Sun Dance (56 page)

Unwillingly I raised my head. Out on the bay, beyond the back of an upturned chair, the catwalks of three fish cages merged with an empty Atlantic. I gazed upon the purple horizon which comes with sunrise and wondered, join the morbidity of yesterday or be in the never, never land of tomorrow conversing to robots. What lost, what gained?

Poor Eilidh, she came round and leant against me, young Eachan in her arms. Could we pick up the pieces, begin again? Our conversation, such as it had been, did not touch on the possible abandoning of Sandray, I fancied the prospect would be difficult for us both to contemplate and left it unsaid. Eilidh straightening her shoulders, passed the boy to me and pulled his crib from under the chest of drawers, “It's hard to credit but this must be the work of the Sheriff Officers,” her voice sounded matter of fact. “I never believed they would get round to doing anything, not once we were established,” and viewing the fish cages her tone changed to one of defiance. “It's all part of a takeover.”

I caught her mood, “Eildh, if you think yourself and the boy will manage, we'll take back the house.” At once her eyes flashed with a fighting gleam and tossing back her hair, “Manage?” she echoed, “Hector as the old folks used to say, we've never died a winter yet,” adding with a note of mischief, “What's more our tattie crop is ready for lifting.”

Hammer and wrench, door first, windows next and we stepped inside, our footsteps hollow on bare boards. The house felt tainted, sullied by the attitude of those alien to things the old folks held dear. Marks on the wall showed where the dresser belonging to my great grandfather had stood. It was not so much the flinging out of dresser itself which saddened me, boxwood and the best they could afford, but rather that my ancestor and his family would have sat beside it. Poor folk in material terms, wealthy in a way which no longer finds expression.

The sink remained intact. I tried the tap. We had water. Whilst Eildh sat on the worktop feeding young Eachan, I began lugging in the vitals of living, gas cylinders and the cooker for a start. A quick trip to the jetty for a box of food, in no time I stirred oatmeal porridge and cracked eggs into a pan to give the boy his first taste of solid food. By mid morning the warm westerly breeze rippled through a line full of clothes and using the boarding which had barred the door, I got a fire going to dry our mattress. With due ceremony their No Admittance sign added to the flames. Laughter lifted our spirits, “Never realised we had so much furniture, wouldn't enjoy a shipwreck.” Before evening I'd dug half a drill of tatties. That night laced with butter they could not have tasted better.

After supper we sat talking. Muille who'd spent an equally damp night curled at our feet beneath the table, stretched warm and dry on the wooden floor. The dunes blanked out any lights in the bay, only the natural darkness at the window and the odd bold star; we were a family unit, back home.

Days passed in bringing back some order to our living space. Ignoring the whine of the heavy outboard engines of the fish farm's inflatable boats proved more difficult, the more so for flocks of wading birds down from the north and crowding the beach to rest. Often their startled alarm notes amidst a cloud of wings rising above the dunes warned us an inflatable had rounded the headland. Nor did our seal colony venture back to their roost. Valuable salmon stocks required frequent inspection and their automatic feeders refilled with pellets.

Apart from checking on Hilda at the jetty we restricted our visits to the beach to when the bay happened to be clear. Knowing that sludge would gradually accumulate beneath the fish cages, swimming lost its appeal. Moreover that night of storm sweeping across the fish cages had washed several empty five gallon drums to the foot of the dunes. Their contents were not stated, perhaps chemicals for the treatment of sea lice. Burying them deep, I could only guess.

Short days gave the pleasure of sitting together each evening. An Atlantic high settled over the Minch and although the sun hid for a short part of the day behind the Hill of the Shroud, the air turned still and uncommonly mild. Such was Eilidh's enthusiasm for catching the good drying weather it required me to extend the clothes rope. The curve of washed blankets, not to mention a generous contribution of nappies enlivened the view from my sheep round. It pleased me to see a line of white squares flapping from the gable, I told myself where life is young there's hope.

Adjustment to the changes came not without regrets; most acutely we felt the disturbance to the wildlife. To offset bouts of pessimism, I modified my old rucksack and hoisting it onto my back with Eachan strapped to the frame we'd walk over the ridge to the east side of Sandray. The Viking landing, as I christened it, remained untouched. One afternoon when the sun dabbled on the ripples, we swam in the warmth of a sea heated all summer. Whilst I floated, Eilidh would hold the boy on my chest and without fear of the water his delight was obvious. There was none to hear our laughter and wrapped in towels, we sat amongst the rocks.

The seaweed rose and fell. An incoming tide swilled gently amongst the rock pools. The westering sun turned floating strands to golden tresses and unknowing of our presence, a family of otters twisted and played in the shallow waters; lithe dark bodies, they were in our thoughts as we walked back over the ridge to a sunset which spread deep crimson over the vast Atlantic ocean.

A distant whine rapidly swelled to deafening roar, slates on the roof reverberated. A plane about to crash? Mid morning coffee on the table three weeks after our island return, “Outside!” I bawled above the ear drumming racket bearing down on us. Eilidh grabbed a crying child and we fled from the house.

