The Ferry to Skye – Part 2: The Place He Chose

The fog lifted slowly, the way curtains open in an old theatre. First the rail, then the grey water, then the dark curve of the island, and finally, behind it all, the jagged black peaks of the Cuillin rising into a pale gold sky.

Mhairi caught her breath. "There," she said.

Fergus said nothing. He was watching the mountains with the same stillness he had shown all morning, the look of a man who had seen this view a thousand times and had never once got used to it.

They landed at Armadale an hour later, and Fergus led her down to the harbour, where a small blue fishing boat bobbed beside the stone pier. He had a key in his pocket and a dented thermos in a canvas bag.

"Your grandfather's boat," he said, climbing aboard with the careless grace of a man who had spent his life on water. "The Morag. He left it to me when he went into hospital. He said I'd be useless at fixing it, and he was right."

"You fixed it anyway."

"Took me three summers," said Fergus. "And a great deal of swearing. Get in, Mhairi."

They motored out of the harbour in silence, the engine chugging softly, the wake spreading out white behind them. The mountains grew larger, their dark slopes streaked with snow. Seabirds wheeled overhead, crying out to each other above the glittering swell.

The place her grandfather had chosen was a small bay on the western side, sheltered by a finger of rock and a stand of pale birch trees. The water was clear and green-blue, and so calm she could see the stones on the seabed.

Fergus cut the engine. The silence rushed in, broken only by the lap of water against the hull.

"He said this was where he wanted to be," said Mhairi quietly, holding the wooden box in her lap. "He said the view was better than any church."

"He was right," said Fergus. "I've been coming here for years, to think. It's the only place where the sea and the mountains agree about something."

She opened the box. The ashes inside were pale and soft, and she felt her hands tremble.

"Will you hold the tiller?" she asked.

"Yes," said Fergus, and took it in one hand, steadying the boat as she leaned over the side.

She let go slowly, the wind taking the ashes out across the water in a soft, shimmering cloud. They drifted over the green surface and settled, gently, like a memory finally finding its place.

Mhairi wept then, quietly, with her face in her hands. Fergus did not speak. He only shifted the tiller, letting the boat drift closer, until his knee was pressed against hers on the narrow seat.

When she looked up, he was watching her with a steady, careful tenderness.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you let me stay on the water with you a while longer? Not to say anything. Just so you're not out here alone, with the mountains and the wind."

Mhairi wiped her face with the back of her wrist and nodded. "Yes," she said. "Please stay."

They sat together in the boat for an hour, the sun warming their shoulders and the Cuillin standing guard above them. He told her stories about her grandfather: the storms they had survived, the fish they had lost, the bottles of whisky that had been shared on the quay after a good catch. She told him about the summers she had spent as a girl at his house, learning to tie knots and sing sea shanties off-key.

"Can I ask you something else?" said Fergus, as the light began to change.

"Yes."

"Would you let me take you out again? Not for a funeral. For the fish, and the wind, and the sun coming up over the Cuillin? And if you want, I'll let you steer."

Mhairi laughed, wet-eyed and surprised. "Yes," she said. "But only if you promise not to push me in the harbour, like you did to my grandfather."

"I never pushed him in," said Fergus, indignant. "He jumped. For a biscuit."

"Then I'll take my chances."

"Can I kiss you, Mhairi?" he asked, softly, his hand coming to rest on the tiller beside hers. "Out here, on the water, where the sea and the mountains agree?"

"Yes," said Mhairi. "And if I say stop, you'll have to row us home. And you'll be very bad at it."

He laughed, low and warm, and leaned across the narrow seat to kiss her. It was slow and steady, tasting of tea from the dented thermos and the salt wind on his lips. Her hand found his on the tiller, and he held on to her, as steady as the boat under them.

When they parted, both of them were smiling through the last of their tears.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Mhairi. "Very green. Now start the engine, Fergus, and take us home. And tomorrow, you can tell me the story about the biscuits again. I think you've been telling it wrong."

"I never tell it wrong," said Fergus, and turned the key. The engine coughed into life, and the little blue boat turned gently towards the harbour, the mountains glowing gold behind them and the sea, for once, perfectly calm.