Chapter 1

 

   John Brown woke late one morning to find sunshine streaming in through his bedroom window. He got up, dressed quickly and wandered outside to enjoy this strange phenomenon. Sunshine was a rare visitor to the Outer Hebrides and was often in a hurry to leave again so he didn't want to miss it. He leaned over the stone dyke bordering his croft by the sea, pushed his worn tweed cap up on his head and scratched his wrinkled face.
   'Man, man, it's fine to be alive,' he mused aloud, and then turned to contemplate the inscription chiselled on the gravestone propped up against the side of his house. Although the inscription was in memory of his own death, it brought a smile to his weathered face.
   It was a beautiful August morning and larks sang their songs in the blue, blue sky far above the moors. The nearby hill was purple with blooming heather, its stern rock face displaying a golden warmth in the strengthening sunlight. He thought he caught a whiff of peat smoke from the chimney of a cottage further along the road, and it blended beautifully with the scent of new mown grass. The sea wore a benign expression as it absent-mindedly licked at the rocks down by the shore.
   A car pulled up on the single-track road and a young man, obviously a tourist from his accent and attire, called gruffly from the open window.
   'Excuse me, how far is Balbeg?' John pushed his cap further back and stood up, groaning at the aches in his old bones. As he straightened, his close fitting tweed trousers only just made contact with the top of his neatly laced leather boots.
   'About ten miles that way,' he smiled, pointing along the road in the direction of the town.
   The man looked exasperated.
   'That's what the last bloke said, a few miles back.'
   'Well, just you keep to the road and you'll get there.'
   'Ten miles?'
   As John saw it, the land had been inhabited since the wee small hours before the dawn of history, long before rulers and other fancy gadgets had been invented, and he wasn't entirely convinced that knowing how far you had to walk made the journey any shorter.
   'Well, I don't really know for certain,' he replied. 'One day I shall have to measure it to see what all the fuss is about.'
   The man surveyed him dourly, then thanked him with a curt nod and drove off. John watched until the car disappeared round a bend.
   'Not even a smile!' he muttered sadly. 'What on earth is happening to the world?'
   Not far away, his cow stood in the shade of a lonely tree, flicking its tail at flies. His gaze strayed back to the marble tombstone propped up against the side of his house and the gleam in his eyes showed that he was indeed pleased. He scratched his protruding ribs through his old faded shirt, sighed contentedly and went inside to make himself a cup of tea.
   For almost fifty years he had spent a lonely life on the island. Simple needs and careful management had freed him from financial worries. He wasn't wealthy by any means, but by local standards he was comfortably well off. His croft and the cottage were as his parents had left them and they suited him just fine. The horsehair sofa in his small living room was unaccustomed to use and still gleamed darkly as if it were new. His old television set had kept him up to date with national and international affairs, when he could be bothered to switch it on that is. The installation of electricity and water, his only concessions to progress, had not altered his habits that much, although, if he was honest, on returning late at night, he did find the readily available electric light rather convenient. He continued to draw peaty water from a near-by well, convinced that it made a better cup of tea than the stuff that came out of the taps. A mug of tea in his trembling grasp, he went back outside to enjoy his special day. After all, it was his birthday and he was sixty-nine years old.
   As he leaned against the dyke and gazed at the tombstone – which required only his death date to be added – his thoughts wandered back almost half a century to the year in which both his parents had passed on. They had succumbed within months of each other to the much-dreaded consumption, or, as it is more commonly known, tuberculosis. It had been a traumatic time for him and the memory of it raised a little sadness within him. He had been born when their hopes of having a family had all but faded, and his birth had brightened their lives. He was barely twenty when they died. After overcoming his grief, he'd sworn to continue where his parents had left off. He'd husbanded the croft diligently and now felt sure that they would have approved of his efforts. He abstractedly scratched his ribs once more as his spirits were slowly lifted again by the warm sunshine.
