Almost Insentient, Almost Divine Read online

  “Yes, it’s going to be wonderful, thanks Tom,” Robert said, feeling his cheeks warming. He’d never been much good at being bawdy.

  “I promised you—when your dad died—I’d do what I could, and this is the best I can muster at the moment,” he said, handing the keys to Robert. “She don’t go very fast, but she’ll get you there in one piece.”

  Robert wasn’t so sure about the latter—but he’d never really been into cars and mechanical things. It was a black car, that had clearly been left out for some years and had gathered a crusting of green algae that Tom had done his best to remove. There was a nice wooden trim around the van section at the back of it, but one of the rear windows had been put out and a piece of board had been nailed over the inside to replace it.

  Tom saw Robert looking a little puzzled at this.

  “Sorry about that, Rob. Steve managed to put a spanner through it a few days ago while we were doing the exhaust and I didn’t have time to get more glass so I thought it best to put something in to keep the weather out,” he said.

  Steve was Robert’s cousin and there had always been some jealousy on Steve’s part. Even about Margaret, who Steve had fancied for years. He’d got very drunk at the wedding reception but thankfully hadn’t said anything too terrible. He’d just fallen asleep in the toilets and had been taken home early. Robert wouldn’t have been surprised if Steve hadn’t done it deliberately, just to mark his territory a bit.

  “It’s great, uncle Tom,” Robert smiled, getting into the car. “Thanks for all you’ve done for us.”

  “Oh, think nothing of it. Anyway, you two lovebirds have a wonderful time, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Tom grinned.

  Robert smiled awkwardly and drove away as quickly as he could, feeling his face now flushing a bright red.

  *

  Margaret had got everything packed in the hallway of their new home, where they were just living on the ground floor for now, while they did up the bedrooms and then they’d swap over. There were two suitcases, one for each of them and a lot of boxes filled with cooking utensils and basic foods. Tom had warned them that things were “a bit basic” up at the holiday cottage, near Stranraer, and so—knowing Tom—they’d erred on the side of “basic” meaning virtually nothing. The cottage had been inherited by the family from some distant relative with whom Robert’s father had spent summer holidays. When he died it passed to uncle Tom who used it to go on sea fishing trips.

  Margaret and Robert were very excited about the honeymoon—their first proper holiday together, and Margaret was proving herself to be an excellent organiser.

  They set off early the following morning as dawn was breaking, the little car just managing to nudge 60 on the flat. It was quite laden with stuff though and Robert just hoped it held together long enough to get them there and back.

  As they headed up the empty M1 Robert’s thoughts turned to their married life together, unfurling before them like a blank map, filled with destinations and adventures as yet unimagined.

  He was very nervous of their first night together. Margaret had been quite a traditionalist about sexual matters and had reserved their first “proper” encounter for the first night of their honeymoon. Robert was uncertain how it would all go. He was relatively inexperienced himself, having lost his virginity to a girl at school in his mid-teens and then only one further experience more recently, arranged by his friends on his stag night. That was with a woman from Soho. He’d been rather dazzled by all the neon lights and the endless drinks he’d been bought. That woman had been an education though and he hoped that Margaret wouldn’t be disappointed with some of the things he thought he’d learnt.

  “Are we nearly at Moffat?” Margaret asked. She loved the name of the town, where they’d booked an evening’s bed and breakfast to break up the journey, and she said it in a funny voice, as though it were a strangely named foreigner.

  “I’m afraid not, darling,” Robert said. “We’ve only been on the road a couple of hours, it’s some way yet.”

  Most of the journey was spent in silence, each with their own thoughts. Margaret wasn’t a great traveller and she said talking too much made her feel sick.

  They arrived in the quaint little town mid-afternoon, for their little stopover. There wasn’t much to do and the guest house was small and rather run down. After a couple of drinks in the pub they decided to turn in for the night and set off early in the morning for the next part of the journey.

