More than odd, thought Grant, as he continued to follow the man along the narrow road to Clachar; in fact it’s absolutely absurd, he decided, laughing silently to himself at something fantastic in their solitary progression, but sobering quickly, for he must act resolutely right away or he couldn’t go ahead with his project at all. The Colonel, he felt, might at least have given him a personal hint about the fellow. But then the Colonel would never notice a little thing like that! For a few minutes he became self-conscious, heard echoes of the Colonel’s talk about the unfortunate tendency among certain archaeologists to rush into theory, to construct whole civilisations, evoke races and all their wanderings, from a chance bone, a chipped flint, or a piece of baked clay. But then Grant always knew when the Colonel was getting at him.
It was very hot, absolutely boiling, he concluded, now sweating profusely, for the ‘flu had taken it out of him—temperature over 103—and his body, like his mind, felt light and sensitive. Would he put a spurt on and overtake him and be done with it? If he suddenly looked round, would he wave to him? They had left the sea, but now as they came up on the ridge, Grant saw it again in the distance, a glimmering sheet set with islands; a bay rather than a sea-loch; croft houses dotted about, a stream—but the man in front had stopped, was standing quite still, staring ahead, like a figure in a film. Grant, who had involuntarily stopped, began to go forward again, aware of a sudden nervousness, an uncertainty. His footsteps at last aroused the man, who turned his head slowly.
“I believe you are Mr Martin?” and Grant smiled in his friendly way.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I did not make it clear that I have a letter of introduction to you from Colonel Mackintosh, the archaeologist. Do you mind if I——” And, pulling the letter from a breast pocket, he presented it.
“Oh,” said Martin without any expression as he took the letter, then he looked again at Grant.
“My name is Grant. I work with the Colonel—with Colonel Mackintosh. He suggested that I might call on you, in connection with a certain cairn on your land. I hope it’s not inconvenient?”
“What cairn?”
“It’s a cairn—uh—not far from Clachar House—near the sea. I could show it to you on the map.” He began fumbling at his pockets.
“I know it,” said Martin.
“It’s a matter simply of opening up the cairn, just to see what’s inside. But it means entry on your land, though, of course, I should see that nothing was really—uh—messed about.” A frank flash came from the blue eyes.
The flash was not acknowledged and the letter was quietly shoved into an outside pocket. “How is Colonel Mackintosh?”
“He’s very well; only wishing, he said, that he could come up himself to see you—and get the job done properly.”
Now a faint dry humour gathered about Martin’s eyes, a certain irony, which gave the face an aloof attractiveness. Grant heard the slight expulsion of breath from the nostrils and caught the smell of whisky. Presumably Mr Martin had had his afternoon tea not in the lounge but in the public bar behind the hotel.
“You’re going on there now, to the Stone Circle?”
“Yes. There is a stone circle round the cairn, but the actual work, of course, will be on the cairn—I mean, I shan’t interfere with the standing stones.”
“I see,” said Martin, the dry humour already gone. The jet-black hair, a certain pallor, the fine features—it could be a very expressive face. But the mask was habitual, indifferent, and as quiet as stone.
Grant had nothing more to say.
“Well, shall we go on?” With that objective look which seemed to pause and contemplate its object, Martin moved on.
“I hope you really don’t mind,” said Grant, his own tone firming.
“Not really,” answered Martin. “To tear the guts out of everything is characteristic, I suppose.” His tone remained uninterested.
“Characteristic of what?” inquired Grant.
“Of our age.” He half turned his head. “Or don’t you think so?”
“It all depends on the point of view.” Grant smiled ahead, for he could be angry as he could be merry, and as quickly.
“And your point of view?”
“Is that knowledge helps.”
“Helps what?”
“Humanity,” said Grant succinctly.
They walked on.
“Are you to do all the digging yourself?” inquired Martin presently.
“I hope to find some labour, though I had supposed that may be difficult.”
“Very difficult, I should say, if not quite impossible.”
They had come down the slope and now a winding belt of small birch trees ahead indicated a stream of which Grant presently caught a glimpse.
“I don’t suppose you could suggest,” he said politely, “any possible source of labour? A man of any age would do, so long as he can lift stones or dig?”
“I’m afraid—not. The old here cultivate their crofts or go to sea to fish occasionally. Productive labour—which they might be unwilling to forgo.”
With an effort Grant said nothing. The road came within a hundred yards of the stream, on whose bank he saw a woman knitting, a dark-brown shawl round her head. A man was staggering about in the water below her. A motor car came noisily towards them and Martin stopped. “You might,” he said, “get the man in the burn there to help you. I rather think the job he’s on is about finished. But the woman will tell you.” His talk was now easy and cool as his courtesy. The car drew up beside them. “Got her right?” he asked the driver.
“She needs a new gasket,” answered the fair-haired young man who seemed to have acquired some of his employer’s expressionless manner. “I’ll turn her here.” A rough cart track went from the road towards the stream, and while the car was being turned, Martin said to his fellow traveller. “If you care to come along and see us, do.”
“Thank you.” Grant’s nod was nearly a bow, but as the car drove off, he said to himself, “‘Productive labour’—damn him!” He hitched up his rucksack, wiped his brow, and started for the woman by the stream. All at once he found himself in a furious temper. He paused for a moment to let it rip, then, much relieved, he went on and removed his tweed hat with the friendliest gesture.
The aged face, framed by its shawl, was heavy and solemn, the unwinking eyes a faded blue. The expression was that of a woman quietly on guard, waiting to hear what had to be said. Grant said it straight away, and did not omit the fact that he had been directed to her by Mr Martin. It would be perfectly simple labour, he explained; neither so heavy nor so wet, he added with his engaging smile, as heaving these boulders from the stream. The crack of one boulder on another drew his startled attention. The shambling figure in the stream had now turned his face towards them and Grant saw that it was an idiot’s face. The trousers were tucked up to the thighs and the body staggered on bare feet.
“My son,” the woman said, “is engaged under the County Council for road work. But just now he is only taking the stones up to be ready for the breaking. There is no hurry for this. Indeed he has taken enough and he is only going on now in case they will be needing it all.”
“I see,” said Grant, quietened, hardly knowing where to look.
“So we would be very glad if you could engage him. He is a good worker and very strong.”
Grant felt the eyes on his face. The woman had talked in the matter-of-fact tone of one used to conducting such business, but there was a patience somewhere, a dumb waiting, that swept all anger away and left him uncomfortably but deeply moved.
“Very well,” he said, nodding. “We’ll see. Yes—I’ll think it over.”
“Five shillings for the whole day, if that’s not too much, though indeed he will be making much more when he is at the stone-breaking.”
“I think it’s too little,” he declared, hitching up his rucksack. “However, I must be going now. Could you tell me the nearest way to the Stone Circle?”
She was pointing to a footpath that left the road, when her son intervened. The face was upturned directly below them and through the thick protruding lips of the large mouth came sounds like “Gu-gu-gu——”
As though she perfectly understood, she pointed to certain stones. “Take them, and that should about do.” His gaze followed her pointing finger and saw the stones, then he made for them earnestly, his broad shoulders dipping to the wading shambling gait.
“Very well, then,” said Grant. “I’ll let you know. And thank you very much.”
“We stay in the first house, on the way in. You can just see it.”
He followed her hand and saw it.
“You will find him a good worker,” she said. “And I am always with him myself.”
“I can see he is a good worker,” he answered, smiling and touching his hat. “Good day, and thank you again.”