‘Sure thing.’
And Drew and Taylor pick up their pace and belt the final third of a mile all the way back to Flora’s House where JB is shouting himself hoarse and Dougie is glancing at his watch. He has a wee smile to himself; his record time remains.
It was over. It was done. Twenty-six point three seven miles, a full marathon and then some. Through green and orange and red and yellow; up hill and down, through wind and rain and sun, in tears and laughter, torment and ecstasy and with conversations they’d barely remember.
So what did they do?
They couldn’t just grind to a halt because their legs hadn’t caught up with their brains and their bodies were still programmed to keep moving. So Taylor and Drew tramped their way over the dunes and slithered the last part down to the beach where they strode towards the shore, shedding every item of clothing as they went, as they laughed and they laughed and they laughed and they ran right into the waves.
The sea was insanely cold but wow, they felt alive. As they frolicked and swam, Drew pointed across the water to Taransay.
‘Yeah maybe not today,’ Taylor said, splashing at him furiously. ‘You mad fuck.’
Chapter 12
Salty, sandy, exhilarated, Drew and Taylor arrived back at Flora’s House where JB was cursing the peat for not taking. The cottage was a little chilly after a whole day without the three of them filling it.
‘Why these people can’t just burn wood like regular folk I do not know,’ JB sighed. ‘Oh yeah – because there are no trees!’
‘There are actually,’ Drew said, shaking sea water from his ear. ‘In the crags and gullies and places sheep and deer can’t reach. You just need to know where to look, I guess.’
‘Your brain is one big ass,’ JB said and his words hung in the air until the three of them burst out laughing at the absurdity.
‘Here,’ said Taylor. ‘Let me.’ And a lifetime of family camping trips came to the fore; pitching a tent in any weather, bright cold mornings and eerie nighttime sounds, food eaten straight from the can, smores and sleeping bags, ghost stories – and how to light a fire. ‘It’s about the kindling and the wigwamming,’ he explained. ‘That’s all.’
‘Okay Fuckleberry Finn,’ JB laughed. ‘By the way – so Dougie said he’ll buy us a drink at the hotel later. I told him we’d walk to his house – your legs’ll thank me.’’
The peat was burning well. JB was watching TV, Drew was taking a shower, Taylor was waiting his turn. With a mug of tea which tasted like coffee though he’d washed out the kettle a number of times, he listened to Drew singing his heart out.
Jeesh, could he not hold a tune!
Finally, something that dude could not do!
At the Harris Hotel, the last thing JB, Taylor and Drew expected was the heroes’ welcome awaiting them. In fact, with their first night antics continuing to play across their consciences, they felt a little awkward about returning. However, warmth and cheer garlanded them as soon as they stepped inside. Dougie raised his hands as if to say it was nothing to do with him. Morag Mackenzie was behind the bar, as she had been on their first night in Harris, and she raised an eyebrow and wagged her finger at the three of them.
‘You’ll not be having so much as a snifter on an empty stomach,’ she said. ‘Away to the restaurant – I believe there’s a table waiting.’
They had scallops and smoked salmon to start and then they all ordered haddock and chips with peas to follow. They weren’t sure they had room for dessert but it didn’t take much for the waitress to cajole them into ordering ice cream in all the flavours available. Taylor and Drew drank glass after glass of water and JB called them lightweights as he settled in to a pint of lager. Then they headed for the bar and further applause. There were faces they recognised and people they now felt they knew, as well as complete strangers all keen to congratulate them, wanting a mile by mile account, asking how it had felt, asking JB how hewas feeling. How long are you staying, boys? When’s the next marathon? Where will it be? Saint Tropez to Santa Fe? North Pole to Seoul? L.A. to Bombay? Serbia to Suburbia? Vancouver, said JB – in six weeks’ time.
Sitting on his usual bar stool, Old Campbell observed the scene. They didwhat?Did he hear that right? They’d run from Hushinish to Luskentyre? They’d run, non-stop, for just under three and a half hours? Just for the hell of it, you say? Whether this was a formidable feat or plain madness Old Campbell wasn’t sure, but he spent the rest of the evening trying to decide. It did take his mind off his troublesome guts and that tooth which had kept him up all night. But then the loud lad – the one with the limp – he came over and gave Old Campbell a hug, a kiss on the forehead and, well, the toothache all but disappeared.
Taylor and Drew had a beer each and just one single malt which was on the house. They were tired; warm, content, but very, very tired. Every now and then, a vivid recall: the stretching road, blind summits and disappearing turns, the eagle, the castle, the tennis court, thecoos, the school kids running with them, tarmac in close-up – and the two beds awaiting them in the little room at Flora’s House. Telepathically, Dougie looked over, caught their eyes and stood, saying it was time to go.
Thanking everyone, and accepting further praise graciously, JB, Taylor and Drew took their leave. As Taylor pulled on his jacket and headed for the exit, he heard his name. It was Becca.
‘Here you go,’ she said, handing him a small envelope.
Inside were four silky labels; the same as those he’d seen in the tweed shops on everything from hats to bags to jackets, toys and cushion covers. The official marque for all genuine items of Harris Tweed.
‘But you’ll have to sew them on yourself, if you can manage that?’ she laughed. ‘I’m assuming you can handle a needle and thread?’
Taylor considered how he’d never so much as sewn on a button but he didn’t tell Becca that.
He studied the labels. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Then he faltered. ‘Actually, it turns out my Grandfather didn’t weave those pieces,’ he shrugged. ‘They’re nothing to do with me at all.’
Becca considered this. ‘Wellsomeonewove them. They are Harris Tweed – and they deserve their seal of authenticity.’
The boys were quiet on the drive home. The road climbed up and away from Tarbert and, here and there, sheep snoozed or stood staring right into the car’s headlights. Perhaps they’d been there all day, maybe these very sheep had watched Drew and Taylor battle their way right along this stretch of road in that sudden squall just a few hours ago.
