Thin Air Read online

  We gutted another twenty rabbits, hung them on the fence and then took a seat by the stream, partly to cool off but also to give the ferrets a rest. Ian was slapping at the midges, which seemed to ignore the repellent.

  ‘Take your boots off and have a paddle,’ Wal told him. ‘If you cool your blood down they’ll leave you alone. Not you, Ronnie, or you’ll kill the trout.’

  Ronnie refused to be riled. ‘I’ll eat the fish if you won’t,’ he said.

  We all dangled our bare feet in the stream and, as Wallace had predicted, the midges lost interest in us.

  I heard a tractor go by and a little later I saw Brett, the older son, talking to Young Murdo. Reluctantly, for the day was humid and we were beginning to tire, we resumed our boots and prepared to move on. I was not looking forward to carrying the bag back to the car – rabbits in bulk can be very heavy. But the tractor arrived on the bank above us. Brett jumped down.

  ‘I’ll drop these off at your car,’ he said. ‘I’ve got your first lot.’

  ‘Right,’ Wal said. ‘Thanks.’

  Brett looked at us uncertainly. He was a more mature version of his brother. ‘Dad’s in a right temper today,’ he said at last. No answer was called for. He looked from one to the other of us. ‘Have you spoken with my brother?’

  ‘I have,’ I said.

  ‘Did he answer you?’

  ‘He wasn’t his usual self,’ I said. I remembered the yawn. ‘He seemed sleepy.’

  Brett nodded sombrely. By reputation he was a caring person and he seemed genuinely concerned for his younger brother. ‘He was out half the night. Dad gie’d him laldie. A leathering,’ he added to me in explanation. I had come to understand a large part of the Scots vocabulary but the locals still tended to interpret their own words for me. ‘He had a go at me an’ a’. But I can stand up for mysel’. I’m used to it. Young Murdo was Dad’s favourite at one time and he’s taking it bad. Wouldn’t say hardly a word to me. Keep an eye on him and if you get a chance try to cheer him up a bittie.’ He turned away and collected our rabbits from the fence. I heard the tractor moving away.

  ‘Why would the young devil be out half the night?’ Ian wondered aloud.

  ‘What do you think?’ Wal retorted.

  I nodded. ‘Silly question,’ I said. It must have been Young Murdo’s figure that I had seen walking in the fields, and with the pretty daughter from the neighbouring farm.

  ‘Aye,’ Ronnie said. ‘I’ll bet my boots that’s it.’

  ‘No bets,’ Ian said.

  ‘You know I’ve the right of it?’

  ‘No. But I’ve seen your boots.’

  Ronnie only laughed. With strangers he would have flared up, but among friends he never seemed to mind being the butt. When he cared to make the mental effort he could give as good as he got.

  The heat and closeness were exhausting. While the ferrets were clearing the next rock-pile, I slipped again into a reverie bordering on a doze. There might be a sci-fi book in my morning thought. A planet where there were three sexes. A could fertilize B, B could impregnate C but C could only couple with A. Some special term would be needed, to describe the orgy when all three matings took place simultaneously. A triang-bang, I wondered?

  A single shot called me back to reality. A rabbit rolled over, recovered and bolted towards us, swerving towards the bank when it saw me. Boss, miraculously rejuvenated, intercepted it and brought it, squirming, to my hand. I gave it the quietus with a staghorn priest that I had found among my uncle’s belongings. I could have broken its neck by hand, but not without suffering the mental shudders.

  I glanced back over my shoulder. Young Murdo was still hard at work. During our respite he had almost caught up with us, but we were moving steadily upwind so I guessed that we were in no danger from the gas. When he saw me watching he raised a hand. I decided that he was not likely to put his head down a rabbit hole and take a deep breath. Young love provides a remarkably good incentive for remaining alive.

  The breeze was bringing with it a strong smell, reminding me that we were arriving at the nearest point of the stream to the farm buildings where an enormous tank, walled and floored with concrete, was sunk into the ground. This, Keith had said, was originally intended for silage, but it had been made obsolete by the new silo that now reared above the skyline like a Martian invader. It was used instead by the farmer as a midden or slurry tank to hold his winter’s accumulation of dung. The smell seemed to excite the midges. Other flies came to drink our sweat.

