Distant Voices

We lay together, not making love, just lying quietly, for a long time, in one another’s arms until eventually, exhausted by misery and tension, Peter fell asleep.

Never once did I give Ross Macdonald a single thought. What he and I had done together on the warm moonlit beach had belonged to the magic of the Highland night. Save for the sense of calm serenity which he had left with me, our meeting might never have been. It would certainly never happen again. Strangely I felt no guilt, only a happy wonder when I thought of it at all and gratitude that he had comforted and reassured me in the only way that mattered – then.

The rest of our holiday passed in a daze. We were both stunned by the loss we were sure was ours, but our happiness in refinding each other in some way made up for that. We walked and swam and climbed the lower slopes of the mountains and went fishing with Ross. Ross never showed by word or sign that he remembered our encounter and I was grateful for his silence. I knew there was nothing cheap or easy in what we had done and I treasured the memory of it in secret.

But most of all I treasured Peter and our time together. We never mentioned the subject of babies again; at night sometimes after he had gone to sleep I found myself crying quietly into my pillow and my dreams were sad and lonely ones, but during the day I refused to let myself think about it at all. Time enough for that when we had both had the chance to adjust a little.

On the last day of our stay, deeply mysterious, Peter insisted on walking alone into the village three miles away. I guessed it was to buy me a present so I happily kissed him and after watching for a moment as he set off up the white stone road I turned and wandered slowly down to the loch to make my farewells to the mountains alone. Ross was leaning against his boat sorting out the nets very much as I had seen him that first day of the holiday.

‘Hello there,’ he smiled at me, his blue eyes clear and friendly and somehow understanding.

‘It’s our last day,’ I murmured. And I stood still.

When he held out his hand I took it naturally and we stood for a moment looking at each other. Then gently he let my fingers fall. ‘Shall we take a wee walk along the shore?’ he said, and I nodded.

When we reached the rocks he led me this time between them. I followed up a steep path winding high into the cliff face and then back down among the rock pools at the corner of the island itself. Finally we came to a deep circular sheltered pool, hung with weed the colour of emeralds and garnets.

‘There you are lassie,’ he glanced at me and smiled. ‘The magic pool of the Macdonalds. Will I leave you while you make your wish?’

I looked down into the opaque shifting water, suddenly overcome with misery and shook my head. ‘I’ve no wish, Ross. No wish now. That is why I didn’t ask you to bring us here. To have done so would have been the most tactless thing in the world.’

He looked puzzled. ‘I thought you and your man were happy again?’

‘We are, Ross.’ I held out my hand to him, wanting to feel the comfort of his fingers as I fought back the urge to cry. ‘We are happy; but there’s no wish. Not now.’ As I stretched towards him I felt a slight catch at my wrist. My bracelet had snagged on a corner of rock. With a little cry I tried to grab it as the fine gold links snapped but I missed it and it slid into the deep pool.

‘Oh no, my lovely bracelet!’ I cried. Ross scrambled over to my side and together we gazed down trying to see beyond our own reflections into the depths of the water, but it was impossible.

‘It’s bottomless, lassie; it goes right down through the island to the sea bed. That’s why it’s so magical.’ Ross looked up at me. He smiled enigmatically. ‘It seems the fairies were determined to have your offering of gold after all. So perhaps they know your wish already …’

I felt very sad as I walked back up the beach with him, overwhelmed by the end of the holiday, my beloved bracelet gone and my misery over Peter a blank pall. There seemed to be nothing left to look forward to. Nothing but emptiness.

Ross and I didn’t say goodbye. He squeezed my hand when we got back to the boat and bent once again to his nets. I walked slowly back up the beach without looking back.

Peter was waiting for me when I reached the cottage looking very pleased with himself. In his hand was a box. I opened it and it contained the most beautiful carved silver brooch. The kind they made locally. In the excitement of putting it on I forgot to mention the loss of my bracelet.

Two months later I knew I was pregnant. Of course Dr Henderson must have known it wasn’t Peter’s child but he said nothing as he ushered me from his surgery, he just shook my hand and wrote a note for the office to get them to give me a few days off work as I was looking, so he said, so run down.

