JB had his hands firmly against the kitchen counter either side of the sink, he was gazing intently through the window. He’d said nothing in response and it was hard to know what he was thinking, what had hit home; his expression was illegible. He levered himself away and hobbled over to the front door, flinging it open. He turned to face Taylor and Drew.
‘I guess there’s no running anyway – not unless you want ankles matching mine. I don’t have to lie to my father after all. Look –snow.’
Chapter 10
Taylor drove away from Flora’s House, leaving Drew and JB standing defiantly silent and rooted to their spots in the kitchen. Whatever. They could punch each other’s lights out for all he cared. On the dashboard, the scrap of paper given to him by Becca. In the cup holder, his phone with its maps tracking a route he’d never travelled. The road passed through Tarbert and then headed north, turning left at the head of West Loch Tarbert where it then clambered and turned, before swooping and hauling itself for miles over the skirts of the North Harris Hills. He’d read the guidebook, he’d researched the road online. Bun Abhainn Eadarra or Bunavoneader – whether in English or Gàidhlig it was just a mishmash of letters unpronounceable to him. Old Whaling Station. Eagle Oberservatory. Tennis Court in the Middle of Nowhere. On he drove and what a road! The sun came out, sprinkling glitter over the thin snow. The surface of the waters of the Loch were like wafting silk and everywhere the grass and the heather and the gorse quivered in the breeze. Taylor felt a steadiness now and he settled into the car seat, his hands no longer gripping the wheel. On the flank of a hill scumbled by cloud shadows, stood a small herd of red deer. Taylor stopped the car and just watched, observinghow the deer were there and yet they weren’t there as they masterfully absorbed the landscape into their bodies. Overhead, commanding the sky, an eagle wheeled.
Taylor liked this road, he liked this island, the scenery was distinct and delivered at every turn. Those west coast beaches singing out their immense beauty in a major key while the east coast, with its introverted starkness, was a clash of chords in a minor key. And here, now, North Harris; a symphonic grandeur of monumental hills and dramatic vistas. A sweeping descent deposited Taylor right at the foot of a castle quite suddenly at the roadside. He scrambled from the car and walked. There were turrets and ramparts and a perimeter wall commanding the water to keep back. A little way ahead, a crenelated tower and archway, beyond which estate buildings stood as if awaiting an audience with the laird. The river bounced over boulders in its rush to the sea and the weather was noticeably milder, there was no snow on the castle lawns. Where are the bagpipes when you need them, Taylor wondered and he laughed at himself. How lucky he was to be here now.
Duncan MacDonald had forgotten all about the telephone call from Donald John. The knock at his door surprised him as he did not think he was expecting anyone. But there again, he was eighty-nine years old. He sat weaving for a few minutes more, wondering if he had imagined it. When the tentative raps repeated, Duncan mulled over who might be popping by for tea and a chat. A young American lad did not feature on the list so when Duncan stepped down from his loom and made his slow passage across to the door he was wholly surprised to see him.
‘Mr MacDonald?’
‘Aye?’
‘I’m Taylor Rowe.’
‘Aye?’
‘I believe Donald John, the weaver, gave you a call? About my grandfather Rory Macleod – aboutthese?’
Usually, visitors to Duncan’s loom shed wanted to perusehistweeds, touch them, watch them being woven, buy some to take home. But this lad, well, he’d brought his own cloth with him.
‘Now, who are you, did you say? And say it loud.’ Duncan cupped his hand against his ear, his eyes bead-bright, his smile revealing an arrangement of teeth not unlike the standing stones of Callanish. He was wearing a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows and a pair of thick woollen trousers held up by a belt which was knotted, the buckle long gone. On his feet, however, were a pair of box-fresh trainers with bright orange stripes and lime green mesh panels. He sat himself back at his loom and gestured for Taylor to take a seat on an old chair with foam spewing from frayed upholstery. Instantly, Taylor liked Duncan. This loom shed, unlike Becca’s purpose-built wooden one, was a squat stone building abutting the house and he wondered if Duncan spent much time anywhere other than in here.
‘I am Taylor Rowe,’ Taylor repeated, loud and clear. ‘My grandfather was Rory Macleod. Look.’ And handed his tweeds to Duncan.
‘Ruairidh MacLeòid?’ he said, with slight disbelief. ‘It’s been a wee while since I heard that name.’
‘My mom is Ellen Macleod. Or was. I mean, I doubt you remember her – she left Harris when she was sixteen. I am from Colorado.’ Duncan looked nonplussed. ‘In America.’
Duncan chuckled. ‘And you’ve come all this way to see me?!’
‘Yes Sir. Well – and to run a marathon too.’ Taylor stopped abruptly. ‘Or maybe not.’
Duncan thought running was a rather odd thing to do unless one was pursued by danger. Why the rush? Why race from here to there? Why hasten the end? Why not simply take your time?
‘What have we here?’ He studied the tweeds thoughtfully. Herringbone, windowpane, overcheck and stripe. He scrutinised them close up, looked at both sides, ran the edges through his fingers and then finally, he peered over his glasses at Taylor as if to check that the young visitor was really there.
‘You know even from small pieces like these, you can see why we call itClò Hearach, Harris Tweed – orClò Mòr, the Big Cloth for its warmth, its history. You don’t need yard upon yard, do you lad?’ He paused and looked hard at Taylor. ‘The place is caught right here, is it not? Here is Harris, in the raw wool, in the spinning, the yarn, in the warp and the weft, in the colour and the pattern.’ He nodded and smiled and tapped his temples and wagged his finger at his visitor who, quite unbelievably, was the grandson of Ruairidh MacLeòid. ‘The weaver is a magician, a story teller. The weaver chronicles the truth,’ he said and he passed the pieces back to Taylor. ‘Take a good look. Adeeplook. This isn’t just cloth, boy – it is history.’
Taylor was shocked to find tears had filmed his eyes and were lodged in his throat.
‘Bhon chroit an clò,’ Duncan said. ‘From the land comes the cloth.’
Duncan made Taylor strong sweet tea while he had a wee dram which he splashed into a chipped mug from a mostly empty bottle. They sat in affable silence.
‘I knew your grandfather, I did so,’ Duncan said and he sighed. ‘And I’llnotbe raising a glass to his name. Och, laddie, he was ahorribleman.’
Before Taylor had a chance to choke on his tea, Duncan continued.
‘His wife, your grandmother, was the quietest woman on the island. You stopped noticing her after a while, you just did. Isuppose he made her that way. I don’t remember your mother – but I do remember them having a daughter who left. Gone to see what the world was all about – that’s what your Grandfather told people.’ Duncan paused. ‘Gone to be rid ofyou, that’s what we all thought. Och he was thenastiestman I ever met. He was bad tempered –trustar– he was plain mean. That’s the truth of it and that’s what you should know. And these cloths?’ Duncan smoothed them straight, a surprising dexterity to his gnarled old hands, as if each fingertip had heightened nerve endings, as if each piece of Taylor’s tweeds had a weaver’s Braille woven through. Duncan reached over and gripped Taylor’s wrist hard before tapping gently. ‘These cloths werenotwoven by your grandfather.’
Taylor sat back. ‘Yes they were.’
‘No. They were not.’
‘My mother said her father was a weaver.’
