The following morning, they set out for the ferry. ‘The weather is perfect for this,’ said Salma, and the others were encouraged by the fresh sudden sunshine after the previous day’s rain. They needed to find Mullin so that he could ferry them to the car. With the car, Salma would drive for an hour to Glencarron in Wester Ross. In Craig, they would come to a private crossing where she would need permission to cross the railway line. According to Salma’s research, there would be a telephone at the level crossing, she would need to pick it up and hear when the next train was coming. Only then would it be safe to drive across. After that was a two-mile drive into the hills, then she would park the car near a hydroelectric turbine. Beyond the two miles, the road was impassable for an ordinary car; only a 4×4 could manage the rocky bumpy path. They would need to leave the car and walk the rest of the way to Lady Evelyn’s grave.
Mullin was painting a fence that led down to the boathouse. He shook his head at their request. ‘It’s the stalkin’ season. Ye canna drive into the estate,’ he said. ‘No permission.’
The three of them stared at him. Iman did not understand the word ‘stalking’; Salma and Moni could not understand why it would present an obstacle.
Because it was Iman who needed the explanation, Mullin was happy to oblige. This time of year, he explained, gentlemen and ladies came from England and further to hunt the red deer of the Highlands. This was not only a fashionable sport but a necessity to prevent overpopulation and maintain stocks at a stable level that was healthy for farming and the environment. Only the defective deer were culled; those with uneven antlers, those who were old or weak.
‘This has nothing to do with us,’ said Salma, impatient to get going. Her natural inclination was to dismiss objections, belittle obstacles. ‘We just want to visit the grave.’
‘The car would faze the deer,’ he said. ‘They feel the slightest sounds, e’en a loose stone. They can see black and white too.’ He stared at Moni. She was the one dressed in black.
Frustration made Salma’s body rigid. The fear of failure. They would be right after all, the others in the Muslim Women’s Group who had stayed behind. Visiting the grave was difficult, they had said, it was remote, inaccessible. But she must prove them wrong, she had come this far and would not give up. Her voice rose, ‘We have the right to walk the hills, ramblers’ rights.’ This man might think her foreign and ignorant, but she knew about the Scottish Outdoor Access Code.
Mullin shrugged. ‘If youse insist on going, it canna be with the car. You’d need to park in the Achnashellach Forest car park ower frae the level crossing, cross the train line by foot and then walk six miles intae Glenuaig.’
Iman put her hand on Salma’s arm. ‘We can walk the six miles, Salma. It’s not a problem. Let’s do it.’
‘I’m not walking six miles,’ said Moni. ‘Six miles there and back. It’s too much.’
Iman started arguing in Arabic and Mullin watched her with amusement. His presence was upsetting Moni even more than Iman’s inconsiderate insistence. She caught him looking at her with contempt as if he knew she was slow and cumbersome. She belonged to cities and cars, not to nature and fresh air.
Salma was weighing the situation. She knew that Iman was deliberately supporting her, but at the same time Moni was saying the truth. Six miles were a lot longer than four. It would be twelve in total not eight. Challenging but doable for her and Iman; too much to ask of Moni.
‘Is there a time of day when the stalking stops?’ she asked Mullin. Perhaps there could be a window when she would be allowed to drive the two miles up into the estate.
‘Sunday,’ he said. ‘Nae stalkin on Sundays.’
The three women looked at each other. Saturday was the day they were meant to leave the loch and go home. ‘We can stay extra,’ said Moni. ‘I’m happy to pay for the extra night.’
‘It would need to be two,’ said Iman. ‘Saturday night and Sunday night.’
‘Fine,’ said Moni. ‘If Salma doesn’t need to go back to work by Monday, I can phone the nursing home and tell them I’ll pick up Adam a day later.’
‘I can take Monday off,’ said Salma. Hope was coursing through her again. And relief too.
Iman walked back to the cottage while Salma and Moni went to the monastery where the signal was stronger so they could make the necessary phone calls. Salma texted David to update him. Iman had no one to message, no one who cared whether she returned to town on Saturday or Monday. The gap that Ibrahim had left, who or what would fill it? Sometimes she fantasised about winning him back. But even if he did take her back, she would never feel safe with him again. He had showed her that she was easily disposable, her body and silly possessions.
When Moni and Salma returned to the cottage, they found Iman dressed in floating turquoise. She demanded that Salma take her out in a boat. She was a mermaid, she said, and mermaids need water.
Moni, still annoyed with Iman, took the opportunity to criticise her Ariel costume, the flimsy blouse revealing the purple seashell bikini top. ‘You can’t go out like this!’
‘I can, and I will.’ She was in a rebellious mood. ‘You can’t stop me.’
‘No one will see her,’ promised Salma. ‘There really aren’t that many people around and she can take her coat with her just in case. Let’s go.’
They climbed into the boat. Salma was the one who rowed. It gave her pleasure to scoop the water with