When Peter came home that night I was sitting on the sofa. He kissed me hello and I pulled him down beside me. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you, love,’ I gulped. I had felt strangely calm waiting for him, but now the moment had come I found my hands were shaking.

He held them tightly and looked into my eyes, frowning.

‘What is it, Isobel. What’s wrong?’

‘I went to see Dr Henderson today.’ I swallowed hard and went on in a rush. ‘I’m sorry Peter. I’m going to have a baby.’ To my horror I could feel the tears welling up suddenly. I tried to blink them away but they spilled over onto my cheeks.

Peter let go of my hands. For a moment he looked so hurt I was stunned. Then he stood up.

‘I never guessed there was someone else, Isobel.’ He bit his lip. ‘I can’t blame you, I suppose. I expect you want a divorce as quickly as possible to marry him?’

‘Oh no. No! No!’ I flung myself at him. ‘Oh Peter darling. There’s no one else. There never has been; not like that. It’s just that …’ I stopped.

His arms were round me and I was sobbing into his shirt front.

‘It was the fairy pool. I dropped my gold bracelet. It would never have happened otherwise.’ I burst into sobs again.

‘The magic pool of the Macdonald women?’ he murmured into my hair. ‘You went and wished and the fairies granted you your heart’s desire?’ He didn’t sound cross, it was almost as if he were smiling.

I glanced up at him through my hair. ‘I know it can’t really be that. It only happened once – that night you threw me onto the floor. I ran down to the beach and …’

He put his fingers on my lips. ‘Don’t tell me any more, darling.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of my head. ‘I’d rather think it was the fairies.’ He took a step back for a moment and gazed at me steadily. ‘This is something we would have had to discuss and think about sometime, Isobel. I know we never mentioned it but there are other things besides adoption when,’ he hesitated, ‘when there is nothing wrong with the woman. That way she can have a baby herself even when her husband …’ he stopped and took a deep breath, ‘when her husband is like me. Perhaps I would have preferred a more clinical approach,’ he grinned, ‘but on the other hand perhaps it’s nicer to thank the fairies than a doctor.’

Our daughter was born two months ago now, a gorgeous child with eyes the colour of amethyst and a fuzz of soft black hair. Peter was there at the birth and if I ever had any fears that he might reject her they were dispelled when I saw him with her. He adores her and is as proud as any father I’ve ever seen.

We called her Faye.

Who Done It? (#ulink_6f8450d4-ba78-59a9-8eee-dab2d3893ed2)

Flakes of snow blew in through the door with him as Jenkins pushed his way into the warmly lit bar of the Dog and Duck. It was early yet and only old Fred and Mr Denby were in.

‘My usual, Sam,’ said Jenkins. He was full of importance. Leaning his elbows on the bar he looked sideways at Mr Denby. ‘Heard the news, have you?’

‘No Jenks, what’s that then?’ Sam slid the pint glass expertly across the polished counter.

‘They found a body up Highfield way.’

‘A body?’ Mr Denby straightened up sharply and looked at the newcomer for the first time. ‘A dead ’un you mean?’

‘’Course I mean.’ Jenkins was indignant. He took a long drink at his glass. ‘Huddled up under Jeffrey’s barn he was, in all the puddles and melting snow up there.’

‘Who was it then, Jenks?’ Fred spoke for the first time. His hand was shaking slightly as he raised his own glass to his mouth.

‘Don’t reckon they know yet.’ Jenkins drained his beer and waited expectantly, his fingers casually nudging the glass across the bar. ‘He was pretty soggy, so they say.’

‘He would be.’ Mr Denby nodded sagely. ‘It’s been thawing the last twenty-four hours.’

‘Snowing again now, though.’ Jenkins nodded towards the dark windows. The glass was as far as it would go without pushing.

Mr Denby noticed at last. ‘Same again all round, Sam, please.’

‘What do the police say, Jenks?’ Fred was lighting his pipe, sucking the flame down into the encrusted bowl.

‘They reckon it was murder.’

Fred dropped the match and blew on a burnt finger. ‘Murder? What makes them think that?’

‘He had a hole in his head, that’s what. And blood all over him.’

‘Poor chap.’ Sam produced three brimming glasses. ‘I wonder if it was old Everett. He used to sleep rough in the barn sometimes.’