Chapter 33

 

   John Brown jumped down from the tractor and scowled at his cow which was eyeing the open gate leading onto the moors.
   ‘What are you looking at?’ he asked. ‘There is nothing out there for you but nasty bogs, midges and scrawny heather.’
   The cow took a munch of grass and flicked its tail.
   ‘Oh, wondering where it is I’ve been, is it?’ said John, closing the gate. ‘Well, it’s none of your business, so keep your nose to yourself.’
   The cow flicked its tail and looked dourly at the closed gate.
   John noticed morning light breaking in the eastern sky and glanced around the croft with a satisfied smile. He made mental notes of jobs that needed attending to, such as the fence that required repair in a couple of places, and a loose slate on the roof which would have to be fixed before the winter. The doors and windows looked as if a coat of paint wouldn’t go amiss but he shrugged that job off and decided to leave it until the following summer. Then he noticed grass growing out of the guttering above his bathroom window.
   ‘Hmmmm, it never ends,’ he sighed, reaching into his pocket for his pipe as the morning light strengthened.
   He glanced over at the tombstone still propped up against the side of his house.
   ‘Want to know something?’ he asked his cow, as it lowered its head for another munch of grass. ‘I’d miss you if I had to give up the croft.’
   The cow flicked its tail and ignored him.
   'Okay, okay, I'll tell you. I've been out to the grave. Why? I've been making a few alterations, that's all you need to know.'
   The cow lifted its head and looked at him as it chewed. John then walked over to his tractor and patted the bonnet as it chugged away contentedly beside the byre. It had just had a major service, it had new tyres, a new cab, and it was running beautifully. With a deep sigh of contentment, he glanced around the moors.
   Summer was on the way out and the first chill of autumn was in the early morning air. The ground was wet from the overnight rain, and although it had eased off, the sky was still grey. The new cab that had been welded onto his tractor for him glistened in the early light and he climbed aboard again, settled himself behind the steering wheel and checked out all the fancy new gadgets that had also been fitted for him. Not only had he a heater, there was even a fancy windscreen wiper for when it rained.
   Feeling very happy with life, John lit up his pipe, put the tractor in gear, chugged over to the byre and parked. It seemed strangely quiet when he turned off the engine and he sat for a while listening to the engine clicking as it cooled. Then he heard the unmistakable thumping of Dugal's boots coming up his path.
   ‘My goodness!’ exclaimed Dugal as he walked around the side of the house. ‘Have you been out in the moors at this time of the morning?’
   ‘Isn’t this a little early for you, Dugal?’
   ‘It's my new exercise routine.’
   ‘Exercise is it?’
   Dugal sucked in his tummy to highlight his new super fit body.
   ‘Come on in,’ smiled John, getting down from the tractor. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’
   ‘That’d be grand.’
   ‘And would you like a scone too?’
   ‘Has Janet Munro been round?’
   ‘Aye, she has that, and the scones are fresh.’
   ‘Oh well now,’ said Dugal in expectation. ‘Some breakfast would be nice.'
   Dugal then noticed a few empty bags of cement lying around, a small pile of sand that had been dug into with a shovel, and what looked like freshly mixed hardened cement scraped over a plywood board.
   'What have you been up to John?'
   'Come on in man, and have a scone or two and a cup of tea.'

