Sands of Time

Damsel in Distress

For the first ten miles she had still been crying, angrily scrubbing the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve as she swung the heavy old car around the narrow bends of the country lanes, thoughts of Murray and what he had done reverberating round and round in her brain.

It had not occurred to her to wonder, when she reached the lochside cottage in the early hours of the morning, just whose was the MGF tucked so tidily into the layby behind Murray’s Saab. She had cursed that her customary spot was taken and driven a few hundred yards on down the lane to the next field gate and left her own car there. That was why, when she arrived, hefting her overnight bag over her shoulder, they hadn’t heard her. Why, when she pushed open the gate, turned up the path, let herself in, and run up the narrow wooden stairs no one had realised that she was coming.

She dropped her bag in the doorway and headed in the dark for the bed. ‘Murray! Surprise! I managed to get away!’

It was only as she held out her arms and threw herself towards him that Murray had woken and gasped and reached for the light switch. The woman in bed with him was blonde, at least ten years younger than Ruth and even in that state of surprise, dishevelment and fear, a stunner.

For what seemed like a whole minute the three of them stared at each other in silence, then all three moved at once, the unknown lady to pull the sheets over her head, Murray to reach for his dressing gown and Ruth to turn and run back down the stairs.

Outside a huge full moon had risen over the hill behind the cottage. The silver light flooded the garden and the lane and down across the loch as she ran back towards her car.

‘Ruth!’ Murray’s voice was close behind her. ‘Ruth, darling, wait. I can explain!’ – the words used so often over countless generations by husbands who thought they would never have to say them.

She ignored him, blundering between hedges full of honeysuckle, alive with pale moths, and grabbed at the handle of the car door. For a moment she struggled with it, forgetting she had locked it, then she fumbled in her pocket with shaking hands for her keys, realising as she did so that she had left her bag where she had dropped it on the bedroom carpet.

With a sob she dragged open the door and letting herself in she stabbed the key into the ignition. Behind her Murray had found some shoes for his bare feet and was running up the lane towards her. She slammed down the door locks as the engine caught and throwing the car into gear pulled away, leaving him clawing at the empty air behind her.

The highland cottage, with its whitewashed walls and low slate roof had been her dream. Away from the hurly-burly of their busy lives in Edinburgh, packed diaries, continually ringing phones, e-mails, deadlines, stress and exhaustion, it was a place of sanctuary, a place of peace, a place which, even if they found time to go there together only twice a year, remained vivid and special in the imagination – there always as a dream. Ruth had photos of the cottage pinned up around her desk. There was a beautiful sparkling stone from the shore of the loch on the table as a paperweight, there was a jar of dried heather from the brae behind the honeysuckle hedge on the filing cabinet.

It had been a year earlier that Ruth, suddenly having to cancel a trip to the cottage because of an unexpected conference in Amsterdam, had suggested Murray go on his own. He had demurred, said he wouldn’t enjoy it without her; said they could postpone the visit. But in the end he had gone and enjoyed it and finding that he with his job as a fund manager had far more free weekends than she, with hers as a conference organiser, began to go more and more often without her. ‘I find myself liking the solitude,’ he said. ‘I prefer it when you’re there, sweetheart, of course I do, but on my own it allows me to recharge my batteries in a way I can’t do in the flat…’

‘I’ll bet!’ She slammed her hands on the steering wheel as the car thundered through the darkness. ‘Bastard! How could you! How could you!’

Automatically she was heading back across country towards the flat; her only refuge. Home. On the dashboard a red light was winking. She glanced at it and drove on. Hurling the car into a bend too fast she only just managed to haul it round with difficulty and she slowed at last as adrenaline kicked through her system. She had almost come off the road there. She must drive more slowly. The red light stayed on this time and she squinted down at it. Shit. It was the fuel gauge. Her car ran on diesel. She mustn’t run dry or she’d never get it going again. Normally she filled up in the village before the return trip. Where was she? She had no idea. Her internal drama had been preoccupying her so much she had been paying no attention to the road as it flashed by in the darkness. Even if she had passed a garage it would have been closed. She hadn’t passed another car in what seemed like hours. Was there a spare can in the boot? Murray had warned her to carry one on these long cross country trips but she didn’t even know if the can was there, never mind if it was full. She sniffed hard, trying to fight off another flood of tears, looking for somewhere to stop. The road was narrow, bendy and steep. It would be dangerous to run out here. Even as the thought crossed her mind the car began to jolt over a rough surface and she realised that in her panic she had missed the bend in the road altogether and was hurtling down a rutted track. She braked sharply and the car skidded to a halt. The engine stalled and she saw to her horror that the fuel gauge needle hovered a whisper from empty.

