Past Lives

Nine

Macandrew decided against using the motorway and opted instead for a meandering route across the central belt. He wanted to see as much of the countryside as possible.

‘There’s no much tae see either way, mind you,’ warned Willie Donaldson, the hall porter. ‘If it’s scenery yer after, you should be headin’ north.’

After thirty minutes of driving through a bleak landscape that even sheep seemed vaguely unhappy with, Macandrew was ready to concede that Willie had a point. The countryside he’d passed through had been mainly barren, windswept moor land. His spirits began to pick up however, when the road started to wind down the slopes of the Clyde valley with its more fertile soil and fruit farms — although it was entirely the wrong time of year to visit. Two hours had gone by when he finally joined the dual carriageway that led south from Glasgow to the Ayrshire coast. Another twenty minutes and he was entering the outskirts of Ayr.

It struck him almost immediately that the town had a feeling of small town prosperity about it as he headed slowly towards its centre between rows of neat bungalows sitting smugly behind well-manicured gardens. The roads were pleasantly wide, giving the place an air of space and openness and the traffic seemed light. He eventually picked up a sign pointing to Beach Car Park and couldn’t resist following it. This would be his first glimpse of the western shores of Scotland from where his great grandfather had set out for the New World and a new life.

On a November day, Macandrew found himself the only person in the car park by the sea. He brought the car to a halt, facing the water, and leaned forward to rest his arms on the wheel and take in the view. The beach was windswept and utterly deserted but the sand seemed white and clean and the wind was whipping it up in small clouds making the surface seem liquid. Gulls wheeled and screamed above white crested waves which, with the tide out, were a good hundred yards away. He buttoned up the front of his jerkin, pulled his cap firmly on to his head in deference to the wind and got out of the car to jump over the low wall and start making for the water’s edge.

After only a few minutes standing there, he was forced to turn his back to gain respite from the biting wind and also to get his bearings. There was a wide expanse of parkland between the shore and the first houses, which were large, stone-built villas, but he could see the spires and towers of the town to his left. He found it slightly unnerving that he seemed to be the only living thing in the whole wide, flat landscape and felt relieved when he saw a woman step on to the beach about three hundred yards away with her dog. He walked by the water’s edge for another ten minutes before returning to the car and rejoicing in its calm stillness while he thought what to do next.

A first priority was a whisky to warm himself up and then he’d have some lunch. With this in mind, he headed back along the route he had come in on — remembering that he had passed a few likely hotels — and pulled into the car park of one of them. A large whisky was followed by hot soup, smoked trout and apple crumble and several cups of coffee — the waitress insisted on refilling his cup while she sought his advice about a Florida holiday.

By four in the afternoon Macandrew had visited all the tourist offices in Ayr that were open and also two local museums. No one had ever heard of Drumcarrick. It wasn’t marked on any of the many maps that were consulted for his benefit and he was beginning to feel thoroughly depressed.

‘You could try George Tranter,’ suggested the curator of the last museum when she finally had to admit defeat. The woman was small and stooped and carried her spectacles in her hand. She would put them on and take them off again at thirty second intervals while she spoke, as if uncertain of the effect they had on her appearance.

‘He’s a local historian and an amateur, but he knows more than many of the professionals round here,’ said the woman.

‘How do I find him?’ asked Macandrew.

‘He works down the coast at Culzean Castle.’

‘A castle?’

‘It’s a National Trust property a few miles south of here. George works on the estate. He lives in one of the cottages. Just ask any of the staff there and they’ll direct you.’

Macandrew glanced out of the window and saw that the light was fading. ‘Too late tonight I suppose,’ he said.

‘Mm,’ agreed the woman. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’

Macandrew booked himself into the nearest, reasonable-looking hotel for the night and telephoned the hotel in Edinburgh to tell them that he wouldn’t be back until the following day. He spent the remainder of the evening in a pub that boasted live music, listening to a slightly out-of-tune folk group called The McCreadys and an accordionist who played Scottish country dance music. The more he drank, the better they sounded.

After a good night’s sleep, Macandrew could hardly believe his luck when he looked out of the window and saw once more that the sun was shining out of a clear blue sky. It was bitterly cold and there was a frost on the grass where it was shaded from the sun but everything looked wonderful, especially the sea which sparkled in the distance. It looked even better close-up when he saw it crash on to the rocks below the high ramparts of Culzean Castle.

‘Nice day,’ he said to a man repairing a section of stone wall.

‘Aye,’ said the man.

‘I wonder if you can help me, I’m looking for George Tranter.’

‘Oh aye,’ said the man, continuing with his work.

‘Would you happen to know him?’

‘Aye.’

Macandrew felt as though he were drawing teeth. ‘Maybe you can tell me where I can find him?’

‘Aye,’ replied the man, taking a break to consult his work plan before continuing.

There was another pause before Macandrew, misinterpreting the silence, reached into his pocket for money.

