Chapter 18

 

   Beep, beep, beep. Clumsy fingers fumbled for the alarm. John Brown blinked his sleepy eyes and stared up at the ceiling from the comfort of his cosy blankets. With some difficulty, he struggled to a sitting position and plumped his pillow behind him.
   'Oh my, oh my,' he groaned, holding the small of his back.
   He grimaced, then slipped out of bed, sidled over to the window, scratched his ribs and stared out over the moors. After a time he glanced over at his coffin. Quite inexplicably, for some strange reason he couldn't fathom, he decided to go fishing.
   Bacon, eggs, tea and toast shovelled down his throat, a fishing bag over his shoulder and his late father's old fishing rod in hand, John slipped on his cold wellies and stamped his feet. The cracked porcelain clock on the kitchen wall above his solid-fuel stove ticked inexorably as he pondered what he was doing. I mean, he didn't even like fishing.
   Jerking the back door open with a creak, he stared out with dismay at a thin rain slanting down from a black Hebridean sky. His breath almost misted as he scowled back at the frowning clouds.
   Grabbing a fork from the byre, he started digging around the grassy bits and it wasn't long before he had a few good worms wriggling in a small jar. A short while later, he checked in on his old tractor and decided he was going to make a cab for it to keep him dry in the rain. He was old, and his bones were getting cold.
   'Aye, you would be better for a cab, you old brute,' he muttered to the tractor as he clambered aboard and kicked the engine over. Black smoke coughed out of the exhaust and he revved the engine a few times to warm it up a bit. His tombstone lying propped up against the side of his house brought a faint smile to his wrinkled face.
   When he was sure the tractor was idling as he liked it, he set off towards the gate leading into the moor. The tractor's wheels splashed through a few puddles and lurched out of a rut as he steered towards his gravesite. He wanted to have a wee look at it before he went fishing. He glanced behind him, and noticed his stone cottage with its peat stack seemed somewhat bleak against the dreary sky. Ahead of him, a bedraggled sheep startled from sleep struggled to its knees and jumped out of the way as the tractor growled on into the moor.

   When he reached the grave site, he braked and slipped out his tobacco pouch. Casually, he filled his pipe, hung it on his lips and struck a match, his face flickering in the light as he puffed. Smoke curled lazily from his nose as he enjoyed the taste of his first tobacco of the day. Slipping the pouch back into his pocket, he then jumped down to look at his grave. He stood for a few minutes, but didn't say anything. Then he climbed back onto the tractor, put it into gear and headed for the loch along an old worn track that hiked arduously through the heather.
   His hood over his head for shelter, he puffed contentedly on his pipe, allowing the tractor to growl forward in a low gear. On cresting a ridge between two low hills, the loch suddenly appeared below, stretching away into the mists. John looked behind him, his heart becoming heavy as he thought about the body lying in his grave. He didn't even know who the man was. With a sigh, he set off down towards the banks of the loch.

   Breakers crashed against the shore, soaking the rocks with spray. John jumped down from the tractor and pieced his rod together. It was old and he wasn't entirely sure the reel would still work. The line was old too, and he hoped it would hold the weight of a trout. Turning his back to the wind, he threaded the line through the eyes, slipped on a bubble float half filled with water and tied on a small hook. Unscrewing his jar of worms, he shook a few into his palm, selected a big juicy blackhead and stuck the hook into it. Casting slightly up into the wind, he kept his eye on the float until it splashed down way out in the loch. Almost immediately he lost sight of it in the long lines of foam streaking the surface.

   Some time later, while huddled under a peat bank for shelter, John glanced up through the ragged clouds at the hazy outline of the sun. It seemed it was journeying across the miserable sky with the same imperceptible relentlessness as the hour hand of his clock. All around him, mists seeped despondency into the lonely hills. Pulling the collar of his damp jacket closer together, he strained for a glimpse of the float and stretched his legs in an effort to ease the stiffness in them. He dreamed of his warm kitchen and a big mug of tea with one of Janet Munro's hot buttered scones she liked to bring him.
   Fingered by the biting wind, a forlorn sprig of heather hanging from the lip of the peat bank scratched the side of his hood, poking his ear in a successful attempt to annoy him. No matter how hard he thought about it though, his fingers wouldn't venture from their snug pockets to deal with it. His ear was just going to have to put up with it.
   He wondered what the poor old worm on his hook must have been thinking? Dug out of its cosy home in the earth, dumped in a smelly glass jar along with a few other severely pissed off mates, impaled on a hook and then chucked out into a cold loch for some bastard fish to scoff. What had he done to deserve that? A gust of wind ruffled the peat bank, and the sprig of heather annoyed his ear again.

   It had been a long while since he'd last seen his bubble float. He glanced disinterestedly at the rod lying perched over a lichencrusted rock. Moisture glistened on the shaft and dripped from the eyes. His chin snuggled more deeply into his jacket. Who would have believed this was the middle of summer? If it wasn't wind, it was midges. Midges! Thank God there was a breeze.

