Finlay returned the pad and pen. ‘That’s nae secret.’ He wasn’t sure why he was answering in this way. He just wanted to escape. To run, right out the door.
‘I always think how idyllic it looks.’
Finlay held in a scoffing laugh. ‘Idyllic?’ he repeated, weighing up the idea.
‘From down here, I mean,’ Murray was quick to add. ‘I imagine it can be a bit hairy up there, some days.’
Hairy was a highlander’s way of calling something wild and dangerous. Finlay had never thought of his cruive in that way. If anything, those four walls were his only safe place. He was always fine once the mountain was safely swept of silly tourists and his door was locked.
Finlay nodded, faking agreement to be polite and pocketing his compass. The way it slid in next to his heart settled him further.
‘I, uh, I’m happiest up along the tree line, in the green,’ Finlay said, wondering why he was explaining himself to this man.
He’d been raised in the Scottish Kirk by his Reverend father, but if you asked Finlay Morlich what God meant, he’d answer that it was another word for nature.
Whatever this was affecting Finlay, he was clearly the only one fighting the urge to run away, and now he risked overstaying his welcome, just to see more red curls and green irises.
‘What, eh, what do I owe you?’
‘It’s donations only. Entirely at your discretion.’ Murray was taking a step back, like he didn’t want to seem overbearing, a little embarrassed about the matter of money, perhaps?
Finlay had no awkwardness about money talk, not like some Scots. He pulled a twenty-pound note from his pocket and handed it over. What was money to him? He was rich beyond compare, if only he could get back to his mountain to enjoy his wealth of sky and granite in peace.
‘Anything else you need fixing, bring it down to us,’ Murray said, adding the donated amount to the form in a flowy, easy script, nothing like Finlay’s own, and making to move away.
‘You’ve no’ broken anything else of mine, have yi?’ Finlay heard himself saying, attempting a joke.
‘I don’t think so.’ Murray was returning the magnet to his father who was busy running a delicate paintbrush over a gaudy Christmas decoration. Something in Murray’s wake yanked Finlay from his spot, compelling him to follow, like a moon dragged by its planet.
Just in time, before Murray turned, the ranger managed to break away and divert himself towards the door. ‘Thank you, then,’ Finlay called out.
‘I’ll get the door for you,’ Murray said suddenly, coming for him.
Finlay caught the sound of Senga Gifford remarking to that sister of hers, ‘Save him nearly yanking it off its runners again!’
He suddenly wanted to shrink and drop through the gaps in the floorboards. Had he banged the doors when he came in? Another thing his mum had always picked at him about, charging around like a herd of elephants.
‘See you at the surgery meeting tonight?’ Murray said as he slid the doors apart for him.
‘Oh, I dinnae ken.’
Sitting in a stuffy room trying not to spill from a teacup, sharing talk about gardening and all that touchy-feely wellbeing stuff with the ancient Dr Millen and who knew how many local do-gooders and gossips? He shuddered.
‘Not interested in the environment and your carbon footprint?’ Murray said, with a maddening little grin.
This made Finlay’s feet stop upon the threshold. A spark of indignation fired within him, not something he could prevent. ‘Not interested? Notinterested?’
Murray drew his neck back, his eyes rounding in alarm.
That’s more like it, thought Finlay. The man was finally looking at him the way everyone else in the town looked at him. Affronted. Dubious. Critical. And safely from a distance. It felt, notgoodexactly, but familiar. Better than the closeness of before.
‘Ilive almost entirely off grid,’ he began, determined to further widen the gulf between them. ‘Mycarbon footprint’– Finlay tried to inject as much ridicule into the words as he could – ‘is next to nothing. I hike myself aboot on foot. I pick up a’body’s litter and tramp it doon the mountain to the recycling centre. I forage the tree line for wood sorrel and chanterelles, berries and nuts. I sleep when it gets dark, burn my own store of fallen firewood, and it’s a rare occasion I buy anything new. Anyway,youcannae talk tomeaboot feetprints…’ He wasn’t sure that was a real word, but it was too late now, he’d said it, and when he’d been building up to his big finale too, ‘…while this place is runnin’ that godawful floodlight for hours at a time as though your carpark is flamin’ Hampden Park Stadium!’
There. He’d done it. Roared out the only fellow that had ever regarded him with anything other than amused disdain or polite disinterest.
Only, there was that light returning to Murray’s eyes. That same look he’d had the other day, as though Finlay were somehow impressive.
‘Ah-hah! So you’re an authentic sustainability lifestyle guru? Walking the walk!’ Murray said, relentlessly cheerful.
