down to meet her at the airport?’
‘Does she know what she’s letting herself in for? She’s not even buried her daughter yet.’ Sandy thought these island events could be daunting for anyone. He couldn’t face them without a couple of drams and a few cans in his belly. He remembered Gwen James in her London flat, chain-smoking, guilt-ridden. How would she deal with the curious islanders, the intrusive questions? Then he remembered she was a politician and probably capable of putting on a show.
‘I spoke to her this morning,’ Evelyn said. ‘She said she wanted to see where Hattie died.’
‘Would she rather not do that without an audience?’
‘I explained what we were planning.’ The stubborn tone had returned. ‘It was her decision. She didn’t have to agree.’
But it would suit Evelyn’s purpose, Sandy thought, to have the woman there. An MP, something of a celebrity, to give the Setter project a bit of credibility, almost a touch of glamour. Sometimes he was shocked by how ruthless his mother could be. She would make a fine politician herself.
‘I’ve booked her a room at the Pier House,’ Evelyn went on. ‘I said she could stay here but she didn’t want to put us out.’
At least, Sandy thought, the woman would have her own space to escape to. He wondered if Perez knew what his mother had planned and what he would make of it.
‘Who else have you invited?’ he asked.
‘Everyone who’s been involved with the dig. Paul Berglund, of course.’
‘Will he come?’
‘I’m not sure. He said he might have other commitments.’
‘But I’ve talked to his head of department at the university and said how important we feel it is for him to be there.’
Sandy found himself grinning. His mother could be as persuasive as a bulldozer. Where had this drive and nerve come from?
‘And what did the university say?’
‘They were sure Professor Berglund would find time in his diary for such an important occasion, especially as it would be dedicated to one of his students.’ Evelyn looked up and caught his eye. For a brief moment they shared the conspiratorial laughter.
‘I’d have liked Sophie to be there,’ Evelyn said. ‘Did you hear that she’d gone south?’
‘Aye, I had heard that.’
‘It was all very sudden. She didn’t even drop in here to say goodbye, and that seems kind of rude. I don’t suppose you have an address for her, her mobile phone number?’
‘No, Mother, I don’t.’
His mother seemed about to press the point, but thought better of it. ‘I suppose the Cloustons will be there,’ she said. ‘You can never keep Jackie away from any sort of party.’
Sandy went out on to the hill to look for his father. Walking over the heather he thought the week in Whalsay had made him a bit fitter. He didn’t feel the strain in his legs or that dreadful heaving in his lungs that came sometimes when he followed his father up the hill. In town he never walked anywhere and he lived off takeaway food. He thought with longing of sweet and sour pork, the batter all crispy, the sauce rich and thick with sugar and pineapple. What was so great about feeling fit?
He found Joseph squatting over a dead newborn lamb. It had already been picked over by ravens and hooded crows.
‘It was tiny,’ Joseph said. ‘It was never going to survive. Maybe the smallest of twins.’ He straightened and looked along the ridge of the hill. ‘I thought you’d be away back to Lerwick now the funeral’s over.’
‘Perez said I should take some leave. I’ve got plenty owing and I can’t carry it forward after the end of April.’
‘Your mother will be pleased to have you around.’
‘Yeah, right!’
‘Really,’ Joseph said seriously. ‘She misses you.’
‘She misses Michael right enough.’ But he couldn’t help feeling pleased and hoped it was true. ‘What’s all this about a big do in the hall to show off the project at Setter?’
Joseph didn’t answer immediately. Sandy thought he was choosing his words carefully. For a moment his father reminded him of Jimmy Perez.
‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ Joseph said. ‘Your mother made up a flask for me.’ He pulled a Thermos from his pocket, then took off his coat and laid it on the grass. They sat together, both looking north-east up the island.
‘Couldn’t you talk her out of it?’ Sandy took a swig from the cup they were sharing. The coffee was strong and very sweet.
‘I didn’t try too hard,’ his father said. ‘You know how she is once her mind is made up.’
‘She always listens to you.’
‘Not this time.’
‘I don’t want to her to make a fool of herself.’ Sandy’s voice came out louder than he’d expected. The wind flicked the words away and he could hear the panic in them, the underlying thought:
‘Oh, between us I think between us we can keep her under control.’ There was an attempt at humour, but it didn’t quite work. Joseph’s words were serious and matter-of-fact.
‘Is anything wrong, Dad? Anything I can help with?’
For a second Sandy thought his father would confide in him. A curlew called and in the distance he could hear the barking sound of a raven. Then Joseph screwed the cap back on the flask and stood up.
‘What could be wrong? We ’re all upset because of the accidents. Two deaths. Terrible bad luck. There’s nothing wrong between your mother and me.’
Sandy remembered his last conversation with his father at Setter. Then Joseph had spoken of the deaths as more than ‘terrible bad luck’. He knew his father was lying, but he was grateful for the lie. If his parents were having problems, Sandy didn’t really want to know.
They were on their way back to Utra, walking at a stiff pace down the hill, so Sandy could feel his breath coming in tight little bursts, when Joseph spoke again.
‘I was thinking maybe your mother has been right about Setter. Perhaps we should consider selling it.’
Sandy stopped in his tracks and bent over. It was as if someone had thumped him in the stomach, winding him.
His father didn’t seem to notice. Now he’d started talking it seemed he couldn’t stop.
‘We’re neither of us getting any younger. We need to think about our future. What do I need with another house? Neither you nor Michael will ever live there. I’ve taken most of the Setter land into Utra anyway. It’s only a building.’ He realized that Sandy wasn’t with him and stopped for him to catch up. ‘But I’ll not sell it to Robert,’ he went on. His voice was defiant. He shouted his words into the wind. ‘I’ll not sell it to that rich bastard so he can put his fancy daughter in there. We’ll do as your mother says. We’ll offer it to the Amenity Trust. They can make a museum out of it. Something to the memory of Mima Wilson. A house in her honour.’
Sandy had straightened his back. He walked down the hill towards his father. His legs felt weak and he had to concentrate so he didn’t trip.
‘What made you change your mind? You said you didn’t want strangers walking all over it.’
‘It’s my house,’ Joseph said. ‘I can do what I like with it.’
‘I ken that fine. But something’s made you change your mind. What’s happened?’ Then came the same question and this time he hoped his father would give him the truth: ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
As he spoke, Sandy was still further up the hill than his father and looking down at him. Joseph wasn’t an old man; he was wiry and strong. But from this perspective suddenly he seemed small.
‘No,’ Joseph said at last. ‘There’s nothing you can do to help.’
