the police force because his mother had thought it a good idea. He had lived with his mother until her death a year before his move to Lochdubh. Lazy and
unambitious, he had never risen up the ranks. His mother had seen off any woman who looked interested in him. The policewomen he had occasionally worked with terrified him. He privately thought the
move to Lochdubh was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He loved the village. He liked his kind, laid-back boss. He thought again of Martha. There was something about her faded
prettiness, her crushed appearance, that touched his heart. He turned up the lane leading to Martha’s cottage. In his heart, he hoped against hope that the dustman would not be at home.
The baby was in its pram outside. Clarry made clucking noises at it and then rapped on the door. The eldest boy, Johnny, opened the door. ‘Father at home?’ asked Clarry.
The boy looked nervously over his shoulder. Fergus appeared. He was wearing an old shirt and jeans. ‘What is it?’ he snapped.
‘May I come in?’ asked Clarry.
‘No, we’ll talk outside.’
Fergus walked out and shut the door behind him.
Clarry removed his peaked cap and tucked it under one arm. ‘It’s like this, sir. You are causing a great deal of distress among the villagers. You are not collecting their rubbish,
and you are leaving nasty wee notes.’
‘And what’s that to you? It’s a council matter. Any complaints and they can write to the council.’
‘I am here to warn you, you might be in danger.’
Fergus snickered. ‘From this bunch o’ wimps? Forget it.’
Over the dustman’s shoulder, Clarry could see Martha at the window. She gave him a wan smile.
Normally amiable, Clarry could feel rage burning up inside him as he looked down into the sneering face on the dustman. ‘You are a nasty wee man,’ said Clarry. ‘I’ve
given you a warning, but it would be a grand day for the village if you were killed.’ He turned and walked away and then turned back at the garden gate. ‘By God, man, I could kill you
myself.’
And, followed by the sound of Fergus’s jeering laughter, he walked away.
Clarry walked only as far as the waterfront. He leaned on the wall and stared down into the summer-blue waters of the sea loch. A yacht sailed past, heading for the open sea. He could hear
people laughing and chattering on board, see the white sails billowing out before a stiff breeze. He suddenly wanted to see Martha. He turned his back to the wall, feeling the warmth of the stone
through his uniform. While Hamish Macbeth watered his sheep and then returned to the police station to do some paperwork and wondered what was keeping Clarry, Clarry stayed where he was. Perhaps
Martha might appear, perhaps she might go to the general store for something.
With monumental patience, Clarry stayed where he was until the sun began to sink down behind the mountains. She might come down to the village to buy something. Patel, who ran the general store,
like all good Asian shopkeepers, stayed open late.
Suddenly he saw her hurrying down the lane that led to the waterfront, carrying a shopping basket. He went to meet her.
‘Oh, Mr Graham!’ exclaimed Martha. Her hand fluttered up to one cheek to cover a bruise.
‘He’s been hitting you!’ said Clarry.
‘Oh, no,’ said Martha. ‘Silly of me. I walked into a door.’
‘You walked into a fist,’ said Clarry. ‘You’ve got to turn him in.’
‘I can’t,’ said Martha, tears starting to her eyes.
‘Now, then, I didnae mean to upset you, lassie,’ said Clarry. ‘Let me help you with the shopping.’
‘I can manage. Fergus wants a bottle of whisky.’
‘Drinking again? That’s bad.’
‘At least he’ll wander off somewhere, and I’ll get a bit of peace,’ said Martha. They walked into the store together.
‘Buy him the cheap stuff,’ said Clarry.
‘No, he wants Grouse.’
‘Let me pay for it.’
‘No, that would not be