PART THREE
CHAPTER: 11
But for a small lounge, the ground floor of the crofter’s cottage up in Gairloch was now dominated by a flagstone kitchen with an oak table, which almost spanned the room and seated thirty people. It was to be during long evening dinners here that Danny believed his little community would be cemented. These soirees would be overlooked by his mother’s portrait, which took pride of place on the back wall, directly opposite as you entered from outside. Fortunately, this painting had avoided the apartment fire, having been moved to Katy’s house just after Mrs. White’s death, because it had been upsetting her son too much.
As for the byre, well, its wooden walls had been replaced with red brick and white stucco, its tin roof with terracotta tiles. Inside, either side of a long corridor stood six small rooms, just large enough for a bed, wardrobe and a writing desk with a computer on top. Meanwhile, the ablutions were situated at the far end, beneath a loft conversion which served as a recreation suite, featuring a TV, pool table and library.
On a blazing day at the end of August, Fin drove six lads and six girls up to this new Highland home, in a custard yellow, Ford Transit Minibus. The journey was a silent affair where suspicious, sideways glances were the only communication. But, as they pulled up outside the cottage, the sight of eight local students lounging about on the grass seemed to bring the Glaswegians together at last, against a common foe. Throughout the next hour, the two groups remained stand-offish until they were called in for their welcome dinner, cooked by Judith and Angie who, along with Hamish and Danny, had already been in residence for a fortnight.
Townies and Highlanders were alternated around the table so that they had no choice but to mix, with the five adults making up the numbers. At first it was uncomfortably quiet, but as soon as everyone had finished their aperitifs a pleasant murmur was developing. The townies were a tad cautious about their food, though. “Urrs” and “yuks” accompanied the smoked salmon starter, much to the amusement of the locals, who scoffed theirs enthusiastically. Each student was allowed one glass of wine during the main dish — grouse in black cherry sauce — helping to create a more boisterous atmosphere by the time desert arrived at the table. By now there was something of a first night on vacation mood about the newcomers, so much that the locals reluctantly boarded Fin’s minibus back to their villages, many wanting to stay behind with their exciting new friends instead.
That night, raucous laughter bellowed from the student accommodation until dawn. At one point Judith was woken by cheering and, as she looked out of her dormer window she caught the pink flash of a teenager’s backside, streaking across the meadow. For the next hour she lay in darkness, sharing the kid’s amusement as the young naturist pleaded to be readmitted to the byre, its door and windows having been so cruelly locked in his wake. Judith entertained Angie with this recollection next morning, while they prepared a massive picnic in the kitchen.
The local students arrived at around eleven and everyone walked to Big Sand Beach. While a mass game of water volleyball ensued in a turquoise and cobalt sea, Judith sat on a dune admiring the Torridon Mountains, situated across the bay. There, the students would run wild for the next month, hiking, canoeing, learning to fish and generally bonding. All except Danny’s scar faced friend, Ryan Kearney, who chose to disassociate himself and write a book in his room, where he’d work day and night. Whenever Judith went out the back for a cigarette in the early hours, his light was the only hint of life in an otherwise sleepy byre. His curtains were never shut and she’d often stand in the darkness, just feet from the window, marvelling at the boy’s stamina and commitment. Usually, he’d be bent over his desk scribbling so frantically that four sides of A4 were filled before her cigarette was spent. On others, he’d have his baseball capped head in his hands or be pacing about the room in search of inspiration, looking haunted. Danny had tried coaxing Ryan to join in with the others, but he said he’d sooner leave than waste valuable time playing “kiddies’ games”. Out of everybody, Belinda took particular exception to this isolationism and, whenever he left the dinner table — having rushed his food to get writing again — she’d start her daily moan about what she considered rude behaviour.
“Why did he come here if he just wants to be on his own? He’s treating the rest of us like idiots…someone should sort him out!”
This was said loud enough for Danny to hear, and was interpreted as a challenge to do something about the situation; but he left Ryan in creative peace all the same.
October arrived and it was time to start lessons, held in two mobile classrooms, situated behind the cottage, at the foot of the mountain. Each morning, Judith taught art history, followed by Danny’s painting classes, where he wore the blue, paint dappled overalls which would become his second skin. Meanwhile, Hamish and Angie took turns with their eight literature pupils, seven of whom were girls, including the patron’s dear young friend, Katy, and Ryan’s nemesis, Belinda. Ryan didn’t attend either class, much to the chagrin of the raven haired beauty. Inevitably, one night at dinner, things came to a head. Ryan had arrived slightly late, as usual, and as he squeezed past fellow diners on route to his seat he inadvertently nudged Belinda’s arm, just as she was about to sip from her wine glass. The spilt claret soaked into her white tracksuit top like ink on blotting paper, causing her to leap up from her seat.
“You stupid friggin’ idiot!” Ryan, oblivious to his crime, looked bewildered as he turned to face her. “You’ve got no social skills what-so-ever have you! You friggin’ retard!”
Belinda stormed off, before the loner even had chance to reply.
Uncharacteristically, Ryan ended up being last to leave the table, obviously upset by Belinda’s remarks. Judith and Hamish were actually clearing plates around him when he got up, but Danny told him to stay put and laid down an ultimatum: either he started attending classes with the rest of the group or he’d have to go.
Ryan wore the expression of a man who’d been betrayed and reproached his benefactor.
“I was starting to think you were alright…that you were a fellow traveller. But you’re just another out of touch asshole aren’t you?”
Danny tensed up, clenching his right fist as if on the verge of striking the irreverent teenager. Judith, who’d never seen him like that before, intervened before something happened which everybody would regret.
“Ryan? If you’re going to be staying here, then I think Danny should at least be able to monitor your progress, see where you might need help. You are here to learn after all.”
“I know how to analyse literature, alright…you can’t teach people how to write!”
At this point Hamish, who was now sat opposite, interjected:
“Even the best writers relied on quality editors. You know, the objective, academic eye.”
“If you want me to go, then fine. I’ll leave in the morning,” Ryan said stubbornly and got up to leave, but Judith headed him off at the door.
“Ryan? Just let Hamish see your work and then we’ll take things from there.”
Ryan looked petrified at the prospect of people seeing his writing, so much that Judith had to spend half an hour alone with him in the lounge before he agreed to fetch a sample from the byre. When he returned carrying a thick sheaf of A4, he refused to share it with anyone but her. Indiscriminately, she selected a page of spidery handwriting and found herself enjoying his first recollection of snowfall on the Easterhouse housing scheme, while he paced around the couch anxiously. In truth, she’d been expecting a pile of drivel, but not only was his work poignant and poetic, it was well structured too. She was instantly gripped and only stopped reading when he asked her opinion, some seven pages later.