Chapter 34
Jock turned up just as she was finishing her breakfast, mopping up the egg yolk with the last of the toast. It was amazing how the bracing air gave her an appetite. At home it was toast and Vegemite if anything more than a cup of tea or coffee.
“Did you speak to your father about whether he might have driven the writer around?” she asked excitedly.
“I’m sorry. I did nae have the time. We had my wife’s parents over last night, so I was fully occupied and on my best behaviour.” He glanced up shyly. “They don’t fully approve of me. They wanted something more than a taxi driver for their daughter.”
“That’s silly. You like what you do and you make a good living, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “It’s a bit sparse in the winter,” he said. “And I married a girl with big ideas. Oh well. Not your problem. Almost ready to go then?”
“Are we going to see your father?”
“If that’s what you want. He’s up in Portree.”
“Oh, so we’ve got another long drive ahead of us?”
“But a beautiful one. It’s a lovely clear day so far. You’ve been lucky with the weather. At this time of year we can have a week of rain or mist.”
They set out on the same route they had driven the day before, sometimes driving along the edge of the water, sometimes cutting inland as the road climbed over another hill.
Yesterday Emma had enjoyed gazing at the scenery.
Today it seemed to take twice as long, and she fought back impatience.
She couldn’t wait to find out if the story was in any way true.
As they finally approached the little town of Portree it sparkled in the bright slanted sunlight, looking most appealing today.
A fishing boat was returning to port, followed by a flock of seagulls, their harsh cries echoing in the crisp air.
“Not much going on at this time of year,” Jock said, “but if you’d come in the summer holidays you’d have found it bustling. That’s when my dad and I both make our money. Although if you’d come in the summer you’d have had the midges.”
“The what?” Emma wondered if these were more fantastical creatures like kelpies.
“Midges. You don’t know what they are? Like little mosquitos, and they bite something terrible. We’re plagued with them all summer here on Skye.”
“Then I’m glad I timed it perfectly.” She smiled at him.
He left the taxi in the car park and they walked along the waterfront to a row of shops.
Next to a souvenir shop, a wool shop and a fish-and-chips shop was a sign that said “Bide a Wee.” In the window was a smaller sign that said “Coffee, Tea, Hot Snacks and Ice Creams.” A bell jangled as Jock pushed open the door.
The place smelled of roasted coffee and was empty apart from an elderly couple sitting in the window. A man appeared from the back.
“Hello, boy,” the man said, smiling. Emma could tell immediately that this was Jock’s dad. “Brought me a customer, have you?”
“I have, Dad. She’s Australian and she’s pining for meat pie.”
“Aussie, eh?” The man gave her a friendly grin. “If you wait a few minutes I’ll have a pie warm for you.”
“I haven’t quite got over breakfast yet,” Emma said, “but I’d like a coffee now please and maybe a pie later. And what about you, Jock?”
Jock also asked for a coffee. “So two coffees, please.”
When he delivered the coffee Jock’s father joined them. “Not much business at this time of year,” he said pulling up a chair to their table. “I’m thinking of closing for the winter, but then what would I do at home? Sit around and annoy the wife all day.”
“You could do one of those Caribbean cruises you were reading about,” Jock said.
His dad gave him a playful slap. “Get out of here with your nonsense. What would I be wanting with a Caribbean cruise? I’ve got boats right here if I want to go out on the ocean.”
“But not many palm trees,” Emma said, and Old Jock laughed.
“She’s got a ready wit about her,” he said.
“She’s a writer, Dad,” Jock said. “At least she’s helping a writer with her book that’s set here on Skye.”
“Oh yes?” Old Jock eyed her with interest.
“I’m wondering if you might have driven her around, years ago,” Emma said. “She’s an Aussie like me, and I think she came here in the nineteen thirties.”
“The thirties.” Old Jock paused, thinking. “That might have been my dad. I only took over in thirty-six. Before then I was working on one of the boats. I’ve driven some Aussies around in my time, but I don’t remember a lady writer. What sort of book is it?”
“It’s a mystery, but now that I’m here I’m wondering if it could have been based on a true event back in the thirties. Maybe something to do with the family at Craigard? Their daughter was in a boat that capsized and she drowned? Someone tampered with the sail?”
