A Highland Feast
By
Millie McQuarrie
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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* * * * *
A Highland Feast
By Millie McQuarrie, Smashwords Edition.
Copyright 2010 Millie McQuarrie
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Chapter 1.
Coming home to scones
He was returning to Scotland for the first time in twenty years and nothing had changed. It was still very, very wet.
The 4x4’s wipers were on. On at the minimal setting, but on to combat the shroud of despondent drizzle draped across the sky. All around the car the mountains of dark heather dripped with moisture. And wild streams raced randomly down grey stone channels like tears over an old man’s cheek. The scenery was familiar, roads through the Highlands never changed, the only things that changed were the cars on them.
Alex Mackinnon looked round at his family, his wife Carrie was peacefully asleep in the passenger seat. She had tried to stay awake to keep him company on the long drive up from Glasgow, but such an effort was beyond her.
Still, he was glad she could rest. It was becoming more difficult for her to get a full night’s sleep.
Behind him, amidst the loaded boxes of prized possessions, the children were curled up under quilts, Fin’s small head lolled in his car-seat as he dreamed. His sister Sophie used their Mother’s coat as a pillow supported by one hand.
When she was awake, seven year-old Sophie had the same lively blue eyes as Carrie and even asleep their similarities were striking. Both Mother and daughter had blonde hair, pale skin and the more recent liking for hats. Fin looked much more like his Father, his brown eyes were closed and covered by the black tangled hair of a five year-old who could charm any age of woman. Of course, the mess of hair sprouting in every direction was a blessing in Alex’s youth too, but when you’re trying to establish yourself in serious business, consistent morning head becomes a bit of a burden.
Their clothes were also alike. Alex’s work rarely merited a suit, if anything he was expected to sport the latest fashions. So the scuffed jeans and T-shirt his son wore made him a small clone of his Father.
Through the grey drizzle ahead there was a road sign, it was written in both English and Gaelic. ‘Eilean a Skeo - Isle of Skye 2 miles’. Two miles from home, from the Island he left all those years ago. Just two miles over the bridge to Skye.
The sea air was becoming crisper, the damp scent of Highland heather replaced by a cleaner, colder tinge. As the car rose over another hill he saw the welcome sign for Kyle of Lochalsh. And then the Isle of Skye appeared slowly out of a bank of fog. A vast range of sharp, black mountains rising from a distant hanging mix of mist and cloud. Little wonder the Island had always held such fascination for mainlanders. And little wonder the very name translated as rain cloud in Gaelic. Skye was just a short distance across the water, but the vicious blades of the Black Cuillins made it look like another country. And now, this mystical Island of legends and romantic songs had become home to the most expensive toll bridge in the world, owned like a lot of the world’s remotest constructions, by The Bank of America.
Alex pulled up at the booth and handed the red-faced man in the yellow coat and tartan scarf the required £5.50 in change.
‘Will you be wanting a return sir?
‘No thanks, we’re staying’
‘Aye?’
He was surprised and smiled.
‘Well then, welcome to the Island’
‘Thanks’
The barrier opened and he drove through. The car climbed over the smooth mass of concrete arching high above the sea, over the half-mile of road then down toward the Island. The car passed the whitewashed town of Kyleakin to the south and turned toward the Broadford road. The landscape was desolate, all along the road, small solitary white houses spotted the dark mountains that higher up were topped by swathes of grey skree. Alex turned the car through a set of gates and over a rattling cattle grid, into the immediately different landscape of Sleat.
Sleat is the southernmost area of Skye connected by just a half-mile strip of land. The changes Alex saw were striking, the sea air seemed more remote, the musky aroma of damp breathing wood, moss carpeted forests and clear cold rivers overpowering in its wild fresh essence. Woodland along the roadside grew thicker and Alex began recognizing the familiar colours, colours that had earned Sleat the moniker of ‘the garden of Skye.’ As the car came around the final turn for Isleornsay Alex glanced at his mobile phone on the dashboard. The last signal bar blinked off and with the words ‘NO NETWORK’ the phone became a useless lump of metal and plastic. Surrounded by the mountains of Knoydart over the sea to the east and the Cuillin range to the north, what chance did any network have? He leaned across and switched it off.
‘Good riddance’ Carrie spoke
‘You’re awake’ Alex answered
‘Hmm’ she smiled. ‘I’ve been enjoying the scenery. It’s beautiful here, more than I imagined.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Okay…’
Carrie looked into her mirror to straighten the cap over her thinning blonde hair. She turned to look back at the sleeping children, smiled and touched her hand to Alex’s knee. She was gazing out across the sea to the hills of the mainland, a mist-covered mix of dark purples and greens beneath the clearing blue-tinged expanse of sky.
She smiled and spoke.
‘So this is it then…
Alex clasped her hand on his knee as she finished.
‘This is where I’m going to die.’
* * * * *
Cameron Knowles wasn’t one of the biggest Advertising Agencies, but it was widely recognized as the most creative.
That Thursday in June, the whole agency was buzzing, preparing for the pitch meeting with Adidas, the biggest shot of the year. The money would be unimaginable and the acclaim unbelievable. The creative departments had produced perfect work, the studio styled the layouts, the client managers had compiled the figures and planning and strategy had readied an all-singing all-dancing document… literally – they were always adding music to their PowerPoint presentations. Now it was up to Alex to tie it all together and charm Adidas into signing on the line.
Alex had worked in every area of the industry since arriving in London twenty years before. He started out in a mail room, within a year made it up to junior copywriter putting words to small ads, then, after a few agency moves and awards, had become one of the most sought after Advertising Executives in town. Eventually, he joined Cameron Knowles as Creative Director. But it didn’t involve much of what he recognised as real work, mostly schmoosing and dressing up campaigns with buzzwords like ‘holistic’, ‘convergence’ or ‘disruption’ to justify huge budgets to wary clients. And so, here he was, just a few hundred miles down the road, but a thousand miles away from the world he’d known on Skye - in the beating heart of Soho.