It was a long time before she moved. Aching with fatigue and misery she pushed open the door and climbed out. The air was cold and spicy with pine resin and apart from the narrow strip of moonlit sky above the track it was very dark. She listened. The silence was intense. She had come only a short way off the road but it felt as though she was a thousand miles from anywhere. She could hear no night birds, not a breath of wind in the trees on either side of her. Nothing.

With a shiver she went round to the rear of the car and threw open the boot. There in the dim light was the box of food she had packed so excitedly only a few short hours before, champagne for the midnight feast she had planned as part of the surprise for Murray, champagne to celebrate the fact that she had wangled a few days off to spend with him. Champagne because tomorrow – today – was her birthday!

Blindly she reached past the boxes, rummaging through rugs and tools, maps and all the detritus of years of driving up and down in the old car when Murray had the Saab, searching for the fuel can as slow hot tears rolled unchecked down her face, dripping onto her hands. It wasn’t there. She closed her eyes and said a short prayer. When she opened them it still wasn’t there.

Slamming the boot shut she went back to the driver’s seat and, climbing in, she put her head back against the head rest and closed her eyes. Her mobile was in the bag she had dropped on the floor of the bedroom. As was her money. And her credit cards. Everything but her keys. Her whole bloody life!

She sighed; perhaps she should try and get some sleep. It was – she squinted at her watch – 2.30 in the morning. In a few hours or so it would be light and she could walk back to the road and try to hitch a lift to the next village.

Sleep refused to come. Shivering, she peered through the windscreen into the dark. Trees crowded close to the track on either side, but in the distance where they thinned she could see the luminous night sky. She sighed. Climbing out of the car she slammed the door and stared round. Perhaps if she walked up the track to where the woodland gave way to open hillside she would be able to see some lights. Unlikely at this hour of the morning, but she had to do something. Sleep was not going to come now.

The night air was soft and cool and very still. The track climbed steeply as she walked, until she found herself out on the open hill. Here the countryside was bathed in silver moonlight. She could see two huge lone pine trees standing nearby, smell their sharp resin, see the vivid moon shadows on the heather. Somewhere in the distance she heard the call of an owl. She stopped, glancing round. It was incredibly beautiful; soothing. Her hurt and anger dulled into a quiet ache. At the top of the rise the country fell away before her and in the distance she could see the sea. If she held her breath she imagined she could hear the restless murmur of the waves on the distant rocks.

The man was standing watching her quite openly about twenty-five feet away. She hadn’t seen him arrive; hadn’t heard his footsteps. Hadn’t had any warning of his presence at all. She drew in her breath sharply, part of her mind doing a lightning calculation as to how quickly she could get back to the car and lock herself in, if indeed she could outrun him at all, the other part searching out his face, half turned towards her, and finding no threat there at all.

She took a deep breath. Help was after all what she had been looking for. Maybe he had a phone that worked. Maybe he had come from a nearby croft and had a can or two of diesel stashed away that she could borrow.

She smiled uncertainly. ‘I didn’t expect to see anyone out here,’ she called. In spite of herself her voice sounded nervous. She took a deep breath and moved a step towards him. ‘It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it. Except that I’ve been stupid and just about run out of fuel…’

He didn’t move. His eyes, she realised, were looking past her down the hill towards the sea.

She took another step forward. ‘Is there any chance you can help me?’

Shadows were chasing across the heather towards her. She glanced up and saw a wrack of cloud moving tentative fingers across the moon’s face. In another moment it would be hidden. She looked back at the man, but he had gone. Where he had been standing there was nothing but empty road bordered on either side by grasses and rocks and heather. Behind her the two Scots pine were the only landmarks in the empty landscape.

She gasped in dismay. ‘Where are you? Come back! Please, I need your help -’ Her voice trailed away. Had he ever been there at all? Had he been a mere trick of the light? But she had been able to see him clearly, his face, his loose open-neck shirt, the sleeves rolled up above the elbows, his rough trousers, tucked into serviceable boots, his untidy hair, his gentle expression, the high cheek bones, the sad shadowed eyes.

‘Please, come back!’ She found herself turning round, staring out into the distance.

And then she saw him again. He had moved away from her into the heather. He turned, and she saw him nod his head as if urging her to follow. She shrugged and cautiously she stepped after him, finding a narrow deer track through the tangled heather stems.

