Call of the Undertow Read online

  It was as if time had forgotten this place, abandoned it to the nuclear facility along the coast. And yet a new ‘goldrush’ of wave and tidal energy developments was promised in the Pentland Firth. Swarms of prospectors might arrive to civilise the derelict properties that punctuated the land at half-mile intervals. Perhaps it was already happening. She’d heard the relentless churning of cement-mixers as she walked around the village, seaming together the breeze-block walls of new bungalows.

  She freewheeled through the trees leading from the village towards the beach, the dark tunnel briefly opening out at a derelict Lodge Cottage marking the entrance to a long-gone grand house. Then she was out into light and onto the road running parallel to the bay, walled off from it by a high line of dunes prickling with marram grass.

  At the tall white church at the heart of the cottages in Dunnet a creaky woman with finger-tips almost L-shaped with arthritis was putting flowers into vases. The two of them fell into a small, echoey exchange.

  ‘The congregation’s dropped to under ten,’ the woman said, peering at Maggie after she’d admired the plaque commemorating Pont’s stay as Minister here. ‘All aged over sixty. The structure of the building needs attention too.’

  It was as if she thought Maggie could mobilise a congregation as well as a cement mixer to shore up the church. The skin around the woman’s eyes was fragile, crumbling. She then enticed Maggie to climb a steep rickety ladder to the belfry where a magnificent bell hung on a wooden gantry.

  ‘A gift from the estate of Mary Oswald after she died in 1788,’ the woman called up croakily from the bottom of the ladder.

  ‘Who was Mary Oswald?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Owned half of Jamaica. Father-in-law was another minister here.’

  Maggie descended the unstable ladder.

  As if released from some sort of hibernation, from something that had been constraining her explorations, she pedalled on. After another four miles, at Dunnet Head, she walked a short way from the lighthouse and paused on the cliff top, lay down on her stomach above a great white-stained slot into which spume flowed far below.

  Years before, when they’d been married, Frank had taken her several times to the west coast, near to the isles of Skye and Mull, to walk the hills. Arms of land tumbled by birch or oak woodlands sloped into the sea, and islands always gave the eye something to cling to, making the sea seem benign. This end-of-the-world suddenness wasn’t what she expected from Scotland. Nevertheless the heaving swell against rocks thrilled her.

  Dark birds with white bibs stood shoulder to shoulder on the ledges below her, the smell of their guano brewing a cauldron of ammonia. It was like a steeply-tiered theatre, but not a sedate one; more like the most raucous Elizabethan playhouse echoing with catcalls and drunken laughter. The birds stepped from their ledge into the abyss, a black and white swoop joining them to a web of flight paths between the cliff and the sea’s surface. Then they swept up again to alight with uncanny precision, perching back amidst the crowd.

  Pairs chattered into each other’s ears, preening each other’s heads, their necks oily and eel-like. She thought she recognised something like tenderness in their behaviour. With its long slender beak one bird nibbled at its partner’s neck and under its chin. The recipient shuffled, twitching its wings impatiently like a child having its school tie straightened before it’s allowed to leave the house. They prickled up a sense of her own isolation. It was almost as if these birds were more human than herself.

  She heard voices. Two men with binoculars and moss green jackets came into sight. Perhaps she should get binoculars, buy a bird book, be able to give them names as she could roughly do with flowers. She recalled boring friends of her ex-husband who carried dictaphones into which they whispered the names of conquests.

  Getting to her feet, she left the vantage point to the men.

  She cycled back down through the village of Dunnet, headed onto the Dunes road and stopped at the ‘Sandpiper Centre’, a place overlooking the beach that was dedicated to birds.

  ‘Aye, they’re “oakies”,’ the Ranger said when she described the birds. ‘That’s what they get called up here.’

  His accent was Scottish, but didn’t sound like the voices she heard in the shop. She imagined he’d come from somewhere to the south, somewhere she’d driven through blindly.

