Chapter 29
Chapter 29
M orag was busy, because the weather had gone into reverse. It had just got colder and colder. That morning, the morning of the school trip, the radio had buzzed in the tin shed very early.
Morag had headed up to the control tower to answer it, sure it would be Gregor. There was no mobile signal on the island and the radio was their only mode of communication. It would be a lot more romantic and sexier if it wasn’t an open channel that anyone could listen in to if they had the inclination which, there not being loads to do in Carso, and loads of old retired skippers living there, plenty did. Morag wasn’t entirely sure the KCs didn’t have an illegal scanner rigged up, the speed they got all the gossip. So it was rather tentatively that she picked up the receiver in Pete’s control tower. You could see for 360 degrees; it was a bright clear day, cold for the time of year. It had been a ridiculously cold spring; people had been scraping their cars down in the mornings for what seemed like a hundred years, but a good day for flying, she thought.
“First Officer MacIntyre,” Morag said, just in case it wasn’t Gregor for whatever reason and she said “hello, honeybuns” or some such, even though that wasn’t the kind of thing she was likely to say. On the other hand, even very sensible people say very stupid things when they’re in love.
“Morning, First Officer,” came Gregor’s typically amused voice, and Morag felt herself smiling. Pete rolled his eyes as he arrived at the office, but she didn’t notice, and he was doing it from a very affectionate place.
“How can I help you? Over.”
“First Officer, have you looked at your weather forecast?”
“Obviously,” said Morag, unimpressed. “An area of low pressure coming in from the north, with bands of rain, windspeed mild to moderate.”
“Yeah,” said Gregor. “I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t believe in the weather forecast?”
“I do believe in weather forecasting as a concept as long as it’s very short range and based on observable patterns and cloud formations...”
“Uh-huh. How is the sick chicken doing by the way?”
“Janet? She’s grand yes.”
“Oh well, worth my best tweezers then.”
“I would say so. I’ll make you the best Spanish omelette when you next come.”
“Deal.”
“Bring peppers. And tomatoes. And onions.”
“Uh and potatoes?”
“Potatoes I have.”
“Will do.”
“Listen,” said Gregor. “Just be careful. They’re predicting rain but I was out looking at the radishes, and they’re still shaking off frost.”
“Your radishes are telling me to disbelieve the weather forecast?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“ The radishes are shaking off the frost sounds like you’re trying to pass me spy stuff in code,” grumbled Morag.
“Well, I’m not,” said Gregor. “I mean it. Have a look.”
“Also it would be a terrible code,” added Ranald, listening in.
“Gramps, this is meant to be your day off.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t have a passing interest in what you’re doing to my plane.”
“Hello, sir,” said Gregor.
Morag couldn’t help it, she liked how respectful Gregor was to her grandfather. They came from totally different worlds, but they each respected the other for their commitment to what they did. Both workaholics too. Morag wondered briefly if a therapist would have a field day with it—how she’d fallen for someone just like Ranald—then batted the thought away. If Gregor was as good a man as her grandfather, and she had every reason to suspect he was, then everything was going to be all right.
“What are you thinking, Gregor.”
“Actually, Gramps, this is a call to me?” said Morag. “And I think I’ll be making the judgment?”
She heard a noise from the terminal building beyond the door and winced slightly. There was a wedding party who were getting their marriage blessed in the abbey on Inchborn and they looked rowdy, even first thing in the morning.
“I’m just saying,” said Gregor. “They’re predicting heavy rain. And I think it’s not going to be rain.”
It was the end of April. Frankly, anything could happen. You could turn up and marvel at the soft gentle air and the bluebells that stretched for miles and miles; perfumed the air with their scent; rendered the world gentle and beautiful and lifted the heart.
Or you could watch lambs in the fields being born to harsh cruel winters and scouring winds; jump out of your car and run to the door before you got blown over; walk, wrapped up in a big duvet coat, down to the sea front to see the waves ten, twelve feet over the esplanade front, might in their power, the windmills whirring, the fishermen grave, setting out on their travels deep into the night.