The croft nestled in a hollow out of sight of the road. Single-storeyed, roofed with turf, it lay quietly in the moonlight, inside a square of dry stone walling. At right angles to it stood a byre. He moved ahead of her through the gap in the wall and led her round behind the byre where someone had parked an old tractor. Next to it there were a couple of rusty cans.

‘Is it diesel? My car takes diesel.’ But of course it would be if it was for the tractor. Stooping she lifted one of the cans and shook it. It was empty. She shook the other and there was a reassuring splashing from inside. After a slight struggle she managed to unscrew the rusted top and she sniffed. Diesel.

‘Thank you so much. I promise I’ll return it.’ She turned back towards the croft.

He had gone. The door was closed, the windows dark. She frowned, then she shrugged. Obviously he did not want thanks for his good deed.

Retracing her steps with difficulty through the darkness she lugged the rusty old can back towards the road, struggling through the tangled heather and soft lumpy grass until her feet once more found the rough metalled track. Behind her the shadows were lightening. The cloud had gone. The moonlight returned. Somewhere a fox barked once and was silent.

The fear when it hit her was all encompassing. Suddenly she was ice cold and shaking; her stomach lurched and her throat tightened. The palms of her hands were clammy with terror. Something was terribly wrong. The whole landscape was out of synch. In the cold moonlight it had lost its velvet softness and was hard, two-dimensional. Threatening. For a moment she couldn’t move; she couldn’t breathe; and then it was all over. She felt a breath of wind on her cheek and then another and behind her the trees began to whisper reassurance. She was almost back at the wood when she glanced over her shoulder one last time. The countryside was empty.

With shaking hands she unscrewed the fuel can and praying that it was indeed diesel and that it wouldn’t be too rusty, she began to pour. When it was empty she put the old can in the boot. She intended to refill it and return it but in the meantime she wanted to go home.

The phone was flashing a message when at last Ruth let herself into the flat. It was daylight, although it was still early, and sunbeams were warming the polished floor as she threw down her keys and punched the message button.

‘Ruth, darling, I am so sorry. It was a huge mistake. Not what you think. Please. We must talk. Pick up the phone.’

She shook her head sadly and walked across the room towards the bedroom. It was empty. The whole flat was empty. So, Murray was upset, but not so upset he had jumped in the Saab and driven after her. What had he done? Gone back to bed? Sat up discussing the wife who didn’t understand him? Chased after a furious girlfriend who hadn’t known he had a wife at all?

Exhausted, she sat down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands. She was beyond tiredness. Beyond coherent thought. The phone rang but she ignored it. She heard the click and whirr of messages recorded and listed. She didn’t register if it was Murray’s voice or not. She didn’t care.

Eventually she climbed stiffly to her feet and walking into the bedroom she threw herself down on the bed. She slept at once. When at last she was awoken by the sound of a key in the door it was already late afternoon.

They made up the quarrel in the end. She tried to make herself believe his excuses, tried to see his meaningless dalliance through his eyes as her fault, tried to believe it wouldn’t happen again. But it was only three weeks later that she saw him with his arm around the woman’s shoulders. They were standing at the traffic lights in Hanover Street and gazing into one another’s eyes as though there was no one else in the whole world but them. No reconciliation could survive that look. There was no point in even trying.

As though acknowledging her change of attitude and recognising at last the depth of her hurt, Murray accepted a relocation to his firm’s New York office. There would not be another unexpected glimpse of his happiness with someone else. That at least he would spare her. Ruth did not ask if the new lady was going too and he did not volunteer the information but it seemed a certainty. The divorce was, if not amicable, at least civilised, and sheepishly, perhaps regretting what he had lost as much as looking forward to what he had gained, Murray gave her his half of what was, after all, her cottage so that it would not have to be sold as the flat would have to be sold. ‘Remember the happy times!’ he whispered with a wry shrug as he gave her his key. ‘Don’t let me have spoiled this for you as well.’

He hadn’t, but it took a long time. It was winter when she went back at last and there was a new man in her life. Their relationship was still delicate, gently explorative, a slow unfolding of possibilities and it had been several weeks before she suggested they go to the loch. On the way she wanted to drop off a can of diesel to say thank you to her midnight rescuer.

She had thought about him often, wondering what he had made of his strange nocturnal visitor; wondering why he had not spoken to her or acknowledged her thanks, and her telling of the story had been a way of letting Edward know about her pain, about the tenderness and vulnerability she felt each time she saw him; explaining her reticence about a relationship which was in so many ways just right.

‘I’m not Murray, Ruth,’ Edward said gently as yet again she withdrew suddenly into some safe centre deep inside herself. ‘I am not going to hurt you.’