   'Aye, aye,' he muttered to himself. 'The past is gone, today is mine and tomorrow is just a question mark.'

   The sound of wellington boots clumping along the narrow road accompanied by the unmistakable wheezing of his friend Dugal Bain interrupted his thoughts.
   'Ah, John! There you are!'
   'Good morning Dugal. Come you in man, come you in.'
   Dugal opened the gate and wandered across the rough grass that was John's front garden. His short, roly-poly build and loud breathing indicated that his health could have been better. His lined forehead led up to a shining baldpate on both sides of which two unruly outcrops of hair bunched over his ears. His feet, entombed as they were in rubber wellies, were obviously not on speaking terms. Time was unimportant in Dugal's world and everything he did was completed slowly and methodically. His approach to life was always to leave some task unfinished in order that his morrow would have some purpose.
   'Is that your peat smoke I'm smelling Dugal?'
   'Aye, it is.'
   'On such a fine day as this?'
   'Och, the peat is there to be burned. The old place wouldn't be the same without a fire burning away in the grate.'
   'I hear yon bleggard Roddy Morrison is having his way with Murdo Munro's wife, him away at sea and all.'
   Dugal shrugged. Island gossip didn't particularly interest him that much. In fact, nothing of importance ever particularly interested him.
   'That Roddy Morrison is going to come to no good,' muttered John with a prophetic shake of his head.
   Dugal shifted his weight from foot to foot a couple of times, causing his body to sway, which, together with the look on his face, confirmed that he had something on his mind. Finally he got around to clearing his throat.
   'Well now John, you were very mysterious when you called yesterday. You mentioned you have something important to arrange with me today, so what is it man? I lay awake all night wondering what it could be.'
   He found the pockets of his baggy trousers, thrust his hands inside and waited for an explanation.
   John, who had positioned himself between Dugal and the marble slab of his gravestone, now stood aside with a smile and pointed a finger at it.
   'Have a peep at that,' he said warmly, 'and tell me what you think.'
   Dugal strolled over to the stone, squatted down and gazed at it. Puzzlement registered on his face, then amazement and finally awe.
   'Well now, if that isn't a grand stone John,' he wheezed, 'and it has your name and date of birth on it. Is this some kind of joke?'
  John looked pleased.
   'Aye, it's not bad is it? And it was a sight cheaper to buy in advance than had I left it until after my death. Those bleggarty Thompson twins knew I was not in any hurry so their price came down after some haggling.'
   Dugal got slowly back to his feet, still studying the stone. Concern ploughed deep furrows on his brow as he turned and stared intently into his friend's eyes.
   'Well now John, do you know something you haven't told me? Have you been to the doctor and found that you are terminally ill? Are you not long for this world man?'
   'Not at all Dugal,' said John seriously. 'I'm hale and hearty and as fit as spring lambs running around in the fields with their hind legs kicking. Well, perhaps not quite that fit, the old bones do creak a bit.'
   'If there is nothing at all the matter with you, then why the gravestone? And why did you ask me here?'
   John chuckled at the perplexed look on Dugal's face, but he knew he could no longer delay an explanation.
   'It's like this Dugal you see, I've been working this croft for a long time and today is the start of my seventieth year.'
   Dugal slapped his forehead.
   'Oh I'm sorry John, so it is, I forgot all about it. Happy birthday.'
   'Yes, thank you, so anyway, I am putting my things of this world in order. I've dug a grave out on yon green hummock, you know the spot among the trees don't you, where I sit and smoke my pipe when I'm busy?'
   A slight nod from Dugal.
   'Then you'll know what a fine, peaceful place it is. It is there then that I wish to be laid for my final rest.'
   Dugal listened with deepening perplexity. When John finished speaking, he slowly shook his head. He was beginning to suspect what his part in all this was to be.
   'Jason Livingstone,' said John, enjoying Dugal's discomfort, 'the legal mannie from town, is coming with my will today. It is all properly drawn up and beyond litigation, as he put it. It has only to be signed and witnessed. And the Thompson's will be coming to deliver my coffin this afternoon.'