  The passing of the tractor above us was a welcome distraction from the smell. Here, the stream was no longer on the boundary. The side-track between the farm buildings and the edge of the rape-field rose to cross the gully by way of an old stone bridge, in order to serve a couple of Easter Coullie fields beyond. The bridge was humped high over a generous arch, to allow for spates which could be strong when snow was melting on the hills.

  Apart from the sporadic shooting, the morning had been peaceful, but now we became aware of shrill noises from the track. Guns and ferret-box were laid aside and we climbed the bank.

  The vet’s pink car was stopped, facing the bridge and the farm buildings. Miss Mather and Brett stood beside it. The tractor was parked nearby.

  The woman was emitting high pitched screams and swinging an occasional punch at the young man. Such is the power of suggestion that I mistook the scene at first for one of assault or even rapine. As I came nearer, I realized that the screams were of laughter. Later, I remembered that her favourite gesture of affection was a punch to the upper arm – or to a more tender area if you were unlucky enough to be specially favoured.

  Brett turned to meet us as we arrived. ‘Miss Mather’s car won’t start,’ he said. All five looked at me hopefully. My reputation as a mechanic with a magical touch, which derived from my having once co-authored a book about the tuning of racing motorcycles by a top mechanic, was greatly exaggerated and becoming a damned nuisance. The local black leather brigade often asked me to wave a magic wand over their motorbikes and were inclined to become aggressive when I was unable to help.

  I looked at the car. It happened that one of my former girlfriends had owned a similar small DAF. ‘It’s only a six-volt system,’ I said. ‘But you could risk giving her a jumplead start from the tractor.’

  Brett shook his head. ‘Battery’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s the starter that’s knackered. And it’s no good pushing. It’s automatic.’

  ‘And here’s me already late for my next appointment,’ Miss Mather said cheerfully and waited for the big, strong men to do something clever and solve her problem for her. She was a competent vet but not very bright outside her profession, one of the many and surprising examples of the triumph of training over vacuity. Her head was covered with tight, blonde curls and she wore a sweater and trousers unsuitably close-fitting for her overblown figure. She was also sweating profusely, attracting more than her fair share of the flies.

  ‘If it gets up to a good speed, that’ll turn the engine,’ I said. ‘We could push you to the top of the hump. It should start on the run down to the farm.’

  Miss Mather turned to Brett. ‘Why did you not think of that?’ she demanded, aiming a punch which he side-stepped. ‘Come away, chiels. Give us a wee dunch.’

  The faces of the men suggested that they would rather have pushed her into the nearest ditch, but we got behind the small car. Young Murdo arrived to add his weight. Miss Mather hopped into the driving seat. From the safety of the verge, Boss made noises that I took to be of encouragement.

  The car moved easily at first, but the slope became steeper just before the hump of the bridge. We slowed and stopped.

  ‘Handbrake,’ Ian croaked.

  ‘No’ workin’,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll have to get out and help us,’ I said.

  She got out, slamming the door, and the car began to move again. We made a space for her. When she leaned her considerable weight against the back of the car it sailed e
asily up to the crest.

  ‘In you get,’ I said. ‘Stick it in forward gear. Don’t forget to turn on the ignition.’

  ‘It’s still on.’ We were already over the crest and she had to hurry to reach the driver’s door. ‘I’ve locked myself out,’ she said, laughing. ‘Aren’t I silly?’

  We were now straining to hold the car back. ‘The key,’ I grunted.

  ‘It’s inside . . .’

  ‘Put something solid under one of the wheels,’ Ronnie told her.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like your head,’ Brett gasped.

  She rounded on him. ‘You’ve no call to talk to me like that, Brett Heminson,’ she said.

  Brett straightened up to face her, letting go of the back bumper. Ronnie had already turned aside to look for a large stone. My feet began to slide and I lost my grip. The others hung on for a few paces, but they too had to let go.

