Chapter 31
Emma awoke early to the street noises beneath her window.
In hazy morning sunshine the city looked more attractive, and she went down to breakfast in a good mood, to find out that porridge in Scotland was eaten with salt, not sugar, and then she saw something called black pudding on her breakfast plate.
She finished it all with relish, checked out of the hotel and made her way to the train station where trains headed north into the Highlands.
As the train pulled out of Queen Street Station and the rows of drab houses were left behind, the track hugged the River Clyde with all sizes of boats from tugs to great cargo ships, and then civilization melted away to small farms and gentle hills, and finally they were climbing steadily into the Highlands.
Hillsides covered with the last of the heather glowed purple.
Streams danced down over rocks. On a distant hilltop she spotted a stag with impressive antlers.
Emma had only seen a stag in paintings before and could hardly believe it was real.
She stared out of the window, holding her breath as the train climbed higher and vistas of mountain after mountain spread on either side.
She had to change trains in the small town of Fort William.
As she waited on the platform for the train to Mallaig she was conscious of the air, fresh, crisp and somehow different from anything she had breathed before.
At home the country air was always tinged with the scent of eucalyptus from the gum trees.
Here it carried a hint of tangy shrubs, juniper maybe?
Ben Nevis, the highest peak in Britain, soared over the town, and there were mountain ranges as far as the eye could see.
When the train to Mallaig finally came in, Emma was surprised to see it was powered by steam.
The other passengers were either climbers, carrying heavy rucksacks with coils of rope, or local fishermen.
If the first stage of the journey had been impressive, this part, down from Fort William to the coast, was spectacular.
They passed deep blue lakes and flew over a valley on an impossibly high viaduct.
Finally the sea appeared before them with the Isle of Skye in the distance.
The town of Mallaig was a simple cluster of white-and-black houses, clearly a working fishing town, as the aroma of fish greeted Emma as she climbed down from the train.
She headed with fellow passengers towards the small harbour.
Fishing boats lined the dock, and at the far end was a bigger ship that she guessed was the ferry.
At the ticket booth Emma asked if the ferry went to Portree.
“To Portree? Oh, no, miss,” the man behind the counter said, shaking his head in surprise. “There hasn’t been a ferry to Portree in my lifetime.”
“What about Kyleakin,” she asked, wondering if she was pronouncing the word correctly. She had only seen it written. Was it with the emphasis on the first syllable? Was the “a” pronounced like in “apple”?
“Dear me no.” He looked concerned now. “There’s a shorter ferry route from Kyle, but there’s no train from Inverness any more, thanks to Dr Beeching axing all the Scottish train lines. So there’s no way to get there from here apart from the road. There’s big sea lochs in the way, you see.”
“But this ferry does go to Skye?”
He now looked at her as if she might be a bit simple. “Oh aye. To Skye all right. But to Armadale. Directly across from us.”
There was no alternative but to buy a ticket and go on board.
It seemed important to take the same route that Melrose took, but as the boat left the harbour and started to rise and fall with the gentle swell, Emma wished there was a shorter crossing.
Sea mist hung ahead of them, blotting out any view of the island, so she had no idea how far away it was.
The boat was swallowed in the mist, and she recalled Melrose’s crossing, how he had felt strangely changed and reborn, and a similar feeling came over her.
Somewhere in the distance she heard the rhythmic clanging—a fog warning bell floating on a buoy.
As the mist finally started to clear, the island came into focus ahead of them, a green and wooded shore and then mountains rising in the distance.
The mist still hovered at the shoreline so that the island appeared to be floating, magically, on a cloud.
To enhance the magical feeling a creature broke the surface beside the boat, with what sounded like a sigh, and Emma recognized it as a dolphin.
Another joined it and they kept pace with the ferry, riding the bow wave.
It seemed like an omen. The absurd thought came that when she stepped ashore on Skye nothing would ever be the same.
It was so compelling and in a way so frightening that she half resolved to take the same ferry back to Mallaig, to go back to Iris and tell her that she was not going to work on the book.
As was the case for Melrose, Emma could see no signs of habitation until the ferry turned into a small bay.