It was 10.50, Adidas would be there any minute. Darius O’Donnell one of three associate Creative Directors, popped his neatly coiffured blonde head around the door.
‘10 minutes to kick-off bro.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Then I’ll see you down there, we’ll kick arse bro.’
Alex always flinched when Darius used Americanisms like ‘bro’. The Home Counties boarding school accent just didn’t work. He’d even witnessed Darius’ own classically educated version of an Ali G war cry - ‘Bodicea!’
Alex replied without looking up from his notes.
‘Sure thing. See you down there.’
Darius closed the office door. Alex could hear him calling to one of the creative teams.
‘Dudes! Great visuals, we’re going to ace this one. Rrrespect.’
He saw Darius clicking his fingers at the bemused young men. And looked down at his notes one last time. He whispered to himself.
‘This is the big one, this could change everything.’
He stood to leave the office, brushed down his black shirt, black Paul Smith jacket and Armani jeans then checked himself in the mirror, he had bags under his eyes from the recent late nights at work and was a bit pale, he could have done with the tan he’d have brought back from the family holiday in Italy. But Carrie and the kids had gone on their own. The pitch came first. Weekends and holidays had to be sacrificed. Alex looked down at their photo on his desk and winked at his wife’s smiling image. She’d needed the holiday, at first they thought she might be pregnant but it wasn’t morning sickness. And when she was still ill when they got home, the doctor referred her to a specialist and the hospital ran some tests. She was due to hear back from her doctor that morning. Carrie said the specialist thought it was probably just a virus and refused to let him come home to go with her.
‘You’ve been working on the pitch for weeks, do you really think I’d let you jeopardize your chance of winning Adidas?’
Alex left his office just as his mobile started buzzing on silent. He rushed back in and grabbed it, answering as he walked towards the lift.
It was Carrie’s number. He answered as he walked from his office.
‘Hi darling how did it go?’
‘Not great Alex. When’s your pitch?’
‘Few minutes, what did they say?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll speak to you after.’
He sensed tears in her voice. What the hell was she playing at putting on this bravado?
The lift was open, he got in and pressed the G.
‘Carrie, what’s wrong? What is it?’
She snapped back.
‘It’s not good ok?’
He listened to her breathing, calming herself with slow, deep breaths in and out. Alex waited a moment in silence letting her compose herself and then whispered tenderly to her.
‘Carrie, it’s ok, come on. I love you. Please tell me’
The elevator doors opened. Out in the wide, white marble reception stood the CEO, MD, Darius and the four Adidas representatives, they all saw him in the lift and smiled expectantly.
Then Carrie’s voice returned to him
‘It’s Cancer.’
‘God no…’
‘It’s okay Alex.’
He could feel his guts collapse inwards, his body felt light and he sensed blood draining into some inner pit in his soul. He slumped against the rear wall of the lift and the doors closed again. The faces in the reception peered in at him in puzzlement.
He spoke.
‘Are you ok? Where are you?’
‘It’s ok, I’m home with Leanne from next door, she gave me a lift. The doctor thought it could be bad news so she came along.’
‘You knew?’
‘Not for certain, I didn’t want to worry you’
‘Jesus Carrie.’
‘It’s ok. You’ve been so busy with work, I just thought…’
Her tone shifted and became reassuring and optimistic.
‘I’m feeling alright just now, we’re having a cup of tea and a chat.’
‘I’m coming home now, right now.’
He hung up and pressed the button for the basement garage. But the doors opened as he tapped maniacally at the B button. The opening metal doors revealed the CEO; Dave Watt’s red puffy face alongside Darius’ shining moisturised pall.
‘What are you doing in there Alex? We’ve got a pitch to win.’
‘Sorry Dave, I can’t do it, I’ve got to go home, got to go.’
Dave’s wide grin remained fixed as he leaned in through the doors and whispered through his coffee stained, gritted teeth.
‘You get out here and win this pitch or I’ll have your nuts on a plate.’
The doors started to close again and Dave slapped his hand against the buttons to keep them open.
‘Now.’
Alex stiffened and stared back at the fat leering face that was more at home snorting powder from the cistern lid of a strip club toilet than in the company of his family.
‘Dave, get your hand off the door, I’m going home to my wife and kids.’
‘Your wife can rot in hell for all I care. Your career’s bloody well over if you don’t get out here now and win this pitch.’
With this, Alex saw a glimmer in Darius’s eyes. The younger man was suppressing joy at these words and an imminent shift in status.
Alex looked at Darius, pursed his lips in submission and shrugged as he turned to his boss.
‘Goodbye Dave.’
Dave Watt didn’t see the fist, but when he came round, his nose had sprayed a wide arc of blood across the gleaming reception floor as well as Darius’ white shirt and shocked face.
The tirade of profanity unleashed by Dave Watt as Alex’s car pulled out of the garage, past the front doors and along the street was the last thing the Adidas representatives heard as they, like Alex, left Cameron Knowles Advertising Agency far behind them.
* * * * *
The clouds were breaking to show shafts of sunlight as the tiny house appeared in the vast landscape. Whitewashed stone with strong metal frames secured the small windows. It was a clear evolution of the old blackhouses of the Western Isles. Only sixty years before, the last crofters abandoned the hovels that their peat burning fires filled with thick black smoke. Smoke that stained clothes and skin as they huddled together through the winter months.
This more modern house was of course much larger, but not tall, it was squat and deep. It’s oasis of kempt lawn and herb garden sat oddly in front of the woods, protected by a low, white fence, there was nothing to keep out or protect here, just areas to mark with lines. The house and garden nestled within a landscape of deep heather, grey rocks and moss-covered trees climbing the hills behind.