  Margaret got into her nightdress in the little bathroom down the hall and Robert heard her scurrying back, in case someone saw her. She hurried into bed and turned out her side light. Robert lay a few moments wondering what to do. Was tonight their first night? Was she expecting it to happen now?

  She had her back to him, curled up under the prickly sheets and blankets. He nuzzled up to her and nibbled kisses on the back of her neck. He slid his hand around towards her breasts but she stopped him with a gentle pat of her fingers.

  “Now, now,” she said. “Not ’til tomorrow.”

  He felt rather silly and slid back to his side of the bed.

  The town was very quiet and he was used to a noisier street of terraced houses. That’s why he couldn’t sleep—well, that’s what he told himself anyway.

  *

  After salvaging what breakfast they could from the plate of yellowy grease they were served they headed on their way, passing through Dumfries, Castle Douglas, Newton Stewart—all of which Margaret commented would make lovely places to visit during their stay—and on to Stranraer, where they stopped to share a bag of chips and stand at the harbour, watching a ferry come in from Ireland.

  “Not far to go now,” Robert said as they got back in the car.

  They spent the next half an hour going round and round the town, searching for the way out, North, along the coast to Kirkcolm.

  Eventually a local man directed them to a small road they’d passed by a couple of times and that Margaret had pointed out on their last circuit of the town.

  She teased him about it for a few minutes until he grumpily said that maybe she should drive them instead—driving had always been something they argued about, but, as yet, Margaret had been unable to conquer her terror of it.

  The road narrowed and lead out to farmsteads and isolated cottages. They passed through Kirkcolm, a small village with a nice looking hotel that advertised “High Teas”.

  “That’ll be nice, one afternoon,” Robert said, trying to warm the frosty atmosphere.

  “Maybe,” Margaret replied, huffily.

  A couple of miles further on and they found the signpost to the “Coastal Path” that uncle Tom had said would lead them to the cottage, along an old track that branched about halfway down. They were to take the right fork at that point and, after a gate, they would be at the house in a minute or two.

  They were. “House” was pushing it though. “Cottage” would even be a stretch. If you had seen it in a photograph you’d have thought it might be an outbuilding for storage, or a small pig barn.

  “Well, it’s cute,” Margaret mustered.

  “Yes, bijou,” Robert added.

  They both laughed.

  Then a loud clunk came from underneath the car.

  Robert leapt out and peered beneath, on his hands and knees, “Oh, Christ, that’s all we need. The exhaust’s fallen off. Tom was right. It got us here in one piece but we won’t be going anywhere else anytime soon.”

  “Oh, well,” Margaret said, dreamily. She was standing behind him and as he turned to get up he could see that she was looking out, to the cottage and the fields beyond. A strong breeze was blowing her golden hair behind her and flashes of sunlight caught flecks of lighter streaks that seemed almost white. He thought she looked like a model from a poster or a magazine.

  He turned to see what she was looking at. It was the wonderful view.

  The small cottage was on a slight hillock and gave a panoramic view out across the flat headland; to the Eas
t they could see the top of a lighthouse which would mark the edges of the Northern channel of the Irish sea, off to the North some choppier waters gave way to the Firth of Clyde, and to their East, tucked into a more secluded furrow of land was Loch Ryan. It looked magnificent and Margaret’s eyes were wide with delight and wonder.

  “Oh, isn’t the sea just magnificent, Robert,” she sighed.

  Before he had a chance to answer a voice called out from behind them.

  “It is that, lassie, but behind all that magnificent beauty there lies a terrible, ruinous beast!” a man said, with a soft Scottish accent.

  They both turned, surprised that they should be disturbed in such a secluded spot.

  The man was standing with one leg up on a dry stone wall, in a scruffy tweed attire that seemed to mark him as a farmer. He gave a rather odd impression of hovering some way off the ground, until the couple noticed that he was standing in a tractor trailer that was piled high with stones, to repair the wall.

  “Oh, good afternoon,” Robert began, heading over to the man and offering his hand. “I’m Robert Galton, and this is my wife, Margaret. We’re staying up here for a week, for a little holiday. We’re newly married, you see.”

