Island-in-Waiting by Anthea Fraser Page B

livening things up around here, I must say!” But his eyes in the driving mirror were troubled and I regretted the compulsion which had once again forced me to make an exhibition of myself.
    â€œMartha, who was Illiam Dhone?” I asked suddenly during lunch.
    â€œWilliam Christian – Brown-haired William. Did Ray mention him? He’s by way of being the Manx national hero.”
    â€œWhat – happened to him?”
    â€œHe was shot for treason on Hango Hill, though it seems he was innocent. The Earl of Derby trumped up charges against him.”
    â€˜A prompted and threatened jury’ – the few words I had caught.
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œHis alleged offences were during the Civil War but he wasn’t shot till 1663. The King’s pardon arrived just too late to save him.”
    1663. Had I slipped so completely into that year that the national grief had become mine, his death, as the ballad had it, broken my own heart? And was this just one more legacy from Tom Kelly?
    â€œI think I’ll go for a walk this afternoon,” I said abruptly.
    â€œBy yourself?” queried my shrewd brother.
    â€œIf you wouldn’t mind. There are a few things I need to make my mind up about.”
    I felt their exchanged glances, but all Martha said was, “Try Tholt-y-Will, then, in Sulby Glen. The scenery’s superb. It’s quite a Way from here but we can run you to the top and leave one of the cars lower down for you to make your way back to.”
    Later that afternoon I was glad I had accepted her suggestion. Sulby Glen was spectacular indeed. The road wound through a narrow tunnel of trees which gradually opened out until we were running along one side of a widening valley. On our right the hill rose steeply from the road, thickly covered with gorse and bracken above which the closely packed trunks of majestic pines and firs towered overhead blotting out the sweep of mountainside. On the left the ground fell steeply away to the floor of the valley, where the torrents of centuries cascading down the face of the mountain had eaten into the rock causing an enormous fissure. On one side of this a waterfall still fell, swelling the quickly flowing river at its foot and creaming round the pile of jagged rocks and slate which formed a natural dam. Above this dramatic foreground whitewashed cottages perched precariously amid the folds of the hillside and low walls of Manx stone ran over the greenness which was liberally dotted with the snowflakes of grazing sheep.
    At the inn halfway up we waited while Martha, who’d been following behind in her car, parked it in the forecourt and came to join us. “Here are the keys. I think you’ll have had enough by the time you get back here.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re right!” I commented, peering up the steepening road ahead of us. A few minutes later we came out at the top of the glen. To the left a grey stone wall curved away screening the view down the valley and ahead of us the ground levelled off into patches of scrubby gorse and bracken. Hugo stopped the car and pointed out a gate in the wall.
    â€œThat’s the way you go. It’s fairly steep on the way down, so be careful.”
    â€œI will. Thanks for the lift.” The wind whipped my hair stingingly across my face as I got out of the car. With a wave Hugo turned back down the glen and I manoeuvred my way through the gate. A breathtaking panorama met my eyes, fold after fold of rounded hills blazing with different coloured trees and sweeping stretches of rust bracken. The air was full of the noise of rushing water.
    â€œHello,” said Neil Sheppard.
    I spun from my contemplation of the view and saw a wooden bench set back against the wall, from which he had risen. “All by yourself?”
    â€œYes.”
    He came over and stood beside me, staring out to where the sea lay between the farthest hills. “It’s magnificent,