led to a rusty metal gate that was wide enough to let a lorry through. Hidden by low branches Carl saw a washed-out sign for Levanche Aggregates, Inverlair Quarry. The metal gates were chained together and a wheelless windowless old car was taking root among the bushes. Carl climbed over the chest-high gate and continued down the rough track and into the quarry. Warning placards atop wooden posts, all flattened by the wind, urged site visitors to WEAR PERSONAL PROTECTION EQUIPMENT and DONâT TAKE UNNECESSARY RISKS . As far as the pregnancy was concerned, it was a bit late for any of that. He crunched on down the stony track, into the great gouged pit.
The main part of the quarry must have been over 300 metres wide and at least 50 deep, one side open, leading down towards a sagging ballast-filled pier where the cargo ships had loaded up with gravel sand and aggregate. Long gone now, everything rust and rot: prefab site office with broken windows; corrugated-iron works shed rattling and squeaking in the wind; corroded tank and concrete bund for waste oil; lorry trailers with flat tyres; a long conveyor-belt machine, angling into the air, a dead dinosaur like Eric. Like himself.
At the far end of the quarry another dirt track ploughed up and through banks of peat, until it opened out again into asteep-sided lagoon. Signs warned of deep water. Young pine trees had taken hold on the lagoonâs stony slopes, along with gorse and tufts of heather. Wind ghosted in gusts across the dark water.
Nobody was watching him here.
On a stone track overlooking the lagoon, Carl picked up a fist-sized stone and hurled it underarm down towards the deep water. The splash echoed round the pit, setting birds to flight. Some of them sped from the quarryâs floor, twittering in fright, flashing towards the safety of holes in the sand cliffs, at the far end of the lagoon. When the sun was out it was warm, but the cool breeze sped the clouds, and it was cold in the shadows, spines of winter needling into autumn.
Carl made his way down the side of the quarry towards the lagoon. The wind dropped away and, sitting next to a pile of huge boulders, he felt some heat in the sun in the rocks and on the ground. He unzipped his jacket and pulled out his water bottle.
There was sand on the quarry floor, around the lagoon. The plaque at the village viewpoint said the sea level had fluctuated since the last Ice Age. Maybe that explained why he had his own private inland beach.
Tenacious buggers, those young pine trees, half-submerged on the slopes of the lagoon, green shoots bursting through the gravel, some of them saplings barely knee-high. The earth was reclaiming this man-made scar in the landscape, creeping down the sides of the quarry, covering the pit and the tracks, the mounds of till and rusting machinery. Healing over. Carl sat with eyes closed and out of the wind until the next cloud, a big one, came and blocked the sun. Shadow lowered the temperature and sitting there became uncomfortable after a spell. He got to his feet. The book in the hotel said there was a prehistoric structure, and some caves, up in the hill. There was nothing else to do but walk and hide and think. Despite what George had said, people probably blamed him for everything that had happened; when they found out aboutSimone theyâd blame him for that as well. Fair enough. Rather than question their own lack of awareness, their blindness, they could pin SCOPE on him and Howard. Simoneâs brother seemed to have Little Man Syndrome. Carl doubted whether being an uncle again would cause him unbridled delight.
â¢
Two hours later he was 300 metres up on the opposite headland, at the remains of a Bronze Age broch, trying to envisage what this pile of stones had looked like, standing twelve metres high and with two-metre thick walls. There was tightness in his chest and weakness in his legs. But heâd managed the climb, all the way, whereas the week before
The main part of the quarry must have been over 300 metres wide and at least 50 deep, one side open, leading down towards a sagging ballast-filled pier where the cargo ships had loaded up with gravel sand and aggregate. Long gone now, everything rust and rot: prefab site office with broken windows; corrugated-iron works shed rattling and squeaking in the wind; corroded tank and concrete bund for waste oil; lorry trailers with flat tyres; a long conveyor-belt machine, angling into the air, a dead dinosaur like Eric. Like himself.
At the far end of the quarry another dirt track ploughed up and through banks of peat, until it opened out again into asteep-sided lagoon. Signs warned of deep water. Young pine trees had taken hold on the lagoonâs stony slopes, along with gorse and tufts of heather. Wind ghosted in gusts across the dark water.
Nobody was watching him here.
On a stone track overlooking the lagoon, Carl picked up a fist-sized stone and hurled it underarm down towards the deep water. The splash echoed round the pit, setting birds to flight. Some of them sped from the quarryâs floor, twittering in fright, flashing towards the safety of holes in the sand cliffs, at the far end of the lagoon. When the sun was out it was warm, but the cool breeze sped the clouds, and it was cold in the shadows, spines of winter needling into autumn.
Carl made his way down the side of the quarry towards the lagoon. The wind dropped away and, sitting next to a pile of huge boulders, he felt some heat in the sun in the rocks and on the ground. He unzipped his jacket and pulled out his water bottle.
There was sand on the quarry floor, around the lagoon. The plaque at the village viewpoint said the sea level had fluctuated since the last Ice Age. Maybe that explained why he had his own private inland beach.
Tenacious buggers, those young pine trees, half-submerged on the slopes of the lagoon, green shoots bursting through the gravel, some of them saplings barely knee-high. The earth was reclaiming this man-made scar in the landscape, creeping down the sides of the quarry, covering the pit and the tracks, the mounds of till and rusting machinery. Healing over. Carl sat with eyes closed and out of the wind until the next cloud, a big one, came and blocked the sun. Shadow lowered the temperature and sitting there became uncomfortable after a spell. He got to his feet. The book in the hotel said there was a prehistoric structure, and some caves, up in the hill. There was nothing else to do but walk and hide and think. Despite what George had said, people probably blamed him for everything that had happened; when they found out aboutSimone theyâd blame him for that as well. Fair enough. Rather than question their own lack of awareness, their blindness, they could pin SCOPE on him and Howard. Simoneâs brother seemed to have Little Man Syndrome. Carl doubted whether being an uncle again would cause him unbridled delight.
â¢
Two hours later he was 300 metres up on the opposite headland, at the remains of a Bronze Age broch, trying to envisage what this pile of stones had looked like, standing twelve metres high and with two-metre thick walls. There was tightness in his chest and weakness in his legs. But heâd managed the climb, all the way, whereas the week before
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