Outside, the car hire office was just ahead. Around them, the bustle of a regular Monday morning in Tarbert. A ferry was in and Taylor and Drew wondered how it was only yesterday that they’d arrived.
No, JB did not want to go to the damn store to buy damn food, he just wanted to get back to the stupid cottage and do as the nurse had advised – elevate his leg and ice his ankle. His ankle was currently as wide as his calf and bone-throbbingly sore. The health hub had given him dumb crutches and this dickshit hire car was the smallest, dumbest vehicleever. There was absolutely no way that he’d be running a marathon in four days and this was a fact that sunk his mood until it was darker than the peat stack outside Flora’s House. When they arrived back, he whacked at it with his crutch and told it to screw itself. I’mgoing to phone my dad, he said. I’m going to get airlifted the hell away from this shithole island in the middle of buttfuck nowhere and get a second opinion, some proper medical attention, aspecialist.
Drew and Taylor let JB rant and swear all he liked, silently grateful – a little guilty, even – that it was his ankle, not theirs. They settled him on the sofa, propped his leg up on cushions on the coffee table. Taylor lit the peat and positioned the TV, Drew made coffee and gave JB the plate of scones which they’d only just discovered had been left for them in welcome.
‘I’ll go get groceries,’ Taylor said quietly to Drew. ‘You stay – it’s cool – I like driving on the wrong side of the road.’
Pasta, rice, chicken, beef, nuts, eggs. Porridge. Wholewheat bread.
Outside, as often happens in Harris, Taylor discovered how four seasons were playing out in the one day. The mild morning had given way to a snaking chill in the air, the sky was growing heavy with cloud and the wind knocked at the car. Driving along, the rules of the passing places unnerved him at first, not least when there were sheep ambling along the tarmac in front of him with traffic approaching. He forgot who had right of way downhill or up, but he slowed right down and beamed his smile and accepted all the friendly eye-rolling which came his way. The road skirted the west coast where breakers barrelled and crashed at the shore as if they were the schoolyard bullies of the little waves which had played with his feet that morning. This road, heading south, was the island’s official annual half-marathon route and the plan was simply to run it there and back. They’d be starting some place called Borve, run the thirteen plus miles to Tarbert, turn and run it back again. Only now there’d be just the two of them. It stressed Taylor what they’d do with JB. Perhaps they shouldleave the cottage and hole up at the hotel instead? Should they leave early for Edinburgh? JB was keen to meet up with those girls from the England to Scotland train. Taylor was too, if he was honest.
But there again Taylor’s legs were feeling great, Drew was race-fit and this road was decent, with a good surface and spectacular views. The coastline was one of pale-soft beaches intercepted here and there by outcrops of rock while landside the hills clambered and burns tumbled. All Taylor had seen in Paris was a sea of runners, the race numbers on their vests bombarding his eyes like indecipherable code. He’d found that race really hard; he’d felt claustrophobic, without flow, it hadhurt. He’d had to focus hard as he could on Drew’s fluid stride for the first half and on JB’s breathing for the last. That day, he could have been anywhere really, Paris held little relevance and even less allure. Though he was set to finish a minute or so before JB, he’d slowed up at twenty-four miles so they could cross the line gripping hands and punching at the air in unison. JB knew it but made no mention of it and, later, Taylor heard JB tell his father how he’d slowed right down to haul Taylor over the line. I’d’ve been faster if it wasn’t for Taylor, JB had told his dad.
But that was just JB being JB. As he drove, Taylor stopped thinking about anything other than this road in this place – he was twitching to run it.
On, now, to Northton. Or, in Gàidhlig, Taobh Tuath. Don’t get confused, the tweed shop lady had told Taylor. How could you not get confused by that, let alone the way it was pronounced?! But he noted the road sign, saw theHebrides Peoplevisitor centre and he wondered: was this who he was, whether or not his mom liked where she was from? He’d never once thought to define himself as half Scottish. What had that dude in the car called him this morning? Hearach?
Taylor approached the building even though he could see there were no lights on. Cupping his hands against the glass, he peered in at the interior and saw displays and info-boards; it was exactly the right place for answers. But it really was very closed; a note at the door said so, handwritten in Gàidhlig and then English. Taylor gave the door a half-hearted push. Of course it did not open. He phoned the number but the recorded message matched the note.Sorry! Closed this week.
Pasta, rice, chicken, beef, nuts, eggs. Porridge. Wholewheat bread. Think: marathon! Anything else is beside the point. None of it matters to your mom so it should not matter to you. It’s just old pieces of fabric; there’s no message, no meaning, just ancient history so leave it be.
He returned to the car and chanted the shopping list as he drove on.
An Clachan, the community shop in Leverburgh, had everything on the list and more, including the brand of energy gels Taylor liked the best which surprised him.
‘Didn’t think I’d find these here,’ he said cheerily to the shop assistant as he added a few more to the basket. ‘That’s pretty cool.’
‘Oh aye,’ she said. ‘It’s only in the last few months that we’ve stopped living off roots and berries.’
Taylor couldn’t tell whether he’d insulted her or if she was just teasing him; there was too much dark eye-shadow and grape-coloured lipstick going on.
‘Great hair,’ he said instead because it was: sharp silver at the front, navy at the back and scarlet along the tips.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘No doubt you were expecting us all to be in kilts?’
They were around the same age but Taylor felt like a kid being told off.
‘Actually, my mother grew up here,’ he stated.
‘Oh aye?’
‘Aye—I mean, yeah. And I’m trying to track down some tweed.’
‘We have plenty of tweed right here,’ she said.
‘The Hebrides People place – it’s closed this week.’ He was aware there was a queue behind him, that she was glancing over his shoulder to give the local shoppers a knowing look.
‘The Tourist Centre in Tarbert is closed period,’ she said, handing him his shopping. ‘You’d think we don’t want people visiting and buying up all our energy gels.’
The look on his face! She laughed. ‘Och, I’m only messing with you,’ she said. ‘You’ll find tweed upstairs and a great selection of books and gifts too.’
Under the eaves, the gift shop carried all the expected tea towels and mugs, cards and books, toys and maps, as well as a fine array of tweed. Taylor put down his shopping and spent awhile just browsing. Running his hands over the bags and the hats and throws, he held each to the light, to his cheek. He looked carefully at the patterns, the colours and, from his pocket, he brought out the four pieces of tweed. None matched. In comparison, everything in the shop was richer, brighter and somehowtighter. His grandfather’s pieces appeared quieter, old-fashioned; like the contrast between a contemporary photograph and one which time has faded, or comparing young people from the past with those of today – didn’t everyone look so mucholder,plainer, more simple, back then?
‘Hey, Energy Gel, you want some help there?’
The girl from downstairs was upstairs now. Clumsily, Taylor stuffed the pieces of cloth back into his pocket and made muchof analysing a lady’s shoulder bag in all the pinks and mauves of heather.
‘Not sure that’s your style – what’s in your pocket? Did you pinch something?’
