"In that case, I'd better write it down."
"Yes, I think you had better. I shall repeat it." Which she did, raising her voice and enunciating clearly, as though the Headmaster might be stone-deaf. "Lottie Carstairs Is Back In Hospital.
And No Longer Living With Edie Findhorn. Have you got that?"
"Loud and clear," said the Headmaster, revealing a thin vein of humour.
"And you'll tell Henry, won't you?"
"I'll go at once and find him."
"You're very kind. I'm sorry I bothered you." She thought about asking for Henry, inquiring as to his well-being, and then decided against it. She didn't want to be labelled as an old fuss-pot. "Goodbye, Mr. Henderson."
"Goodbye, Mrs. Aird."
At the top of the long climb where the roughly bulldozed road crested the summit of Creagan Dubh, Archie halted the Land Rover and the two men climbed down and stood to survey the wondrous view.
They had come, that afternoon, from Croy by way of the track that led through the farmstead and the deer-fence, alongside the loch, and so up into the wilderness of the hills. Now, the Wester Glen lay far behind and below them, the waters of the loch blue as a jewel. Ahead, the main glen of Creagan plunged down in a succession of corries and spurs to where the purling waters of a narrow burn glittered like a bright thread in the spasmodic sunshine. To the north, ramparts of empty countryside folded away into infinity. The light was fitful, constantly changing, so that distant peaks were shadowed with a blue bloom, and cloud lay upon them like a blanket of smoke.
In the gardens of Croy, it had felt pleasantly warm, with sunlight streaming down through golden trees and only a faint breeze to cool the air. But here, so high had they come, that same air blew pure and clear as iced water, and the north-west wind had a cutting edge to it, buffeting across the open moorland with no tree nor any sort of obstruction to stand in its way.
Archie- opened the back of the Land Rover and his two dogs, who had been waiting for some time for just this moment, leaped down. He reached in and pulled out two disreputable old weatherproof coats, much dirtied and torn, but with thick woollen linings.
"Here." He tossed one over to Conrad, and then, propping his stick against the rear of the Land Rover, pulled on the other. Its pockets were ripped and there were blood-stains down the front of it, witness to some long-since slaughtered hare or rabbit.
"We'll sit down for a bit. There's a spot a few yards in… we can get out of the wind…"
He led the way, stepping off the stony surface of the road and into the high heather, using his stick as a third leg to get him through the thick of it. Conrad followed, observing his host's painful progress but making no offer to assist. After a little, they came to an outcrop of granite, weathered by a million years of exposure, crusted with lichen and jutting like some ancient monolith from its deep bed of heather. Its natural shape provided a place to sit and a not-very-comfortable back rest against which to lean but, settled, they achieved some shelter from the worst of the wind.
The dogs had been ordered to heel, but the younger one was not as disciplined as her mother, and as Archie made himself as comfort-able as he could, and reached for his field-glasses, she scented game, bolted off in high excitement and put up a covey of grouse. Eight birds exploded out of the heather only yards from where they sat. Go-Back Go-Back they called, sailing down into the depths of the glen, jinking beneath the skyline, settling far below, disappearing.
Conrad, in amazed delight, watched their flight. But Archie snarled at the dog, and, drooping with shame, she returned to his side, leaning her head against his shoulder and apologizing profusely. He put his arm around her and drew her close, forgiving her small misdemeanour.
"Did you mark them?" he asked Conrad.
"I think so."
Archie handed over his glasses. "See if you can find them."
With the field-glasses to his eyes, Conrad searched. Distance sprang into detail. In the deep clumps of heather at the foot of the glen, he scanned painfully for the vanished birds, but could see no trace, mark no movement. They had gone. He gave the glasses back to Archie.
"I never imagined I'd see grouse so close."
"After a lifetime, they never fail to amaze me. So wily and brave. They can fly at eighty miles an hour, and use every trick to outwit a man with a gun. They're the most demanding adversaries, which is why they provide such incomparable sport."
"But you shoot them…"
"I've shot grouse all my life. And yet, as I grow older, I shoot less frequently and, I must admit, with some reservation. My son Hamish, so far, has shown no qualms, but Lucilla hates the whole business and refuses to come out with me." He sat hunched in his ragged old coat, with his good leg drawn up and his elbow resting on his knee. His worn tweed cap was pulled low over his forehead, shading his eyes against the fitful blasts of sunlight. "She feels very strongly that they are wild birds, and so part of God's creation. By wild, I mean that they are self-perpetuating. It is impossible to rear them as one might rear pheasants, because to put chicks from a hatchery out onto these moors would mean instant and certain death from predators."
"What do they feed on?"
"Heather. Blaeberries. But mostly heather. Because of that, a well-keepered moor is regularly burnt in strips. By law, burning is controlled. It's only allowed during a few weeks in April, and if you haven't burnt by then, it has to be left for another year."
"Why do you burn?"
"To encourage new growth." He pointed with his stick. "You can see the black strips on the Mid Hill where we burnt this year. The longer heather is left to give the birds good protective cover."
Conrad gazed in some bewilderment at the rolling miles all about him. "It's a hell of a lot of land for what seems to me an awfully few birds."
Archie smiled. "It does appear to be a bit of an anachronism, in this day and age. But if it wasn't for the great sporting estates in Scotland, enormous tracts of land would become neglected, or decimated either by intensive farming of some sort or other, or else commercial forestry."
"Is planting trees such a bad thing?"
"It's a touchy subject. The Scots pine is our indigenous tree, not
Sitka spruce from Norway, nor lodge-pole pine from North America. And it depends on how well the woodland is husbanded. But a tightly packed stand of Sitka spruce destroys the breeding ground of upland birds because they won't nest within nine hundred yards of it. It harbours too many predators-foxes and crows. And I'm not simply talking about grouse but redshank and golden plover and curlews as well. And other forms of wildlife. Bugs, insects, frogs, adders. And plantlife. Harebells, cotton-grass, rare mosses and fungi, bog asphodel. Properly cared for, the moor is a power-house of rational ecology."
"But isn't the image of the rich guy on the grouse moor blasting away at the birds the subject of some ridicule?"
"Of course it is. The chinless aristocrat loading his gun with ten-pound notes. But I believe that image is fading, as even the greenest of politicians becomes aware th^t the link between country sports and conservation is of immense importance if the basic ecosystem of the Highlands is going to survive."
They fell silent. Stealthily, that silence was filled with small sounds, as seeping water will fill a void. The faint piping and drumming of the wind. The whisper of the distant burn, running in spate. Across the glen, scattered over the side of the hill, sheep grazed, moved, bleated. And as these sounds filled the quiet, so Conrad, at ease with his companion, found himself pervaded by tranquillity, a peace of mind that he had forgotten even existed.
Maybe this was wrong. Maybe after what had taken place last night, he should be suffering agonies of remorse and guilt. But his conscience was dormant, even self-satisfied.