The Silver Bough (13 page)

“My Grandma Phemie was old. Her name was Euphemia MacFarlane.” She caught her breath as an idea struck her. “We’re not
related,
are we?”

“Of course not.”

“How do you know? How did you know about Phemie? What’s your name?”

“I’m not a MacFarlane.”

“You could stand here all day telling me what your name
isn’t
.”

“I told you I never knew my father.”

“So what? You knew your grandfather. What was his name? What’s
your
name?”

When he still wouldn’t answer, or even meet her eye, she exploded. “I don’t
believe
you! If you think I’m going to waste any more time with somebody who won’t even tell me his name…” She turned abruptly and stalked away. Her anger held an edge of fear. What was he hiding? Was he a psychopath, with some hideous plan for what he meant to do to her if he could lure her into the cemetery? She’d seen and heard too many stories about attractive yet dangerous men to completely dismiss the idea, yet she couldn’t believe she could be so attracted to a man who meant her only harm. So she clung to the hope that this was some esoteric form of flirtation. Surely he wouldn’t just let her go. She began to walk more slowly, tiring in the hot sun, and listened for the sound of footsteps behind her. But he’d better have a really good explanation.

She’d reached the mosaic mermaid. It wasn’t going to happen. He’d let her go. She stood for a moment, staring down at the picture made of chips of colored tile, telling herself it was for the best, and she’d had a very lucky escape, but unable to believe it, feeling only a great disappointment, a hollow sense of loss. A voice called her name.

Her head jerked up, but she knew already that it was not
his
voice, and it had come from the wrong direction. She saw Graeme across the street, waving and beaming at her from his rather pointed, pixieish face.

“Ashley! Perfect timing. Come on over, let me show you the museum.”

 

From
The Life and Letters of Clarence Arnold Fortune
edited by Florence Fortune McPhee
(London, 1881)

 

…M
R
W
ALL
showed me his “cabinet of curiosities” before dinner, and it provided much for us to talk about over our repast. Let me see if I can recall the contents for you: I know you’d love to see the “mermaid’s comb” (as the little housemaid called it)—a very beautifully worked ivory comb, inset with red coral—a priceless little gem, really. Also fine were the matched bowl and chalice of beaten silver with a marvellous chased design of leaves and fruits; then there was the narwhal tooth, tipped in gold, and in appearance very like one I saw many years ago in Staffordshire, in Lord D——’s possession, believed by his forbears to be a veritable Unicorn horn and therefore prophylactic against all poisons; also half a dozen small glass vessels of some antiquity; coins from an unrecognisable (by me!) currency; various bits of primitive-appearing ceramic work and stone-carving—some rather engagingly fantastic creatures represented here—and half-a-dozen Mollukah beans, which the local people call “fairy eggs” and use as lucky charms, or amulets. Perhaps most amazingly, all of these treasures were discovered locally, for Mr Lachlan Wall is no traveller, and has spent all his life here in the Highlands, indeed, within a radius of some twenty miles. All these things—and others, which I’ve forgot to list—were gathered on the sea-shore not far from his house, either by himself, or by one of the local children, who’ve learned that this odd and solitary bachelor will reward them handsomely for any interesting treasures that they bring…

K
ATHLEEN HEARD ABOUT
the earth tremor and resultant landslide from Miranda when she came in to work on Saturday morning, and suddenly the dream she’d had a few hours earlier made sense.

She had dreamed she was working in the library as usual, but in her dream the building was actually an enormous ship, bigger even than the
Titanic
. Although Kathleen recognized most of the library users, lining up patiently to have their books stamped out, she was aware of a number of people she’d never seen before, oddly small and quick as they slipped behind shelves or rushed past the doors.

Leonardo DiCaprio came behind the counter and put his hands firmly on her waist. “Come up on deck with me,” he murmured and, although she’d never cared for him on-screen, and he was really not her type at all, she’d agreed, feeling romantic.

They went behind the old counter, and up the winding metal staircase—which extended about three times higher than usual—then had to climb a rope ladder into the crow’s nest fixed to a mast high above the library’s golden dome.

“Look out there,” he said. “That’s where we’re going.”

She had a glimpse of wide, empty ocean gleaming beneath a hard blue sky; no sign of land or life anywhere. Such isolation was unsettling. Turning back to Leonardo, she found he’d turned into Keanu Reeves, an actor she found rather more attractive, but she was still reluctant to let him hold her.

“I have to go back,” she said, trying to remember why she’d ever agreed to embark on this voyage, and realizing that she had no idea of their destination. Then she heard a deep, distant grinding noise, and there came a jolt, which rocked the whole ship and jarred her out of sleep.

“Iceberg,” she whispered, blinking into the familiar darkness of her bedroom. She thought something more real than a dream had awakened her, but had no idea what it could have been until Miranda told her the news that had the whole town buzzing.

The landslide—and what it would mean for the town—was all anyone wanted to talk about that day, but gloomy predictions were accompanied by high spirits; there was a giddy feeling of exhilaration in the air, as if they’d all been cut free, rather than cut off.

“You’d think it was a festival, not a natural disaster,” Kathleen murmured to Miranda as she came back from showing some children where they could find information about earthquakes.

They gazed together at a cluster of white-haired ladies, all with sparkling eyes and roses in their wrinkled cheeks, talking and nodding in vigorous agreement with each other as they departed.