   Dugal pricked up his ears.
   'One fine day,' explained John, seeing he had Dugal's attention, 'you will call round here and find me gone. So, I want you to attend to my burial and all else that will need to be done. Will you do this for me? Of course, I have included a small bequest in my will for you. It will be little enough to repay you for all your trouble.'
   'A bequest? For me?' Dugal was genuinely startled. He took his hands from his pockets, put them behind his back and bent his knees a few times. 'Why John,' he finally ventured, 'I'd be only too happy to do it for nothing.'
   The ambiguity of his statement wasn't lost on John whose smile faded to a frown.
   'You can rely on me,' Dugal continued, 'and if you wish to leave me a wee something then that is your decision, and very generous it is too.'
   'Friendship is indeed a blessing,' said John slowly, his frown being gradually displaced by an earnest expression. 'But I am in no hurry to go just yet. Indeed, I hope to see another few years before my time comes.'
   Dugal was already arriving at the conclusion that his bequest would be John's cottage, so he could not altogether conceal his anticipation.
   'Aye Dugal, life is quite something hey,' sighed John, taking his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. He tapped out the ashes from the bowl on the dyke and then slowly and methodically filled it with fresh tobacco. When his pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, he pushed his cap towards the back of his head and looked out towards his final resting place in the moors.
   'Come you then,' said John, 'we'll take a walk to the grave and have a look around so that you will be familiar with the layout and everything. I'll point out what has to be done and then we'll come back to have a wee dram to seal our agreement. Is that okay with you?'
   'Oh well yes indeed!' replied Dugal with alacrity, and immediately brightened up at the prospect of a dram. 'It's a fine day for it right enough.'

   They set off from the croft and strolled in companionable silence along a narrow peat track that wended its way across the moor. The increasing heat of the sun as it inexorably climbed towards its zenith drew the dampness from the peaty ground in a light steam. An occasional puff of wind meandered inland from the sea, cooling their perspiring faces as they ambled on. The silence remained unbroken apart from the occasional bleating of a sheep. John strolled along, contentedly smoking his pipe, feeling perfectly at peace with the world he was preparing to leave.
   'All is now well in hand,' he suddenly reflected aloud, 'and I am freed from all the bleggarty cares of this earth.'
   'What can I say?' replied Dugal. 'You always did like to plan things out.'
   'Aye,' continued John, 'the best part of the day is the evening, as in life. What had to be done I have now done. I've given of my best and no man can do more. I'm ready to depart but not yet. I'll hang on for a wee bit, just to see what becomes of yon bleggart Roddy Morrison.'

   Dugal began to lag behind. The trapped air in his wellies had reached tropical temperatures and his feet felt as though they were burning. The uneven peat track wasn't making things any easier either. Sweat ran down his pale face. He panted for breath and a burning sensation kindled in his chest. He glanced ahead and caught sight of the grassy clearing they were heading for, bordered as it was with ferns and rushes and overlooked on three sides by beech and rowan trees.
   When they reached the grassy clearing, Dugal noticed the newly opened grave, a black gash at one end of the grassy stretch. He shuddered involuntarily and found himself wishing that the inspection was over. The prospect of the long walk back to John's cottage made his heart sink. Then he remembered the promised dram at the end of their excursion and his spirits rose a little.
   They made their way slowly along the grass to the edge of the grave and stood looking down into the dark pit. It had been dug neatly and deeply into the peat, with the turfs laid tidily nearby for ease in replacing them at the appropriate time. The chunks of peat dug out of the hole were piled nearby in a mound ready for refilling. Dugal, a feeling of awe and foreboding building within him, judged its depth to be about six feet. He noted the smooth, parallel sides of John's handiwork. Looking into the grave, he shuddered inwardly as if it had awakened a subconscious association with his mortality. However, his dread kept him silent. When John could stand Dugal's reticence no longer, he pointed the stem of his pipe downwards into the hole.