Old Jock was frowning now. “Now you mention it that does sound familiar,” he said. “But it certainly wasn’t in the thirties. It was something I heard my dad talk about, from his youth, in the early nineteen hundreds.”
“The beginning of the century?” Emma considered this, not sure what to say next. “So do you reckon I could speak to your father and see what he remembers? He might also remember the lady writer.”
Old Jock shook his head. “I’m sorry, lass, but he’s not with us any longer. He passed away last winter. Been fit as a fiddle all his life, then he got pneumonia and he was gone in a couple of days. You’d have enjoyed meeting him. A right character, wasn’t he, Jock?”
“He was,” Young Jock agreed. “And he had so many good stories. He’d probably have been able to tell you more about this one.”
Emma gave a small sigh. “So if I wanted to find out more, but I’d rather not ask the family in question, how would I go about it? Do you know other old people on the island who would remember that far back?”
“Oh aye. There would be plenty,” Jock’s father said. “Who might know, lad?”
“She could try the newspaper first,” Young Jock answered. “They’d have written about it, wouldn’t they? Especially a laird’s daughter.”
“You’re right. They would.”
“So there was a newspaper going in those days at the turn of the century?”
“Aye. There was. It’s been going since the time of Queen Victoria. Maybe even before. We’re quite proud of it on the island. It’s been struggling recently, so who knows how long it will continue.”
“And it’s here in Portree,” Young Jock added. “I can take you there now.”
“All right.” Emma stood up. “Lovely meeting you, Mr . . .” She realized she didn’t know his last name.
“Jock will do just fine,” the man said. “That’s how we’re known here.”
The newspaper was housed in a small white-painted shop a couple of streets back from the water, nestled between a hardware shop and an estate agent.
Young Jock walked her there while his father handled an arrival of customers at the café.
Emma glanced at the estate board to read Fine gentleman’s residence for sale as she passed.
What would it be like to live here? she wondered.
In the entry of the shop, a stack of this week’s papers sat on the front counter, and advertisements on the walls announced a dance at the church hall this Saturday and a sale of cattle. A young woman appeared from the back room, brushing off her skirt.
“Hello, Jock,” she said, smiling at him. “Can I help you? Do you want to increase the size of your advert in the paper? We’re looking for extra advertising at the moment.”
“No, not that. It will do just fine as it is,” Young Jock said. “I’ve brought this young lady to go through the archives, if you don’t mind. She’s writing a book about the island, and she thinks there might be a true story behind the one in her book.”
“Och aye?” The young woman gave Emma an encouraging smile. “If you’d like to come with me, I’ll take you back.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be, Jock,” she said. “If you’d like to wait at your father’s place, I’ll come and find you.”
“Oh, I’ve got some shopping to do,” Jock said. “I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen, so I’ll be at the hardware shop.”
Emma followed the young woman into a cluttered room with type being set and pages being laid out. Having worked for a publisher this looked familiar if rather primitive. Two men, one old and one younger, were busy at work. They looked up as Emma went past.
“She’s come to see the archives,” the young woman said.
“What year, my dear?” the older man asked.
“Early years of this century,” Emma said. “You might be able to help me. It was a tragic drowning that might have been murder. A laird’s daughter, possibly the Pattersons?”
“I’m pretty sure I recall reading something like that.” The man got up from his seat. His fingers were ink stained. “Not sure of the year though. We could start with nineteen hundred and work our way through. Nellie will take you, won’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, Dad,” the girl said.
So it was all in the family, Emma thought. That was how it seemed to go on the island. The back room smelled musty and damp and was quite dark, even with the lone electric bulb hanging from the ceiling. Not the most appealing place.
“We’ll get the volumes you need and take them somewhere brighter,” the girl said. “You’ll nae be able to read the small print in a hellhole like this.”
She climbed a step stool and pulled down a large volume of bound newspapers, handing it to Emma. “This is nineteen hundred. Start with that and I’ll get the subsequent ones down for you.”
Emma went through to the main room and found an empty desk in the corner.
She sat, almost trembling with anticipation as she opened the book.
The articles were in small type, crammed onto two sheets with half a page of advertisements at the back.
Wanted: stud bull for my new cows. Emma smiled and forced herself not to go on reading.
She skimmed headlines. Turn of the Century.
Our Hopes. Our Dreams. When Will the First Motor Car Come to Our Island? First We’ll Need Some Decent Roads.