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Authors: Marsali Taylor
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she was, if she wasnât on board.
The trowie mound headland was much as I remembered it: a steep, green hill on three sides, with the pimple of the mound itself at the top. The fourth side, looking seaward, was a cliff, falling sheer to the sea in a glitter of pink granite. Our ancestors gave their dead the best view of their territory, so that the âold onesâ could keep watching over them. The green was good; Peter and Sandraâs red jackets would stand out like a lighthouse beam on a dark night if they were in trouble there. Curving behind the hill, the long voe of Mangaster ran into the land, and there were houses at the far end of it, but the crofts at this end had been abandoned in the fifties, as road transport took over from boats. Only one looked habitable still, the seaward one, âthe Nicolson hooseâ. It was tucked into its own little bay, with the isles of Egilsay and Cave protecting it from the Atlantic and hiding it from the houses on Muckle Roe; an isolated spot, too lonely even for me, although I reckoned that nowadays you could bring a pick-up along the walking track by the shore. There was a mooring bouy bobbing in the bay, bright orange, with a ring on the top. Presumably Brian had renewed it for visiting the cottage by boat. Dir a bit oâ meeting up going on â¦Â
I shoved that thought away, and hauled the anchor chain up from its locker in the bow. The bouy probably would hold Khalida , but taking a chance on a strange mooring wasnât seamanlike.
I dropped anchor in three metres of water just off the cottage. It didnât look as if it was used much. It had that dead look houses get, with windows black and empty, and the door shut as if it would never open again. The evening sun tinted the white walls, picked up the cracks in the window paint, and gave the cottage a long, sinister shadow. The strip of beach in front of it had boulders rolled to a line, to make a landing place, and I rowed my rubber dinghy in there, sploshed ashore, and made it fast.
The cottage was of traditional Shetland pattern, just like Magnieâs, with the house, barn, and byre all in one line. There was a porch in the centre, with one square window on each side, and three skylights in the roof. Within, there would be a room on each side, with a steep stair in the middle leading up to two rooms above. I caught a glimpse of a double bed, with some kind of black metal tripod standing out against the white bedcover. There was no garden in front, just a rectangle of grey feather-headed grass sprinkled with coral-pink ragged-robin, then the beach, with the waves whispering among the pebbles. It was very still; only the waves sighing, the peep-peep of an oyster-catcher down at the waterâs edge, and the murmur of the wind broke the silence.
For all that, I had that nasty âbeing watchedâ feeling as I walked past the cottage: a prickling in my shoulder blades, and a wish to turn around. I wondered if it had a reputation for being haunted; Iâd ask Magnie next time I saw him. He goes along to the old Nicolson house â¦Â Maybe they held those teenage Satanic rituals there, with all the daftness of Ouija boards and table-turning, and Norman dressing himself up as chief priest, or whatever devil worshippers called themselves.
I tried to remember, as I trudged up the hill, when the house had last been used. Brianâs mother had been Barbara. Her face swam into my mind, a thin woman with sandy-coloured hair, a sour expression, and pouncing movements, like a curlew on the beach, stabbing its beak into the sand, and coming up with a worm. Now what had happened to Brianâs father? Heâd gone off in some way, whether with another woman, or just left. I wasnât sure if Barbara had turned sour after that, or if the sourness had driven him off. Heâd been a fisherman. Maybe he just hadnât liked living at the back of beyond. This had been her family home,
The trowie mound headland was much as I remembered it: a steep, green hill on three sides, with the pimple of the mound itself at the top. The fourth side, looking seaward, was a cliff, falling sheer to the sea in a glitter of pink granite. Our ancestors gave their dead the best view of their territory, so that the âold onesâ could keep watching over them. The green was good; Peter and Sandraâs red jackets would stand out like a lighthouse beam on a dark night if they were in trouble there. Curving behind the hill, the long voe of Mangaster ran into the land, and there were houses at the far end of it, but the crofts at this end had been abandoned in the fifties, as road transport took over from boats. Only one looked habitable still, the seaward one, âthe Nicolson hooseâ. It was tucked into its own little bay, with the isles of Egilsay and Cave protecting it from the Atlantic and hiding it from the houses on Muckle Roe; an isolated spot, too lonely even for me, although I reckoned that nowadays you could bring a pick-up along the walking track by the shore. There was a mooring bouy bobbing in the bay, bright orange, with a ring on the top. Presumably Brian had renewed it for visiting the cottage by boat. Dir a bit oâ meeting up going on â¦Â
I shoved that thought away, and hauled the anchor chain up from its locker in the bow. The bouy probably would hold Khalida , but taking a chance on a strange mooring wasnât seamanlike.
I dropped anchor in three metres of water just off the cottage. It didnât look as if it was used much. It had that dead look houses get, with windows black and empty, and the door shut as if it would never open again. The evening sun tinted the white walls, picked up the cracks in the window paint, and gave the cottage a long, sinister shadow. The strip of beach in front of it had boulders rolled to a line, to make a landing place, and I rowed my rubber dinghy in there, sploshed ashore, and made it fast.
The cottage was of traditional Shetland pattern, just like Magnieâs, with the house, barn, and byre all in one line. There was a porch in the centre, with one square window on each side, and three skylights in the roof. Within, there would be a room on each side, with a steep stair in the middle leading up to two rooms above. I caught a glimpse of a double bed, with some kind of black metal tripod standing out against the white bedcover. There was no garden in front, just a rectangle of grey feather-headed grass sprinkled with coral-pink ragged-robin, then the beach, with the waves whispering among the pebbles. It was very still; only the waves sighing, the peep-peep of an oyster-catcher down at the waterâs edge, and the murmur of the wind broke the silence.
For all that, I had that nasty âbeing watchedâ feeling as I walked past the cottage: a prickling in my shoulder blades, and a wish to turn around. I wondered if it had a reputation for being haunted; Iâd ask Magnie next time I saw him. He goes along to the old Nicolson house â¦Â Maybe they held those teenage Satanic rituals there, with all the daftness of Ouija boards and table-turning, and Norman dressing himself up as chief priest, or whatever devil worshippers called themselves.
I tried to remember, as I trudged up the hill, when the house had last been used. Brianâs mother had been Barbara. Her face swam into my mind, a thin woman with sandy-coloured hair, a sour expression, and pouncing movements, like a curlew on the beach, stabbing its beak into the sand, and coming up with a worm. Now what had happened to Brianâs father? Heâd gone off in some way, whether with another woman, or just left. I wasnât sure if Barbara had turned sour after that, or if the sourness had driven him off. Heâd been a fisherman. Maybe he just hadnât liked living at the back of beyond. This had been her family home,
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