A helicopter hovered over the rooftop. Suspended beneath it a massive container, not fifty feet above our heads; the pilot appeared uncertain. He banked slightly before flying across to the flat machair ground. Hardly had he eased the container onto the ground before a second helicopter cleared the shoulder of the hill. Another container was followed by a third machine. We stood aghast, Eilidh trying to soothe a boy who had not heard noises other than the cry of sea birds.

Terrified sheep panicked. Whirring blades and an unholy racket, at first they'd scattered, running wildly into the fences, until finally they packed together at the top corner of the field. Poor brutes, should I let them out to the hill ground? Muille had vanished. Eventually I put my hand on the head of a shaking animal cowering under our bed. Nothing would coax her to come out. Moving the sheep without her help would be impossible. By evening the machair had sprung a crop of huge steel boxes.

I reasoned they must have been lifted from a ship on the east side of the island, its speed and efficiency resembled that of an army invasion. Early darkness halted their operation. Dismay filled our conversation. The oil lamp threw our shadows onto bare kitchen walls.

After supper I walked across the machair to the sound of the tide, nothing more, the bird life had fled. Rows of great oblong boxes, massive end doors heavily padlocked. I ventured amongst them, my mind searching for their purpose. Was this to be a base camp, part of a Nato exercise? I leant against cold metal.

Out of the darkness came a solitary whistle, high above me once again the creatures of the northlands were passing. I listened, alone with the starlight, feeling their kinship and hoping; no calling came, nothing to tell me, no sound save the breathing of the night.

I retraced my steps.

Sculptured crags reached down the hillside, long shadows, old in the moonlight.

Rows of containers, square in profile were behind me,

shadows of a coming age.

Ghastly newspaper headlines were the last thing Sir Joshua needed to jolt him horribly awake. In bed, propped on the pillows of a luxury hotel overlooking the River Clyde, he scanned the morning papers whilst awaiting his breakfast tray. Glasgow's Sunday Herald blazoned it, ‘Dangers of nuclear waste disposal exposed.' The newspaper shook in trembling hands, his eye ran down the edge of each column, an increasing anger vented itself as he read. “Bastards, sneaking bloody journalists, it's all a plot, they've been put up to it,” he ranted on, “Greenpeace or some such crowd of head- in -sands fools,” Minus technical detail the article summed up much of the findings in the MacKenzie papers he'd been given just days previously.

How the bloody hell had this information surfaced? The whole business of developing a nuclear waste depositary had to be kept out of the public domain, at least until construction was well underway. That was vital. Everyone from the stupid anti nuclear lefties in the House of Commons to those Nuclear Disarmament activists, they'd all be braying like donkeys, encouraging these dangerous protester types, the rent a mob layabouts, marches, placards, hooligan campers. A vision of the possible disruptions raced through his mind, most especially the extra costs cutting into profit. “This is absolutely bloody well intolerable, this leak has to be plugged. Now!” his shouting reached a tearful crescendo, “Can't even trust the fucking Treasury, they might delay payments, haven't had a penny out of the bastards so far, they'll ruin me.” The extent of his swearing, a measure of his exasperation.

Flinging bed sheets and newspaper to one side, Goldberg grabbed his calling device, pressed its emergency button and stumbled over to the hotel bedroom's security locker. Briefcase still there, the key, the key, yes, still in his wallet, feverishly he tried the lock. It refused to turn, the damn case was already open. I wouldn't have left it unlocked. He cursed, ripped back the flap. The papers remained inside. Had they been rifled? He began shuffling through them.

Seconds later the bedroom door opened, a man entered and quietly relocked the door behind him, “You all right Sir?” In his fright Goldberg dropped the briefcase and turned. “Perfectly,” he managed to blurt out and staring at the man in alarm, “Who the hell are you?” Eyeing Sir Joshua carefully, “Your bodyguard sir?” he replied. Goldberg gathered himself together and realising the indignity of standing naked, “Pass my dressing gown!” he snapped, and draping it over his shoulders, “You're not my regular bodyguard.” “No sir, your usual security cover has,” the man's eyes flickered momentarily, “has decided to leave our employment.”

How much had his previous bodyguard learnt? Always thought him a sly, cunning devil, hanging about within earshot. Had he gone through my briefcase? Alerted at once to the possibility of blackmail, an inwardly panicking Sir Joshua struggled to keep authority in his voice, “I want that man arrested, immediately.” His new bodyguard frowned, “That will be difficult sir.” “Why?” demanded Goldberg, his pitch rising. “He left the country yesterday.” “What!” a frightened Chairman was now shouting, “I'll speak to, er, to London at once. Where's he gone?” “I'm not sure Sir, it could be anywhere,” the bodyguard watched his client without blinking, “for all I know it might have been Tehran.” An icicle of fear stabbed Goldberg, “Tehran,” he echoed weakly.