Then she saw a few cottages amongst the trees and a bigger building off to one side.
She followed the other passengers, who quickly dispersed once ashore, leaving her standing alone near the dock.
There was a small café and shop beside the harbour, so she went inside and asked about buses to Kyleakin.
“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,” the shopkeeper said, giving her a pitying smile.
“But the bus has already gone for the day. There’s one at ten tomorrow.
You’ll need to find a bed and breakfast for the night if you’ve a mind to go there.
But don’t worry, there’s several places with a spare room. Just look for a sign in a window.”
Fighting back frustration Emma turned to go. At that moment a man got up from where he had been sitting at the counter.
“You need to go to Kyleakin?” he asked. “I’m heading that way myself. I can give you a ride if you like.”
His voice sounded cultured and more English than Scottish. He appeared to be in his twenties, with dark eyes and dark curly hair. Those dark eyes flashed with interest. Not bad was Emma’s immediate reaction.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said. Am I being too trusting here? she asked herself. She knew girls hitchhiked all the time, but she hadn’t tried it. Still he looked like a decent bloke, and they were on an island, after all. Surely everybody knew everybody else.
He gave her a reassuring smile. “Not at all. I welcome the company. It’s lonely driving by myself all the time.”
She followed him out to a van. “Patterson’s Fine Malt Whisky” was painted on the side. This reassured her. He was making deliveries for his work.
“I’ve been dropping off some cases at the ferry,” he said. “Hop in. I’ll put your bag in the back.”
He moved some papers from the passenger seat and Emma climbed up.
“I really appreciate this, Mr . . .”
“Patterson,” he said. “Andrew Patterson.”
“Oh, so it’s your family distillery?”
“It is. I’m just back from uni at St Andrews and learning the ropes of the family business,” he said. “Starting at the bottom, I might add. Delivery driver. At least I’ve moved up from sweeping floors.” He laughed then. He had a pleasant laugh. “And what’s your name?”
“Emma,” she said. “Emma Callander.”
“Oh, so a fellow Scot?”
“Originally, I suppose, but I’m from Australia. My family owns a winery there.”
“Oh, so we have a connection in booze.” He laughed again. “And what are you doing here? Not trying to sell Aussie wines to us whisky drinkers?”
She smiled, shaking her head.
“A bit late for the tourist season, and you’re not a climber, or you’d have brought a ton of equipment with you.”
“No, I’m researching a book,” she said.
“You’re a writer then?” He sounded impressed.
“I am. But I’m writing this particular book with another person. The preliminary work has been done, and now I just have to get a feel for the place and check out the locations.”
“And you can do that in a couple of days, do you think?”
“No! I’m told I should stay as long as it takes. I’ve no idea how long that will be. Most of the story has already been written.”
“It’s a travel book? Historical?”
“No. It’s a crime novel.”
Andrew gave her an interested grin. “I wouldn’t have put you down for a crime writer. You look too sweet and demure. But then all the old biddies in crime novels poison people, don’t they? So you can never tell.”
She had to remind herself not to make any mention of Iris’s name. “My book has a detective inspector,” she said. “Quite legit.”
“I don’t think you’ll find much crime on Skye,” he said. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I can remember only one murder. A man came home drunk and beat his wife to death. But no police work needed. He came in and confessed. Said he didn’t mean it.”
As they talked the road followed the shoreline for some time but then began to climb from the woods and market gardens along the bay to barren hills.
These were covered in dying yellow grass and patches of bracken, ferns that were not familiar to Emma.
At this time of year it was brown, dead and dying.
There were still occasional streaks of purple heather but not a tree in sight.
“You say you’ve lived here all your life,” Emma said. “Don’t you find it rather . . . remote? Cut off? There don’t seem to be many people.”
“That’s true,” he replied. “But my family has been here for centuries. I did go away to boarding school and then uni, but it was expected that I come back to learn the family business, and I don’t really mind that at all.
Apart from the lack of eligible young women.
” He turned to give her a cheeky grin, then had to swerve, negotiating sheep that had wandered close to the road.
“So what about you? Are you expected to go home and run the winery?”