Sands of Time Page 11

  six thousand years ago

  buried their dead

  within a circle

  sained by their priests

  for all eternity.

  There is no sign now of what went on.

  Of the ceremonies or the prayers,

  except

  for a slight catch in the air,

  a silence,

  a space around which pipits circle.

  High above, the jet plane does not know it is

  dissecting sacred space.

  Thousands of feet up, the prayers have dissipated

  whisked onwards to the stars;

  or whipped to nothing in the wind.

  The gods have been down graded.

  They have decamped to the edge of the field,

  to a tiny copse which overhangs a stream.

  Drowned by the gurgle of water

  and the rustle of leaves

  they are unheard by all

  but those who look for them.

  And listen.

  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 th
e 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 de
licate, 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.