‘You’ll no’ be needing that,’ said the man with a look of disdain.

Macandrew felt uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought...’ His voice trailed off. ‘Can you help me find George Tranter?’ he asked.

‘I’m George Tranter.’

Macandrew felt foolish and more than a little annoyed. He resented being made to jump through hoops and could only guess that this was because of his accent. Not everyone liked Americans; this was a fact of life. He bit the bullet and said, ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr Tranter. I’m told you are the man to speak to when it comes to Ayrshire folklore. The lady at the museum in Ayr told me that if you didn’t know where Drumcarrick was, nobody would.’

‘Did she now,’ said Tranter softly.

Macandrew sensed that Tranter was pleased to hear this despite the dour front he was keeping up.

‘I’ve come nearly five thousand miles to find Drumcarrick and you are my last hope,’ said Macandrew.

‘Well, you’ve had a wasted journey,’ said Tranter in a manner that suggested he wasn’t entirely heartbroken about this.

Macandrew felt utterly deflated. ‘You don’t know it either, huh?’

Tranter didn’t reply. He returned to reading his work plan.

‘Well, I guess that’s that,’ said Macandrew with an air of resignation. ‘Maybe I’ll drive on down the coast anyway and have a root around. Thanks for your time.’ He started to leave.

‘You’ll no’ find it,’ Tranter called out behind him.

‘You sound very sure,’ said Macandrew, half turning.

‘It disnae exist,’ said Tranter.

‘My great grandfather was born there,’ said Macandrew. ‘It must exist.’

Tranter smiled for the first time and said, ‘Oh, it did once, but it was swept into the sea more than a hundred years ago. That’s why you’ll no find it.’

Macandrew walked slowly back towards him. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’ he asked.

‘I’m certain,’ said Tranter. ‘Drumcarrick stood about thirty miles south of here, on a cliff top, just like Culzean here. One night the cliff gave way in a huge storm and the whole village went into the sea, lock, stock and barrel.’

‘How awful,’ said Macandrew. ‘Were many people killed?’

Tranter shook his head. ‘No. The village had been dying for some years before that. There weren’t many people left living there at the time of the storm; about eight, they reckon; all old folk. Most of the houses in the village were derelict.’

‘And there’s nothing left of it at all?’ asked Macandrew.

Tranter shook his head. ‘Not a single stone,’ he said. ‘The whole lot went into the sea.’

Macandrew felt even worse than he had before. He thanked Tranter and said. ‘I think I’d still like to stand on the spot. About thirty miles you say?’

‘Give or take,’ replied Tranter. He gave Macandrew some details about local landmarks to look out for.

‘I’m obliged,’ said Macandrew.

‘Mind you... the village graveyard is still there,’ said Tranter, tongue in cheek.

Macandrew could hardly believe his ears.

‘The cemetery didn’t go over the cliff. It was set back about three hundred yards from the village. You’ll have a bit of a job finding it. It’ll be overgrown and pretty well hidden from the road but it’s still there. I reckon about a hundred and fifty yards back from where the cliff edge is now.’

‘The cemetery would be just fine,’ said Macandrew. ‘Perhaps you’ll let me buy you a drink?’

Tranter moved his head as if uncomfortable with the idea of agreeing openly but didn’t overly object when Macandrew pressed a ten pound note into his hand saying, ‘Thanks again.’

Macandrew felt a growing sense of excitement as he headed south. He had re-set the car’s trip meter when he’d left Culzean so, when twenty seven miles came up, he started to pay close attention to the local geography. He was looking out for Tranter’s first landmark — a round stone tower with its roof missing. He felt his throat tighten as it came into view. The road should now turn inland for a mile or so before rejoining the coast after a steep downhill section. He slipped the car down into third gear as he came to it. It was very steep. He drove on until he realised he was coming to the promised long climb with a cluster of oak trees at the summit. He was now very close to the spot where Drumcarrick had once stood.

The road was narrow on the far side of the summit but Macandrew found a place where he could pull off safely — although he had to park at a bit of an angle. His unspoken prayer that there was no hidden ditch waiting for his front wheels was answered and he relaxed when the ground seemed firm enough. He got out and made his way carefully to the cliff edge to look down at the rocks below.

He supposed he still hoped that he might be able to spot some relic of the village but wasn’t really disappointed when all he could see was foaming sea clambering over black rock. A hundred years was a long time to be exposed to the elements and the ocean. He took in the view for a few minutes, thinking that it was one his great grandfather must have known well, a view he must have thought about perhaps as he journeyed across the dusty plains of the mid-west. He may even have remembered it on his deathbed.

He turned and looked to the land on the other side of the road to see if he could spot any sign of the graveyard but dense undergrowth prevented him from seeing anything at all. He would have to search blind. He crossed the road and climbed over a fence to start forcing a way through. Almost ten minutes had passed before he almost tripped over the first gravestone. It was lying flat in tangled undergrowth and there was a covering of green moss on its surface.

