She looked about her. “Do you live by yourself?”
He nodded. “Yes. Mostly.”
She wondered what he meant by that. “You sometimes have a flatmate?”
Michael had crossed the room to a table on which there was a CD player and speakers. He had a disc in his hand and it caught the light, casting a dancing spot of colour onto the ceiling. He answered her without turning round. “Sometimes.”
The disc inserted, he pressed a button. There was a sudden burst of music—too loud, and he quickly turned it down. The music was bright and compelling.
“You’ve heard them before?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Who is it? It’s very …”
“Infectious?” he offered.
“Yes. It makes you want to dance—almost.”
“It’s the Penguin Café Orchestra,” he said. “There’s nobody like them, really. It’s wonderful. The man who started it, Simon Jeffes, was a fantastic musician. He composed this stuff and there’s nothing like it.”
She listened carefully. A hurdy-gurdy was being played alongside light percussion; she thought she heard a piano accordion too.
“This is called ‘Pythagoras’s Trousers,’ ” Michael said. “He went in for great titles. There’s another one, a bit later on, called ‘Music for Helicopters.’ And there’s ‘Music for a Found Harmonium.’ Simon Jeffes was in Japan once and he went out and found an abandoned harmonium in the street. Imagine that. Imagine finding a harmonium …” He paused. “Are you hungry?”
She was not sure if she was. She had not eaten for hours, but she had not been thinking of food. “Yes. Not ravenous, I suppose, but hungry enough for dinner.”
“Good,” he said. “And do you like scallops?”
She did.
“That’s good too,” he said. “Because I’ve got some and I thought I’d cook them for us. With rice. Wild rice.”
“That sounds really nice.”
“It is,” he said. “You know something about cooking scallops? You mustn’t wash them, because they absorb water and it ruins them.”
Pat said she did not know that. “I know nothing about scallops,” she said.
He smiled. “Well, you know something now. I could tell you a whole lot more, if you wanted to know.”
“Such as?”
He put on an expression of mock seriousness. “Such as that people who cultivate them are called scallop ranchers. How about that?”
“I love it. And?”
“And there’s a big difference between hand-dived scallops and the scallops that are sucked up by trawlers. The hand-dived ones aren’t damaged—the ones they vacuum up from the seabed are battered about. Then, of course, some of them put them in fresh water so that they increase their bulk by about twenty-five per cent. A quarter of the weight you pay for is just water.”
He pointed towards the door. “I need to go through there to get things going. Give me a few minutes. I’ll get you a glass of wine.”
He left her. In the background the Penguin Café Orchestra played optimistically. She picked up the sleeve of the CD and studied the picture. A penguin stood before an open door, looking out. Why had they chosen that name? And did Pythagoras wear trousers? If he did, then the sum of the legs would be equal to …
She moved away from the table. On the opposite side of the room there was a small fireplace and mantelpiece. The fire had long since been blocked in, as happened, and replaced with a flat, white-painted board. Once there would have been a range there, she thought, and it would have been the focal point of the room, the family’s hearth.
She looked at the objects on the mantelpiece. A ruler, a tape measure, a book into the pages of which slips of paper had been inserted as bookmarks. She looked at the title of the book: An Anthology of Nature Poems. He read poetry. It was unexpected. He read poetry and he knew all about scallops and how to cook them. There was a card tucked under the book, and she picked it up. It was a birthday card. She opened it. She was not thinking.
She read the inscription. To my darling lovely Michael. She dropped it, from shock. She picked it up with fumbling, nervous fingers. Underneath was written: From your fiancée, who loves you so, so much.
He came into the room. She held the card loosely.
“You’re engaged …”
He frowned, and then moved forward, taking the card from her hand.
“Was,” he said.
She could not think what to say.
He spoke quietly. “She died. A year ago. A bit more, actually. Fifteen months.”
“I’m really sorry …”
“I miss her so much.”
“Of course, you must.”
