Murdo's War Read online

  ‘Maybe it was somebody out for a walk,’ said Lachlan, who had so often seen his own line of footprints across the same sands.

  ‘In the fog – on a night like this? No,’ said Hector. ‘If anyone was mad enough to go out walking tonight, he’d have stayed on the beach. But why was he hanging about and then running? See how far apart the footprints are, the way the sand’s tumbled.’

  Lachlan stretched his legs in giant steps, but could not nearly compass the length of the intruder’s strides.

  ‘No, there was no-one down here by accident tonight. Whoever it was, he was nosing around.’ Hector scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully, then flexed his shoulders and looked quizzically at the anxious faces beside him. The lantern picked out a glint of laughter, or recklessness, in his shadowy eyes. ‘Ah well! It’s no good hanging around here, anyway. We’d best get on up to the village with some of that whisky. From what you tell me, Donald, there’s a lot of desperate men up there.’

  Donald opened his mouth as if he would speak, then closed it again and shrugged helplessly.

  Back at the cave, Murdo and the two men each shouldered one of the rattling crates. Lachlan, not yet strong enough to carry one the distance, pushed bottles into his pockets and thrust more beneath his jersey. Hector flashed his torch around the chamber to see that everything was safely out of sight, and led the way out to the moonlit beach.

  A few last wreaths of mist shrouded the river, half a mile away across the puddled sands. Little fields on the headland were pale with frost. A line of waves glimmered white along the edge of the sea. Soon the flooding tide would cover the churned-up sand in the cave mouth. By morning it would be as smooth as a carpet once more, flawless, as though no man had trodden the beach for half a year.

  Slowly they made their way along the foot of the cliffs and up into the wilderness of dunes. The men held their cases firm, but Murdo’s case cut painfully into his shoulder, so that he was con- tinually shifting it to find a more comfortable position. With an effort he kept up, and soon they were wending their way around the wall of the lonely graveyard.

  Their two cars were parked in a grassy turning space by the black iron gates where the track ended. Donald, who lived in the little village of Clerkhill ten miles further west, pulled open the rear door of his well-polished Vanguard. Carefully he spread a newspaper over the green upholstery and laid the crate on top. Then he took a couple of bottles from Lachlan and pushed them into a pocket beneath the shining dashboard.

  After a brief struggle, Murdo threw up the icy boot of Hector’s old Ford. It was half full of odds and ends and there was not room for the two cases of whisky. He pulled out an old pair of waders and a tin of sheep drench and pushed the rest to one side. He was just sliding the first case inside, when beyond the far corner of the graveyard a car engine whirred, then whirred again and burst into life. Startled, he looked up. A big dark car slowly backed out of the grassy siding, then drew away up the rough track towards the main road. He looked at Hector, who stared after it for a moment in silence. Then he bent and handed Murdo the second case of whisky.

  Visit by Moonlight

  MURDO DROVE THE RATTLING old Ford. Often Hector let him take the wheel, especially at night. For a boy of his age he drove well. Disapproving, but keeping his opinion to himself, Donald followed at a safe distance behind.

  The track from the graveyard to the main road was potholed and twisted, with tussocks of frozen grass between the wheel tracks. It was quite short, however, and in two or three minutes the cars drew up at the first house.

  As Hector opened his door Donald wound down the window and called across. ‘I’ll not stop. Better get this lad back to his aunt or we’ll all be for it.’ He looked at the boy beside him who twisted with frustration and made a face. ‘Now stop that, Lachlan, you know I’m right. We’re more than an hour late as it is. And it’s an early start in the morning.’ He turned back to Hector. ‘The boy’s coming down with me tomorrow to see our Jessie in Edinburgh. I promised I’d give them a visit.’

  ‘Is that right, Lachlan? Surely you’ll be missing your lessons. Would it not be better for you to stay at the school?’

  The boy looked down at his knees, unsure how to take Hector’s teasing. Then his head came up. ‘My dad said I could go.’

  ‘Aye, so he did,’ Donald agreed. ‘Last time he was on leave – if the lad worked hard and kept his nose clean with his auntie. The schoolmaster’s given him some books and extra homework – and I tell you, our Jessie will make sure that he does it.’

