Stormy Petrel Read Free

dwarfed the harbour – she had to stand off from the jetty and land us by boat – and indeed the village. As far as I could see, there were some eight or nine cottages strung out on a narrow road which circled the bay. The building nearest the jetty was the post office-cum-shop. A home-made notice informed me that it was kept by M. McDougall, who also did bed and breakfasts. Some fifty yards away was a white-washed building surrounded by a stretch of asphalt; the village school, I was to discover, where on alternate Sundays the minister from Tobermory came over to hold a service. A narrow river, little more than a stream, lapsed gently over its stones past the post office. It was spanned by a narrow humpbacked bridge of the picturesque variety that is guaranteed to damage any car that uses it. But, as I had been warned, there were no cars. One battered Land Rover stood outside the post office, and leaning against the schoolhouse wall were a couple of bicycles. No other forms of transport. Nor, as far as I could see, did the road continue beyond the end of the village.
    And my cottage, I had been informed, lay at the other side of the island.
    Well, I had asked for it. I left my cases parked on the quay, and made my way into the post office.
    Since the thrice-weekly visit of the ferry brought all the island’s mail and supplies, and the post office was very small, the place was crowded, and the postmistress, busily sorting through a pile of mail and newspapers, while exchanging two days’ news in Gaelic with the ferry’s master, had no glance to spare for me. The little shop had been arranged as what I have seen described as a mini-hypermarket, so I found a basket and busied myself with collecting what supplies I thought I might need for the next couple of days. I was called to myself by the echoing hoot of the ferry’s siren, to find that the shop had emptied of its crowd, and the postmistress, taking off her spectacles, was hurrying round to the store counter to look after the stranger.
    â€˜You’ll be the young lady for Camus na Dobhrain? Miss Fenemore, was it?’
    She was a thinnish woman of perhaps fifty, with greying hair carefully arranged, and very blue eyes. She wore a flowered smock, and her spectacles hung round her neck on a cord. She had the beautiful skin of the islands, with hardly a wrinkle, except near the eyes, where the smile lines puckered the corners. She was not smiling now, but her look was full of a benevolent curiosity, and the soft island voice, with the lilt of the Gaelic moving through it like a gentle sea-swell, warmed me as palpably as if the sun had come into the dim and cluttered little shop.
    â€˜Yes, I’m Rose Fenemore. And you are Mrs McDougall? How do you do?’ We shook hands. ‘And yes, I’m for the cottage that the Harris Agency advertised. Is that the one? I don’t understand Gaelic, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜And how should you? Yes, indeed, that is the one. The English for it is “Otters’ Bay”. It is the only place on Moila that is to let. We’re not just a metropolis, as you see.’ She smiled, busying herself with my purchases as she spoke. ‘You’ll not have been here before, then? Well, if the weather stays fine you’ll find plenty of nice walks, and I’m told that the house at Otters’ Bay is comfortable enough these days. But lonely. You are by yourself, are you?’
    â€˜Till Wednesday, at least. My brother’s hoping to come then.’ I gave her all she wanted to know. I was part of the week’s news, after all. ‘He’s a doctor, from Hampshire. He couldn’t get away when I did, so I came up on my own. Does the Wednesday ferry come in at the same time?’
    â€˜It does. You have not put any firelighters in. You will find it is much easier to get your fire going with one of those. Are you used to a peat fire?’
    â€˜No, but I’m hoping I can