Over the Sea to Death

  OVER THE SEA TO DEATH

  Gwen Moffat

  © Gwen Moffat 1976

  Gwen Moffat has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1976 by Victor Gollancz Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pronunciation of Gaelic Place Names

  Sgurr an Fheadain—Sgurr an Aityan

  Coire a’ Ghreadaidh—Corrie a’ Greeta

  Sgurr Dearg—Sgurr Jerrack

  Loch Coruisk—Loch Coroosk

  Sgurr Mhic Coinnich—Sgurr Vic Coynich

  Gars Bheinn—Garsven

  Chapter One

  There was a touch of frost in the night and the tin hut was too cold for any of them to sleep properly. At intervals she heard the two fellows talking and at dawn they got up and left without saying goodbye, but then she didn’t really know them. She’d been walking down the glen last night thinking that if no car picked her up, she’d have to keep walking or sleep there, on the grass verge, when she’d come to the roadmen’s hut. She’d smelt the pot first and thought it must be campers but someone was smoking inside the hut.

  She was lucky; they hadn’t welcomed her with enthusiasm but they’d let her sleep inside. They weren’t interested in her, probably because she was wearing a big coat and, except for her voice, was indistinguishable in the dark from anyone else on the road.

  Owls called all night and she would have liked to close the door but was afraid she might antagonise the men. It was getting light when they left, the owls stopped, and she went to sleep.

  She woke late. The sun was up and the hut was stifling. Already the tourists were on the road and cars were rushing past the door.

  She sauntered outside combing her hair, and looked around. Vast mountains walled the glen and there was a river below the road. Clumsily, sliding off tussocks in her flip-flops, she reached the water and washed her face with her hands.

  After she’d packed her gear, she moved down the glen before she started hitching because if she stayed by the hut, motorists might think there was a fellow inside, waiting while she thumbed the cars.

  Willie MacNeill, returning from the cattle market, saw her in the distance, one hand up to the brim of a floppy hat, and the breeze flapping her jeans. She was tall and slim and looked, for one moment, incredibly exciting until he realised she wasn’t half-naked but wearing a halter top, very dull, like a faded rose.

  He took his foot off the accelerator. He assumed she was a motorist whose car had broken down; he’d have thought twice about picking up a hippy.

  She told him her name was Terry Cooke—and that she’d had no breakfast, so he stopped at the next inn and she wolfed a pile of sandwiches. He speculated on her age. He was nineteen and he thought she had a child’s eyes but she wasn’t a child because of her body. She could be eighteen. She told him she was going to Glen Shira.

  ‘We farm there,’ he said, ‘the old man and me. I’m always picking up lassies who are going to the hostel.’

  Her eyes dwelt on his wide shoulders. ‘What time will we be there?’

  ‘I’ll no’ be in Shira till late. I’ve to go to Portree and pick up the groceries. I’ll be after putting you down at Sligachan and you’ll have a walk of a few miles.’ He added hopefully, ‘Or you can spend the evening with me. Saturday night’s wild on Skye.’

  ‘I’ve got a fellow waiting for me in Glen Shira.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’re impertinent.’

  She turned her shoulder, and the brim of the hat hid her face. He flushed and gripped the wheel. Her spine was a little damp and the pale hair clung to it. He wondered how she dared to wear that top in the Highlands.

  ‘You didn’t say that when I was after buying the sandwiches.’

  She turned round but he wouldn’t look at her.

  ‘I thought those were a gift.’

  ‘They were.’ He felt like a small boy.

  ‘Then don’t charge me for them.’

  After a while she went on, conversationally, ‘I expect the girls spoil you.’ When he still wouldn’t respond she remarked pleasantly, ‘Don’t be childish. You know you shouldn’t be right up this guy’s arse. You’re a big bully. Drop back and drive how you were driving before.’

  ‘What do you know about driving?’

  ‘I’ve been with a lot of drivers.’