  Hector laughed and felt in his pocket for a half-crown. ‘Here, Lachlan, you take yourself away to the pictures. Never mind all them books.’

  Somewhat shyly the boy leaned across and took the money.

  ‘And Donald, you take that watery man of Jessie’s a bottle or two of this whisky,’ Hector called. ‘Do him all the good in the world; better than them religious tracts he’s always reading.’

  ‘Oh man, shut up. It’s more than my life’s worth. I daren’t even take one for myself. She’s terrible down on the drink, and he’s just putty in her hands.’ Donald started the car.

  ‘Aye, well, be good.’

  Murdo leaned across and called through the open door. ‘Donald, tell Lachlan I’ll be along in about an hour. He’s not to go to sleep.’

  The boy’s face appeared in the window. He raised a hand. With a roar the car pulled away, wheels crunching on the frozen track. Soon it dipped from sight down the steep hill that led to the crossroads. Standing on the verge with the bitter breeze blowing in his face, Murdo heard it slow, then draw away up the road towards the old manse where his aunt and uncle lived.

  From within the cottage there was the sound of movement, and a bolt rattled in the front door. It swung open. A young woman stood in the entrance holding an oil lamp.

  ‘Hector, I guessed it was you. I had a feeling it was about time you were up to your nonsense again. Come away in.’

  ‘Mary, my linnet! You’re looking lovelier than ever. My own Florence Nightingale.’ The old seaman planted a whiskery kiss on her cheek.

  She smiled and pushed him away. ‘Never mind that, you old goat. Just go on through.’

  Pulling off his woollen cap, Hector stepped past her into the dark hallway full of coats.

  As Murdo followed, she laid a restraining hand against his shoulder. ‘And you’ve been with him, all the way this time. Don’t tell me, I can see well enough.’ She laughed, sadness mingling with the affection. ‘You’re going to end up as bad as himself.’

  After the moonlight and bitter frost, the living room was a jewel of warmth. The walls were of golden pine; a tilly lamp hissed softly on a dresser and a bright fire glowed in the hearth.

  ‘Surely you had a good load of peats this year, Willie, with a blaze like that.’ Hector’s blue eyes were watering from the cold. He wiped them and stretched a hand towards the flames. ‘It’s good to feel the heat when you come in.’

  ‘Indeed by the smell of you, Hector, you should be warm enough already,’ cried the sharp old lady who sat at the fire. ‘Don’t give me your usual old flannel. I suppose you’ll be bringing some more of that poison in for Willie now. It seems the only reason you come around here nowadays.’ She drew her thin lips together and twitched the ends of a woollen shawl closer about her shoulders.

  ‘And how are you, Meggan?’ Hector smiled.

  ‘Och, I’m well enough, but I don’t like this cold. It gets awful into my bones now. I’m getting old.’

  The heat made Murdo drowsy after the long crossing from Orkney and he yawned. The radio was on and Vera Lynn was singing her great wartime love song:

  ‘We’ll meet again,

  Don’t know where,

  don’t know when,

  But I know we’ll meet again

  Some sunny day...’

  It was pleasant, and he blinked with comfortable weariness.

  ‘Mary, turn that skirling cailleach off, will you!’ cried Meggan sha
rply. ‘I’m sick of the sound of her.’

  Her daughter came from the kitchen and switched off the crackling set.

  ‘Oh, that’s better,’ exclaimed Meggan with a sigh. ‘That radio – it goes on and on. On and on, until I’m nearly driven off the head with it.’

  Mary smiled at the familiar refrain and went back to the kitchen. With Highland hospitality, she was always on the point of making a pot of tea when friends arrived.

  ‘How’s it going then, Willie?’ said Hector to Meggan’s husband who sat quietly at the opposite side of the fire, seeming very small in the big armchair.

  You would never guess, Murdo thought, looking at the wrinkled face, that he had four sons and a grandson away at the war, and two of them dead aboard HMS Hood. It gave the old man an honour somehow. Murdo regarded him with respect, and glanced across at Meggan. In a way they must feel as he did about his father, now a sergeant in the Seaforth Highlanders.