“Well, you have to admit that, as disasters go, it’s pretty tame. Nobody injured, no damage to private property or anything except the road. And that’s not a local responsibility. People have been complaining and worrying about that road for more than a decade—it was in serious need of upgrading already, and now, finally, something will have to be done; money will have to be found from central government. Of course, I know a few folks have had to put off their shopping trips, and they’re not happy about that, but they’re sending the air ambulance for Mrs. Martin, so she’ll make her appointment to see the specialist in Glasgow, and the orthodontist will be flying in on Wednesday to see to the kids’ braces.” She gave one of her demure yet mischievous smiles. “It’s that old Blitz spirit, don’t you know. Proving our best in adversity, all pulling together. It’ll be a positive blessing for the charter boat business. And when you live in a quiet wee place like this, you’re grateful for any bit of excitement.”

Gratitude at having something new to talk about would turn quickly to annoyance as time wore on and inconvenience became a regular feature of daily life; but on this first bright, sunny day after the landslide most of the townspeople basked in the novelty of living on an island. Some, it turned out, thought this was the best thing that could have happened to Appleton.

“We’ll get our ferry now, just watch and see,” announced Trevor Burns, setting one fat Joan Collins and two even fatter Maeve Binchys down on the counter with an attention-getting slam. He was a slim, dark, driven-looking man who had been campaigning for years for a direct sea link between Scotland and Northern Ireland. The books were his wife’s, of course. He had no time for recreational reading. He came into the library on a regular basis to use the photocopier, the fax machine, or the complete set of national telephone books.

“It would be useful to have a ferry,” Kathleen agreed.

“Useful!” He reared his head back as if she’d disagreed, and his little dark eyes flashed. “It’d be the redemption of this wee town—a rebirth. It would put us back on the map!”

Sandy Brown, a large and amiable man who had organized and spearheaded a number of local groups over the years, all dedicated to encouraging tourism in Appleton, approached. Resting his arms on the counter beside Trevor, he paused to promote his pet project: “Daily boats between here and Greenock, that’s the ticket. Never mind your Northern Ireland, it’s Glasgow and the central belt holds the key. That’s where people mostly go by road, and that’s our natural supply of folks wanting a short break in the country. Old-fashioned steamers, for personal choice, but really any sort of vessel would do; fast and modern might be best.
Much
better than buses; folks would queue up for tickets. They’ll have to put on something like that while the road’s out—I’ve heard it could be as long as six months before it’s made good—and once it’s established, it’ll attract even more passengers. Inside a year, it’ll be paying for itself, mark my words.”

“Ach, well, I’ll not say you’re wrong, Sandy,” began Trevor, when Kathleen interrupted to remind him gently that others were waiting behind him to reach the counter.

“Your wife’s tickets, Mr. Burns.” She handed over the miniature cardboard folders which were the basis of the library’s out-of-date system, and reached to take the pile of Catherine Cooksons old Mrs. Ellary was holding up with trembling arms.

“I think this landslide is a blessing in disguise,” whispered Mrs. Ellary. “Maybe now it’s not so easy to go gallivanting off abroad, folk will stay put and learn to appreciate what we have here at home. That’s how it was when I was a girl, you know. And people were much happier then.”

The only people obviously upset and dismayed about the landslide were the visitors (as tourists to the area were termed), and their concern was understandable. As the self-catering accommodation was reserved on a weekly basis, with Saturday the changeover day, most of them had been intending to leave today. They were English, Australian, German, Dutch, and even one American couple from North Carolina, and considering the complaints she’d heard from the hotel-owners about how bad business was, and the fact that it was the very tail end of the tourist season, and that those who came to the library probably represented a fraction of those who were stranded here, Kathleen was surprised to see so many coming into the library, seeking Internet access in vain, or wanting to look at maps and phone books. These visits tapered off by afternoon, and the level of anxiety dropped as news spread that they would be offered a way out. Information had been posted in the tourist information office and other places—a teenager dashed in just before the lunchtime closing with a notice for the library’s information board—that special flights had been arranged to transport visitors, free of charge, to Glasgow International Airport. One would be leaving the local airfield that evening, and another on Sunday, if necessary. People with cars (that must have been just about everyone), would have to decide whether to leave them behind, or wait for the roll-on, roll-off ferry, which was likely to be up and running between Appleton and Greenock very soon…or, at least, eventually. It was just a matter of bringing the long-disused local ferry terminus up to the necessary safety standards (after finding the funds for that) and allocating a suitable vessel from another route.

The morning was busy, even busier than most Saturdays, and Kathleen was so preoccupied by other people’s responses to the landslide that she scarcely had a chance to consider her own feelings about it. She was merely aware of a faint uneasiness, the notion that she’d forgotten something, and the sense that it was somehow connected with her dream of the library as a huge ship sailing out into the vast, empty ocean, until, as she was checking the Ladies’ Reading Room prior to locking it up for the lunchtime closing, her gaze went to one of the windows, and she was arrested by the sight of a solitary male figure standing beneath one of the palm trees that grew along the center strip of the Esplanade. He was just standing there, staring at the library, his head tilted back slightly, his gaze directed upward, toward the roof.

She froze, gripped by a powerful sense of
déjà vu
. Although there was certainly nothing unusual in someone—particularly a stranger, as she sensed him to be—staring at this remarkable building, she knew she had seen him before, last night, in just that pose, gazing up at her bedroom window. She’d thought it a dream.