I felt with a depressing certainty that time was a commodity which was running out fast. It was latish in the day when I arrived in Ullapool.
Cladach Duillich lay twelve miles further, out in the bay; say a four hour round trip for a local fishing boat. I dickered with a couple of fishermen but none was willing to take me out at that time. The sun was an hour from setting, clouds were building up in the west, and a raw wind blew down the narrow loch, ruffling water which had turned iron grey. I made a tentative deal with a man called Robbie Ferguson to take me out to the island at eight the next morning, weather permitting. It was not yet the tourist season so I found a room in a pub quite easily. That evening I sat in the bar listening to the local gossip and putting in a word or two myself, not often but often enough to stake a conversational claim when I decided to do a small quiz on Cladach Duillich. It was evident that the rising tide of Scottish nationalism was in full rip in the West Highlands. There was talk of English absentee landlords and of 'Scottish' oil and of the ambivalent attitude of the Scottish Labour Party, all uttered in tones of amused and rather tired cynicism as though these people had lost faith in the promises of politicians. There was not much of it, just enough to spice the talk of fishing and the weather, but if I had been a bland habitue of the Westminster corridors of power it would have been enough to scare the hell out of me. Ullapool, it seemed, was further removed from London than Kalgoorlie, Australia. I finished my half-pint of beer and switched to scotch, asking the barman which he recommended. The man next to me turned. 'The Talisker's not so bad,' he offered. He was a tall, lean man in his mid-fifties with a craggy face and the soft-set mouth found in Highlanders. He spoke in that soft West Highland accent which is about as far from Harry Lauder as you can get. 'Then that's what I'll have. Will you join me?' He gave me a speculative look, then smiled. 'I don't see why not. You'll be from the south, I take it. It's early for folk like you.' I ordered two large Taliskers. 'What sort am I, then?' 'A tourist, maybe?' 'Not a tourist-a journalist.' 'Is it so? Which paper?' 'Any that'll publish me. I'm a freelance. Can you tell me anything about Gruinard Island?'
He chuckled, and shook his head, 'Och, not again? Every year we get someone asking about Gruinard; the Island of Death they used to call it. It's all been written, man; written into the ground. There's nothing new in that.' I shrugged. 'A good story is still a good story to anyone who hasn't heard it. There's a rising generation which thinks of 1942 as being in the Dark Ages. I've met kids who think Hitler was a British general. But perhaps you're right. Anything else of interest around here?' 'What would interest an English newspaper in Ullapool? There's no oil here; that's on the east coast.' He looked into his whisky glass thoughtfully. 'There's the helicopter which comes and goes and no one knowing why. Would that interest you?' 'It might,' I said. 'An oil company chopper?' 'Could be, could be. But it lands on one of the islands. I've seen it myself.' 'Which island?'
'Out in the bay-Cladach Duillich. It's just a wee rock with nothing much on it. I doubt if the oil is there. They put up a few buildings but no drilling rig.' 'Who put up the buildings?' 'They say the government rented the island from an English lord. Wattie Stevenson went over in his boat once, just to pass the time of day, you know, and to say that when the trouble came there'd always be someone in Ullapool to help. But they wouldn't as much as let him set foot on the rock. Not friendly neighbours at all.' 'What sort of trouble was your friend expecting?' 'The weather, you understand. The winter storms are very bad. It's said the waves pass right over Cladach Duillich. That's how it got its name.' I frowned. 'I don't understand that.' 'Ah, you haven't the Gaelic. Well, long ago there was a fisherman out of Coigach and his boat sank in a storm on the other side of the island out there. So he swam and he swam and he finally got ashore and thought he was safe. But he was drowned all the same, poor man, because the shore was Cladach Duillich. The water came right over.
Cladach Duillich in the English would be the Sad Shore.' If what I thought was correct it was well named. 'Do the people on Cladach Duillich ever come ashore here?' 'Not at all. I haven't seen a one of them. They fly south in the helicopter and no one knows where it goes or where it comes from. Not a penny piece do they spend in Ullapool.