He used a succession of twigs to scrape the moss from the stone but the fact that it was made out of soft sand-stone rather than hard granite, meant that it had not weathered well. He had difficulty in making out the inscription.

There was a clear outline of a skull and cross bones near the top but the deceased’s name had practically been obliterated. He guessed at James Thomson but it could equally well have been Jane Thomas. He was pretty sure however, that it was not Macandrew.

He was breathing hard by the time he had worked his way through all the flattened stones. He had not however, found what he was looking for. Had his great great grandfather’s stone been one of those too damaged to read or could it be the one remaining stone, which had fallen face-down and which was too heavy to move? This one was made out of granite so there was a good chance that the inscription would be legible if he could only find some way of turning it over.

There was plenty of wood lying around that he could use for leverage but the stumbling block was going to be getting an end under the stone to start off with. Scraping away the earth at one corner would allow him to get the point of a stake below the stone but it would leave him with too steep an angle to be of any use. He came up with a better idea. He would use the wheel-jack in the car’s tool kit. That could give him the height he needed. He made his way back to the car and fetched the whole tool kit.

He was pretty much out of breath by the time he had lugged it back through the undergrowth so he gave himself a moment to recover. Although it was bitterly cold and there was a biting wind coming in off the sea there was sweat running down his face by the time he had raised the stone to the limit of the jack and inserted the end of a thick branch beneath it. He collected two more branches and pushed them under the stone to ensure that it would stay clear of the ground when he withdrew the jack. It was now a case of building a new, higher platform for the jack and raising the stone a bit more.

After three such manoeuvres Macandrew reckoned that he now had enough height to turn the stone over so he selected the thickest branch he could find, slid it in under the edge and started to apply leverage.

The veins were bulging on his forehead when he finally felt the stone start to move. It moved slowly upwards until it was very close to its point of balance and pressure was suddenly taken off his arms as the weight was transferred to the fulcrum. One final push and the stone tumbled over on to its back. Macandrew supported himself for a moment on the lever he had been using and looked down at the patch of bare ground that the stone had been covering. A myriad crawling things were hitting the refugee trail in search of a new home. He started deciphering the inscription on the stone and almost immediately made out the name Macandrew. It was such a good feeling to know that he had found what he’d come for.

Feeling both pleased and relieved, he painstakingly cleaned up the writing — which had been well preserved — with twigs and read that the stone marked the spot where James Macandrew and his wife, Matilda were buried. He searched his pockets for a pen and something to write details down on. James had died at the age of fifty-seven, five years before his wife who had been fifty-eight at the time of her death.

Macandrew returned to the car to fetch his camera. He didn’t feel sad or maudlin, just... comfortable. It made him think of what Karen Bliss had said about roots.

He couldn’t be sure how, or indeed if, the photographs would turn out so he was careful to look after the piece of paper on which he’d written down details of the inscription. It was the back of the bill from the hotel he’d stayed at the previous night. He put it in the zipped back part of his wallet, noticing as he did so, how dirty his hands were... and how dishevelled his clothes had become. Should he drive back to Edinburgh like this or should he check into the hotel in Ayr again in order to have a bath and clean up? He opted for the latter. Apart from anything else, it would be a shame to leave Ayrshire without doing the tourist things. He should at least visit the village of Alloway and Robert Burns country. Whatever happened now, his trip to Scotland had been a success.

He had a bath and changed clothes before spending the remainder of the day driving round the Rabbie Burns trail and generally getting a feel for the area. The accents wouldn’t have changed that much in the last hundred years or so and he reckoned that the same fields were being ploughed, albeit with different machinery. He felt well satisfied when he came to the end of the tour of his roots and it was time to set off back to Edinburgh. It was already dark and most of the commercial traffic would be finished for the day. With a bit of luck he should be back by ten o’clock.

Fifteen minutes into the journey, the heavens opened and it rained so hard that the wipers had difficulty clearing the windshield. From Macandrew’s point of view, it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. He was heading back up the dual carriageway towards Glasgow, keeping a lookout for the slip road that would take him off on to the road to Edinburgh. In the event, he overshot it and was becoming resigned to having to go through Glasgow when he picked up another sign for Edinburgh via a road he had overlooked when planning the journey — the A71. He turned off onto that, switched on the car radio and flicked through the stations until he found some music he liked — Ella Fitzgerald singing, Summertime.

The rain eased and visibility got better: traffic was lighter away from the main route and the car’s heater was working well. He was beginning to feel more relaxed when, in negotiating a roundabout, his headlights picked out a road sign that almost transfixed him. It said, MOSCOW.

Macandrew tightened his hands on the wheel as his head filled with thoughts of Jane Francini and the little girl she became when mildly sedated, the girl who lived in Moscow but didn’t speak Russian... Emma Forsyth.