He went over to the table and silenced the Penguin Café Orchestra.
“I’ve been hoping to meet somebody else,” he said. “I was hoping …” He trailed off, and then, with a playful movement of his right hand, he pointed at her. “You?”
70. On Loch Sunart
Bertie awoke before Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. For a few moments he was uncertain where he was, but then, seeing the sloping canvas roof of the tent above his head, he remembered. And with that came the realisation that he had spent his first night in a tent, in a field, in the middle of Argyll, and had survived. The knowledge was exhilarating, and he found himself smiling in delight at the thought that he had another two nights of this ahead of him before they went back to Edinburgh; it was good fortune of an utterly overwhelming nature.
He slipped out of his sleeping bag and dressed in his uniform as quietly as he could so as not to disturb Ranald. Then he unzipped the doors of the tent and went out into the field. The sky was clear and the sun was on the hills and the waters of Loch Sunart. Bertie stood still for a while, taking in the beauty of his surroundings. It was a landscape full of possibility for adventures—on either side of the sea loch were mountains, tree-lined at the lower levels and bare further up. There were few signs of human habitation—a house here and there, nestling into a hillside or clinging to the shore on the edge of the loch; a small road cutting into the forest.
Bertie was distracted by a shout. Turning round, he saw Tofu emerging from the trees at the edge of the field.
“Bertie!” shouted Tofu.
Bertie waved to Tofu as he walked over to meet him.
“I’ve found a boat,” said Tofu. “Come and see it.”
Bertie followed the other boy down a path that led down to a rocky shore below. A small sailing dinghy bobbed on the surface of the water, tethered to a mooring ring in the rock.
“Do you want to come with me?” asked Tofu.
Bertie frowned. “In the boat?”
“Yes,” said Tofu. “Breakfast won’t be ready for ages. All the grown-ups are still asleep. They’re really lazy when you give them half a chance.”
Bertie looked doubtful. “I don’t think we’re allowed …” he began.
Tofu cut him short. “We won’t go far. And we’re not going to do any harm. I’m a really experienced sailor, Bertie.”
Bertie still looked doubtful. “I didn’t know that you sailed, Tofu. Where have you been?”
“We went to France on a ferry,” said Tofu. “And came back.”
There was a noise behind them—the sound of stones slipping down the path. Bertie turned round and saw Ranald Braveheart Macpherson.
“What are you doing?” asked Ranald.
“We’re going to have a sail,” said Tofu, scrambling down to the boat. “You coming, Ranald?”
“Is Bertie going?” asked Ranald.
“Yes,” said Tofu. “Unless you’re too scared. You don’t have to come if you’re scared. You can go and play with Olive and Pansy.” He laughed at the slur.
Ranald looked anxiously at Bertie. “We’re not scared, are we, Bertie?”
Bertie shook his head. “But we mustn’t go far, Tofu,” he said. “It’s not our boat.”
“Don’t worry,” said Tofu. “Come on. Get on board.”
They
climbed aboard gingerly, and Ranald cast off the line securing them to the ring. As he did so, a small gust of wind sprang up and the boat began to drift away from the shore.
“Where are the oars?” asked Bertie.
Tofu looked round. “Oars? This is a sailing boat, Bertie—you’d think you’d know that sailing boats don’t have oars.”
“Then how do we move?” asked Ranald.
Tofu extracted a sail from a bag under the midships seat. “We put up this sail,” he said. “Come on, give me a hand.”
It took some time to raise the sail, but eventually it was in position and had filled with wind. “There,” said Tofu with satisfaction. “We’re sailing. I told you we didn’t need oars.”
The dinghy, with the nimbleness of its breed, was now moving swiftly over the water. Within a few minutes they were out in the sea loch, having slid out past a few tiny islets that marked the entrance to Glenborrodale’s bay.
“We’re really moving now,” said Tofu. “You see?”
Bertie looked back at the shore. “I think we should go in soon,” he said. “We don’t want to go too far.”