Alex turned the car up the steep gravel drive and the children roused with the sudden change in the car’s camber and sounds of the new road surface. Sophie was the first to wake, she was excited.
‘Are we here? Are we at Grandma’s?’
‘That’s right, we’re here.’
He answered, putting the car in park and pulling on the handbrake.
The doors of the stationary car poured open, the children running straight for the tiny black Shetland pony that stood grazing on the lower part of the lawn. Alex rounded the car to open the door for his wife and helped her out. She grimaced slightly, aching from the long journey but her face soon filled with a glowing smile as she saw the small bouncing figure of Alex’s Mother, Helen, racing from the front door. Helen was dusting flour from her hands onto the blue apron as she approached them.
‘Hello dears! You’re here! I wasn’t expecting you for a couple more hours. Come here for a cuddle the pair of your.’
The three stood together silently for a moment until Helen drew back, still holding both Alex and Carrie by the arms.
‘Let me look at you.’
She looked first at her son.
‘Aye, still drinking too much, I can tell from your eyes.’
‘Cheers mum.’
She gently ushered him away
‘You make yourself useful and unload the car.’
Turning to look at her daughter-in law she smiled
‘Hello dear.’
‘Hi Helen. We’ve missed you.’
Both women took each other in without words for a moment. Carrie’s eyes welled up and Helen pulled her close again.
‘You’ve made the right decision coming to the Island Carrie, you know, you’re closer to the almighty here… just look around you.’
Carrie pulled back from the warm, comforting embrace, something she’d missed so much since her own Mother had passed away. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then drew in a deep breath of the cool air. They looked out across the lawn to the sea where white crested waves moved slowly towards the land and mountains beyond. The sun was piercing clouds in bright shafts and steady wind swept through the swaying trees surrounding the house like whispers.
‘It’s exactly how I imagined.’
Carrie looked down at the children as they gently patted Jamie - the little horse. They’d seen plenty of photos of him on their Grandmother’s visits to London and their faces were glowing at finally getting to meet the friendly little pony.
Carrie continued:
‘I just want to spend what time I’ve got left with my family. I couldn’t even let the children play in the garden in London without worrying that something might happen. And as for Alex, there’s every chance the job might have killed him before the Cancer finished me off.’
Alex struggled at the back of the car, he was unwilling to make more journeys than necessary so was loading more and more bags on each arm, shoulder, back and even in his teeth.
They both smiled knowingly at this determination, then turned as they heard the storm of the cheering children race through the garden towards their Grandmother, arms outstretched.
Helen bent down to the small figures.
‘Here you are!’
* * * * *
Inside the house, the kitchen was bleached Scots pine, its floor tiled with large black and white flagstones and dominated by a scarred, worn wooden table with four sturdy chairs of varying design arranged around it. Helen moved from the high cupboards to the large black stove as she collected tins of teabags and sugar then mugs of varying sizes and colours to fill from the dented whistling kettle. The stove blazed with warmth through its thick iron walls, heating the room at it’s highest setting and preparing itself for a fresh intake. Alex could tell immediately from the ingredients on the work-surface the delivery would contain scones. To Alex, his Mother’s scones typified traditional Scottish home cooking. She never tried anything too fancy, nothing too adventurous, just as the wives of great writers might not pen much more than the occasional Christmas card. But Helen’s Scones were wondrous because they were so comfortingly simple, a traditional recipe she’d been taught by her own Mother almost 60 years before.
Helen placed the cups of tea on the table before Alex and Carrie, outside, the children were laughing excitedly.
‘You drink your tea, I’ve just to finish off here.’
Alex happily recognized the stage his Mother was at in the process of assembling this dish. He’d watched it hungrily for over a hundred Sunday mornings, the only day his Father would let them forget about the high art of cuisine.
Helen took a golden mixture of butter, flour and sugar in a ceramic bowl from the table, lifted a jug of milk and poured with instinctive precision. She then grabbed a wooden spoon from a clay pot by the window and held the bowl steady on the table as she mixed. The bowl danced with the rhythm of the spoon and she kept stirring until it started to become a soft dough. Her face was bright as she worked enthusiastically. Then her concentration broke and instinct took over. She began talking
‘The children are loving it out there. I remember how messy you used to get playing in the woods Alex, coming back with your knees scuffed and your hands covered in muck.’
Carrie spoke as she watched the steady rhythm of the wooden spoon move.
‘That’s how I grew up too Helen, and that’s what’s wrong with the city, there’s no time for childhood, Sophie’s already asked for a mobile phone and we’re pretty close to getting her one.’
‘Oh they’re not much use are they? She asked incredulously
‘You can always find someone round here, there’s only so many pubs eh Alex?’
It was the usual chiding a Mother directs at any son, in truth Helen was proud of the fact that her boy held down a job and career, there were so many on the Island who had careers scuppered by whisky.
She left the mix as it settled gently into the bowl the scent filling the room and took a large wooden board from by the sink and floured it generously with a scooped handful.
Helen put the mixture onto the board and gently flattened it with the heels of her hands, flouring the board and her hands as she went. Soon the dough was about an inch in thickness. She measured it by the length of her forefinger to the middle knuckle.
‘So how’s the sale of the house going?’
‘Not great, we’ll be pushing our finances quite a bit until the sale goes through. It’s not really the right time of year.
‘Well you’ll pick up something here easy enough when you want. Apparently if you’re a crofter the EU Parliament will give you thirty thousand pounds to build a house.’
‘I didn’t plan on becoming a smallhold farmer mum.’