   After breakfast, they made their way through to the living room and made themselves comfortable around the peat fire. Dugal couldn’t help but notice that the door to John’s bedroom was open.
   ‘What do you find so interesting?’ asked John, noting Dugal’s puzzlement.
   ‘Um . . . where’s your coffin?’
   ‘Oh that.’
   John ignored the bemused look growing on Dugal.
   ‘Oh come on, John, where is it man? What have you done with it?’
   ‘I got rid of it.’
   Dugal stared at him.
   ‘You did what?’
   ‘It’s been nothing but trouble,’ he said, his chin almost touching his nose.
   ‘Has it now?’ nodded Dugal.
   'Yes, I took it out into the moor and burned it.'
   Dugal sighed and turned his attention to the warm flames dancing in the peat fire. John seemed lost in thought for a while, but then blinked a few times and seemed quite animated about something.
   'Ever since that bleggarty coffin came into my house,' he said, 'my whole life has been turned upside down. I'm thinking it was cursed.'
   'Well, yes, having a coffin in the house isn't my idea of furniture.'
   ‘I’ve been thinking about getting a new tractor,’ said John, changing the subject.
   ‘Indeed.’
   ‘Yes, I’ve been looking in the magazines.’
   ‘A good place to start.’
   ‘Did you know they have radios in them now?’
   ‘They do?’
   ‘Yes, and doors you can close to keep the wind out. I’m getting old, Dugal. I feel the cold in my bones now. A new tractor with a proper heated cab would be just the thing.’
   ‘Are they expensive?’
   ‘Heaters?’
   Dugal rolled his eyes.
   ‘Tractors, silly. Are you getting one?’
   'I'm thinking about it.'
   'I noticed there is now a cab of sorts on your old tractor.'
   'The mechanics took it off a tractor going to scrap and welded it on for me. It's a bit rough and ready, but it keeps the wind and the rain off me.'
   'Is that what you were doing this morning in the dark? Testing out your new cab in the rain?'
   'And other things.'
   'What other things?'
   'I've been making improvements to my grave.'
   'How do you improve a hole in the ground? And what was all that cement for?'
   ‘Come on, finish your tea and I'll show you.’
   ‘Is there room for me in the cab?’
   ‘Oh yes, plenty,’ replied John.
   John clambered up first, and then Dugal climbed aboard and made himself comfortable as best he could. John squirmed his backside around on the comfortable leather seat and seemed pleased.
   Dugal was just as excited as John when he closed the door to the cab and put the tractor in gear.
   ‘What’s that for?’ asked Dugal, pointing to a button amongst the dazzling array of dials and switches and gauges on the dashboard.
   ‘No idea.’
   John flicked a switch and a rush of warm air filled the cab.
   ‘Much better!’ smiled Dugal, rubbing his hands briskly together.
   John let the clutch out and they lurched forward.
   ‘I like this!’ said Dugal.
   ‘Let’s head out into moors to try it out,’ said John, turning the tractor and pulling up beside the gate.
   Dugal opened the door and clambered out, closed the gate behind John and then clambered excitedly aboard again.
   ‘This is amazing,’ said Dugal, who could see that John had already fallen in love with his new cab. To not feel the wind on his cheeks was obviously a welcome change. The tractor was happy too, and he could feel it.
   ‘Aye, you’re not a horse,’ John shouted to his tractor as he drove, ‘and you’ll never be a horse, but you have your good points you old brute.’
   As they chugged further and further out into the moors, John began to whistle softly to himself. Dugal then frowned, as he was not quite so sure he wanted to visit the grave again. Then he spotted the few trees surrounding the grave site. John gave a little laugh and thumped the steering wheel.
   When they pulled up, John killed the engine just as the first rays of sunlight lit the moor with golden morning light. As they both jumped from the warm cab, hands were shoved deep into jacket pockets.
   'It's a good job there is a breeze,' said Dugal, 'otherwise we'd be eaten alive with midges.'
   ‘Come on Dugal,’ said John, strolling over to the side of the grave and looking down into the dark hole.
   ‘I think I’ve seen enough of graves and coffins for the time being thank you.’
   John had not felt so light of heart for many years. As he stood looking down into the grave, he knew his days on earth were drawing to a close, but he was content. He’d lived a good life, and in his heart he knew he’d lived it well. He had food, clothing and shelter, he had work to keep himself occupied, his health was good, he enjoyed the company of friends he could trust, he had clean air to breathe and he had fresh water to drink. It was strange, but at that moment he felt like the richest man on earth.
   Dugal must have noticed something about John’s manner, because he sauntered over to his side and stood beside him.
   'That was good news about Old Graham,' he said.
   'Yes,' smiled John. 'Roddy's death being ruled an accident was the only reasonable outcome.'
   It hadn't taken long for island life to drift back into its daily routine. The gossip had quickly dissipated, and even the news that Old Graham had found his tongue soon lost its currency. It only took a couple of days before island life had drifted back to business as usual.
   Suddenly Dugal froze.
   ‘What is it Dugal?’ asked John, noting his agitation.
   ‘The grave . . . look!’
   ‘What about it?’
   ‘It’s not as deep as the last time we were here.’
   ‘Ach, you’re being silly.’
   ‘Do you think the Thompsons have been back again?’
   John laughed.
   ‘I fail to see what’s so funny!’ scolded Dugal, glancing disapprovingly at him.
   ‘Don’t you worry yourself, it was only me making sure there could be no more squatters in my grave.’
   ‘What have you done?’
   ‘I’ve dug the hole out, right down to the bedrock, and filled it in with rocks and stones. Then I mixed up some cement and concreted over the whole thing. If anyone tries to dig into this hole again they will have a bit of a surprise.’
   ‘Ahhh,’ nodded Dugal, ‘so that’s what you were up to this morning. Do you still plan on being buried here?'
   John puffed on his pipe.
   'I'm undecided. I could just fill the hole in and head to the cemetery I suppose.'
   'Perhaps we could be neighbours.'
   'But then again, this is a very special place, and I like it here. I'll make up my mind another time. If I decide to be buried here, I'll make arrangements with the Thompsons for another coffin.'
   'For the bedroom again?'
   'No, to be delivered after my passing.'
   'Much better.'
   John smiled distantly and puffed on his pipe. Sneaking the coffin out of the ditch the Thompsons had left it in and getting it onto his trailer had been hard work, but gratifying. Now that the coffin was buried, covered with stones and cemented over, he felt at peace. As the smoke from his pipe spirited off into the moors, he felt a satisfying glow in his soul. He would let the Thompsons know where their coffin was buried eventually, but to teach them a lesson he would let them stew and fret for a week or two.
   He looked down into the hole again. It wasn't as deep as before, but it was deep enough to do the job. After a few moments, a wry smile cracked his weathered face. Yes, having some company in his grave when the time came might be welcome. Then with a last look around the moors, he took a deep breath, and set off for home.

The End

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