  ‘“Guillemots” to the rest of us,’ he said, pushing square spectacles up his nose. He’d stood up eagerly from his desk when she came in, a pale-faced man with sandy-coloured hair. The air he displaced gushed with the scent of cigarette-smoke.

  ‘Very handsome,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Ach, thanks,’ he grinned at her.

  ‘The birds,’ she said. ‘The guillemots.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘And fantastic divers. They can stay down for a couple of minutes or more. One or two get deeper than a hundred feet.’

  ‘Are they rare?’

  ‘No, but in serious decline. Could have heard them a mile away from that cliff ten years ago.’

  ‘Oh?’ Maggie shook her head slightly.

  ‘Seem to be starving. Lack of sand eels.’

  She started to edge away from the desk towards a huge picture-window that revealed horizontal stripes of sea, sky, and sand. Shoals of birds swooped diagonally, plaiting and separating above a sea-horizon that spread between two arms of land. The Quarrytown side was dark with its tight, singular pocket of winter-bare trees. Dunnet Head wasn’t visible from here but Dwarwick Head, closer to the beach on the same peninsula, soared up golden to her right. But then as she watched the opposing headlands alternated – one darkening whilst the other illuminated, as if in some coded dialogue with each other.

  ‘Kittiwakes are back,’ the Ranger said from behind her, and then pointed to a flock of glittering white birds tumbling together from one spot to another above the waves. ‘Come and see this.’

  Tiredness ambushed her out of nowhere; she was sorry she’d begun the conversation. She seemed to be the only visitor to the Centre despite it being the start of April, which she thought of as springtime.

  He took her to a screen, offered her a seat and leant over her to press a button. Even his shirt sleeves smelt of cigarette smoke, although she could smell mint on his breath now too, and he seemed to be chewing.

  ‘You’ll like this,’ he said as the screen came to life.

  She watched the sleek silhouette of a dark brown bird; a fluid line from beak to its tightly pointed tail. It seemed to be propelled by one flap of a wing, its speed apparently disproportionate to the effort.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘They’re good at flying.’ Managing not to say, ‘surprising for birds’.

  A slight chuckling sound came from behind her, but he continued to watch the screen over her shoulder, keeping her pinned there herself. It was a little like the flights she’d watched from the cliffs, but now the birds’ wings seemed to beat in slow motion. The camera panned out, took in more. The air thickened and clouded. The sounds, she realised, were more washy, not filled with the cliff-clamour she’d heard. She was drawn in, puzzled.

  Then a whole flock of the birds started rushing past each other, rising and falling. They rolled or turned to avoid each other with minute flaps of their wings or twitches of their tails. They looked in profile almost like tiny turtles, and when she saw a trail of bubbles, she realised that the blue that held them was water.

  ‘They fly underwater?’

  ‘Brilliant, eh?’ He laughed, still apparently thrilled by the sight despite its familiarity.

  ‘Can I watch it again please?’ she said.

  She went back to the Centre a few days later, stood again at the window studying the view through binoculars, sipping a cup of metallic-tasting tea from the machine to warm up after the walk along the beach.

  The Ranger introduced himself as Graham. Embarrassed to be the only person there again, she galloped questions at him, garrulous almost, as if making up for a long silence. Although he wasn’t f
rom the area, he seemed to know it well.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.

  Occasionally she saw men in boats putting out creels or salmon nets. She’d once seen a small group of surfers far out in the bay, black and seal-like, lying on their boards but never apparently making any progress on the waves. The vast beach between the two villages was sometimes walked by people with dogs or crossed by a solitary horse rider, but they were widely spaced, would never make eye contact. There was no sense here of the ‘promenade’; of people dressing up to be seen on the beach. It was a ritual reserved for the shop and, for men perhaps, the pub.

  ‘You never see anyone much on the beach this time of year,’ said Graham.

  ‘Lovely,’ Maggie said. ‘The quiet, the emptiness.’

  ‘Try working here. And not going off your rocker. That’s why I stay in Helmsdale. Long way, but I’ve pals there.’

  She wondered if Graham detected that she was an outcast and was talking to her out of kindness. She didn’t like to tell him that he needn’t bother.