  We ran after the car, but it soon outpaced us.

  I had been right on one point. Evidently she had left the car in gear. When it was halfway down the slope we heard the engine fire.

  Chapter Two

  At first, the car went straight down the middle of the track, guided by the ruts of a thousand journeys of tractor and trailer. It came to a slight kink as it neared the farm buildings and began to make the turn. A pothole in the track caused a lurch and I saw the wheel turn as though some driver were steering with malicious intent. With uncanny accuracy the car headed for the former silage pit. It had lost the thrust of the slope and was slowing, but not enough.

  The little DAF seemed to hesitate on the brink, then skated onto the surface of the dung and slowly began to settle. Some recent rain had brought the upper layers of the dung to the consistency of thick porridge. The engine was still ticking over and the exhaust made a farting noise under the liquid manure. We gathered nearby. It had come to rest close to one side of the tank. I could have stepped onto its roof had I wished. A billion flies, disturbed from whatever it is that flies do in dung during hot weather, formed a dense cloud above it.

  Disaster can attract a crowd even on a desert island. Alerted by the disturbance, Old Murdo joined us and stood leaning on his stick. He looked as sour as ever but I had a feeling that he was delighted to be on the scene of calamity. Other figures were following us over the bridge.

  ‘Well, there’s a pretty thing,’ Miss Mather said shakily.

  ‘Where?’ said Young Murdo.

  His father aimed a swipe at him with his stick but the boy jumped back.

  Miss Mather was too preoccupied with her own troubles to pay much attention to anyone else. ‘What’ll you do?’ she asked plaintively.

  None of us answered her. My mind, I discovered, had gone blank. The whole episode was outwith the span of my thinking.

  Old Murdo brought his mind back to the more immediate problem and I thought that he brightened. Retribution could wait. There was more fun to be had with Miss Mather. ‘You did the business?’ he asked her.

  For a moment she gave precedence to her professional duties. ‘Yes. You were right, the ewe’s leg was broken. I put it down. There was nothing else to be done. What are we—?’

  ‘You used an injection?’

  Miss Mather shook her curls. ‘I used the captive bolt humane killer. I knew you’d want to eat the meat. My car—?’

  ‘I could howk it out for you,’ Old Murdo said.

  ‘Oh, please do,’ said Miss Mather.

  ‘I’ll have to break some glass.’

  ‘If you must.’ The car lurched and settled another few inches. The hot exhaust was generating an incredible stink. ‘But please hurry!’

  He turned and stumped away. I wondered what on earth he thought he was going to do. I was soon enlightened. He returned from the tractor shed at the wheel of the large diesel fork-lift which was used for handling the big straw bales. For the only time in my experience of him, he looked happy. He lined the fork-lift up, one fork pointing at the rear window and the other at the driver’s.

  Miss Mather began to protest but the diesel was noisy and Heminson Senior was either unable or unwilling to hear. The two windows shattered. The diesel engine barked more loudly as the forks took the strain.

  I expected the roof to be torn off, but the Dutch had built a solid little car. It deformed. The windscreen and the back window fell out. But it remained in one piece and slowly it came up as the dung released its hold. It was two-tone now, pink above and greenish brown below. One of the doors had come open and liquid dung was oozing out. Old Murdo turned the fork-lift and lowered the car. He stepped down and waited – for thanks or recriminations, I could not be sure.

  Miss Mather, for once, seemed bereft of words. We stood and looked at the car. All that could have been said in its favour was that the engine was still running. It was a revolting sight. The forks had pushed the roof up into two large, pink humps.

  ‘It looks exactly like a bum,’ said Young Murdo thoughtfully, and I saw that it was so.

  I was not sure whether the remark was intended as a frank comment or as an innocent joke aimed at relieving the tension. True or not, the comment was both tactless and ill-timed. His father rounded on him and lifted his stick again. I thought that the blow was no more than a gesture, not intended to land. But again the boy jumped back. As Old Murdo brought his stick round again in a backhanded swing, Brett pushed between them and took the blow across the face.