   From the sanctuary of his peat bank, he watched the drizzle slanting across the uneasy loch, and catching a fish suddenly seemed as impossibly far away as finding a permanent solution to the coffin in his grave. Taking a break from squinting, he forced his disinclined knuckles from their pockets to knead his tiring eyes. He was getting fed up. On return to their snug haunt, his fingers found a bit of fluff in the corner of a pocket and began picking at it. The rod tip was bending slightly, almost as if a fish was tugging at the worm. It was just the wind though. The hook was probably bare anyway, dangling uselessly beneath the choppy waves. His fingers tired of the fluff, rolled it into a ball and flicked it away.
   He looked down at the stones under his feet. A clump of lichen snagged his gaze like a shipwreck on the seabed entangling an unwary trawl. He scratched some of the lichen off the rock and started pulling it to bits. It fascinated him. What on earth was it living on? How did it manage to survive stuck to a rock in such a harsh place? Hardy stuff, he thought, as it crumbled and blew away.
   He enjoyed having the loch to himself. It gave him time to think. He loved the craggy hills and the glens, the scent of the heather and the crashing of waves. Drizzle grazed his face and he retreated into the hood of his jacket.
   Although he'd never caught a salmon, he had hooked one when he'd been a kid, but it came off the hook before he could land it. His sense of loss had been so profound he'd never gone fishing again. He'd never told anyone about it either. He let his mind wander back in time and allowed the memories to return. His spinner had flashed through the loch when suddenly the rod was almost snatched from his fingers. A startled salmon broke the surface with a thrash of its tail. He had been so startled, so taken by surprise, that he forgot to strike. With a flick of its tail, the salmon freed itself of the lure and disappeared into the depths of the loch to ponder yet another of life's little surprises.
   John allowed his gaze to wander along the far shore picking out likely spots where he reckoned monster fish might be lurking. When he tired of that, he looked up the desolate hillsides into the mists. There were lochs over those hills he had never even seen, let alone fished. Awed whispers of the weight of fish you could catch being limited only to the weight you could carry back to the road had hushed many a fireside tale. He wished now he'd explored more of the island.

   The sprig of heather brushed his ear once too often, and he tore the sprig from the bank, crumbling peat clinging to its roots. A short gust of wind hurried along the shore and his rod clattered onto the rocks. He frowned but made no move. The rod lay on the stones, the tip lying in foam, the tight line flapping between the eyes. With a sigh, he threw the sprig of heather away and focused on the loch as he searched in vain for his bubble float.
   His eyes ached. It was hopeless. He was never going to find his float. Encouragingly though, it had brightened perceptibly and he'd noticed the rain was easing off. Realising that if he didn't do something soon he'd be going home with an empty bag, he made the difficult decision to leave his sanctuary under the bank and go and check the worm. It was time to move. His legs creaked in protest, but he forced himself to his feet and stepped out from under the sheltering lip of the peat bank. Pulling the hood of his jacket over his head, he tried in vain one final time to find his bubble float.
   His little rush of enthusiasm waned. Reeling in and re-baiting seemed like such a ridiculous waste of a good worm. He glanced back at his peat bank and then over at the tractor. Maybe it was time to go home.
   Go home? But you've caught nothing, said his heart.
   So what? he retorted out loud.
   If you give up now, you'll probably never catch a salmon in your whole life.
   That stopped the argument. Yes, he would like to catch just one salmon before he called it a day and crawled into his coffin. He looked despairingly at the rod. A few loops of line had blown off the spinning reel and were beginning to tangle among the rocks. With another sigh, he pulled his remonstrating fingers from their pockets, stepped over the rocks and picked up the rod. Once he had sorted out the line, he pushed back his hood and scanned the loch. He struck hard, hoping to see the float splash somewhere in the waves. The rod felt a little sluggish, almost as if he was stuck on the bottom. Then there was a swirl out in the loch as a fish broke the surface.
   'My goodness!' exclaimed John, astonishment heavy on his jaw.
   Suddenly, a fresh salmon leapt out of the water, its flanks silvery against the steely grey water. In a violent metamorphism that shook his bones, John's astonishment re-crystallised as a stratum of raw panic.
   Line screamed off the reel and his knees almost buckled.
   The salmon leapt again and somersaulted, almost yanking the rod from his grasp.
   He was going to lose it!
   Dread seized him with bony fingers as he remembered how he'd felt the last time he'd lost a salmon. A couple of ferocious tugs pulled the rod tip almost into the water. More line stripped from the complaining reel.
   Then the line went slack.
   John's heart stopped.
   He thought he'd lost it.
   His life was crumbling, just like the lichen.
   There was a swirl in the water just a few feet out in front of him and the rod bowed as weight came back on the line. The fish ran back out into deep water, stripping line noisily from the reel. Leaping again, it somersaulted and splashed back into the water.
   'Come on man, come on,' whispered John to himself, finally getting control of the fight.
   The fish made another deep run, but not quite so powerfully and not quite so far. John cranked cautiously, hardly daring to believe it was really happening. The fish turned over, a flash of white under the surface. John slackened off the tension on the drum just a little more. Another flash, another swirl, the rod tip dipped sluggishly and he knew the fish was tiring.
   Stepping into sheltered water in the lee of a large rock, he guided the fish towards the shore. The fish panicked and thrashed wildly, jerking its head from side to side to free itself of the hook. John leaned back on the rod and the fish rolled onto its side. With the rod in one hand, he reached his other slowly down into the water as the fish came in towards him. He made no mistake and his fingers closed firmly round its tail. Stepping back, he hoisted the glistening fish ashore.
   In a daze, John wandered up the shoreline to the shelter of the peat bank. There the salmon lay – a jewel to rival the most exquisite gem ever unearthed. It was a beautiful fish of about 6 lbs. Lost in a dreamy wonder, he imagined the startled gasps from Dugal and the others when they learned of his catch. It was time to head home.