‘Course not, but you only need five sheep to qualify as a crofter these days and they cost about two pound each. Most of the local boys are building their own houses then letting the crofts out as holiday homes while they take off to Glasgow.’
As she spoke she started to stamp shapes with a floured metal scone cutter then placed them on a hot baking tray, she’d been warming on top of the stove. When all the scones were on the tray she placed them in the oven and quickly glanced at the Grandfather clock in the corner.
After seven minutes and another round of tea, the room was filled with the mouth-watering aroma and steam of the cooked scones, Helen took them from the oven and gently placed each one onto a wide white tray accompanied by a bowl of thick, sweet, homemade raspberry jam and another bowl of cold, golden clotted cream.
They each took a warm scone and pulled the hard toasted tops and bottoms apart to reveal the steaming white centre and started scooping their dollops of filling in. They washed down the scones with strong, hot tea and enjoyed the laughter of the children in the garden and the echoing tick of the old clock in the corner. It felt to Carrie that these simple pleasures were somehow purer in these surroundings.
Carrie poured a mug of tea and slowly stood.
‘Helen, I need to take some medication, then I wouldn’t mind having a little lie down, do you mind looking after this lot for me?’
She nodded out at the children and then included Alex too. He was engrossed in the back pages of the local paper, Shinty scores were a world away from London’s millionaire football teams.
Helen smiled up to her daughter-in-law and nodded.
‘Of course dear, the bed’s made up for you, I’ll take you through.’
Carrie raised a hand.
‘No it’s ok Helen, don’t fuss, just point me in the right direction.
‘Alright then dear, it’s straight down the hall and on your left, you have a nice long nap.’
Alex’s face was blank as she took her cup of tea and left the room, she glanced back to see him silently mouth ‘love you’ to her and wink.
Carrie moved through the dark hall as she heard Alex and his Mother begin discussing the recent arrival of an unwelcome Otter at the nearby beach. She could sense that he was starting to relax in a way that the Med normally took a week to achieve. She passed a number of old oil paintings showing a series of Highland scenes, a Stag high on a mountain surveying his glen, a Capercaillie in a thicket of heather and then two old women mending fishing nets by a silent harbour. She moved past the pictures and came to the thick old door of the bedroom. But before she pushed it open, paused. Carrie saw an image of Alex as a youth, smiling at her from the wall of the room next door. Intrigued by her husband’s mysterious childhood, she stepped into the next room and found it to be a small study. It was cluttered with books of every size and shape, a mix of framed photographs on the walls and an old oak desk that barely fitted between the shelves. Carrie turned to look at the photo, the young Alex wore a green anorak and was sporting a toothless grin of pride as he used both arms to hold a giant salmon he’d just caught. Behind him, with a hand on his shoulder and equally proud was a man of about Alex’s current age with the same unmistakable tangle of hair. She’d never seen a photo of his Father before, but here he was, side by side with his son. She smiled and let her gaze travel to the next frame, it was Alex’s Father in front of his old restaurant, a tall grey building with a wide drive in front.
The next picture showed Alex again, now even younger, covered in flour and holding a large silver mixing bowl. She giggled at the sweetness of the boy she now loved as a man. The next black and white image forced a double take from Carrie, it was a group of diners sitting back after a meal at the restaurant, Alex’s Father in his full Chef whites sat in the middle of the group, Michael Caine to his left, Sean Connery on his right. Caine and Connery both wore the wide collared shirts of the mid 70’s, the large knots of their ties had been loosened after the meal. All the men were enjoying large cigars. The next picture was equally intriguing, Tony Curtis and a beautiful blonde digging into a large cake held by Alex aged around twelve. There were more and more of these photos spanning the 60’s and 70’s a who’s who of the rich and famous. A couple of the larger frames held magazine covers and articles showing Alex’s Father hard at work in the kitchen, Paris Match, GQ and there was even an article from Playboy entitled ‘A kitchen is no place for a woman.’
Carrie was fascinated, she looked around at the room again and on the top of a low row of shelves she saw a bulging scrapbook of more and more articles from the very first mention in the Glasgow Herald describing ‘A Highland gem’ to the announcement in The London Times of Scotland’s first Michelin star restaurant. She flicked through to the back pages, past more and more glowing reviews and announcements of awards. Carrie was mesmerized by the accolades and anecdotes. Then, the articles began to fade as the quality of the paper returned to locally printed publications like The West Highland Free Press, and The Inverness Chronicle. The dates were from around the time Alex had left the Island. The final, largest article announced the sale of the restaurant to a man called Dunbar Graves giving a brief mention of the glorious past of what was once known as the greatest restaurant for six hundred miles. The last page of the book held a small box of text torn from the local paper.
‘Alex Mackinnon senior (60) died peacefully in his sleep on Sunday night. The Former head Chef and owner of Sleat House is survived by his wife Helen (49) resident of Broadford and his son Alexander junior (25) a successful Advertising Businessman in London.’
Carrie closed the book, put it back in its high dusty place and turned to the door. As she left the room Carrie couldn’t help but smile at the picture of a stunning, Sophia Loren planting a kiss on a visibly disgusted eight-year old Alex’s cheek. The little boy in the photo wore a Chef’s hat that was too big for him and wedged over his ears. His whole face was bright red.
Carrie thought to herself.
‘He was exactly the same on our wedding day.’
* * * * *
Skye scones
8 oz self-raising flour
a pinch of salt
2 oz butter
1 oz castor sugar
5 fl oz milk
Heat oven to 220c (gas mark 7)
Mix flour and salt in a bowl then rub in the butter with your hands.
Now stir in sugar and milk until soft and doughy.
Knead on a floured surface and flatten to an inch depth, use a finger to measure this.
Stamp out the scones, but don’t twist as you stamp, this can affect the rise. Brush the tops with milk.
Place on a greased baking tray.