  ‘The job’s different come high summer,’ he said. ‘When the caravan site’s full. There’s walks to lead; ground-nesting birds’ eggs to protect from dogs; I might even have to defend the dunes one of these days’.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Some bastard’s thieving the sand,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Local people’ve probably been taking the odd sack for a couple of millennia.’ Graham shrugged. ‘But someone’s upped the scale recently. Just see the tyre marks in the mornings. Not my job to enforce it, but still, if I lived nearer I’d get a wee vigilante group together.’

  ‘Who’re they nicking it from?’ she asked.

  He looked at her without an answer. It was obvious that sand couldn’t really belong to anyone. Then he returned to his desk.

  She was standing alone at the window with her eyes on the beach when she heard the door open. A great squabble of voices exploded in. She didn’t turn.

  ‘Primary Five,’ a female voice trumpeted.

  The noise immediately subsided, leaving a moment of shuffling quiet.

  ‘That’s better.’

  Sweat prickled in Maggie’s armpits. The room crowded in on her; suddenly airless. She heard the commanding woman greeting Graham.

  ‘Now we’ve all met Graham before,’ she said to her class. ‘When he’s been in school to help out with the wildlife garden. But not all of you have been here.’

  Graham introduced the Centre, pointing out a few things that they could explore, emphasising interactive exhibits with buttons to press.

  ‘See that fella?’ His voice now projected towards the window where Maggie was trapped. ‘What do you call that?’

  Various children volunteered: ‘Seagull.’

  Maggie gathered he was pointing at a passing gull.

  ‘If it’s crossing the sea we call it a seagull. But if it’s crossing the bay, we call it...’

  ‘A bagel!’ a single voice cried.

  It became apparent from what he said that the class had also been visiting Dunnet Church. Without turning around Maggie waited for the school party to disperse around the room so she could make a dive for the door.

  ‘Any questions?’ Graham asked.

  As an answer there was a shuffling anticipation of movement. Maggie picked up her bag.

  ‘One minute.’ Graham detained them. ‘There’s someone here I should introduce you to. You’re very lucky in fact. This lady...’

  Maggie prickled, stiff-necked. Was he referring to her?

  ‘...Maggie Thame is a modern day Timothy Pont.’

  Blood drained from her face.

  ‘Maggie?’ Graham summoned.

  She took a breath and turned, her hand pressing at the familiar sting in her stomach. Twenty bright blue sweatshirts; eyes trained on her. Callum was there, Sally’s youngest, and she thought she saw him nudge the boy next to him and whisper something. Elsewhere giggling huddles suggested conspiracy and made her wonder whether the snowman-builder might be amongst them. She turned her gaze away.

  Graham now spoke to Maggie: ‘This is Mrs Thompson, head of your local primary school. And these rascals are Primary Five.’

  Maggie nodded, tried to smile.

  Mrs Thompson strode towards her with an outstretched hand. She was a surprisingly tiny woman with short dark hair and a business-like satchel over one shoulder. She wore narrow, rimless glasses.

  ‘We heard a cartographer had moved to the area.’

  Maggie reacted to the word ‘moved’, with its permanent, bricked-in sound. ‘Well it’s only...’

  But Mrs Thompson boomed on over her: ‘Remember that word “cartographer”, children? What does it mean?’

  Mumbled answers came back and then the teacher released a small explosion with, ‘Okay children, off you go,’ calling through the mayhem: ‘And quietly. You’ve only got fifteen minutes’.

  She turned to Maggie again. ‘Very pleased to meet you. The children are doing their own maps this term, just simple things. What is it you work on yourself?’

  Maggie explained about her freelance status, her current project. ‘So you see, I can work from anywhere.’

  ‘Well, lucky us.’ Mrs Thompson was rummaging in her satchel.

  Maggie pulled on her hat, ready for departure. Suddenly a diary was being spread in front of her.

  ‘Now,’ Mrs Thompson said. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot. How about Friday morning?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Maggie glanced at the door, the path to it now clear.

