you build your life on. It’s a bit of a shock to find that rock is just an illusion.’
‘I showed him the Saint Christopher’s medal and he threw it in the sea.’ Her consternation was apparent in the creasing of her eyes. ‘He said someone called Ceit had given it to him, and that they were all Catholics.’
Now disbelief pushed her eyebrows up on her forehead. ‘He’s demented, Fin. Literally. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.’
Fin shrugged, not so sure. But he kept his misgivings to himself. He said, ‘George Gunn is going down to Harris tomorrow to check out your dad’s family. He said I could go along. Should I?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’ Then added quickly, ‘But only if you want to, Fin. If you feel you can spare the time. I have to go back to Glasgow for a few days. Exams to sit. Although, God knows, I’m hardly in the right frame of mind for it.’ She hesitated. ‘I’d appreciate it if you would keep an eye on Fionnlagh for me.’
He nodded, and the wind filled the silence between them. It blew among the grasses, forced the sea against the rocks all along the northern cliffs, carried the cries of distant seagulls as they fought to master its gusts and currents. Fin and Marsaili were mercilessly battered by it as they stood on the clifftop, feeling it drag at their clothes, rushing into their mouths when they spoke, snatching their words away. Marsaili put an arm on his to steady herself, and he reached out to slip his fingers through her hair, feeling the soft, cool skin of her neck. She took an almost imperceptible step closer. He could very nearly feel her warmth. How easy it would be to kiss her.
A car horn sounded in the distance, and they turned to see a hand waving from the driver’s window. Marsaili waved back. ‘Mrs Macritchie,’ she said, and the moment was gone, carried off in the wind with their words.
NINETEEN
Although they are called the Isle of Lewis and the Isle of Harris, the two are in fact one island separated by a mountain range and a narrow neck of land.
The drive south, across the flat boglands of the northern half of the island, quickly becomes tortuous, a single-track road winding down among the lochs carved out of the rock by the last retreating ice sheets.
Fin and Gunn drove through the gloom of gathering storm clouds, wind and rain sweeping down off the ragged mountain slopes, and crossed into Harris just before Ardvourlie, where a solitary house stands out on the broken shores of Loch Seaforth.
From there the road rose steeply, carved out of the mountainside, a spectacular view opening out below them of the black, scattered waters of the loch. Snowpoles lined the road, and the mountains folded around them, swooping and soaring on all sides, peaks lost in cloud that tumbled down the scree slopes like lava.
The wipers on Fin’s car could barely handle the rain that blew across the windscreen obscuring the road ahead. Sheep huddled in silent groups at the roadside, picking desultorily at the thin patches of grass and heather that somehow survived among the rocks.
And then, suddenly, as they squeezed through a narrow mountain pass, a line of golden light somewhere far below dimpled the underside of the purple-black clouds that surrounded them. A tattered demarcation between one weather front and another. The grim gathering of cloud among the peaks fell away as the road descended south, and the southern uplands of Harris opened out ahead.
The road skirted the port of Tarbert, where the ferries came in from the Isle of Skye and Lochmaddy, and climbed again to crest the cliffs that overlooked Loch Tarbert and the tiny clutch of houses huddled around the harbour. Sheltered from the prevailing westerlies, the water here was like glass, darkly reflecting the masts of sailing boats at anchor in the bay. Further out, sunlight coruscated across silvered waters to the east, and it was impossible to say where the sky ended and the sea began.
As they reached the summit of Uabhal Beag, the landscape changed again. Granite rock broke up green- covered hills that swooped down in folds and gullies through a wash of pale spring sunlight to the fabulous golden sands and turquoise sea of Luskentyre. The storm-gripped, glowering mountain ranges of the north had receded out of sight and mind, and their spirits lifted.
The road circumnavigated the beach, curving around a length of causeway, towards the collection of houses and crofts that made up the tiny community of Seilebost. Fin turned right on to the narrow school road, past the decaying remains of a red truck that had once belonged to Wm Mackenzie (contrs) Ltd of Laxay. A flaking wooden sign propped between two decaying fenceposts warned that no dogs were allowed on the common grazing.
The pothole-pitted tarmac wound up over a grassy rise, to open out on a panorama across the machair towards the beach. Spring flowers bowed in the wind, and clouds hovered around the distant mountains that ringed the sands. No matter how often Fin had seen it, this was always a sight that took his breath away.
The school sat out on its own, a tiny collection of grey and yellow buildings and a football field a stone’s throw from the beach. It would be hard to imagine a more idyllic setting for a childhood education.
As Fin drew his car into the little car park in front of the main building, half a dozen kids in crash helmets were receiving road-safety lessons on their bikes, weaving in and out of red traffic cones laid along the road by their teacher.
Gunn called to her as he stepped from the car. ‘We’re looking for the headmaster.’
‘Headmistress,’ she called back. ‘The building to your right.’ The building to their right was yellow-painted roughcast, with a mural of an underwater seascape painted on the gable end. Inside it smelled of chalk dust and sour milk, and took Fin tumbling back through time to his own childhood.
The headmistress left her class trying to solve an arithmetic puzzle and took the two men into the staffroom. She was delighted to be able to tell them that her predecessors had taken great pride in preserving an archive of the school, a tradition that she herself was anxious to perpetuate, and that they had a record of school registers going back to before the Second World War.
An attractive woman in her middle thirties, she fussed over her appearance, constantly sweeping a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear where the rest of it was drawn back in a bun. She wore jeans and tennis shoes, and an open cardigan over a T-shirt. A marked contrast with the severe middle-aged ladies who had taught Fin at that age. It didn’t take her long, searching through boxes of old registers, to retrieve those spanning the time when Tormod would have been there.
She flipped back and forth across a period covering the mid forties to early fifties. ‘Yes,’ she said at last, stabbing a finger at the yellowed pages of the old school records. ‘Here he is. Tormod Macdonald. He was a pupil at Seilebost Primary from 1944 to 1951.’ She ran a pink-painted nail down the faded entries that recorded daily attendance. ‘A good attender, too.’
‘Might he have had any brothers or cousins at the school?’ Gunn asked, and she laughed.
‘He may well have done, Detective Sergeant, but there have been so many Macdonalds here over the years it would be almost impossible to tell.’
‘And what school would he have gone to from here?’ Fin wondered.
‘Most likely it would have been the secondary at Tarbert.’ She smiled and gave him strong eye contact, and he remembered Marsaili once telling him how all the girls had had a crush on him at school. He’d never even been aware of it.
‘Do you have an address for him?’
‘I can find out.’ She smiled again and disappeared into another room.
Gunn turned to Fin, a half-smile playing about his lips. Envy maybe, or regret. ‘Never works like that for me,’ he said.
The Macdonald croft sat about half a mile back from the shore, in an elevated position with views across the sands of Luskentyre and Scarista. A long, narrow strip of land ran all the way down from the crofthouse to the roadside, delineated now only by the stumped remains of decayed fenceposts, and the barely discernible texture of the land, altered by years of cultivation and grazing.
But there was no cultivation or grazing any more. The land had gone to seed, long abandoned and reclaimed by nature. The crofthouse itself was a shell. The roof had collapsed years before, the chimney at the north gable reduced to a pile of blackened rubble. Long grasses and thistles grew where once the floor had been. A floor of beaten earth, covered with sand that would have been changed daily by Tormod’s mother.
Gunn thrust his hands deep in his pockets, gazing out across the expanse of golden sand below, to the