Place in oven until the scones have risen and the tops are golden.
Remove and leave on a rack to cool.
And enjoy with clotted cream, homemade strawberry jam and a cup of tea.
* * * * *
Chapter 2.
A platter of Queenies
It was early on Monday morning, Carrie and Helen were taking the children to the beach to introduce them to other parts of their new Island home. So Alex decided to jump into Island life, feet first. He was driving the 50 miles north to Portree and the Island’s only job centre. Carrie remained adamant that he should find work as soon as possible, any work. Just to keep his mind off the future, and to give the children the continuity they would need on the Island when she was gone. There was very little chance of him moving the family back to London, and while Edinburgh was a possibility, it would take some time to arrange things.
Of course, the last time Alex visited a job centre was a week after he arrived in London from Skye, he was living on a friend’s older brother’s floor for a week and the guy wanted some money. That’s when he found his first job in advertising and from there never loo ked back. Things wouldn’t be so straightforward on Skye. Even when he was a boy, everyone had to take two or three jobs just to make the most basic ends meet. It was perfectly normal for George from the distillery to drive the school bus, Flora McDermott ran a summer B & B and funded the rest of the year by hosting Ann Summers evenings across the Highlands. Donald McLeod, a proud Father of twelve held the local record when he combined Fireman, Fisherman and Bookie with four seasonal jobs. Donald was also the first case of work related burnout the Island had ever seen, he eventually had to move to Glasgow for an easier life.
It took Alex close to an hour to get up to Portree and the winding road into town took him past his old school, it was a 1950s breezeblock and glass Mecano set, but the only school on the Island and thankfully a lot closer for him growing up than the children from the outlying Islands who hitched to school on fishing boats before dawn. He passed a newer sight, a gleaming new Tesco’s superstore. Alex was impressed, when he was younger something as simple as a jar of Dijon mustard meant a six hour round trip to Inverness during emergencies and that was with the pedal to the floor. He parked the car in the large cobbled town square and marched quickly through the streets to the steps leading down to the harbour and the Job Centre’s waterside building. Alex passed an older couple slowly climbing the stairs. As he squeezed by them, the old man glanced up and smiled at the stranger. As Alex continued down the stone steps, the old man stopped in his tracks, a brief moment of recognition flashing across his face. He shook his head.
‘It couldn’t be.’
The new harbour was deserted, the fishing boats still all appeared to favour the deeper waters in the old harbour. The two small buildings that occupied the wide car park were the job centre and opposite it, ‘Ghandi’s Indian restaurant’. Too far north for the people of Sleat to call for home deliveries. But the pioneers of Ghandi’s leased freezer space for their ready meals in so many petrol stations on the Island that their name was known in every household, and as popular as Santa Claus (at least with the men of the house).
Alex pushed open the door to the Job Centre and found it deserted, a small solitary ginger haired man at an empty desk in the far end of the room saw Alex and quickly sat up straight in excited anticipation.
‘Mornin’! Come in! In you come!’
Alex nodded his greeting and closed the door behind him.
The ginger man spoke.
‘How can I help you Mr?’
‘Mackinnon, Alex Mackinnon.’
The smaller man smiled.
‘Come on and sit down Mr Mackinnon.’
Alex pulled the chair out from its neat position beneath the desk and sat.
‘Now then, what kind of work are you looking for?’
Alex pondered for a moment, the nearest ad agency was in Glasgow, six hours drive south.
‘Well, I’m a pretty good advertising creative, but my main forte’s in building brand identity.’
The little red man’s eyes were blank. But after a moment he smiled and answered.
‘Why not have a quick look at the jobs board. It’s a formality really, after that we’ll sign you up for the benefit.’
Alex turned and moved to the large blue board. In the middle of the wide expanse were two neatly pinned but lonely pieces of card quietly describing their requirements.
He looked at the first note, it read:
‘Shrimp packer needed for work on Rhum.’
The Isle of Rhum was off the southwest Coast of Skye, A commute would take several hours every morning.
‘Not exactly local then.’
The next note was printed on green pencil with a red drop shadow:
‘Nude models required for modern artists £5 per hour, contact Mr and Mrs Letchworth.’
‘That’s that then’ he thought.
‘There’s not much there is there?’
The voice behind him pined.
Alex turned and nodded. He returned to the desk where the smaller redder man had laid out a series of forms. Alex sat before them, was handed a biro and his reintroduction to unemployment began.
‘Now then Mr Mackinnon If you’ll just fill out these forms and sign here, here , here and here… we can crack on.’
Alex proceeded to sign the forms. He wrote in his National Insurance number and listed his skills. The little man looked on, peering over to see the list of previous employment.
‘You know, Mr Mackinnon, if you don’t mind me saying, you’ve left out cooking on your skills list.’
Alex glanced up, suspiciously.
‘Why don’t you work as a cook, I remember people saying you were as good as your Father when you left the Island.’
‘You know more about me than just my National Insurance number then.’
The smaller man looked down
‘I’m sorry, but it was quite a talking point when your Father had to sell the restaurant.’
Alex cut in abruptly.
‘Then you’ll understand why I’m no longer a Chef. I’ve got more important things in my life now.’
Both men were silent as Alex finished the forms.
The awkwardness was broken when the door opened and a mountain of muscle moved across the threshold, the new figure spoke to the man at the desk.
‘Mornin, Stanley, here for my bru money.’
‘In you come Mr Fraser, got it here.’
Alex looked round to see the giant man and in a moment of recognition, smiled.
Barry ‘the Barrel’ Fraser, was one of Alex’s oldest childhood friends, he was large when Alex left, now he was enormous.
‘So you’re claiming too Barrel?’
The larger man looked down and his eyes lit up.
‘My god! You’re back!’