She nodded. ‘I know. I want to believe you. I want to believe in love and trust, I really do. It’s just -’ She hesitated miserably. ‘It won’t happen. Not yet.’

And he smiled and kissed her gently, like a brother. ‘Give it time, love,’ he said. ‘That’s all you need. Time. I’ll wait. I’ll be there when you want me.’

She pored over the map, trying to decide where it was she had been on that fateful night. She traced with her finger her flight back along the main road, remembered where the car had flashed through the village and up the long slow hill beyond the brae and then she saw it, the right angle bend where she had in the dark driven straight on, doubling back unintentionally towards the sea. On the map she could see it was an unmade track which led onto the hill and then stopped; she could see the wood and the moors and the tiny black square which was the croft.

Edward was a good driver and she sat back, enjoying the way he handled his car, content to act as navigator, and tolerantly amused by his raised eyebrow when she missed the turning she wanted him to take. Murray would have fumed and criticised and argued impatiently. But then Murray wouldn’t have wanted to bother to return the diesel at all. Edward merely slowed the car and found a place to turn and they approached the corner again. Again they missed it. The track, if it was there at all, was obviously harder to see in daylight than it had been at night. They consulted the map, heads together, hands almost touching, then he engaged gear and once more slowly they edged towards the place. And there it was, scarcely more than a path, overgrown and muddy, heading into the centre of the wood.

‘I don’t see how I could have thought it was the main road!’ Ruth frowned as the car bumped over the ruts.

Edward shrugged. He threw her a quick smile. ‘You were upset and angry.’

‘But not blind drunk!’ She grimaced as his car grounded and the wheels slithered sideways. ‘Look, maybe this isn’t a good idea. I’m not sure it’s right at all.’

But it was right. Around the next bend they came to the place her car had finally stopped. She recognised the skyline, the hill, the two Scots pine. Leaving the car they walked along the track, Edward carrying the new can of diesel. He was laughing. ‘Remind me never to make you angry. The adrenaline which carried you up here thinking it was the main road must have been formidable!’ He put down the can and stretched his arms. ‘It’s worth it, though. The view is amazing.’ From the path they could see across the moor towards the sea and the islands beyond.

Ruth frowned. ‘There wasn’t a fence here before. There can’t have been.’

‘No?’ He glanced at her. ‘But this has been here for ages, Ruth. Look.’ It was rusty, threaded with dead bindweed and bracken, the posts in places rotted half through, hanging drunkenly from the very wire they were supposed to be supporting.

Ruth walked on. There was the rock where she had spotted the mysterious man. And there in the heather the sheep track they had followed. To reach it she had to climb through the wire.

‘I don’t understand it.’ She shook her head. ‘This doesn’t feel right. Everything is where I expect it to be. The track, the rocks, those trees, but there was no fence.’

‘Well, we’ll soon know. If the cottage is there.’ He put down the heavy can again and reached out to take her hand. The wind was cold and there was a scattering of sleet in the icy sunshine, but there was something else as well. ‘You look scared.’

‘I am scared.’ She was shivering. How Murray would have mocked her. ‘And I have just remembered. I was scared last time, too. Really scared. For no reason. Suddenly. It felt odd. Lonely. Threatening.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

‘So am I.’ For a moment their eyes met. He smiled. Picking up the can again he began to walk. ‘Come on. Over this rise and we’ll see if we’ve got the right place.’

The croft was there, but there were no white walls, no shaggy turf roof. A few piles of stones, a ruined gable end, the footings of the byre walls surrounded by nettles was all that remained of the place now.

Ruth stared, open mouthed. ‘I don’t understand.’

Edward glanced at her. He had put the can down again. ‘Where did you find the diesel?’ he asked quietly.

‘There. Round the back of the byre. There was an old tractor – ’

Leaving her standing where she was he pushed his way through the weeds and thistles.

‘Don’t bother, Edward. It’s the wrong place. It has to be,’ she called. Ramming her hands deep into her coat pockets she followed him.

The tractor was still there. What was left of it. A pile of rusting metal. And the remains of the other old can stood by the crumbling wall. She had picked it up and shaken, hadn’t she? A rowan tree was growing through it now.

‘No!’ She shook her head and backed away. ‘This is all wrong!’

‘There must be a simple explanation.’ Edward put his arm round her again. She was shaking. ‘I suspect you are right. There are probably several old cottages and crofts around here and they all look much the same. I’m sure they all had ancient tractors and they would all keep a bit of spare fuel, living so far from civilisation.’

She nodded. ‘You’re right.’

There had only been one track on the map. One tiny square to represent a dwelling, amid thousands of empty acres of moor and mountain.