  “Well, that’s bonnie,” the man said, jumping down from the wall and shaking Robert’s hand vigorously. “Congratulations to you both. I’m Stan Buchanan and I’ve the land bordering this cottage. That’s my place on the way doon to Lady Bay there.”

  He pointed to another low, tiny cottage, almost obscured by a herd of cattle that were heading towards the trailer at a good pace.

  “If ye’ve any problems at all, just give me and the missus a shout,” he said. “We’ll be more than happy to help oot.”

  “That’s very kind of you indeed,” said Margaret. “Have you lived around here long?”

  “I’m a Dumfries lad, mysen,” he said. “But I took the farm on aboot twenty years back now, after me granda’ passed on and left it to ma pa. He didna care for farming and I fancied the outdoor life, so I gave it a go and met ma lassie doon in Stranraer. It’s a grand spot here. A bit rough though, ya ken; in the winter. We get a reet blast of weather coming in frae the sea. And then there’s the cries of battle in the night. I hope ye’re good sleepers.”

  “The cries of battle?” Margaret said, quite puzzled.

  “Och, aye,” Stan said, propping himself against the wall. “All around here ye’ve the old forts from ancient folk—Iron age, I think it was. Ye’ve one doon there, straight North of yer cottage—Dundream; and one away doon by Corsewell lighthouse—Dunskirloch. There’s a load of them all aboot here, right doon The Rhins an’ all. Aboot once a month, as the moon is on the wane, ye can hear their ghostly battles; the clang of sword on sword, the sunderin’ of shields, the moans of the wounded, the screams of the womenfolk and the cries of the bairns, the calls of lost souls whistling across the empty fields at midnight, desperately trying to find peace again.”

  Margaret gazed out to the Northern headland in awe.

  “And I suppose you’ve also a headless horseman too,” Robert smiled at Stan.

  “Och aye, three o’ ’em, and a Spanish ghost ship that come doon the Loch firing spectral cannon off Jamieson’s point,” he said, winking at Robert.

  “Oh, I see,” Margaret laughed, realising he was winding her up. “And I suppose you’ll tell me the one about the haggis next… with the three legs, that can only go one way around the mountainside…”

  “Ah, so you’re familiar with the wee creatures then,” Stan chuckled.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, heading over to the back of the car to start unpacking. “I just hope Robert is quick enough to catch one for our supper one evening.”

  “Oh, aye,” Stan grinned, clambering back onto the wall. “Ye’ve to be very swift of foot to catch ’em.

  “No, aboot the only ghosts and goblins ye’ll hear will be ma coos breaking wind—and that’s truly frightening, I can tell ye. Have a lovely time, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

  Robert smiled tiredly and remembered Tom saying the same. Stan waved goodbye as he jumped down onto the trailer.

  Margaret didn’t like toilet humour, but it had been nice to meet such a friendly person just as they’d arrived, especially after the disappointment of the exhaust.

  “Why does everyone say that?” Robert said, irritably.

  “What?” Margaret asked, starting to sort through the boxes, planning which order to take them in.

  “Oh, you know—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—it’s embarrassing,” he grumbled.

  “I know,” she said, dragging their suitcases out. “I had it all from the girls at The Herald. It’s a funny thing to say anyway, seeing as we’ll be doing what everyone does anyway.”

  She looked a little sheepishly at him and giggled. He smiled back and they both blushed.

  “Oh, Robert,” she said, quickly. “Why don’t you call after him and ask about a nearby garage?”

  Stan was already halfway across the field.

  “Er, Mr Buchanan,” Robert shouted. “Hello…”

  Stan turned and waved.

  “Do you know of a garage nearby, our car’s had a little problem and we’ll need it fixed?” he yelled, the wind muffling and distorting his voice.

  “Nearest garage is in Stranraer,” Stan called out. “Ye’ll have to ring them to book in mind, they’re very busy.”

  “Do you have a telephone we could borrow to call them?” Robert said, his throat becoming hoarse.