Alex stood and was immediately engulfed in the wide arms of the monster man.
‘Ya wee shite! What was that about? Disappearing to London on us?’
Alex released himself and looked up into the wide face and wild brown beard.
‘Well I’m back but it looks like I’ve got some fine dining to catch up with’
Barrel patted his stomach.
‘It’s good Highland living boy! Highland living! So what the hell you doing here? You on holiday? What you doing at the bru office?’
‘We’ve moved back, me and the family. We’re staying with my Mother in Isleornsay.’
Alex moved off the uncomfortable subject quickly.
‘But what about you?’
The, now tiny by comparison, man behind the desk piped in.
‘Barrel’s the editor of our local newspaper.’
Alex looked from one man to the smaller.
‘And you claim unemployment benefit?’
Both the locals smiled at this.
Barrel began to answer when there was a knock on the glass door. Outside stood a man in a long grey coat and black fedora hat over a black suit. With a small, white, religious collar. The local priest waved his claim form, smiling.
Barrel patted Alex on the shoulder like an older, wiser brother.
‘Everyone claims.’
* * * * *
Alex and Barrel walked along the harbour front eating fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. The coloured facades of the houses overlooking the harbour were a mix of white, pastel blue, pink and yellow, in the summertime the sun would shine off these buildings and make the harbour look like a box of chocolates. Today the weather was its usual self, there was a threat of rain hanging in the air and everyone wore jackets… it was a bit ‘dreich’ so the promenade was empty of visitors as the two men talked.
‘Breast Cancer. That’s terrible. I’m sorry Alex.’
‘Thanks Barrel.’
‘Is there nothing they can do?’
‘They’ve done everything they can. We’re just going to try to enjoy the time she’s got left.’
‘So what you going to do here Alex?’
‘Well, that’s where I’m stuck Barrel. We want the kids to get used to living here. I’ll go out to work, they’ll go to school, everything will be as close to their lives down south as we can make it. Only up here. Where they can live a safer and healthier life. That’s the plan anyway but it’s not going to work if I don’t have a job to go to.’
Barrel stood still for a moment looking out to sea.
He was thinking long and hard.
‘Look out there’
Alex followed Barrel’s hand, to the wide, dark calm of the sea.
‘There’s two porpoises that have been farting about in that bay for three weeks now. Biggest story we’ve had all year. But we’ve run out of stuff to say about the silly fish. Our rag needs new stories.’
Alex pondered for a moment, smiled and asked.
‘What kind of story are you after?’
‘Food Alex.’
Alex flinched at this. He could tell where Barrel was going.
‘I need a story about Dunbar Graves. It’s nearly twenty years since Graves took over your Father’s place. And he’s the first Chef in Scotland to get a two-star rating since then.’
Alex was silent, his eyes on the floor as Barrel continued.
‘I know you left that whole game behind, but you’re probably the best qualified person to write this kind of article. And who knows, maybe you’ll find some holes in the old bastard.’
Alex stayed silent and Barrel tried another approach.
‘After all, your leaving is the main reason Graves came to the Island .’
Alex cut in sharply
‘I don’t need to be reminded Billy.’
‘OK, sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it’
They walked on in silence, Alex took another chip from his paper, bit it and then a moment later took it from his mouth, placed it back with the rest of the chips, rolled the lot into a ball and tossed it into a nearby bin.
Alex breathed out deeply and shook his head.
‘Can you get me more work if it do this one?’
Barrel smiled
‘Sure, you could be a Highland version of AA Gill.’
They laughed at the absurdity.
* * * * *
Carrie and Helen stepped carefully along the large pebbles of the Tarskavaig beach on the western coast of the Island. The Atlantic stretched as far as the curved horizon would allow the eye to see. A few paces behind them, the children gleefully explored the pebbles and rock pools.
‘This must be lovely in the summer.’
‘Aye, it’s very pretty, but you’d be quite brave to go swimming in it.’
They both shuddered at the thought.
‘After all Iceland’s the next stop as the crow flies.’
The waves were low and steady, their beat a constant rhythm that relaxed them as they continued along the beach. The hypnotic rhythm was finally broken by the sound of Sophie shouting in excitement.
‘Mummy! Look at this! Come and look at this!’
They turned to see the young girl holding a large empty wicker creel covered in seaweed before her.
‘It’s a cat-carrier.’
The two women walked back to the children, with a slight look of disgust at the dripping, broken mess of wood and muck.
Helen crouched down to the children’s height
‘No my dears that’s what we call a creel. It’s an underwater cage and it’s used for catching… ‘
Their eyes lit up as she paused on the last word
‘Lobsters! Big ugly old lobsters from down in the dark water. Big scary things with claws the size of your hands.’
She grabbed at Fin’s sides with her hands like claws as he giggled and squirmed.’
‘Can we catch one grandma?’
Fin backed up Sophie’s plea.
‘Yes, can we? Can we?’
Helen stood up straight.
‘Ask your Daddy and maybe he’ll take you creeling. Now come on, leave that thing to the Kelpies’
They left the broken tangle and carried on down the beach. Soon, Carrie turned to Helen and asked;
‘Does Alex really know how to catch Lobsters?’
Helen laughed.
‘Of course he does. He can hunt, catch, kill and gut just about anything you’ll find on these Islands. From hand-diving scallops to digging out Chanterelle mushrooms or stalking a stag through the Cuillin hills. His Father made sure of it and took him out to sea or up to the mountains every Saturday morning for that night’s menu. Alexander senior had very firm views on the food he cooked. Everything had to be fresh, local and of the highest standard, if it wasn’t right, he’d put it back and keep fishing for hunting for whatever he was after, however long it took. And neither of them would have had it any other way.’
Carrie stopped.
‘You mean Alex too?’