  The old man’s eyes were bird-bright and alert. Taking the pipe from his teeth, he leaned forward, poking it towards Hector vigorously, as if to wind himself up to the point of speaking. At length the words came.

  ‘Have you got any with you?’

  ‘I might have,’ Hector replied. ‘But you’re not wanting any of that poison, are you.’

  Willie nodded excitedly.

  ‘Indeed he does not,’ said Meggan. ‘I’m ashamed of you, Hector, coming round like this now.’

  ‘Get away with you, Meggan. What harm did one glass of whisky ever do an old man?’

  ‘Hmph!’ she snorted in disgust. ‘A couple of bairns, that’s all you are; a couple of bairns.’

  Murdo smiled. He had a good set of teeth, but his smile showed them to be irregular. For years he had avoided his aunt’s scheme to take him to the dentist and have them straightened.

  Hector beamed kindly at the old lady, then turned to Willie. ‘How many is it, then – one?’

  Willie shook his head and held up two fingers.

  ‘One,’ said Meggan.

  Willie frowned impatiently and shook the two fingers at him. Hector looked from one to the other and shrugged. ‘Well you’ll have to make your peace with that woman of yours,’ he said.

  ‘Och, he’s nothing but an old fool,’ she said. ‘Hand me that bag, will you.’ She pointed to a battered old handbag on the dresser. Murdo passed it over and she poked inside. ‘Here.’ She thrust a crumpled pound note and a ten shilling note towards Hector. ‘Go on, I’m just as bad myself. Give it to him.’ She looked crossly at the old man who had sat opposite her for so many years. He had settled back and was again puffing away contentedly at the pipe. ‘I suppose he’s not such a bad old stick, really,’ she admitted grudgingly.

  Hector took the pound and pushed the ten shilling note away. ‘A pound’s all it is, Meggan,’ he said. ‘You’re getting forgetful in your old age.’

  Although he had left his oilskins in the hall, Murdo began to sweat with the heat of the room. He tugged off his khaki battle-dress jacket and pulled his jersey straight. Stretching his legs across the carpet he yawned again.

  Mary brought through the tea, with sandwiches, pancakes and cake, and they all had supper. Murdo knew better than to comment upon the red, fresh-run salmon that packed the sandwiches. They tasted good, he was very hungry.

  Hector had other calls to make before his main business of the evening at the Captain Ivy Inn. Murdo left him at the crossroads and turned up the hill towards the house where his aunt and uncle lived.

  It was an old manse, no longer attached to the church, tall and dark against the sky. Until a few months previously, when he had moved out to stay with Hector, Murdo had lived there with his brother. Returning now, in the late evening, he hoped to avoid a confrontation with his aunt.

  Faint light shone at the edges of the blackout curtains in the sitting room and from the upstairs bedroom now occupied by Lachlan. Very quietly Murdo checked the kitchen door at the back of the house, but it was locked. He returned to the road and let himself into the front garden. Standing by the wall he emptied his trouser pockets, removed his jacket and boots, and hid them in a corner where the moon cast its deepest shadows. The earth struck cold through the gaping holes in his socks.

  Briefly he checked up and down the road. All was clear. Swiftly then he climbed on to the garden wall and reached for the bracket on the drainpipe. Hands clutching, feet braced against the wall, he scrambled upwards. Soon he was able to grasp the roof guttering. His fingers were frozen and the edge was sharp. Closing his mind as far as he was able to the hurt, he began to traverse the front of the house, swinging from hand to hand, resting briefly as he reached the upstairs window ledges. A car passed but otherwise the road remained empty.

  He had covered threequarters of the distance when from behind the house came the noise of a door opening and closing. He recognised his aunt’s footsteps. Milk bottles clinked. Murdo froze, feet hanging in space. Shining over the edge of the roof, the moonlight caught his head and shoulders.

  She appeared at the end of the house, descended the track by the wall, and set the bottles in a crate at the roadside. For a moment she stood, arms wrapped about her thin chest, looking down the glen towards the village. She lifted her face to regard the moon.

