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Gethin looks horrified. ‘Well, it’s all probably malicious gossip, like you say.’
‘Something about him getting a local lassie pregnant a couple of years back, and her family going in and busting up the museum. Which is why I wasn’t sure he was still there.’
Gethin turns to look at me wide-eyed.
‘Well, the museum’s a bit scruffy but it doesn’t look smashed up or owt. I hope he keeps it going to be honest. Can’t imagine there are many places like it. It’s right quirky, you know?’ I’m rambling to fill the space.
‘Oh aye, good luck to the fella. Folk like to embellish, and here am I spreading the muck.’ Iain stubs his fag out. ‘But truly I take everything with a shovel of salt.’
Gethin stands with his eyes focussed somewhere distant. I rack my brain for a change of subject.
‘Well,’ Iain looks from me to Gethin. ‘I’ll do a stint on the burgers and give Aiden a proper break, poor laddie.’ He downs the last of his pint. ‘I’ll be seeing you around before you’re away on that bike?’
‘Sure!’ I raise my glass at him.
Gethin grunts his goodbyes and stays standing still. I light us both another fag. Replace the gone-out rollup between his fingers. He looks at his beer and cigarette as if he doesn’t know what they are. Then he turns to me.
‘Fucking hell, Jez, did you hear that?’
‘I was right here.’
‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? As in Don being so grumpy? Everyone against him like that?’
‘You don’t know how he treated the young lass.’
He takes a puff of his cigarette. ‘From what Iain says it doesn’t take much to be ostracised round here.’
‘Most of it light-hearted banter, he said.’
‘Well, it didn’t exactly sound light with Don,’ Gethin insists.
‘No, that’s what I mean, right?’ I give up.
I look out to the sea. There’s been a slight breeze and the cloud has lightened. Someone’s bashing out the Skye Boat Song on an accordion in the pub. So, not misty eyed at all!
‘Let’s take a walk along the road, Geth. Get some air.’
A signpost outside the pub points to Smoo Cave, 0.5 miles.
‘Sounds good,’ I say. ‘We might even make it before the weather changes again. You know what they say if you don’t like the weather in the Highlands?’
Gethin trudges along beside me. Head down.
‘Wait ten minutes,’ I give the answer.
No response.
‘Gethin?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Forget it. It’s good to be out, right?’ I stretch my arms to the sweep of sky and sea. Shiny wet road winding through the moorland. No bugger about. Sound of our boots and the faint hiss of the sea as the road dips down to skirt the beach.
‘I’ve got to go back and talk to him.’ Gethin stops and turns to face the village.
‘What? We’re on our way to the frigging caves.’
‘No, later, tomorrow. We’ve so got to go back to Lochgillan.’ He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, shakes his head.