Helen waited for Carrie to follow.
‘Alex can cook alright. He just chooses not to. He spent his first eighteen years in his Father’s kitchen, seven days a week and fourteen hours a day in the last few years he was on the Island.’
Carrie was shocked
‘My god. In ten years of marriage he’s never made me anything more than beans on toast. He’s always opted for take-aways, ready meals or restaurants when it’s his turn to cook.’
Helen walked on, head down.
‘Yes I know. He swore to his Father that he’d never cook again. He went to his deathbed wishing that argument had never happened. The night his boy left home.’
‘What was it about?’
‘A wee red star.’
‘Right, of course.’
Carrie knew his Father’s restaurant had been famed in its day as the first restaurant outside London, and here of all places, to get two of the universally coveted Michelin Stars. It was the ultimate accolade for the world’s restaurant trade.
Since the turn of the last century, restaurants in France had been reviewed and rated by the little red book of gastronomy. Even one star was hard enough a recommendation to achieve but two stars was only allocated to a restaurant with ‘excellent cooking well worth a detour’ and of course three stars? Three Michelin stars was the biggest prize. It drove people from around the world to your restaurant. The guide’s description? ‘Three stars – exceptional cuisine worth a special jourmey.’ Carrie was well aware that even to this day there were only three of these supremely rated restaurants in the whole of the British Isles.
And of course the people who awarded these ratings were as mysterious as the mythology suggested. A shadowy brethren, selected for their superior palettes and knowledge of the finest dining, these bon viveurs were included by invitation only and required to serve a four year apprenticeship following one of the elder gastronomiques on their secret journeys around Europe.
Chefs who lost a star could become broken men, shamed and despondent to such a degree that there had been countless breakdowns and even suicides blamed on the loss of the accolade. To reach such a culinary pinnacle and then lose it for whatever reason, unseasonal food, a overcomplicating your flavours or the wrong house wine was often too much for the fiery and excessive characters of the very small number of master-Chefs.
So Carrie knew only too well, that if Alex and his Father had fallen out over the award of a Michelin star, there was nothing trivial about it. This was no teenage tantrum that drove son from Father – it was the holy grail of a third star.
‘What happened?’
Carrie asked as she looked back at the children, peering into a rock-pool.
Helen followed her gaze and watched the children creep closer to the pool.
‘Well, it was a long time ago and I heard his Father’s side enough times that I might not be the best person to tell you. There’s been many times I wished that the men from that tyre company had never come to our home though. But our home was also a Chef and his son’s restaurant.
Sophie called over from the rock pool.
‘Grandma? What’s a Kelpie?’
Helen smiled at Carrie
‘Good, now I get to tell my faerie stories.’
She gingerly tiptoed across the popping carpet of seaweed to the children.
* * * * *
Alex turned the radio off as he steered along the winding gravel road to Dunbar Graves’ restaurant. His Father’s old restaurant, the place where he grew up.
He parked at the gate and turned off the engine. Alex looked at the familiar old building, it was a granite and red sandstone 18th century hunting lodge, twelve bedrooms, a library, lounge, smoking room, forty acres of moss carpeted woodland a small loch and of course, a two Michelin star kitchen and restaurant, still the best set up for five hundred miles.
He looked up at the windows and knew every room behind every curtain and door. His Grandfather bought the building then known as Sleat House after the war. It had been commandeered by the royal navy to house rehabilitating sailors in clean air, but by 1952, abandoned by the armed forces and soon there wasn’t a single slate on its roof or pane of glass left intact. His Grandfather had worked his whole life as a gamekeeper on the surrounding estate and witnessed what was becoming of the old building, so dutifully sank all his money into it. When Alex senior was fifteen his Father realised Sleat House needed a Chef and sent his only son to France to stay with one of the Loire valley’s great families, Les Charbonniers du Thone, a family who had visited the House many times before the war, but who had lost almost as much as the rest of France in the intervening years. Alex senior spent nine years under the wing of Monsieur Charbonnier and was packed off around France to learn from the best of the new young Chefs. He trained in Paris, Bordeaux, Lyon and Marseilles. It was on the Mediterranean coast that he finally learned that the culinary arts France had built it’s reputation on, were based on ingredients that even the dimmest Islander would see as inferior to the seafood harvest found in the Island’s deep, jade-tinged seas. In a moment of clarity, he realised that if you stripped away the complexities of the old Haute Cuisine sauces and garnishes. You would find the finest Scottish produce; from pedigree Aberdeen Angus to wild Orkney salmon to Hebridean langoustines, the staple dishes in every major restaurant from Lyon to London had one supplier in common, Scotland.
He returned to the Island determined to help his ailing Father build the business back to its former glory. The name of the house was changed to Sleat House Hotel and Restaurant. The food changed and a new generation of guests started arriving. Soon enough, the best restaurant critics from London were racing their E type Jags 600 miles up the M1 to experience the latest craze of the swinging sixties; fine dining in a Highland setting.
Alex’s thoughts were broken as he saw a group of young men in Chef whites racing down a forest past towards the back door. He looked closely at them, not one of them could be older than twenty. They were all deathly thin and their skin was pale. They were probably the cream of catering colleges up and down the country. Well drilled, obedient and ready to be sacrificed at Graves’ altar to French Cuisine. They’d come here to learn and love the source of their food, to add a two-star restaurant known around the world to their cvs and to learn from a master. But instead they’d be working eighteen hour shifts, bullied, survive on tinned food heated in a stove in their room and finally dropped after three months of unpaid labour. Then, in a few years, they’d have a collection of infamous restaurants listed on their CV and no idea what they were doing. Alex had seen it all over London, any Chef’s table in town gives you a glimpse into this world and makes you realise that the drones in most kitchen are only slightly removed from the drones that man a fryer in a fast food restaurant. They’d probably never even seen a live salmon. Because no Chef who’s achieved anything cares to pass his secrets on to younger hungrier men who might open their own place around the corner… instead they would be used and abused until the hunger was drained from them.