  “Och, no!” Stan laughed. “Naebady roond here has a telephone. There’s one at the lighthouse and one doon at the hotel in Kirkcolm—but they’re about the same distance, a couple o’ miles—so I’d go for the hotel, at least ye can have a wee drink while ye’re there.”

  Robert waved and yelled his thanks as loud as he could against the increasing winds and headed back to help Margaret with the boxes of provisions.

  She’d gone in ahead of him and was stood, suitcases still in hand, looking around rather forlornly at their accommodation.

  It was very musty, having not been visited for over a year now. The main living area was open plan, with a small sink and drying unit, a large range cooker and fire, which presumably also heated water in the large tank behind it. There was a small table and two chairs and a rather mildewed looking sofa. Robert went through to the small bedroom and found an old wooden bed with neatly folded sheets and blankets on top of it. A large window looked out from here towards the east and a door off of it led to a bare brick room that had a small toilet and a metal bathtub hanging from a rusted hook on the wall.

  “Looks as though we’ll be bathing by the fire,” he called out to Margaret.

  There was no answer.

  Back in the main room he found her struggling in with the largest box of groceries, with all the tins and jars in it.

  “You should have said. I’d have brought that one in,” he said, wondering if she was annoyed with him. “Look, I’m so sorry. The way Tom talked it was a lovely little place. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Don’t be silly, Robert,” she said, kindly, walking over to him and taking his hands. “It is a lovely place and there’s nothing wrong with it that a quick dust and airing won’t sort out. Now, you go out for a walk and gather as much wood as you can, so we can get that range going, and I’ll have the place looking spotless for when you get back.”

  “Ok, then, if you’re sure. I’ll try and bag us some supper with my haggis blunderbuss,” he said, giving her a big kiss.

  In the small hallway he found a bag of coal about a quarter full. He emptied it into a metal bucket and took it with him to put the wood in.

  He wasn’t quite sure how long it would take to make the place “spotless”—perhaps he should return in a couple of days, he thought.

  A few hours should be ok, and then he could lend a hand. He knew Margaret wanted to do it—to make the place special—but he felt awful for having not gone ahead with his plan for
Paris.

  He roamed across some of the fields and along the lanes but most of the wood he found was damp and he just hoped that there might be enough to get something of a fire going to dry the rest of it out, or they’d be eating packets of crisps and pickled onions for a few days, until the car was fixed.

  On his return to the cottage he saw smoke rising from the chimney, all the windows and doors were open and he saw Margaret come out with the rug from the bedroom, beating it against the stone wall; dust clouds rose from it as she turned her head away, spluttering. The cows in the field looked up at her with their patient, perplexed expressions before resuming their grazing.

  Walking in through the backdoor he saw a complete transformation. The place was swept, even a tablecloth and a jug with some flowers on the table, which was laid for supper. He saw that the range had been started and there was a basket filled with logs beside it.

  Margaret came back in with the heavy rug.

  “It looks wonderful, darling,” he said.

  “Not too bad, so far,” she replied.

  “So, you didn’t need any wood then,” he said, dropping the meagre bag on the floor.

  “Well, luckily, there’s a little shed, just round the side, that’s stacked with dry wood and kindling, so there’s no need to worry,” she smiled. “Did you have a nice walk, anyway? Spot any wild haggis?”

  “Yes, it was lovely—but I think all the haggis—haggisses, haggae—might be hiding,” he said, heading over to the sink to wash his hands.

  That night they had fried spam and beans, with thick slices of bread and butter. Robert poured them generous measures of scotch—one of the few drinks that didn’t send Margaret instantly squiffy—and they laughed and joked the evening away, quite enjoying the fact they were roughing it.

  While Margaret chatted about where they might visit around the area, the novel she was reading (something about a group of rabbits, that sounded a bit silly to Robert), and some gossip about the girls at the newspaper she worked at, Robert’s thoughts kept turning to their first proper night together, trying to plan, as best he could, how it might go.