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Authors: Linda Cracknell
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coastal edges and the burns that led down to it. To this template, he added each subsequent layer. Once he’d got the basic idea, he didn’t
need that much help. But then onto the fifth layer, which she’d expected to be for text, he plotted the details of the broch remains, World War II bunkers and burial chambers he’d found
on his walks. He drew them in confident black lines with the Rotring pen, transferring information from his sketchbooks. A sort of archaeological layer.
In the bay, halfway between the flagstone harbour and Dwarwick Head he drew a cross-shape.
‘Is that the Spitfire that went down in the war?’ she asked him.
The back of his head assented.
She sometimes worked away in the next room, continuing with her own mapmaking. She’d look through the door and see his bent head and hair fallen forward, the black pen end to his lip as he
decided on the position of his next feature. It reminded her of days when she’d worked in the office at a desk near Richard and enjoyed the silent camaraderie of two absorbed brains dealing
with space, transferring the world into two dimensions.
But she found herself almost envying Trothan the ‘felt’ nature of his mapping that drew on evidence from his feet and eyes. All she was doing was using second-hand information; bare
statistics. She would never be shoulder to shoulder with other sweaty dancers at Fela Kuti’s Shrine, hear the hippos wallowing in Kainji Lake, or weave in a canoe between Makoko’s
stilted houses in their stinking Lagos lagoon. It struck her that he was more like a geographer, an explorer, to her plain old cartographer.
After each visit, he carefully placed the trace films exactly one above the other, and then rolled them neatly into the cardboard tube that he carried away. She let him take the pens away too,
and the set of curved rulers. It was as if he was going to go and do the work somewhere else, but it never seemed that he made progress in-between visits.
The last time she’d seen him he’d been on the sixth, the text layer, conventionally the final one. His annotations included directions like ‘
the quickest way to get to the
cave’
; or place names he’d made up, like ‘
headland of the shout’ because
of a story about a stranded fisherman who’d had to shout to the seals for help;
or ‘
cows’ dancing place’
. His long messy scrawls slightly niggled at her own habit of neatness. She considered suggesting a stencil. But then she thought of Pont’s
maps; his scribbles had been equally undisciplined.
Trothan’s next step should be to draw everything onto one sheet of good cartridge paper, ensuring that the features didn’t clutter up against each other, that they could breathe.
But then she noticed, but didn’t ask why, he cut another sheet of film: a seventh. He reminded her of the story of Peter Barker and the fairy queen.
‘Can you put that on a map?’ he asked.
‘Do you mean the story?’
‘Sort of. The place Peter Barker went to. With her. Under the Hill.’
‘Well...’ Maggie was out of her depth here. Her maps represented what was there, not illusions or hidden places. ‘We don’t map things like that.’
‘Who?’ Trothan stared at her.
She shuffled in her seat. ‘Map-makers. Not these days anyway.’
‘But I can,’ he said.
Was it a question or a statement? ‘It depends,’ she said.
He carried on drawing. The doorway in Olrig Hill materialised.
‘It depends,’ she continued. ‘Whether you want your map to represent what’s really there.’ He was bent over the page, still drawing, his loose hair brushing it. As
she often did, she longed now to tie the hair back, wash it, even cut it all off.
‘Maps usually just show real things,’ she tried again. ‘That’s how we usually do it. That’s what makes people trust a map.’ She was irritated by the
self-importance in her own voice.
A brown eye appeared through the hair and gazed at her. ‘It is important,’ he
need that much help. But then onto the fifth layer, which she’d expected to be for text, he plotted the details of the broch remains, World War II bunkers and burial chambers he’d found
on his walks. He drew them in confident black lines with the Rotring pen, transferring information from his sketchbooks. A sort of archaeological layer.
In the bay, halfway between the flagstone harbour and Dwarwick Head he drew a cross-shape.
‘Is that the Spitfire that went down in the war?’ she asked him.
The back of his head assented.
She sometimes worked away in the next room, continuing with her own mapmaking. She’d look through the door and see his bent head and hair fallen forward, the black pen end to his lip as he
decided on the position of his next feature. It reminded her of days when she’d worked in the office at a desk near Richard and enjoyed the silent camaraderie of two absorbed brains dealing
with space, transferring the world into two dimensions.
But she found herself almost envying Trothan the ‘felt’ nature of his mapping that drew on evidence from his feet and eyes. All she was doing was using second-hand information; bare
statistics. She would never be shoulder to shoulder with other sweaty dancers at Fela Kuti’s Shrine, hear the hippos wallowing in Kainji Lake, or weave in a canoe between Makoko’s
stilted houses in their stinking Lagos lagoon. It struck her that he was more like a geographer, an explorer, to her plain old cartographer.
After each visit, he carefully placed the trace films exactly one above the other, and then rolled them neatly into the cardboard tube that he carried away. She let him take the pens away too,
and the set of curved rulers. It was as if he was going to go and do the work somewhere else, but it never seemed that he made progress in-between visits.
The last time she’d seen him he’d been on the sixth, the text layer, conventionally the final one. His annotations included directions like ‘
the quickest way to get to the
cave’
; or place names he’d made up, like ‘
headland of the shout’ because
of a story about a stranded fisherman who’d had to shout to the seals for help;
or ‘
cows’ dancing place’
. His long messy scrawls slightly niggled at her own habit of neatness. She considered suggesting a stencil. But then she thought of Pont’s
maps; his scribbles had been equally undisciplined.
Trothan’s next step should be to draw everything onto one sheet of good cartridge paper, ensuring that the features didn’t clutter up against each other, that they could breathe.
But then she noticed, but didn’t ask why, he cut another sheet of film: a seventh. He reminded her of the story of Peter Barker and the fairy queen.
‘Can you put that on a map?’ he asked.
‘Do you mean the story?’
‘Sort of. The place Peter Barker went to. With her. Under the Hill.’
‘Well...’ Maggie was out of her depth here. Her maps represented what was there, not illusions or hidden places. ‘We don’t map things like that.’
‘Who?’ Trothan stared at her.
She shuffled in her seat. ‘Map-makers. Not these days anyway.’
‘But I can,’ he said.
Was it a question or a statement? ‘It depends,’ she said.
He carried on drawing. The doorway in Olrig Hill materialised.
‘It depends,’ she continued. ‘Whether you want your map to represent what’s really there.’ He was bent over the page, still drawing, his loose hair brushing it. As
she often did, she longed now to tie the hair back, wash it, even cut it all off.
‘Maps usually just show real things,’ she tried again. ‘That’s how we usually do it. That’s what makes people trust a map.’ She was irritated by the
self-importance in her own voice.
A brown eye appeared through the hair and gazed at her. ‘It is important,’ he
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