  ‘To come and talk to the class about your work. We’ll give you a jolly good school dinner.’

  Graham was grinning at her as if he’d set this up. Her mouth dried as she pictured beetroot bleeding into salad cream, her palate clogging with sponge pudding and custard. She had no need to look at a diary; her days were empty white sheets, lacking the old structure of departmental meetings, conferences, or evening classes. She grappled with an impulse to refuse and hurry away; stood her ground a moment sensing Carol’s elbow nudging her ribs. Her old self ghosting in a doorway.

  ‘Shall we say eleven o’clock?’ Mrs Thompson said, smiling encouragingly, her grey eyes kindly.

  Maggie bowed her head to Mrs Thompson’s authority, shrunk back inside her primary-school self, and agreed.

  ‘I’d prefer ten if that’s okay,’ she said.

  At least that way she could avoid staying for lunch.

  THREE

  A few days later she approached the school entrance. Some attempts had been made to suggest youth and activity with giant plastic butterflies pinned to the brown harled walls and a tiny garden that was now covered in dead weeds.

  She’d smartened herself up with a buttoned blouse over her usual old jeans and boots. When Mrs Thompson introduced her again to the class, she saw her own hand trembling against her notes despite the breathing exercises she’d practised on the school doorstep. She used to do this sort of event regularly, but had stopped school visits a while back, only managing to honour commitments to one or two talks for the Women’s Institute.

  ‘Primary Five’ meant nothing until she’d asked their average age; eight or nine. It was clear that boys likely to cause trouble had been positioned on single tables close to the front. One was slumped forward with his head between outstretched arms. A prod from Mrs Thompson lifted his face, revealing a shock of white flab, eyes half-mooned with dark skin.

  ‘Stays up all night playing on his Game Boy and watching zombie movies, that one,’ Mrs Thompson whispered to Maggie in passing. She closed a window against competing noise from a cement mixer working on the school extension.

  There were two tables full of girls sitting with straight backs and neatly arranged pens and pencils, smiling attentively in her direction. They were uniform in bright blue sweatshirts but still betrayed self-conscious girliness in the highlighted hair which they preened for each other when they thought Mrs Thompson wasn’t looking.
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br />   On one of the tables a group of boys swaggered. Their necks were hung with gold chains and their hair shaved into intricate patterns. There was a boy wearing a ‘John Deere’ boiler suit. All the local farmers wore them in larger sizes. It was like looking at a roomful of miniature adults. They all seemed to have turned up simply to show each other what they looked like – their ‘promenade’.

  At the back of the room, one table was an exception. There was a collection of girls who were either rather plain-looking or large. They were attentive but unsmiling, like cats disinterested in pleasing anyone. In amongst them was a dark-skinned boy who looked of Indian origin. Callum from next door was there too. And there was another child with a head of long hair, the hint of a small face just visible below a ridiculously long fringe.

  Maggie was unsure whether this was a boy or a girl. As she began her introduction the child swept its fringe to one side. One brown, long-lashed eye fixed on her with an unnatural intensity and she heard her speech falter.

  She’d brought a PowerPoint presentation and was relieved to take the focus off herself and onto a screen. Standing at the front of the class she felt conscious of her height, almost envying Mrs Thompson’s efficient-seeming shortness.

  She showed the class some maps of the local area through time – Roy’s military map, Blaeu’s atlas; and of course they went back to Pont’s early maps and she pointed out how he’d incorporated elevations of significant buildings, shapes of landscape features and writing, including his words about wildness and wolves. She contrasted his style with representational aerial mapping that she was currently doing herself, and showed them educational books to which she had contributed visuals, some of which they knew from their own library.

  ‘What do you think my tools are?’ she asked, finally feeling she was into her stride. There was a small show of hands.

  ‘Computer.’

  ‘GPS.’

  ‘Google Earth.’

  She gathered in the suggestions, accepting or rejecting, explaining. She was mid-sentence when two words shot out from the long-fringed child at the back.