including Bruce McNab started to itch and scratch and waft the air about them in a useless attempt to fend off their tiny attackers, which had honed in on them to bite and feed off blood.
‘Bugger this for a lark!’ exclaimed Dan Farquarson, the first to haul himself from the river. ‘Let’s get out of here before we’re eaten alive. Why did you take us to this infested place?’ he demanded of Bruce.
‘It wasn’t infested until he started guddling about in the bank,’ Bruce replied, pointing venomously at Dr Dent.
‘You should have checked up on the Midge Index. It is well displayed on the harbour noticeboard. It is high all week, which means that you should be prepared.’
‘Midge Index! Rubbish!’ Bruce exclaimed in disgust.
‘Aye rubbish you say,’ groaned Wee Hughie, pointing at Dr Dent’s protective clothing. ‘But he’s prepared for it. Why are we not?’
Digby Dent grinned. ‘A lot of the local folk think they know about the midges, just because they live alongside them. But the truth is that they don’t, as your gillie has just proved.’ He clicked his tongue then went on without looking up at them. ‘Look, why don’t you all come along to the Flotsam & Jetsam show tonight,’ he said, as he casually went on with his specimen collecting. ‘I am doing a few minutes on the life cycle of the midge. They want a bit of colour adding to their remarkable show,’ he said, with a slight emphasis on the word ‘remarkable.’ Its subtlety was not lost on Sandy King. Then he grinned up at them. ‘You really ought to dress properly when you go out on the river, you know. I could let you have the phone number of a good supplier of midge veils.’
‘Come on,’ Dan Farquarson said irritably. ‘Why don’t you find us another bit of the river where he won’t be disturbed by these little buggers?’ He looked sternly at Dr Dent. ‘Or by any other nuisance.’
‘Enjoy your sport,’ Dr Dent called. ‘I’ve enjoyed mine. If I had been along a bit earlier I could have netted that swarm. A pity that you broke it up like that.’
Bruce McNab’s face had gone puce and he was about to reply, but thought better of it.
‘You take care of yourself, pal,’ said Wee Hughie, who had no such concerns. There was a snap as he stood on the long handle of the insect net. ‘Whoops! Someone left a pole in my way.’ He winked maliciously at Digby Dent who stood silently although it was clear that he had been rattled by the way his hands had begun to shake.
Sandy King gave a half smile. ‘That sounds like good advice, Doctor Dent. And you know what they say – you should never bite off more than you can chew.’
Calum Steele the editor the West Uist Chronicle had been working through the night to get the latest edition of his newspaper out on time. Since the paper was virtually a oneman show – Calum being not only the editor, but the sole reporter, manager and printer – it often meant that he had the devil’s own job to write everything, prepare photographs and physically produce the newspaper in time for the fleet of lads he paid to distribute it to the newsagents and other outlets across the island.
Although he always talked about the West Uist Chronicle offices, it was a somewhat grandiloquent title, for although there was a large printed sign attached to the wall beside the door, the newspaper offices consisted of two floors, both of which were exclusively used by Calum. The actual news office itself, where Calum interviewed people and took orders for photographs which had appeared in the paper, occupied the first room on the ground floor, with an all-purpose junk room at the back. Before the days of digital photography it had been the dark room where he did his developing. Upstairs was where the actual work took place. At the front was the room with a cluttered old oak desk where he wrote his articles and columns on a vintage Mackintosh computer or on his spanking new laptop. Sitting between the two computers was a dusty old Remington typewriter, which served no real purpose other than to help him feel the part of a writer. The rest of the room was occupied with his digital printing press, paper and stationery supplies, and in the corner was the space where he stacked the next issue of the newspaper ready for distribution.