   After parking the tractor outside the byre, John chucked the spade into the trailer along with some rope. When he was satisfied everything was set, he glanced along the road where smoke could be seen issuing cheerfully from chimney pots.
   'All seems to be well in the world,' he mused contentedly, tapping out the ashes from his pipe and preparing a fresh fill. Then he grabbed his salmon and clambered down from the tractor.
   When he marched into the kitchen, John was a different man.
   'Dugal, my old friend,' he said to himself wistfully as he put his salmon in the sink. 'You were right. We're going to have to tell the police the whole truth.'
   Somewhat lighter of mind now that he'd made what he considered to be the right decision, he washed his hands and then made himself porridge which was soon burping merrily on the stove.
   After his porridge, John busied himself around the croft. His cow eyed him dourly and flicked its tail as he checked the oil and water in the tractor. With a strange light in his eye, he turned and looked up at the sky, sensing a change in the air. The rain stopped and diffuse sunlight struggled to colour the hillsides. The moor's dark scowl seemed to soften. An eagle soared along a hillside, a tiny speck against the low clouds and his heart soared with it. His life had changed, irrevocably, forever, and for the first time in his life he really felt that he was home, that he was where he belonged.
   A short time later, just as he was about to head into his shed, he heard Dugal's wellies clumping up his garden path.
   'Ah, John,' wheezed Dugal as he marched round the side of the house. He patted down the two clumps of unruly hair overhanging his ears before continuing. 'We need to talk.'
   'What's on your mind?' smiled John.
   'What do you think is on my mind?' replied Dugal, scratching an ear as he surveyed John's tombstone.
   'There is a touch of autumn in the air, I'm thinking,' said John. 'It won't be long now before we'll see the leaves turn.'
   'Hmmm, coffins and bodies scattered all over creation, and all you can think about is the weather? I didn't sleep a wink last night, you know. All I could see was that man's pasty face.'
   'What man?'
   'The corpse!'
   'Oh, him.'
   'I even tried sleeping with the light on, but no, pasty face was still there, staring at me with his ghoulish eyes.'
   'He's been bothering me too,' agreed John, 'and I think you are right, we will call the police, but we have to bring the body back here first.'
   Dugal lifted his head, somewhat taken aback.
   'What on earth for?'
   'I've had time to think, and it is the right thing to do. The police are going to ask us a lot of questions.'
   'I don't care.'
   'We will be in all the newspapers.'
   'I'm sure we will.'
   'And on the news on all the television channels.'
   'I guess so,' replied Dugal, beginning to look very unsure of himself.
   'The police will likely take us down to the station to question us, there will be reporters, and we may have to go to court. It will all be very uncomfortable.'
   'What are you getting at John?'
   'Don't you think it would be better if we tell them we found the coffin, dug it up and then took it here and then telephoned them immediately?'
   'Er . . . well, I . . . what difference does it make?'
   'It would keep things very simple for us,' smiled John warmly, his chin almost touching his nose. 'The police are very good at their job and they would catch us out in our words and they would know we were lying.'
   'But . . . but the coffin is buried again.'
   'Yes, I know, we will need to dig it up and bring it here. Then we call the police. They can question us as much as they like and we would not be lying and the police would know we were telling the truth. Come on inside for a cup of tea.'
   Dugal was seated at the table when John lifted the salmon from the sink. Dugal rose to his feet as John held it up.
   'I caught it only an hour ago on the loch. It's a rare beauty, isn't it?'
   'You caught a salmon!'
   'Yes, so we are agreed then? We dig up the coffin again, bring it here and then phone the police. I see no point in complicating matters with stories of running back and forth across the moors with corpses. They would know we were lying otherwise, and it would make us look bad in the newspapers. I mean, what would people think?'
   'I suppose you're right,' grumbled Dugal, who suddenly seemed extremely pensive. He certainly wasn't looking forward to digging up the coffin again.
   'Good, we will head out there after dark and phone the police in the morning.'

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