Very secret folk they are. There's just one landing place on Cladach Duillich and they've put up a big notice about trespasser s and what will be done to them.' I noticed that his glass was empty and wondered when he'd sunk the whisky. He must have done it when I blinked. I said, 'Have another, Mr… er…' 'You'll have one with me.' He signalled to the barman, then said, 'My name is Archie Ferguson and it's my brother who'll be taking you out to Cladach Duillich tomorrow morn,' He smiled sardonically at my evident discomfiture, and added, 'But I doubt if you'll set foot there.' 'I'm Malcolm Jaggard,' I said.
'And I think I will.' 'Malcolm's a good Scots name,' said Ferguson.
'I'll drink to your success, anyway, whatever it may be." 'There's certainly something odd about the place,' I said, 'Do you think it's another Gruinard?' Ferguson's face altered and for a moment he looked like the wrath of Almighty God. 'It had better not be so," he said sternly. 'If we thought it was we would take the fire to it.' I chewed that over together with my dinner, then made a telephone call-to Cladach Duillich. A voice said, 'How can I help you?' 'I'd like to speak to Dr. Ashton. My name is Malcolm Jaggard.' 'Just a moment. I'll see if she's available.' There was a four minute silence, then another voice said, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Jaggard, but I'm told Dr. Ashton went to the mainland and is not yet back.' 'Where on the mainland?' There was a pause. 'Where are you speaking from, Mr. Jaggard?' 'From London.
Why?' He didn't answer the question. 'She went to Ullapool-that's our local metropolis. She said she'd like to stretch her legs; there's not much scope for walking where we are. And she wanted to shop for a few things. May I ask how you got our number?' 'Dr. Ashton gave it to me.
When do you expect her back?' 'Oh, I don't know. The weather has closed in, so I don't think she'll be back until tomorrow morning. You could speak to her then.' 'Where would she stay in Ullapool? I don't know the place.' 'I really couldn't say, Mr. Jaggard. But she'll be back tomorrow with the boat.' 'I see. May I ask who I'm speaking to?'
'I'm Dr. Carter.' 'Thank you, Dr. Carter. I'll ring tomorrow.' As I put down the telephone I reflected that someone was lying-other than myself-and I didn't think it was Archie Ferguson. But to make sure I went into the bar and found him talking to Robbie, his brother. I joined them. 'Excuse me for butting in.' 'That's all right,' said Ferguson. 'I was just talking over with Robbie your chances of getting out to Cladach Duillich the morrow's morn.' I looked at Robbie. 'Is there any doubt of it?' 'I think there'll be a wee blow,' he said. The glass is dropping as the weather forecast said. Have you a strong stomach, Mr. Jaggard?' 'Strong enough.' Archie Ferguson laughed.
'You'll need one of cast iron.' I said, 'The people on Cladach Duillich also said the weather is closing in.' Archie raised his eyebrows. 'You've been talking to them! How?' 'By telephone-how else?'
'Aye,' said Robbie. 'They had the cable laid.' He shook his head.
'Awful expensive.' 'A man there told me a woman came ashore today from Cladach Duillich-here in Ullapool. She's about five feet eight inches, dark hair, age twent…' Robbie interrupted. 'How did she come?'
'By boat.' 'Then she didn't come,' he said positively. 'All the comings and goings are by that bluidy helicopter. There's no boat on Cladach Duillich.' 'Are you sure?' 'O' course I'm sure. I pass the place twice a day, most days. You can take my word-there's no boat.' I had to make sure of it. 'Well, supposing she came anyway. Where would she stay in Ullapool?' 'Ullapool's not all that big,' said Archie. 'If she's here at all we can put our hands on her-in a manner o' speaking, that is. What would be the lassie's name?' 'Ashton-Penelope Ashton.'