  ‘I’m damty sure you have.’

  She stared at him but he kept his eyes on the road, allowing the space to lengthen between the car ahead and his lorry.

  ‘I don’t sleep with all the fellows who pick me up.’ She was gently reproving.

  ‘How many then?’

  ‘Just the ones I like.’

  ‘The ones you like!’

  She laughed. ‘How old-fashioned you are!’ Then she murmured apologetically: ‘No, it’s not that; I guess I was right the first time: too many youth hostellers, that’s what it will be. Rather unsophisticated?’ The tone was engaging and the words anathema. In Willie’s book you insulted a woman by inferring that she was a whore but with this one he’d sent off a boomerang. His instinct was to put his foot down and hurl his truck round the corners, but that would only frighten the tourists. She’d look at him with those big dark eyes and smile. He drove on carefully, seething with impotence.

  At the Kyle of Lochalsh she got down from the cab and stalked round the quay like an inquisitive cat. In front of the first car in the queue, the ramp that was the end of the road ran straight into the sound, while across the water stood the Isle of Skye. It meant nothing to Willie, but the girl was fascinated by everything. She laughed at the cormorants that dived with a flash of backside and webbed black feet, to pop up yards away, gulping fish. She was enchanted with the rank of varnished East Coasters tied up for the weekend, with the buildings crowding the quay, functional but not displeasing, with the ferry and its crew. The crew studied her dispassionately.

  ‘Those birds are like wee devils,’ she remarked on the ferry, catching the idiom, watching a cormorant scooting past their bows. Willie winced. On the island people believed in devils.

  ‘It’s hot,’ he grumbled, and it was sweltering in the cab.

  ‘I love it hot. When you’re on the road and it rains, there’s nowhere to dry your clothes, and warm wet stuff smells horrible, and your hair’s in rats’ tails. You look like death and no one will give you food. Besides, you never feel so hungry in the sun.’

  They rolled off the ferry, up another ramp and through the village of Kyleakin to open country. The island was grey in the drought: pewter and smeared silver, hazed by the heat, with the air above every rock shivering as if in a mirage. The odd cottage, dazzling in this soft light, drowsed through the afternoon. An occasional tourist car drifted by, or could be glimpsed, stationary, in the shade of scrub birches.

  There was another place, a town he called it, and she thought he was joking: another collection of white-washed houses, a couple of stores, a garage and an hotel. In a moment they were past it, and strange hills loomed ahead while on their right were islands and water and, on the other side of the sound, the mainland hills. They ran under immense slopes of scree whe
re she had to bend down to see the top, and round lochs like fiords with birds feeding on the exposed mud. A smell of seaweed filled the cab.

  The scree slopes receded, opening out to moorland, and away on their left, spiky peaks were a frieze without detail against the sky. Between these and the road, the moor descended in random steps, gleaming like glass in places where water ran over slabs. Now, ahead of them, was a junction and a long rambling building in the ubiquitous whitewash under a jumble of slate roofs. It appeared uninhabited.

  ‘Is anyone left alive on Skye?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Perhaps they all died suddenly and left just us.’

  ‘This is Sligachan,’ he announced, slowing down, then coaxingly: ‘Come in and have a drink with me.’

  She returned his look coolly. ‘I’ll wait.’

  He had nice lips but his smile could be cruel. ‘I’m no’ going farther.’

  Her eyes widened, then, without a word, she started to gather her things together. Such ready acceptance made him feel guilty.

  ‘I told you,’ he reminded her, ‘I’m no’ going straight to the glen; I’ve to go to Portree. I’m coming back this way if you’ll wait—or you can come with me.’

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. Wait for me. I’ll no’ be long.’

  ‘Can’t I walk to Glen Shira from here?’

  ‘It’s eight miles!’

  She climbed down from the cab and wrinkled her nose at the smell of beer from the bar. ‘Which road do I take?’

