Nowadays the Clyde is quieter. The ferries that survived their wartime duties – some had Dunkirk battle honours – renewed their daily service to the isles of Cumbrae, Bute and Arran. The wartime frenzy had stilled and it would take time for the world markets to recover and raise demand for peacetime ships again. With the amount of tonnage sunk during the war, the Clyde was expecting a boom period to follow.
For a treat I had a scone and jam and a second cup of tea as I watched the island loom larger through the forward portholes. The boat wasn’t full by any means. Too early for summer trips and too late in the day for business. It suited me fine. I was glad of the brief respite and the chance to sift my thoughts. Once again I’d found an excuse for not visiting Fiona. Was this the same warrior leading his company into battle? Scared of an old flame? Probably.
I touched the healing scab on my forehead from the knife attack. It made me wonder about the thugs who’d attacked me in the bogs at Doyle’s pub. What had they known? And why did they react the way they did? Was it an automatic response to any stranger wandering into their patch and asking tricky questions? A kind of ‘nice to make your acquaintance, stitch that, you bastard’? Maybe. Or were they on the lookout for just such a meddling stranger? I needed to meet their boss, Dermot Slattery, and find out what he knew. If I could find this Reid family and get them to help, I could be back in Glasgow by Saturday afternoon and putting out feelers for a rendezvous with this latter-day razor king tomorrow evening. Time was running out. It was already 5 April and we had to get the appeal in by the fifteenth, ten short days.
We bumped against Brodick pier and I shuffled out with the rest of the handful of passengers on to the wet decking of the jetty. It had stopped raining. There was even a glimpse of late evening sun behind the clouds. A portent of hope? I began walking along the seawall towards the small town itself. In the far corner of the bay, veiled by drifting clouds, I could make out Brodick Castle. I recalled my father pointing it out to me on our one and only day trip here in my other life.
I breathed deep and enjoyed the tang of seaweed and salt water in my nostrils. Maybe I should come back here in the summer, go for long walks by the sea and in the hills. The exercise would be good for my leg. And I’d get some colour in my London cheeks. See if Sam had inherited her dad’s love of hiking. Which was a funny unbidden thought. She was a prim lawyer mostly, but the fish-and-chip supper had shown another side. It would be a challenge to break through the ice more often.
Today the town was quiet. Few of the bed and breakfasts had boards up, saving their energies for the chip-eating, icecream-sucking invasion at the Glasgow Fair. Arran got the classier holidaymakers, unless they were camping or caravanning of course. The neat Victorian houses and hotels that lined the seafront were magnets for the factory supervisors and the insurance company managers and their wives with hearts set on the next promotion and a three-bedroom semi in Helensburgh.
One of the tall houses that looked out across the road to the sea and to the Ayrshire coast beyond had a Vacancy sign swinging nonchalantly in the wind. Take me or leave me, see if I care. I crossed over, went in and secured a bed for the night with sea views and a shared bathroom for the knock down out-of-season price of 5/6d. Though there was no one to share it with, as it turned out. I could have breakfast – limitless cups of tea, square slices of fried sausage and a real egg with as much toast as I could eat – for a further shilling. Perfect. I allayed the suspicion of the large-bosomed landlady at my travelling without a suitcase by patting my coat pockets and explaining I had a short meeting in Lamlash the next morning and then back to Glasgow.
There was a cafe open in the town centre – such as it was: a souvenir shop, a newsagent, a butcher and a fishmonger, each with desolate counters. I thought of taking some Arran rock back to Sam but it looked like it was pre-war stock. For the second night running I had fish and chips, but the company was less distracting. I missed Samantha Campbell’s abrasive tongue and sharp brain, and the no-nonsense way she stuck her hair back behind her small ears. I turned in early, slept well and sought out the Lamlash bus with a stomach filled and warmed by fried sausage topped with buttered toast. The morning was warm and the steam rose from the damp roads as we chugged out of town and up the steep hill. We were heading due south now along the ragged coast to Lamlash.
We ground our way up and over, and practically freewheeled down into the next bay. Through the dense trees that marshalled the road, I caught occasional glimpses of the crescent of Lamlash Bay and the village itself. Offshore was the big lump of rock that was Holy Island. It looked just the sort of out-of-the-way retreat to stymie prying policemen or desperate reporters.
We trundled to a halt one stop away from the centre but near the Catholic church, according to the driver. Though Lamlash Bay had sheltered the northern fleet of the Royal Navy during the war it was smaller than Brodick and less well set up for the holiday trade. Much of the village comprised small fishermen’s houses arranged in a tidy row with trim gardens out front. The Protestant kirk dominated the far end of the town.
I got out and walked along the front. I paused on a bench overlooking the sandy beach, took out a fag and watched the waves lap in. I hadn’t gazed mindlessly at the sea in years. I used to love walking along the dunes at Troon or running through the shallows in my bare feet. A rare calmness settled on me. It wasn’t just the nicotine. I hadn’t realised how weary I was. Weary of the war and its sour aftermath. Weary of London and the faceless anger of the ruined city, rationed in food and hope. I listened to the harsh gulls and wondered if I could find sanctuary here, maybe get a wee boat, catch fish, grow my own vegetables. Drop by the local pub most evenings to catch up on village gossip or attend the occasional ceilidh or darts competition.
I was suddenly aware of a shadow. I turned and saw a man framed against the sun.
‘Would you be Mr Douglas Brodie, by any chance?’ His voice had the hard nasal lilt of Northern Ireland.
I stood up and saw his dog collar. He wore a blue shirt underneath and a black jacket. Thin blond hair was clamped tight to his skull by Brylcreem. He looked too young for the job and vulnerable behind thick specs.
He went on, ‘There aren’t so many visitors here just now and I was watching for the bus. Father Connor O’Brien, Mr Brodie.’ He held out his hand.
‘Just Brodie is fine. Thanks for meeting me,’ I said, stretching out my hand.
‘And I’m Connor. I was told yesterday you’d be in later. But I had another call this morning from Father Cassidy.’
‘We’re in a hurry. You’ll know why?’
He nodded. ‘Shall we sit here? It’s a rare day, so it is.’
We sat and he took a cigarette. He was maybe my age, but already losing his hair quite badly. The hair cream kept the strands carefully in place, maximising their coverage. The glasses made him look even more scholarly but there was a surprising toughness in his voice – and it wasn’t just the hard brogue – that suggested a certain underlying steel.
‘How did you wash up on these shores, Connor?’
‘I grew up in Belfast and wanted a change, somewhere quieter. They sent me here.’ He smiled.