A Toast to the Old Stones

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Kinloch, July 1912

The sky above the small town was deep, deep blue, a hue that only the most glorious of summers could conjure up. The loch glinted like a sea of precious stones, and the big houses on the hill shimmered in the haze. Heading for the remains of the old fort, a gull flapped lazily in the air, its screech echoing across the bay.

And it had been a good summer for fishing, too. Kinloch’s fleet of little ring-net boats had chased plentiful shoals of herring and mackerel until their nets all but burst. Fishermen were in funds, and consequently so was every other business in the place, whether they be butchers, bakers or even candlestick makers. Though it had to be said that Tam Douglas, proprietor of the hostelry that bore his name, smiled broader than most.

When the fishing was good and the sun shone, Kinloch was one of the best places in the world. Only in the long dark winter, or a bad season, were pennies counted; then, anxious shopkeepers looked up and down the windswept streets for their next customer, and the menfolk would gaze out at a sea seemingly bereft of marine life. Meanwhile, always at the very heart of family life, women worked harder than ever to make do the best they could to feed their children.

But today, these times seemed like a distant memory.

The boy watched as his father’s nimble hands worked at the net, the bodkin flashing in the bright sunlight with every turn of his fist. He marvelled at the dexterity; how his father could take in the activity around the harbour, have conversations as he puffed on the pipe clamped in his mouth, and repair the net, all at the same time. It was as though his hands were possessed of their own will, the product of many years’ practice.

Alastair Hoynes decided to take a break. He got to his feet, stretched and yawned. The crew of the Red Dawn were busy resetting a mast, while Archie Robertson – never the most industrious fisherman – lay aboard the Raven on a pile of nets soaking up the heat, his flat cap pulled down over his eyes. On the road between the twin piers, ranks of barrels stood to attention, waiting for the women to pack them with fish and salt. Hands red raw, hair pushed under scarfs or pinned back in neat buns, their songs and chatter drifted across the harbour.

The boy cocked his head, keen to make out a song or a scatter of words. “I canna make out the tune, Faither.”

Alastair inclined his head. “No, nor me, son. I think it’s fair tae say that there are few Mod gold medals to be found amongst that lot. Och, but it keeps them happy at their toil, so there’s no harm in it at all, Sandy."

About the author

Denzil Meyrick studied politics and has worked as a police officer, distillery manager, freelance journalist and company director. He is the author of nine DCI Daley thrillers and the 2021 gangland novel, Terms of Restitution. A Toast to the Old Stones is published by Polygon, price £9.99.