by Michael Bloor (first published in Firewords, 29/11/23)
(Artwork by Tommy Hardman)
March 28th, 1997. By the time they reached the summit of Schiehallion, the weather was closing in. In the couple of minutes that they lingered, Loch Rannoch disappeared from view over in the west and a chill north-west wind started up. They began to retrace their steps. Not an ideal first date. Rachel winced and spoke to Andy’s retreating back: ‘My ankle’s getting more and more painful.’ Andy grunted and didn’t slow down.
He’d ‘borrowed’ his mother’s car. She’d ‘borrowed’ her older sister’s beautiful new pashmina scarf. He’d suggested they walk up Schiehallion, the faery hill of the Caledonians. Whatever he’d suggested would have seemed pretty wonderful to her. As they’d driven north from Edinburgh in their Korean steel and glass bubble, he’d been conscious of her silent admiration for his driving skills. She’d hugged Andy’s free left arm and was rewarded with a superior smile. Rachel had told him that she’d been promised driving lessons for her seventeenth birthday. Andy’s self-esteem had swelled with the awareness of their enormous two-year age difference – his greater sophistication, her lesser experience.
Schiehallion is a long, broad, tilted ridge of grey marble. The upper part of the ridge is a wilderness of huge marble blocks and jagged rock splinters. It was here that Rachel had turned her ankle on the ascent. Now that they were descending, every tread on the loose rock gave her more pain; she began to lag behind. Snow started to fall – small, hard flakes that stung the face. Neither of them was wearing over-trousers. Eventually, they left the rock-field behind and reached a defined path. They took shelter behind a large isolated rock, hoping for a change in the weather. After a while, Rachel peered out from around their boulder: ‘How much longer do you think it’ll take to get back from here to the carpark?’
‘Dunno.’
‘I thought you’d climbed Schiehallion lots of times?’
‘Nope. Just once, with my Dad about six years ago.’
Up to that point, fogged perhaps by her chill and her pain, Rachel had continued to look on Andy with the fond regard reserved for the loved object. Now she saw a shivering child. ‘We’d better get going again.’
The rest had not helped her ankle and the delay had been sufficient for drifts of snow to accumulate. Visibility was limited, but as long as they followed the ridge they would remain in roughly the right direction. The main problem now was the size of the drifts, especially for Rachel who was only just over five feet tall. Again, she began to fall behind.
At one point, confronted by a particularly deep drift, Andy waited for her and helped her across. But, at the next great drift, he didn’t wait: he carried straight on. Rachel couldn’t raise her legs high enough to step into his footsteps. She watched him disappear into the storm. Surprised at herself, she only called out once; she didn’t beg him to come back and help. Instead, she flopped forward and flailed out of the drift, like a novice swimmer.
She was making progress: the slope was levelling out. But the drifts were still as daunting as five feet of brickwork. The stinging wind and her soaking jeans had chilled her; she felt as if her body was starting to shut down. Through her fear and her almost stupefying tiredness, there came back to her a TV interview she’d seen about marathon running. A runner was describing ‘the wall’ that runners hit after twenty-odd miles, when your body tells you that you cannot possibly run any further. He had explained that, physiologically, your body should be capable of running further – running on for at least half the distance already covered: the trick was to ignore the body’s negative message. She pushed on.
Later – how much later she didn’t know – she made out a dark shape through the blizzard: it was the forestry plantation in which the car park was sited. Casting along the forestry fence, she found the kissing gate into the car park. Andy’s mother’s car was the only car left. The engine was running and the windows were fogged – the heater was full on.
When she opened the passenger door, Andy’s face showed more than surprise. ‘I went on ahead to get help. I thought my mum’s mobile might be in the glove compartment…’
Rachel’s weary reply was almost a whisper, ‘You bastard…’
Was once guided back down by the moon…