  It was not in Old Murdo’s nature to apologize, especially to one of his own sons. His pudding face was screwed up as though in pain and I took it for a sign of concern. Before he could speak, Brett jerked the stick out of his father’s hand.

  For ten tense seconds, real violence was in the air. I saw Ronnie braced to throw himself into the fray, as peacemaker on one side or the other, and Ian was putting on his policeman’s face. Then Brett tried to break the stick across his knee. The heavy stick refused to break, so he tossed it into the dung.

  We waited for all hell to break loose.

  Then Brett swayed. Young Murdo grabbed him and pulled him away.

  ‘Aye,’ said their father hoarsely. ‘Keep the sheepshank out of my sight.’

  The figures that I had seen coming over the bridge had resolved themselves into Ken McKee, the neighbouring farmer, leaning on a stick even heavier than Old Murdo’s, with his daughter Sheila. They had joined the throng during the extraction of the car. Brett was seated by the track, nursing his face. Young Murdo knelt beside him, but I intercepted a look that passed between him and the girl. There had been bad blood between the two farmers for as long as I had been in the district, much of it centering on the two Easter Coullie fields that obtruded into the McKees’ land. It seemed that their progeny, far from continuing the quarrel, were in the early stage of falling in love.

  ‘What’s the old fool done to your bonny wee car?’ McKee asked of Miss Mather.

  She was waving her hands, less in despair than to ward off the flies. ‘You’ve eyes in your head,’ she said.

  ‘I have. And if you want to go after him for damages, we’re witnesses.’

  ‘Och, I’ve no time for the likes of that,’ Miss Mather said.

  ‘If you change your mind . . .’

  Old Murdo squared up to him. ‘You’d like that fine, you bugger,’ he said. ‘But it’s not up to Miss Mather. And her insurers’ll not want to throw good money after bad. So you can tak’ your ill-will back to your own ground and use it for the dung that’s all it’s fit for.’

  McKee looked amused but his face had flushed. ‘I’ve been shooting crows all morn,’ he said, ‘and any one of them was a better farmer than you. I’d go back for my rifle, forbye you’re not worth the same bullet as a crow.’

  Old Murdo was working himself up into a pitch of fury but he evidently felt that such insults as he had so far found fell short of the required standard. He glared at his younger son, still kneeling a few yards away. ‘And as for you, you can stay away from that wee whore for good and all.’
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  Young Murdo flinched, either at the word or the embargo. ‘Dad!’

  ‘I mean it.’ Old Murdo’s face was screwed up with venom. ‘No good’ll come of your trailing a wing wi’ the likes of her. Find yoursel’ a decent lass from a good family and forget about this trasherie.’

  Ken McKee gobbled for a few seconds but wisely decided against either violence or a slanging match. He took his daughter by the arm. ‘That goes for you too,’ he said grimly. ‘If you so much as speak to that lout again, I’ll have the skin off your back.’

  The girl looked back as she was half led, half dragged towards the bridge. Young Murdo was staring after her as though he could pull her back by sheer willpower.

  ‘You twa,’ Old Murdo said, ‘get back to your work. Brett, fetch back that carcase to the meat-shed.’

  Brett got shakily to his feet. Young Murdo looked anxiously at the swelling that was rising on his brother’s face but Brett nodded, clapped him on the shoulder and then hurried back to the tractor. I saw that he was limping from the blow he had given himself in his vain attempt to break his father’s stick. Young Murdo walked off and disappeared into the valley.

  Old Murdo returned his attention to Miss Mather and her car. ‘There’s a power-hose by the house,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll put your wee car down there.’

  Miss Mather humphed. ‘I’d sooner drive it,’ she said. ‘I’m o’er late already. My partner’ll be thinking something’s happened. I was meant to meet him an hour back.’

  The DAF’s engine was still ticking over. She reached in through a glassless window, unlocked the driver’s door and put the gear selector to neutral. Old Murdo backed the forklift clear. She tossed the windscreen into the back and carefully removed some broken glass from the seat before getting in. She intended a disdainful expression but she only managed to look bilious.