Looking around Alex noticed that the herb garden his parents had so carefully cultivated was still immaculate, but maybe too immaculate, now little more than an ornamental nod to home-grown produce for the aging guests to amble around before dinner.
Alex gunned the engine and turned the car toward home and his family.
On the road back he mulled over what he had seen. There was no story there. A story about the art of cookery should talk of knowledge, pride, craft, care and commitment to the local history and traditions. Graves traded that in years ago when he renamed Sleat House “Residence Dunbar Graves”.
‘The pretentious twat.’
He pressed hard on the accelerator. Somewhere in the back of his mind the young man who’d spent all his school holidays at his Father’s side in a furnace of a kitchen flinched. His Father personally selected every Chef in his brigade and took them hunting and fishing. He wanted them to know everything about the food they were creating. To love it as much as he did. Not just churn out the latest fad. Alex’s anger simmered, boiled and then burned to a raging fury at the thought of those two hard-earned stars being tarnished in such a manner. All Graves cared about was turning a buck.
The evening light matched Alex’s mood as it bled across the sea, the sun setting over the Atlantic. The normally dark mountains were as red as burning embers in the mix of fiery light. But Alex had no time for scenery as he fanned his temper with the common Scottish tonic of very fast and dangerous driving. The other Scottish tonic for uncontrollable anger was of course whisky.
So immediately upon arrival back at the cottage, he marched into the house and summoned everyone to the car. They were all going to the pub for dinner and drink, lots of it.
* * * * *
They arrived just after eight. The Emperor Stag was a registered free house when Dr Johnson toured the Highlands three hundred and fifty years before. And since the buyout of Sleat House, the only place in the south of Skye that a local could get a meal that wasn’t wrapped in newspaper. When Alex senior returned from France he brought back some alien ideas, the strangest of which was the tradition of the table d'hôte, A Napoleonic by-law that requires every restaurant to allow a man to eat a three course meal for a fixed, affordable price. Alex’s Father loved that egalitarian principle and kept it alive in his own restaurant for decades. In turn the locals kept the atmosphere of the restaurant distinctly Highland and always gave him first choice of their catch, harvest or herd. Mackinnon’s promise of affordable food was of course, the first thing Graves got rid of.
The pub building was another squat, whitewashed stone construction, the main bar building and a long function room at the back, overlooking the sea. The small, gravel car park hosted a selection of weatherworn cars. And by the look of it not one of them would pass an M.O.T. But there was never much chance of being pulled over on Skye, so everyone drove, no matter what state they or their car was in. The biggest danger drivers were ever presented with were the suicidal black-faced sheep that seemed to prefer tarmac to heather.
The children had been wrapped tightly in their anoraks and wellies, Carrie wore a Von Dutch baseball cap to match the t-shirt under her jacket and Alex was in an old fishing coat he’d found at the back of a cupboard. But Helen was wearing her best coat and scarf for this rare night out. The narrow blue door led to a damp cloakroom with wire mesh doors on strong metal springs protecting the inner warmth of the pub. Alex heaved them open for his family and they streamed past him. Carrie stopped and held on tightly to his arm. She looked up into his eyes.
‘You haven’t seen these people for a while.’
‘We’ll just see how they treat the runaway teenager then won’t we?’
She hugged him and gave a brief, reassuring smile
‘They’ll all be glad to see you.’
Alex smiled but the opposite was more likely.
‘These Highlanders have long memories.’
Alex pushed the door open to the loud rumble of conversation and laughter inside. He watched his Mother settling into a plastic and foam cushioned corner table by the peat fire, the children beside her, they were excited and intrigued by their new surroundings. He looked around the dark oak bar with it’s country-wide selection of malt whiskies, the jagged and worn horns of the stag antlers haphazardly arranged across the stained walls of the room and the yellowed maps of the Island behind dusty glass. Alex furtively glanced at the many fascinated eyes that followed him through the room. He saw people he’d known all his life, some who seemed not to have moved from their seats by the bar. In the far corner, Alex saw a table of faces he’d grown up with. Davie Gilbert and Shona, they’d been sweethearts since primary and married when they were both sixteen. Davie obviously worked at the local bank, he was still wearing the name-badge and suit from a long day’s work. Beside them sat the large figure of Barrel, who raised a glass of whisky to Alex and the family as they settled into their padded, wooden corner. The big bearded man’s wife was unfamiliar to Alex. Not from the Island, maybe from Glasgow, what they locally referred to as a ‘grey settler’ ‘white settlers’ were of course from much further south. But her makeup was extravagant, even for Glasgow. She was a wild cocktail of golden jewellery, pink blusher and crimson lipstick topped by a thick and high blast of peroxide hair.
Helen nudged Alex and whispered to him.
‘That’s young Barry’s Internet wife Svetlana. She’s from Siberia. She thinks it’s great here, a proper metropolis, she goes to Inverness shopping all the time at the Marks and Spencer’s.
Carrie leaned over to Alex
‘This is so exciting. They all know you.’
Alex smiled, the children were standing on their seat to examine a map of Scotland’s most famous battles on the wall behind them.
A small woman with brown highlighted hair came from the bar to the table, she was beaming as she approached.
‘I don’t do this very often… but I think you deserve table service tonight.’
She looked down at Alex.
‘Hello stranger’
Mary McLeod leaned down and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
‘We’ve missed you lad.’
Alex nodded his head low to his chest.
‘Thanks’
‘Now what do you kiddies want for your tea? Will it be fish fingers or the bangers and mash?’
Both the children turned and shouted excitedly