  Murdo felt his fingers cramping. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, fighting himself to remain still. The second she was gone, he writhed to ease the cramp and quickly struggled the last six or eight feet.

  With relief he set his feet on his brother’s window sill and took the weight off his arms. First one and then the other he let them hang at his side and thrust frost-nipped fingers into his trouser pockets.

  The window was locked. Softly Murdo tapped on the glass, but there was no response. He tapped again.

  Brother Lachlan! Where was he – at the bathroom, or downstairs eating supper? He rapped more sharply – two, three times.

  Within the room a door shut. The glow vanished. The blinds were drawn back and his brother stood at the window, clad in rumpled pyjamas. He pressed back the catch and pushed the window down. A breath of warm air brushed Murdo’s face and was gone. Carefully he transferred his grasp to the window frame and ducked through into the dark room.

  Having for the greater part of his life slept in the same bedroom, Murdo knew the position of every object: it was the sort of house where even in your own room a chair was not moved without consultation. As soon as the curtains had been drawn again, he felt for the box of matches on the end of the mantlepiece and touched a light to the oil lamp. The wick burned up in a smoky flare which settled as he replaced the glass chimney. Carefully he turned it down a fraction, and looked across at his brother.

  Lachlan had been sound asleep. Flushed and tousled he stood by the curtains, blinking in the lamplight. The room had turned cold. Half in a daze he passed Murdo, climbed back into bed and pulled the blankets to his chin.

  Murdo tucked in his shirt tails and sat on the foot of the bed. He picked up the book his brother had been reading when he fell asleep, and laid it on the suitcase which stood ready packed for the morning.

  ‘Let’s have the hot water bottle for a minute,’ he said. Lachlan scrabbled with his feet and pushed the heavy stone bottle from the sheets. Murdo took it on his lap and wrapped his calloused fingers about it. The pain of the returning blood was exquisite; he squeezed his fingers and blew on his nails, and soon it passed.

  Sitting on the coverlet in that spotlessly clean bedroom he looked dark and unkempt. Small wonder that he distressed his aunt. Fish scales adhered to the old navy serge of his trousers, his jumper was torn and marked with oil. From the constant burning of the sun, wind and salt sea, his face was swarthy as a gipsy.

  The radio was on downstairs. The sound of voices drifted up the stairway.

  ‘Are they settled down there?’ Murdo asked.

  ‘I think so. What time is it?’

  Murdo consulted the lopsided Mickey Mouse alarm clock. ‘Quarter to ten,’ he said. ‘Yo
u’re a bit early.’

  ‘Aye, well, she said I had to have an early night.’ Murdo smiled. ‘No bath?’

  ‘I had that last night.’ Lachlan was waking up. He rubbed his sandy hair and screwed round in the bed. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘We called at Willie and Meggan’s.’

  ‘Did you have supper?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘A bit. Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Here.’ Keeping beneath the bedclothes as much as possible, Lachlan pulled open a drawer in the polished chest which stood beside the bed. In among the shirts and underclothes was a dinner plate, with bread and cheese and butter and a slice of cake. Some spoonfuls of raspberry jam had run around the edge and trickled on to a vest. Carefully Lachlan lifted the food and a dinner knife to the top of the chest, and sucked the vest as clean as possible. ‘I’ll put it on tomorrow,’ he said. ‘She’ll never know.’

  For several minutes the brothers ate. Soon the plate was empty. With long experience Lachlan gathered up the crumbs from the plate and bedclothes and ate them, then licked away the last smears of jam.

  ‘You’re like a vacuum cleaner,’ Murdo said.

  ‘Well, you know what she’s like.’ Lachlan hid the plate beneath the pink vest, pulled a shirt on top and pushed the drawer shut.

  Murdo stood up. ‘I’m just going to Dad’s room, I need some socks. These ones have had it.’

  He took up a torch from the side of the bed and blew out the lamp. Softly in the dim beam he passed the foot of the bed that had been his own and pulled open the door. The radio grew louder, but all was still. Swiftly he crossed the long landing and let himself into his father’s bedroom.