  He shrugged. ‘You go round the side of the building and up the Dunvegan road a ways. On the left there’s a signpost.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She put the string of the bedding roll round her neck.

  ‘Hell!’ he protested. ‘You’re no’ going to walk over the moor carrying that stuff! Let me take it in the wagon.’ She gave him an indulgent smile and picked up her carrier bags. ‘Why don’t you have a rucksack?’ he asked desperately.

  ‘You’re obsessed with youth hostellers.’

  He glanced at the sky; it was an adult look but his tone was sulky. ‘If you don’t come down the glen tonight, I’m no’ turning out for you. You’ve got a sleeping bag; you’ll need to crawl under a rock till daylight but you’ve nothing to fear on the moor. No one’s after dying of exposure in this weather. It’ll be a fine night.’

  He turned and swaggered into the bar. She hesitated for a moment then started walking.

  *

  He was rather sweet, she thought, for a farm boy; he hadn’t lost his bloom yet. He seemed kind. He didn’t like being snubbed yet his retaliation wasn’t spiteful but quick and natural. Terry knew that she roused strong reactions but she found it difficult to distinguish between people whom she charmed and those she repelled, or at least disturbed. If she sometimes suspected that not everyone found her irresistible, then she knew an increased thrill, but if she was aware of danger it was only as an extension of excitement. She was sixteen and had survived so long through luck.

  She thought about Willie’s husky body—and of George. But George was old; fellows couldn’t be expected to keep their bodies hard indefinitely, and he’d had a lot of falls. Besides, he didn’t look after himself; it was a bad diet, not age, had made George put on weight. Certainly he was nearer forty than the thirty-six he claimed. . . . Suddenly the thought occurred to her that when she was thirty-six and thus already old, George would be around sixty, if he were still alive. She wasn’t sure whether she was more shocked at the thought of George as a very old man, or of his dying—but then he could be killed at any time. He’d pointed that out himself, the first time he’d met her. She’d thought then what a terrible thing that was to have to live with.

  She dawdled, her flip-flops scuffing in the gravel. She felt hot and sweaty and very much alone. She stopped and looked back at the hotel Willie called Sligachan. George was eight miles away and this one was so near—and so much more accommodating. She remembered the warm eyes on the other side of the cab, the hard chest under the shirt. She bit her lip and sighed. George said she was over-sexed and she supposed he was right because you couldn’t be all that old without acquiring some wisdom about girls. She resumed her trudge up the road, looking now at the mountains from under the brim of her hat. Her gaze ranged over the moor and the weird skyline, and came back to a signpost which read, ‘Footpath to Glen Shira’ and seemed to be pointing to an empty world.

  ‘God, it’s creepy,’ she whispered. ‘I should have stayed with Willie.’

  *

  ‘Why are we stopping?’ Lavender Maynard’s voice had a cutting edge.

  ‘Because I can’t look at the scenery while I’m driving, dear.’

  Her husband reversed into the big lay-by at the head of Glen Shira and switched off. He peered through the windscreen and sighed. ‘Too hazy.’

  ‘The place to stop is above the hairpins,’ Lavender pointed out. ‘You can see only one corrie from here.’

  ‘That’s the one that matters,’ he murmured absently.

  Her dark glasses were turned on him. ‘Why does that corrie matter?’

  ‘Because we can see the Lindsays’ route from here; could do, with decent visibility. Mustn’t grumble in an anti-cyclone—’

  ‘Madge Fraser’s route, you mean.’

  ‘Yes, dear; they took both guides today.’

  ‘But I suppose you’ll pay her all the same?’

  ‘Naturally. I engaged her for the fortnight; I don’t deduct a day’s fees because you insist on my taking you to Portree shopping.’

  ‘So she’ll pick up double wages today. Easy money.’

  He regarded her angular body without expression. ‘She earns every penny of it. Can you suggest an occupation which is more dangerous—or which gives so much pleasure to the client?’

