up dying beneath a pile of rubble. A young boy, taking his girl-friend to a Belfast pub for a drink, and seeing her blown to kingdom come by a booby-trap bomb. I could have been an off-duty serviceman, in the wrong car, at the wrong place, at the wrong time; dragged by a mob into a patch of waste ground, stripped, clubbed nigh to death, and finally shot.'
Conrad shuddered. He chewed his lip, shamed by his own queasiness. He said, 'I read about that. It made me want to vomit.'
'Mindless, pointless, bloody violence. And there are other outrages that never reach the papers, are never made public. Do you know, one time a man went into a pub for a few beers. Just an ordinary young man, except that he happened to be a member of the IRA. One of the lads he was drinking with suggested it might be a laugh if he shot off somebody's kneecaps. Which was something he had never actually done, but after three beers he was ready to have a go. He was given a gun, and left the pub, and walked up to the local housing estate. He saw a young girl who was walking home from a friend's house. He hid in a passageway, and as the young girl came past, he grabbed hold of her and pushed her to the ground. He then shot off both her knees. That girl will never walk again.
'Just another incident. But it haunts me because it could have been any man's daughter, and more personally, it could have been my Lucilla. So you see I don't feel bitter and I don't feel angry. Just desperately sad for the people of Northern Ireland, the ordinary, decent people who are trying to make a life for themselves, and bring up their children under this terrible, perpetual shadow of blood and revenge and fear. And I feel sad for the whole human race, because if such senseless cruelty is accepted as the norm, then I can see no future for us all. It is frightening. And I am frightened for myself because, like a child, I still get nightmares that terrify me, and leave me screaming. And there is still worse. Guilt and remorse for that young man I told you about. Neil MacDonald. Twenty-two years old and dead as a doornail. Nothing left of his body, nothing to bury. His parents left without even the consolation of a funeral, or a grave to visit. I knew Neil as a soldier, and a good one, too, but I remember him as a boy, standing on the platform at the Strathcroy Games, piping his Pibroch. I remember the day, the sun shining down on the grass, and the river, and hills, and he and his Pibroch part of it all. Just a boy. With all his life before him, and standing there making that marvellous music.'
'You can't blame yourself for his death.'
'It was because of me that he became a soldier. If I hadn't shoved my oar in, he would still be alive now.'
'No way, Archie. If he was meant to join your Regiment, he'd have done it, with no prompting from you.'
'You think that? I find it hard to be a fatalist. I wish I could be, because then I might be able to lay his ghost and leave him in peace, and stop asking myself, why? Why should I be here, on the top of Creagan Dubh, seeing, breathing, touching, feeling, when Neil MacDonald is dead?'
'It is always worst for the one who is left to carry on.'
Archie turned his head and looked at Conrad. Across the small space which divided them, the eyes of the two men met. Then Archie said, 'Your wife died.'
'Yes. Of leukemia. I watched her die and it took a long time. And all that time I was resentful and bitter, because it wasn't me who was dying. And when she died, I hated myself because I was alive.'
'You too.'
'I think, probably, it's an inevitable reaction. One simply has to come to terms with it. It takes time. But at the end of the day, all those self-accusing and soul-searching questions are unanswerable. And so, as you Brits would say, it's bloody silly even to ask them.'
There was a long pause. Then Archie grinned. 'Yes. You are right. Bloody silly.' He turned his face up and surveyed the sky. 'You are right, Conrad.' The sky was darkening. They had sat for too long, and it was becoming cold. 'Perhaps we should make tracks for home. And I must apologize. For a moment, I admit, I forgot that you had tragedies of your own to deal with. I hope you will believe me when I tell you that I didn't bring you up here in order to unload my troubles onto your shoulders.'
Conrad smiled. 'I asked for them,' he reminded Archie. He realized then that he was chilled and stiff with sitting, tucked into that hard and inhospitable perch. He rose painfully to his feet, stretching the cramps out of his legs. Out of the shelter of the rock, the wind pounced upon him, stinging his cheeks, sneaking down the back of his collar. He shivered slightly. The dogs, stirring at this promise of activity, and already thinking of their dinners, sat up and gazed with hopeful eyes into Archie's face.
'So you did. But now let us both forget it all and not speak of it again. All right, you greedy bitches, I'll take you home and feed you.' He held out an arm. 'Give me a hand, would you, Conrad, old boy, and heave me to my feet?'
They left the hills at last, and trundled slowly homewards, down the main glen and so back to Croy. As they came through the front door, the grandfather clock by the staircase chimed the half-hour. Half past six. The dogs were ravenous. It was long past their dinnertime and they headed straight for the kitchen. Archie glanced into the library but there did not seem to be anybody about.
'What would you like to do?' he asked his guest. 'We usually eat about half past eight.'
'If it's okay with you, I think I'll go up and unpack my bag. Maybe take a shower.'
'Fine. Use any bathroom that doesn't happen to be occupied. And come downstairs when you're ready. If there's still nobody around, you'll find a tray of drinks in the library. Help yourself. Make yourself at home.'
'That's very kind.' Conrad started up the stairs and then turned back. 'And thanks for today. It was special.'
'Perhaps it is I who should thank you.'
Conrad continued on his way. Archie followed the dogs, and in the kitchen found Lucilla and Jeff, at sink and stove, both aproned and looking industrious and companionable. Lucilla turned from some pot she was stirring.
'Dad. You're back. Where've you been?'
'Up on the moor. What are you two up to?'
'We're cooking dinner.'
'Where's Mum?'
'She went to have a bath.'
'Would you feed the dogs for me?'
'Of course. No problem…' She returned to her stirring. 'But they've got to wait a moment, otherwise this sauce is going to end up in lumps.'
He left them to their cooking, shut the door, went back to the library, poured himself a whisky and soda and, carrying the glass, climbed the stairs in search of his wife.
He found her in the bath, soaking in scented steam and looking as comic as she always did in her blue-and- white-spotted shower-cap.
'Archie.' He made himself comfortable on the lavatory seat. 'Where have you been?'
'To the top of Creagan Dubh.'
'It must have been heavenly. Did the Sad American turn up all right?'
'Yes, and he's not sad. He's very good company. And he's called Conrad Tucker, and he happens to be an old chum of Virginia's.'
'I don't believe it! You mean they know each other? What an extraordinary coincidence. But what a lucky one. It'll make him feel not so strange, dumped in this alien household.' She sat up and reached for the soap. 'You obviously like him?'
'Delightful man. Exceptionally nice.'
'What a relief. What's he doing now?'
'Same as you, I think.'
'Has he ever been to Scotland before?'
'I don't think so.'
'Because I've been thinking. Neither he nor Jeff are going to be able to do any of the dances on Friday night. Do you think it would be a good idea to have a bit of instruction after dinner this evening? Provided they can get themselves through an eightsome reel and one or two others, they can at least join in some of the fun.'
'Why not? Good idea. I'll look for some tapes. Where's Pandora?'
'Crashed out, I think. We didn't get home till five. Archie, would you mind if she came up the hill with you tomorrow? I told her about Vi's picnic but she said she'd rather spend the day with you. She wants to sit in your butt and chat.'
