first day at school and offered to translate for him, because for some reason inexplicable to the young Fin his parents had sent him to school speaking only Gaelic. He reached across the table and brushed the hair from her blue eyes, and for a moment she lifted a hand to touch his, a fleeting moment of recollection, of how it had once been long ago. She dropped her hand to the table again.
‘Dad came up from Harris when he was still in his teens. About eighteen or nineteen, I think. He got a job as a labourer at Mealanais farm.’ She got up to take a half-empty bottle of red wine from the worktop and pour herself a glass. She held the bottle out towards Fin, but he shook his head. ‘It was sometime after that he met my mum. Her father was still the lighthouse keeper then, at the Butt, and that’s where they lived. Apparently Dad used to walk to the lighthouse every night after work to see her, even just for a few minutes, and then back again. In all weathers. Four and a half miles each way.’ She took a large sip of her wine. ‘It must have been love.’
Fin smiled. ‘It must have been.’
‘They went to all the dances at the social. And all the crofters’ do’s. They must have been going out steady for about four years when the farmer at Mealanais died, and the place came up for lease. Dad applied for it, and they said yes. On condition that he got himself married.’
‘That must have made for a romantic proposal.’
Marsaili smiled in spite of herself. ‘I think my mum was just pleased that something had finally prompted him to ask. They were married in Crobost Church by Donald Murray’s father, and spent the next God knows how many years eking a living off the land and raising me and my sister. In all my conscious life I can’t remember my dad once having left this island. And that’s all I know, really.’
Fin finished the last of his beer. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go and talk to your mum. She’s bound to have a lot more information than you do.’
Marsaili topped up her wine. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.’
‘What work?’
‘Restoring your parents’ croft.’
His smile was touched by sadness. ‘It’s lain derelict for thirty years, Marsaili. It can wait a little longer.’
THIRTEEN
I can see a thin line of yellow light beneath the door. From time to time someone passes in the corridor and their shadow follows the light from one side to the other. I notice that I can’t hear any footsteps. Maybe they wear rubber shoes so you won’t know when they’re coming. Not like Mr Anderson with his tick-tock crocodile shoes. He wants you to know. He wants you to be afraid. And we were.
I’m not afraid now, though. I’ve waited all my life for this. Escape. From all those people who want to keep me in places I don’t want to be. Well, fuck them!
Hah! It felt good to say that. Well, think it, anyway. ‘Fuck them!’ I whisper it in the dark. And I hear it so loudly it makes me sit up straight.
If anyone comes in now, the game’s up. They will see my hat and coat, and notice my bag sitting packed on the end of the bed. They’ll probably call for Mr Anderson, and I’ll be in for a hell of a leathering. I wish they would hurry up and put the lights out. I’ll need to be long gone by morning. I hope the others haven’t forgotten.
I don’t know how much time has passed. Did I fall asleep? There is no light beneath the door any more. I listen for a long time and hear nothing. So now I lift my bag from the bed and slowly open the door. Damn! I should have gone for a pee before now. Too late. Doesn’t matter. No time to lose.
Old Eachan’s room is next door. I saw him in the dining room earlier. And remembered him immediately. He used to lead the Gaelic psalm-singing in the church. I loved that sound. So different from the Catholic choirs of my childhood. More like tribal chanting. Primal. I open the door and slip inside, and immediately hear him snoring. I close the door behind me and switch on the light. There is a brown holdall bag sitting on the dresser and Eachan is curled up beneath the quilt, sleeping.
I want to whisper his name, but somehow it eludes me. Dammit, what’s he called? I can still hear him singing those psalms. A strong clear voice, full of confidence and faith. I shake him by the shoulder, and as he rolls over I pull back the quilt.
Good. He’s fully dressed, ready to go. Maybe he just got tired of waiting.
‘Eachan,’ I hear myself say. Yes. That’s his name. ‘Come on, man. Time to go.’
He seems confused.
‘What’s happening?’ he says.
‘We’re running away.’
‘Are we?’
‘Yes, of course. We talked about it. Don’t you remember? You’re fully dressed, man.’
Eachan sits up and looks at himself. ‘So I am.’ He swings his legs out of the bed, and his shoes leave dirty tracks on the sheets. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Away from The Dean.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Shhh. Mr Anderson might hear us.’ I take him by the arm and lead him to the door, opening it to peer out into the dark.
‘Wait. My bag.’ Eachan lifts his holdall from the dresser and I turn off the light before we slip out into the corridor again.
At the far end I see a glow from the kitchen, and shadows moving around in the light that falls out into the hall. I wonder if one of the other boys has told. If so, we’re done for. Trapped. I can feel old Eachan hanging on to the back of my coat as we shuffle closer, trying not to make a noise. I hear voices now. Men’s voices, and I step smartly into the doorway to surprise them. Someone told me that once. Surprise is the best weapon when the numbers are against you.
But there are only two of them. Two old boys pacing around, all dressed with coats and hats, bags packed and sitting up on the counter.
One of them seems familiar. He is very agitated and glares at me. ‘You’re late!’
How does he know I’m late?
‘You said just after lights out. We’ve been waiting for ages.’
I say, ‘We’re making a run for it.’
He is very irritated now. ‘I know that. You’re late.’
The other one just nods, eyes wide like a rabbit’s in the headlights. I have no idea who he is.
Someone is pushing me from behind now. It is Eachan. What does he want?
‘Go on, go on,’ he says.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you,’ says the other one. ‘Your idea. You do it.’
And the silent one nods and nods.
I look around, wondering what it is they want me to do. What are we doing here? Then I see the window. Escape! I remember now. The window leads out to the back. Over the wall and off across the bog. They’ll never catch us. Run like the wind. Over the asphalt to the trees.
‘Here, give me a hand,’ I say, and I pull a chair up to the sink. ‘Someone will have to hand my bag out after me. My mother’s ring is in there. She gave it to me to keep safe.’
Eachan and the nodding one hold me steady as I climb on to the chair and step into the sink. Now I can reach the catch. But it won’t move, dammit! No matter how hard I try. I can see my fingers turning white from the pressure.
Suddenly there is a light in the corridor. I hear footsteps and voices, and I can feel panic rising in my chest. Someone’s clyped on us. Oh God!
It’s black on the other side of the window as I turn back to it. I can see the rain still running down the glass. I’ve got to get out. Freedom on the other side. I start pounding on it with my clenched fists. I can see the glass bending with each blow.
Someone’s shouting, ‘Stop him! For heaven’s sake stop him!’
