The Courier & Advertiser (Perth and Perthshire Edition)
The eddy coils around my wellies like a serpent, and Mac’s stories have never seemed so alive
If I lean over the bridge, just a little, I can see the brown swirl of the burn far below, and the meeting place where the lade hurries from the wheel to join it. Downstream, the dippers bob from bank to boulder. If I lean a little more, I can see the entrance to the tunnel that Arthur was telling me about. Curiosity creeps up out of nowhere. I have a sudden, irrational urge to investigate, even though my hatred of water makes me hold back.
I’d have to clamber into the burn and walk under the bridge, but it can’t be that deep.
Floss nudges my knee. I glance down at her. “Want to go walkies?” She wags her tail and smiles at me in the way dogs do.
It takes me five minutes to nip back to the cottage and don my wellies.
We have to go upstream, a good bit past the mill, to find a place where the bank is low enough to clamber into the burn.
Floss plunges into the water like a duck, but I have to summon all my courage to follow. I plod through the shallows, breathing hard, boots sliding on the pebbly riverbed.
Several times I nearly lose my footing, and I start to panic, but Floss’s enthusiasm drives me on. I stagger under the cavernous stone arch of the bridge, until we come to the place where the waters meet.
Floss is belly-deep in water, barking at the tunnel, but I have to take my time wading through the strong undercurrent.
The eddy coils around my wellies like a serpent, and Mac’s stories have never seemed so alive.
It’s easy to imagine kelpies and trolls and other strange beasts on an evening like this, when the light is fading.
It’s easy to imagine that something is watching from the high, dusty windows of the mill.
Floss begins to whimper. The iron gate that seals off the mouth of the tunnel is heavy and resolute.
Mac
I need to keep an eye on Lucie. I’m not sure why she’s being so odd with me. Does she know I’ve guessed her dirty little secret?
I bet she’s in my cottage right now, getting her claws into my son. I can’t have that. I just can’t.
I leave the fireside, closing the door of the sitting room firmly.
The phone on the hall table explodes into life just as I’m leaving the house.
It’s one of those horrid digital affairs that sits bolt upright in its cradle, and the ringtone jangles my nerves.
I dither, half-in, half-out of the front door, irritated by the notion that it’s probably someone wanting to sell me a new boiler.
Or maybe it’s Arthur. Sighing, I let the door swing shut and snatch up the handset.
“Yes, what is it?”
The caller clears his throat. “Hello there, Margarita. It’s Doctor Mackay here – um, Henry.”
“Hello, Henry. Is everything all right? Did you get my latest test results?”
My heart beats a little faster. My hand grips the phone.
“No, no. Everything’s fine, Margarita – um, Mac.” The good doctor obviously can’t decide whether this is a social call or a professional one.
I decide to help him out. “Did Arthur ask you to call me?”
A beat or two of silence. “We did have a few words, last time I nipped in for a latte, yes.
“The thing is, Mac – the thing is, he seems to think you are a little... stressed. Do you think that could be the case?”
I suppress a tight smile. “Well you know how it is, Henry. Publisher’s deadlines and so on.
“I expect I’ve been a little short with him recently. My head is full of my work in progress.”
I press the phone closer to my ear. I hear him grunting in agreement, swallowing loudly – no doubt swigging a little afternoon brightener.
“Of course, my dear woman. We all get a bit tetchy at times, but if you have any concerns, any concerns at all, don’t hesitate to –”
Bad business
“And how are you, Henry? How’s the golf?” “Oh, still playing a round, you know!” He gives a leery laugh.
“And how’s Kitty? I hear she’s been made president of the Horticultural Society.
“Bad business about the treasurer. I always suspected he took too many holidays.”
“Oh, a bad business.” He clears his throat again, takes another gulp of his firewater.
“Pleased to hear you’re keeping abreast of things, though. Jolly good.”
We wrap up the conversation and I drop the phone back into its cradle.
Arthur and the doctor are obviously in cahoots. How dare they check up on me? Imply that I’m not the full shilling? Damn cheek.
I let myself out of the front door. I need to find Lucie. I hope Bella won’t follow me. She’s really getting on my nerves.
Lucie
I test the iron gate with both hands, as if I’m an inmate trying to escape.
It won’t budge, but flakes of rust fall like dandruff into the swiftly moving current. Floss whines impatiently. I peer into the darkness.
I can just make out the barrel vault of the stone ceiling before it peters out into solid darkness. There is no light at the end of this particular tunnel.
The air smells rank and earthy and I’m quite glad the gate’s locked.
“Looking for something, dear?”
The unexpectedness of Mac’s voice makes me reel back in surprise. She’s directly above me, leaning on the parapet, looking down as I had done just 30 minutes before.
Unfamiliar
The odd, steep angle alters her appearance. She looks unfamiliar, her face half in shadow. Puffier, older, darker.
Her hands blend with the stone, become part of it. Gargoyle claws. My heart, already alarmed, starts up a steady bass thump.
I back up a few steps, the water welling around my boots, threatening to tip me off balance. Floss deserts me, scrambling up the steep bank and flattening herself like a cat as she melts into the undergrowth.
I can hear the angry chirruping of a bird downstream, but other than that, silence stretches out between us.
“Floss has been barking at the wheelhouse, so I just thought I’d have a look for the inspection tunnel.”
Mac smiles, and the shadows creep up to her eyes. “Just rats, dear. Just rats. They nest under the wheel. I have to put down poison. Such a damn nuisance.”
I retreat further. Mac has the height advantage and I don’t like it. I feel intimidated.
“Do you want to have a look?” she offers. “I can fetch the key?”
The dense black of the tunnel yawns in front of me. I’ve had enough of the cold, swirling water. I need to get out.
I shake my head, begin to retreat. “Another time, maybe.”
More tomorrow.