  Her hands twitched in her lap but she said with deliberation, ‘I shouldn’t think danger has much, if any significance, where people of low intelligence are concerned.’

  After a moment he said reflectively, ‘You could have a thought there—quite a thought.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just getting out, dear, for a breath of fresh air.’

  Leaning against the bonnet, feeling the hot metal through his slacks, he looked up the corrie and thought that somewhere within visual distance the Lindsays and their two guides were scrambling carefully along the crest of the ridge, or descending some easy gully close behind Madge, with George bringing up the rear. He saw them in his mind’s eye, stop and cluster: about a late saxifrage perhaps, or to gape at a basking viper. Madge didn’t care much for wildlife but she knew what her clients wanted.

  His gaze wandered leftwards across vast wastes of rock and moor to the pass that led to Sligachan. His eyes narrowed. Someone was coming along the path: strung with packages and walking with difficulty.

  ‘Shall we go on for tea?’ Lavender’s voice hinted at urgency. She liked her tea at five o’clock and it was now ten to.

  ‘Hold on a minute; this girl looks at the end of her tether. We might offer her a lift.’

  ‘Do we have to get involved with every slut in Glen Shira?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ He went and leaned on the driver’s door. ‘All right,’ he said soothingly, ‘I know it’s been a trying day but it was you who wanted to go shopping. I did warn you that Portree would be hell on Saturday afternoon—’

  ‘All you wanted to do was climb—’

  ‘It’s what I came here for—’

  ‘I don’t climb, Kenneth.’ Softly.

  ‘You didn’t have to come, dear.’

  ‘No. And you’d have preferred me to stay at home so that you could come to Skye and take up with Madge Fraser where you left off—’

  Her voice shrilled dangerously but he was walking away: up the road to the end of the Sligachan path, trying to shut out the tirade, peering at the limping traveller—then he smiled incredulously, for this was out of the frying pan and into the fire with a vengeance. No wonder Lavender
was hysterical; she had better eyesight than he.

  She was fabulous: long-waisted, long-legged, wearing pants which made her look like a fashion plate, a pink halter top and a big blue hat. The legs of the pants should have been a riot of little flowers but they were smeared by peat stains to the knees. Even in a drought the inexperienced ones always found the bogs. She carried a bedding roll and a shoulder bag, huge plastic holdalls and a pair of flip-flops.

  He exclaimed in horrified amusement, ‘You’ve never walked from Sligachan like that?’

  She stopped and put down her bags. Her expression was friendly and apologetic.

  ‘I thought the path would be better. I don’t know why I should have done. It didn’t seem far: eight miles, but I haven’t seen a soul, not even in the distance!’

  ‘You’ve only done five miles; you’ve got three to go to civilisation—such as it is. But not now,’ he added hastily, seeing her alarm, ‘I’ll take you to the hostel. Why are you limping?’

  She sat down in the heather and presented the sole of one foot: clean from the bogs, but the thick skin gashed by glass or tin. Blood started to ooze from the wound.

  ‘Don’t you carry any Elastoplast, woman?’ She shook her head. ‘No First Aid at all?’

  She smiled winningly. ‘I can make it to your car; I can see you’re the kind of guy who always carries First Aid stuff.’

  He regarded her lugubriously and his voice was sad. ‘So right you are. Come along then. You won’t lean on me?’ He glanced towards the car. ‘You may be wise. My wife is a little tired,’ he told her after some yards of slow progress. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Terry Cooke.’

  ‘Mine’s Ken Maynard, and this—’ as they came within speaking distance of Lavender’s window, ‘—is my wife. Will you hand me the First Aid box, my dear, and unlock the rear door?’

  Wordlessly, Lavender did as he asked, the dark glasses turned on the girl with anonymous menace. Ken muttered to himself as he dressed the foot and re-packed the First Aid box. Then he stowed the girl’s gear beside her and climbed into the driver’s seat.