look efter dem. An shu did. For mare as sixty years.’
‘An Ina never wanted them back?’
‘No, why wid she? Dey’re shite. Dey meant mair ta Maggie wi Ina gone as dey ever did ta Ina.’ He laughed. ‘Fok are certainly peculiar.’
‘So, where are we goin to start?’ Sandy asked. ‘What do you want to keep?’
‘Well, most of dis stuff is no fir keepin. Da hoose is needin stripped back and repainted. It’s needin a fair bit o wark ta mak it right. The mair we git oot, da easier dat’ll be.’
‘Aye. Well, let’s start in here, then.’ Sandy looked around. ‘Do you ken aboot these pictures?’ he asked, pointing at the two hunting scenes above the television. ‘Whit’s their story?’
‘Well, I asked Maggie aboot dem, years ago. I hidna really thoght aboot dem, ta be honest, until dere was aa yon talk aboot fox-hunting on da news, when dey banned it. So I asked her why shu hid dem dan.’
‘And?’
‘And shu said shu liked da dugs.’ David laughed out loud. Sandy laughed too.
‘Right,’ David said. ‘We can put aa dat’s needin dumped in a pile, and dis picters are goin at da hert o it.’ He took them from the wall and set them down in the corner of the room, close to the fireplace. ‘Next!’
‘You can dump the ither pictures, too,’ said Sandy. ‘Mebbie no the photos, but the rest.’
‘I quite lik da boats.’
‘They’re horrible. Dump them!’
‘Okay, if du says so.’
For several hours, the two men wandered about the house, making piles, filling black bags, inspecting and deciding. Sometimes they conferred, asking the other’s opinion, but mostly no questions were needed. The house was filled with the belongings of an old woman who was not their relative. What sentimentality they felt had been largely cast aside when they took the first pictures from the wall. Sandy wondered sometimes about his right to make decisions on the contents of this house, but David had brought him here and let him get on with it, and so he did.
In the kitchen he looked through drawers and cupboards, pulling out tins and dry food, leaving behind cutlery, plates, pots and pans. An ugly set of brown bowls was removed; another set, plain white, he left in place. Sandy paused for a second before opening the fridge, fearing what he might find inside. But when he did it was empty. He noticed only then that it was silent. David, hearing the door, looked over.
‘We emptied it,’ he said. ‘Da night shu died.’
Few people would have considered that, thought Sandy. But it didn’t surprise him that David and Mary had. He imagined them then, walking through the house, switching off plugs, checking each room, emptying the contents of the fridge and freezer into bags, with Maggie’s death surrounding them like a fog.
‘Mebbie we’ve done aa we can do da night,’ David said eventually. ‘Ah’ll come back on Tuesday eftirnoon and git some of dis bruck inta da skip. Will du be at wark?’
‘Aye, I’m drivin the taxi all week. I’ll be back aboot six, though, I think. So I could join you in the evenin ageen.’
‘Is du no stayin in toon fir Up Helly Aa? Hit’s Tuesday night, is it no?’
Sandy raised his eyebrows. ‘No. Vikings arna really my thing.’ In truth, Sandy could hardly think of anything worse than watching nine hundred drunk men in fancy dress march about the town, roaring and singing, waving their torches around. He had never felt the slightest attachment to those parts of Shetland culture that were supposed to make his heart balloon with pride. Particularly that one. And the fact that he had never once been asked to take part only seemed to confirm that Up Helly Aa was a festival for others, not for him. ‘Macho, chauvinist bollocks,’ he used to call it, when Emma was around. ‘I think I’ll skip it,’ he said now.
David laughed. ‘Aye, I dunna blame dee. Hit’s years since Ah’m been oot ta see the procession. No since da lasses was teenagers, I think. But, onywye, dunna buther wi Tuesday. We’re don a lot da night. Ah’ll let dee ken whan I need dee ageen, once dere’s bigger things ta lift an so on.’
‘Okay, well dunna be fairt to ask for help.’
‘Whin am I ivver been fairt o dat?’
Outside, the darkness was as thick as peaty water. Just three scraps of light – from Terry’s house, from David’s and from Alice’s – broke through. The wind was shrieking now into the valley, gathering what it could and dragging it away from the sea. Rain too was squalling sideways, in sputters and bursts, threatening to pour.
‘Ah’ll gi dee a run,’ said David.
Sandy opened the passenger door. ‘I’m glad you offered,’ he said.
‘Is du heard aboot da shop?’ David asked, as he set off up the road.
‘Which shop? What aboot it?’
‘Da wan in Treswick. Billy’s shop. He’s thinkin o closin up, he telt me.’
‘How come?’
‘No enough fok buyin no enough food, he said. Simple as dat. Dey come in fir milk an a loaf wance a week, den get da rest in toon.’
‘Aye, guilty as charged,’ said Sandy.
‘Wis too. Hit’ll be a shame if he goes, though. Been a shop dere as lang as I can mind.’
‘Aye, it’s a shame.’
David slowed at the driveway to the Red House, and Sandy got out.
‘Okay, I’ll see you soon,’ he said, then looked down without waiting for a response. He had to give a solid push on the pickup door to get it closed, and then hunched himself against the wind as he walked away. Up here it seemed even stronger, the air walloping his body, threatening to knock him sideways. Once inside, he could hear it groaning and screeching around the building, trying to find a way through the windows and walls.
Sandy picked up his phone from the kitchen table. There was only one message, from Terry, which he ignored. He poured himself a whisky and went through to the living room, then lit a fire and sat in the armchair by the window. He closed his eyes and listened to the storm, as the flames gasped and raged in the grate.
THURSDAY,
11TH FEBRUARY
Alice was on her hands and knees, turning over stones, examining what lay beneath. On the bank, close to the burn, she leaned forward and lifted a flat rock, balancing it on one pointed corner, then peered below. An earthworm concertinaed itself out of sight in the mud; a tiny black beetle scurried into the grass; a cluster of white blobs, eggs of some kind, were tucked into a cranny in the stone. Nothing else looked alive. She laid it down, gently, exactly where she’d found it.
It had been raining for the past twenty minutes or so. It wasn’t heavy, but her clothes were now thoroughly wet, and her hands were cold. She felt disheartened. Since setting aside the