Tofu shook his head. “We’ll turn round in a few minutes,” he said. “Once we reach that headland over there we can turn and come back.”
Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, who had so far been silent, now spoke. “How are we going to get back?” he asked. “You can’t sail against the wind, you know, and it’s behind us now. If we turn round it will just carry on pushing us this way.”
Tofu made a dismissive gesture. “What do you know, Ranald? Nothing. You know nothing. So shut your face.”
Bertie came to Ranald’s defence. “I think Ranald may be right, Tofu. You don’t know everything, you know.”
“My dad’s got a boat on the Clyde,” said Ranald. “I think he stole it from someone, because we never see it. But he told me about how you can’t sail against the wind. He knows about these things.” Tofu was now showing the first signs of anxiety. “It’s easy,” he said. “You see this thing here? That’s called the tiller. You turn it like this …”
The boat heeled over dangerously as Tofu swung the tiller to starboard. Quickly he returned it to its original position. The wind had come up now, swirling off the face of Ben Hiant, and was propelling them even faster.
“We’re going to die,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson. “We’re going to be swept out to sea and drowned.”
“Rubbish,” said Tofu. “The wind’s going to change direction and push us back. We’ll be back at camp for breakfast, like I said.”
Bertie shook his head. “I don’t think so, Tofu. I think we are really going to be swept out to sea. Our only hope is that we see a fishing boat or something and they save us …”
“Otherwise we’re dead,” said Ranald.
Tofu was silent now, having realised the full seriousness of their position. “I don’t want to die,” he said.
“Then you shouldn’t have taken this boat,” said Ranald. “If you hadn’t we would have survived. Now we’re finished.”
“You shouldn’t give up too quickly, Ranald,” said Bertie gently.
Ranald looked miserable. “My dad told me a story once about how three sailors were shipwrecked in a lifeboat and they were there for ages and ages. They became hungrier and hungrier and eventually they ate the cabin boy.”
Tofu looked at him. “That’s you, Ranald. We’ll eat you.” He paused. “I’m not joking, you know.”
71. Lord of the Flies
The wind that had blown the small sailing dinghy past the towering green shore of Ben Hiant now swept the hapless boat, and its three unhappy young sailors, out through the northern reaches of the Sound of Mull. Now Ardnamurchan Point revealed itself, a great bulwark against the Atlantic, with its lighthouse white and glorious in the morning sun; scant pleasure though did this sight give the three boys, nor were they moved by the view they now had of the distant shapes of Muck, Rùm, and Eigg.
Ranald Braveheart Macpherson sat up at the bow, looking out for any sign of a boat to which they might signal for help, but there was nothing. So far they had seen only one other vessel, a small yellow fishing boat that had been steaming off in the direction of Tobermory but had been too far away from them to notice or answer any waving or shouting on their part.
“We’re going to be carried right out,” he said to Bertie. “All the way to Canada.”
Bertie tried to comfort him. “Don’t worry, Ranald. We’ll get to the Outer Hebrides first. Maybe Barra, or South Uist, or somewhere like that.”
Tofu, who had begun the trip with his usual bombast, was severely diminished now. “I can’t swim,” he said miserably. “What if a wave breaks over us and the boat gets full of water? What then, Bertie?”
“I don’t think that will happen, Tofu,” said Bertie.
“If we’re too heavy, we could throw Ranald over the side,” Tofu mused. “That might help. Do you think we should do that, Bertie?”
“Definitely not,” exclaimed Bertie. “We’re all in this together.”
“Yes,” said Ranald. “That’s what the Government says, Tofu. We’re all in this together.”
“I think we should just sit still,” said Bertie. “I’m sure that somebody will see us sooner or later.”