   'What do you think of it then Dugal? Is it all right man? Do you think that I made a good job of it?'
   'Erm . . . it looks adequate.'
   'Although this is unconsecrated ground,' continued John, 'I'll be happy to spend eternity here. I'll be where I spent my life and I couldn't wish for more than that. I expect the ground here will be the better for my carcase within it. Is that not the truth then Dugal?'
   Unlike John, Dugal lacked the comfort of any belief that could have provided a spiritual support upon which to lean. Suddenly, he became very afraid of what was awaiting him in the afterlife. His contemplations of death intensified as he stared down into the open grave and he began to think it was perhaps time to amend his ways.
   'Well John,' he said finally, 'this is certainly a beautiful spot. However I fear that when you take up residence here, it will become an eerie place for those of us left behind.'
   'Eary?'
   'Your peace will remain undisturbed, but when your friends come for a blether it will be sad for them.'
   'What have ears to do with it?'
   Dugal looked up from the grave.
   'What? Oh, no, no, somewhat ghostly, with us knowing your bones are down there and all. I shall visit now and again to say hello and to remember the good times we had over the years. Mind you, I've a mind that when it is my turn to go, I shall want company around me, so I am for the cemetery.'
   'Ach, you would Dugal. I wouldn't be happy amongst strangers, not knowing who anybody was or what kind of life they had led.'
   In obvious discomfort, Dugal strolled over to a mossy hummock, sat on it and kicked off his wellies. The end of his big toe peeped out of a hole in one of his thick woollen socks. Wiggling his toes, he let out a long sigh of contentment.
   'Well now, this is more like it. My roasting feet were just about done to a turn.' He glanced warmly at his friend while luxuriating in the pleasurable sensation of cool grass and moss on his sweaty feet. 'Yes John,' he continued, 'you have sure enough chosen a good site for your bones. Peace here is plentiful indeed. You've made a neat job of your last resting place and my task will be simple enough. When the time comes, I'll have you tucked away in no time at all.'
   'When my time comes,' said John, 'position my head to the north. You've noticed that the grave lies north to south, have you?'
   'It does?'
   'The compass needle always points to the north, as God intended Dugal, so who am I to argue with him?'
   'Erm . . . you are certainly a deep thinker,' mused Dugal, scratching his head. 'North to South it is.'
   'And see that you seat the headstone securely. You'll have to pile in a few rocks and stones and build up a foundation for it before cementing it into place. I don't want my gravestone falling about my ears with the first gale of wind. You'll be earning that little something that will be coming your way when I go mine.'
   'Which way is North?'
   John shook his head sadly and pointed towards the hill with the salmon loch at its feet.
   'Ah well John, you can stop fretting about this simple matter. When I put my mind to something it gets done. I'll have to transport you here on the tractor and trailer, but I'll take it slowly and carefully so you will be safe enough.'
   'I'll be past caring by then, so you can use a wheelbarrow should you be of a mind to.'
   Suddenly John seemed unburdened and his voice became noticeably softer.
   'Dugal, I'm glad my affairs are in order and that I can rely on you.'
   Dugal smiled warmly, though somewhat sadly.
   'I'll miss you when it's time,' he said. 'With you gone, I'll have no one to keep me company and life will become lonely.' Dugal scratched his chin, his thoughts straying elsewhere. 'I've often wondered about the afterlife,' he added. 'But I just go along aimlessly from day to day, minding my own business, wondering what it is I'm supposed to be doing. It is all a bit beyond me, I'm afraid.'
   'Ach, let's get back to the house, crack that bottle of mine and enjoy a wee dram before those bleggarty undertakers arrive.'
   'After this morning's surprises,' agreed Dugal, bending to pull his wellies back onto his still sighing feet, 'I could sure do with one.'
   Strolling with their hands behind their backs, they set off towards John's croft, occasionally laughing as they relived old adventures.

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