“Any news about the terminal?” he enquired when he had assured himself that they were both well.
“Don’t remind me of it,” Catriona begged. “I keep hoping it will all go away.”
Mac laughed. Catriona was covered in cobwebs. She had been cleaning out the bedrooms, unearthing linen sheets from cupboards mercifully free of damp and moth. The house had been furnished long before the days of such things as central heating, when women knew how to store and cherish good linen.
Although there had been no further word from the oil company about the terminal, Catriona did not intend to be caught off guard if they did decide to go ahead.
THEY were another week closer to Christmas and enjoying a brief spell of relatively mild weather. The Shetlands, although not enjoying hot summers, did not experience unduly cold winters, only the wind changed, from playfulness to fierce intensity.
Catriona had been washing sheets, taking advantage of the brief daylight to get them dry and keeping an eye on them from the kitchen window. It wasn’t unusual for Shetlanders to lose their washing to the sea when the wind came up, and she had no intention of letting that happen, not after having gone to all the trouble of doing it.
Magnus was in the library. Catriona heard the telephone ring and guessed that it was Mac. Magnus seemed morose later when she went in with the cup of coffee she had made him, and when her light attempts at conversation all went ignored, she retreated quietly as she had learned to do when these moods held him.
Her back was aching from cleaning floors covered in dust and washing windows that hadn’t been touched in years. If she was going to be forced to endure the presence of these oilmen she wasn’t going to give them the opportunity to criticise their lodgings. She had half expected Magnus to query her busyness, but he didn’t even seem to be aware of it.
She had made a Christmas cake—a luxury she had permitted them because she knew that Magnus loved it—and as she lifted it out of the oven to cool she remembered that they were getting low on peat. The crofters had cut them a fresh pile—enough to last them through the winter and it was duly drying, but Catriona could not carry it down to the outhouse by herself and she was reluctant to task Magnus to help. The storms sometimes washed wood up on to the beaches, and tempted by the thought of a brisk walk she called Russet, and pulled on a shabby anorak which had once belonged to Magnus but which she now kept in the kitchen for winter forays to feed the hens and collect their eggs.
The sky was completely clear, but no Shetlander would have been deceived. They knew all too well how quickly a storm could blow up, seemingly out of nowhere.
She headed for a beach relatively close to the house where she knew that driftwood was often washed up, and parking the Land Rover on the firm strip of sand exposed by the tide, opened the door and climbed out, Russet racing round in excited circles at her heels.
The islanders used the tough Shetland ponies to carry wood and peat to their homes, and as she trudged tiredly along the beach under the weight of sea-soaked debris she had managed to gather, Catriona could not help reflecting how much easier it would have been to whistle commands to the Land Rover and have it come trotting obediently over to her.
The sea had been generous and in an hour she had managed to collect a sizeable amount of wood. The islanders still recounted with great relish the rich pickings which had once been had from the doomed Spanish Armada, as the unwieldy ships, driven before the wind, had been wrecked all along this coastline. Many still lay where they had sunk, and in summer amateur divers investigated their rotting hulls, hoping to find rare treasure in the silent depths.
Russet found a piece of wood, and obligingly Catriona threw it for him, laughing as the dog tried to chase a lingering gull and failed miserably.
On impulse, instead of heading straight back to the house she drove down to the harbour and found Findlay as she had hoped to do, busy mending lobster pots outside his croft.
“A tidy catch, but it will take some drying out,” the fisherman commented, examining the contents of the Land Rover. “Have you no peat, then?”
“Plenty,” Catriona assured him, “but it needs moving down off the hill, and I didn’t want to bother Magnus.”
“Aye, like as not he’ll be brooding over this business of the voe.”
That Findlay knew about the proposed terminal did not surprise her, and sitting on the low stone wall of the harbour, Catriona eyed him helplessly.
“What do you think about it, Fin?”
He took his time before replying—a Highland trait, although the Shetlanders were a different race from the people of the Western Isles and did not speak with their soft, Gaelic-accented Scots.
“We canna hold back progress, lassie,” he said at last. “Time was when a young man thought himself lucky to have a fishing boat and a croft to call his own and with those he felt able to call himself any man’s equal, but those days are gone.”
“Magnus says it would be selfish to deprive the people of the prosperity the terminal will bring.”
“Things must change, girl,” Findlay told her gently, reading her mind and knowing the turbulent resentment she was concealing beneath the surface. “Have you not noticed that Falla is becoming an island of old people? We canna live for ever, and the fishing’s not what it was. You must look forward to the future and not backwards to the past.” He put down his lobster basket and got to his feet. “Davie’s taken the boat out, but he should be back soon. When he comes we’ll go up the hill and bring down your peat.”
“There’s no need,” Catriona protested. “Magnus can….”
Findlay shook his head.
“Let him bide, lassie,” he advised her. “Let him bide.”
On the way back to the house Catriona heard the sound of a helicopter and glanced upwards instinctively, her heart lightening as she saw the familiar colours. Mac must have been out to the oil rigs again and had decided to call in on them. The road was not good enough for her to drive too fast, and by the time she was approaching the house the helicopter was rising again. Parking the Land Rover in what had once been the stables and which now housed only chickens, she dashed inside.
The kitchen was empty, but she could hear voices from the library, and without pausing to take off her anorak she hurried into the room, thrusting open the door in eager anticipation, only to become rigid with shock and dismay at the sight which met her unprepared eyes.
Instead of Mac the room seemed to be full of strange men, none of whom seemed to be aware of her existence. Magnus was talking to them, his voice laced with a strain which brought a sheen of sympathetic tears to Catriona’s eyes, her hands bunching into two protesting fists. Who were these men? What were they doing on Falla?
They were all bent over some papers on the desk, and one of them straightened, turning to stare at Catriona, his shock of red hair and burly shoulders vaguely familiar, and then Magnus saw her, the relief in his voice as he pronounced her name making her hurry to his side, her anxious questions stilled.
“Well, if someone can just show us to our quarters, we’ll get settled in make the most of what’s left of the daylight.”
As though by magic a path had cleared to Magnus’s desk and the man who had spoken the coolly authoritative words turned round. Catriona felt the breath leave her lungs on a shocked gasp, her feet like lead as she tried to move and could not.
“Cat, this is Brett Simons,” she heard Magnus say uncertainly. “He’s in charge of the team who’ve come to investigate the voe.”
“Wouldn’t it have been advisable to let us know before you arrived, Mr. Simons?” Catriona demanded,