Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'We're
high
up,'
he
exclaimed
in
surprise.
They
were
standing
at
the
top
of
a
cliff.
'We'll
be
higher
still
before
we're
done.
All
the
way
up
by
there, and
then
down
again
to
the
loch.'
The
path
took
a
long
upward
curve,
close
all
the
way
to
the
edge
of
the
drop,
towards
the
summit
of
a
sheer
face
of
rock
whitened
by
generations
of
guano.
He
recognised
common
gulls,
herring
gulls,
guillemots,
razorbills,
kittiwakes,
stirring
and
squabbling
and
swooping
from
it.
Farther
out,
a
gannet
folded
its
wings
and
plunged
towards
the
water.
His
breath
began
to
come
faster.
Striding
on,
the
woman
pecked
at
him
with
her
glance.
'You
don't
get
a
climb
like
this
among
city
streets.
I've
walked
this
Head
in
all
weathers
for
thirty
years.
And,
since
I've
retired,
my
time's
my
own.'
At
the
summit,
they
turned
their
backs
on
the
sea
and
jolted
down
a
slope
towards
a
rocky
shore.
They
skirted
a
steep
hill
rubbed
with
slides
of
stone
among
the
coarse
grass.
'Over
there
–
to
your
left.
It's
the
only
decent
shelter
on
the
Head.
Everywhere
else
the
winter
winds
are
too
cruel
for
trees.
Alex
Sinclair
should
be
somewhere
about
there
–
that's
where
the
sighting
was.'
On
the
side
they
approached,
the
ground
sloped
down
sharply into
the
loch.
The
trees
were
thinly
ranked
on
the
other
side;
and
they
made
their
way
round,
jumping
a
meagre
stream.
The
loch
was
about
a
mile
in
length
and
beyond
it
to
the
north
there
was
a
glimpse
of
the
sea.
Among
the
trees,
they
could
hear
the
noise
of
water
lapping
into
the
loch
over
a
little
weir.
They
went
slowly through
the
thin
cover
without
a
sight
of
either
quarry,
man
or
bird.
'Never
mind,'
Miss
Sturrock
whispered,
crouching
to
peer
up through
angled
branches
of
willow.
As
Murray
contemplated
the
forbidden
possibility
of
planting
a
kick
on
her
tweed-bound
rump,
the
connection
that
had
been
niggling
at
him
fell
into
place.
Up
here with the children, Miss Sturrock, retired...
'Were
you
the
teacher?
In
the
village
school?'
'Sh-ssh,'
she
hissed.
'I
wonder
–
could
that
be
–
if
it
would
move
–
I
think
it
might
be
.
..'
But
it
wasn't,
and
she
admitted,
moving
cautiously
between
the bare
trunks,
and
not
distracted
but
freed
by
the
other
activity
of
searching
for
the
bird,
that,
yes,
she
had
been
the
teacher,
later
the
head
teacher
and
at
last
the
sole
teacher
in
the
village
school.
'Do
you
have
any
memory
of
two
girls
who
were
adopted
by Sandy
and
Grace
Fletcher?'
She
stopped
so
abruptly
that
he
almost
touched
her
.
'Aah.'
Her
breath
sighed
out.
'What
has
Alice
done?'
'Alice?'
'Francesca
and
Alice,'
she
said
impatiently.
'The
Fletchers adopted
them.'
'Frances,
yes.
But
the
other
child's
name
was
Urszula.'
'Oh,
Grace
Fletcher
wouldn't
have
that.
It
was
foreign.
Grace
couldn't
have
felt
she
belonged
to
her
–
not
with
a
name
like
that.
It
seemed
such
an
odd
name
anyway
–
I
mean,
I
knew
the
mother
was
Belgian.
Alice
is
such
a
pretty
name,
I
told
the
child.
It's
the
name
of
a
little
girl
like
you
who
passed
through
the
mirror
into
Wonderland.'
'Did
everyone
know
who
their
mother
had
been?'
If
that
was
so, Father
Hurtle's
vision
of
setting
them
free
of
the
past
had
gone wrong
from
the
start.
'How
do
you
keep
a
secret
like
that?
How
do
you
keep
any
secret
at
all
in
a
village
where
everyone's
related
on
one
side
of
the
blanket
or
the
other?'
With
the
binoculars,
she
swept
the
opposite
bank
as
she
continued,
'After
his
brother's
wedding
last
weekend,
Jack
Graham
gave
his
wife
a
beating –
hands
and
feet –
because she'd
danced
with
Peter
Hillis.
Of
course,
poor
Margaret
didn't
even
know
they'd
fallen
out.
They
quarrel
over
fouled
nets
or
over
berths
in
the
harbour – one
thing
or
another
incessantly.
And
it
was
the
wrong
time
of
the
month
for
Jack
.
All
that
family
go
funny
at
the
full
moon.
It's
the
in-breeding.
I'm
not
local
here,
you
understand
.
'