‘If we went into the shop in the village on the main road, maybe they’d know,’ she said hopefully.

He nodded. ‘This must have been a beautiful place, but bleak in winter.’ It was his turn to shiver. ‘The ground is very poor. The tractor must have had a job doing anything at all.’

They stood for a few more minutes, staring round, then they began to retrace their steps towards the car.

The old lady in the post office stared at them over her spectacles. ‘You must mean Carn Breac.’ She shook her head. ‘That place has been empty since before the war. Michael Macdonald stayed on there a year or two after his parents died, then he upped and left. He settled in Canada I believe.’ She frowned, searching her memory. ‘If you hold on now, I’ve a photo here.’ She came out from behind the counter and disappeared for a moment into the sitting room which opened out of the shop. When she came back she was carrying an album. ‘Yes, see here.’ She opened it and stabbed at a faded photo with her finger. ‘That’s Michael, and Donald, his father, next to him.’ The sepia shadows showed some half-dozen men ranged against a wall, staring ahead at the camera. The one called Michael had a wooden rake in his hand.

Ruth felt her mouth go dry. For a moment she thought she was going to faint.

‘What do you want with him?’ The post mistress slowly closed the book.

Ruth couldn’t speak. It was Edward who said quietly, ‘We have something of his we want to return.’

‘I don’t know his address.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s so long ago. You could maybe ask the minister. He’s only been twenty years or so at the manse, but I think there are records there. If anyone knows where he went, it will be him.’

‘You think he might still be alive then?’ Edward probed gently.

She shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

The minister knew the family. Michael James Macdonald had died in Prince George, British Columbia on 24th July that year, at the age of eighty-nine. It was the day Ruth had seen him leaning on a rock by the croft where he had been born.

Edward poured them both a glass of wine and joined her by the fire in the cottage by the loch. ‘Are you OK now?’

She nodded. ‘I still can’t believe I’ve seen a ghost!’

‘You’re a lucky lady. Not only to see one, but to be rescued by him.’

She sipped the wine. ‘How is it that the diesel worked? You’d think it would have gone off. Rusted. Evaporated. Something.’

He stared into the depths of his glass. ‘The other can had disintegrated completely.’

‘Perhaps a farmer had left it there recently?’ She looked at him hopefully.

He smiled. ‘Perhaps. I don’t think you are ever going to know the answer to that one.’

‘And, if it was him, why did he appear as a young man and not the age he was?’

‘We can’t answer that either.’ He leaned back and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘One thing you can be sure of though. He must have loved that place. It must have been very hard to leave it forever. Perhaps he promised himself he would go back one day.’

‘At least he had a happy life, and a wonderful marriage.’ The minister had told them that. She didn’t realise how wistful the words sounded until they were out of her mouth.

Edward didn’t answer. He was staring into the fire.

‘Have you ever been married?’ She realised with a shock she had never even asked him.

He shook his head. ‘Nearly. We thought better of it. Just as well as we haven’t seen each other for five years. Since then I haven’t come close.’

‘Oh.’ Her voice was bleak.

‘Until now.’ He hesitated. ‘This is going to sound very corny, but when you find something precious you need to hang on to it otherwise you are going to regret it all your life. Our relationship – Sarah’s and mine – just wasn’t that precious.’ Once again he paused. ‘Why did you and Murray end yours so quickly?’

She thought for a long time. ‘I suppose I wasn’t that precious to him. Not in your sense of the word. And perhaps -’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps after all he wasn’t that precious to me. I gave him a second chance. I wasn’t prepared to give him a third.’ She shrugged. ‘That doesn’t show me in a very good light.’

‘It shows you as a realist. And your Michael Macdonald. Presumably he was as well. He knew the croft couldn’t sustain him. In his eyes he had no choice.’

She stood up and went to sit on the floor by the fire. ‘It’s a sad little story.’

‘No.’ He followed her. Kneeling down he reached over and kissed her gently. ‘It’s actually a wonderful story. Why are we letting it make us sad? It had a happy ending. He came home. And he helped a damsel in distress. He made choices, but they seem to have been the right choices. After all he had children and grandchildren and even great-grandchildren to succeed him. No doubt one day they will come home and stand where you stood and stare at the tiny croft which is their heritage. But I wonder if they will see him as you did?’ He raised his glass. ‘Let’s drink to his memory. And to our future.’ He grinned. ‘Who knows, maybe I’ll come and haunt this place when I’m eighty-nine!’

She laughed. ‘Perhaps you will. And maybe you’ll still be coming here in the flesh!’ She clinked her glass against his. ‘Who knows?’