Now that they were out in the open sea, with the coast of Mull receding behind them, the boat was being tossed about a bit on an ocean swell. The wind, though, had picked up, and what way they might have lost from the force of the oncoming swell was more than compensated for by their increased sail power. Bertie had now taken over the tiller from Ranald, and was sitting at the stern, making sure that they avoided broaching. He was thinking of all the things that he had not done in his life and would now never have the chance to do. He would have liked to have lived at least for a little while in Glasgow; he would have liked to have owned a Swiss Army penknife; he would have liked, perhaps, to have written a book. He was not quite sure what book he would have written, but perhaps it would be a book that helped other boys who were in the same position as he was. Perhaps he would have written Bertie’s Guide to Life and Mothers. It would have been such a useful book, that one, and now he would never be able to do it.
Suddenly Ranald gave a cry. “Look, Bertie! There’s land ahead.”
Bertie abandoned his reverie and stared in the direction in which Ranald was pointing. Sure enough, there on the horizon was a cluster of small, low shapes, and to the south of them a larger land mass—a substantial island.
“There you are,” said Bertie. “We’re going to be washed up on some islands. We’re going to be safe after all.”
“I told you,” said Tofu.
Now helped by the current, the little boat sailed swiftly through a channel between a larger island, flat and uninhabited, and a small cluster of rocky islets. Some of these were topped with vegetation, with an overcoat of grass, and one, to which the current was propelling them, had a curved beach of inviting white sand. It was here that they made landfall, the nose of the dinghy obligingly gliding into the embrace of the sand.
“There,” said Tofu. “We’ve arrived. I’ll take over now.”
Ranald Braveheart Macpherson cast an anxious glance at Bertie.
They stepped out onto the shore. Behind them, in the small bay formed by the curve of the island, seal heads popped out of the water, watching them with that curiosity that seals have for intruders. On the island itself, above the line of the sand, a carpet of wild flowers, in full summer bloom, made a private garden for nesting sea-birds.
Bertie, followed by Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, made his way up to a vantage point above the beach, clambering over the rocks. Tofu remained below with the boat, busying himself with securing it to an outcrop of rock.
“Where do you think we are, Bertie?” asked Ranald.
Bertie thought for a moment. He was intimately acquainted with his parents’ bookshelves, which he happily browsed at such times that he was not attending the various classe
s organised by his mother. He had pored over A Gazetteer of Scotland and remembered the maps: Colonsay, Mull, Tiree, Coll …
“I think we must be on the Cairns of Coll, Ranald,” he said. “That big island over there must be Coll itself.”
Ranald peered across the sound towards the other shore. “Coll has people, doesn’t it, Bertie?”
Bertie nodded. “Yes, there are people, Ranald.”
Ranald still looked worried. “Campbells, Bertie?”
Bertie shook his head. “I don’t think so, Ranald.”
There was a shout from Tofu. “Boat coming!”
Bertie and Ranald had been looking out towards the open sea; when they turned, they saw a trawler-sized boat making its way through the channel separating the Cairns from the shore of Coll. They shouted and waved, as did Tofu, and several figures on the boat waved back to them.
Tofu ran forward to meet the inflatable tender that the now anchored boat dispatched to the beach. As he did so, Bertie and Ranald made their way down the slope, slipping and sliding over the humps of grass in their haste and elation.
“Did you lads get all the way out here in that wee thing?” asked the man as he beached his tender.
“We were blown here,” explained Bertie.
“Tofu took the boat,” began Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, only to be silenced by a glare from Tofu.
The man now asked them their names, and gave his own: Captain Campbell. “Well, you’ll be coming back with me,” he said. “Come on; we can tow the dinghy back. Mull, is it?”
“Ardnamurchan,” said Bertie.
They began the journey back. They had been on the island for such a short time, thought Bertie, and there had been no time for Tofu to … He paused. He had seen a book once that seemed to talk about something rather like this. There had been some boys and they had found themselves on a desert island, and there had been a boy with glasses and a boy who was kind and a boy called Jack who was rather like Tofu … and things had gone badly wrong. He glanced at Tofu, and then at Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, who seemed strangely silent. Then he looked back towards the mainland, and what it represented.