A WHOLE LOTTA LOVE

April 2001

The seagull cruised at three hundred feet, absorbed in an unblinking scan of the terrain below. A heaving blue-grey sea foamed white against a rugged coastline. High cliffs and sharp pinnacles of rock dropped down to a sheltered bay with a beach of pale sand and shingle at its head. Strips of croftland radiated around the bay like spokes in a wheel, while behind them, rough moorland rose towards the wild interior of the island. The seagull looked down at the crofts and houses caught in the no-man's-land between moor and sea. From its vantage point, it could see not one, but two villages, one superimposed on the other. The more obvious one was modern and tended to hug the road, its houses riding the curves of the land as if afloat. They varied from brand-new ranch style, to modernised pre-war, with pointed dormer windows. Gleaming cars stood beside most of them. The other village was timeless, and its roofless houses were further down each croft. Broad grey walls of dry stone formed narrow, elongated rectangles. Some were crumbling and others were in reasonable repair, but all were topped with especially green grass. They seemed part of the earth itself, dreaming their own dreams and keeping their own counsel.

Very little stirred. A collie let out a disgruntled bark. Sheep bleated here and there. At the edge of a croft, an orange cat stalked a rabbit. Then there was a change of pace. People appeared at the doors of their houses, first one, then half a dozen. The people were black specks against the ground. Then a car started. Then another. The seagull watched, motionless but alert. Then the cat caught the rabbit. It choked it to death and dragged it up the croft at a funeral pace, head held high and erect. The seagull sheared and dived. More people appeared and more cars started, but the seagull had other things on its mind, and its shrieks added mournful counterpoint to the sounds of the sabbath morning. Life in Marabay continued unobserved.

"Iain, are you coming? There's still time if you get up right this minute." Dina Handy rapped at her son's bedroom door, opened it tentatively, and squinted into the gloom. A trail of clothes led from door to bed - boots, socks, torn denim jeans, navy gansey, and a black leather bike jacket with studs, badges and an emblem on the back that said Metallica. From a large poster on the wall, Jimi Hendrix surveyed the scene with a knowing smile. Dina Handy did not share his approval. She tutted and adjusted her church-going hat before rapping the foot of the bed.

"Iain! For the last time. Are you coming?"

There was a grunt from the heap of bedclothes.

"For heaven's sake woman. Will you hurry up." Calum Handy's voice came from the staircase where he impatiently drummed his fingers on the bannisters.

Dina tutted again and left her son's bedroom. Downstairs, her husband waited for her in the kitchen. The room was clean enough for a surgical operation. Prepared carrots, turnip and potatoes stood in bowls upon a worktop, along with a large joint of meat, wrapped in foil.

"A fine help you are," said Dina as she twiddled with the timer on the oven. "You give me no help whatsoever with that boy. You should be taking a firmer line with him altogether." Dina slid the roast into the oven and slammed the door.

Calum Handy also wore a church-going hat and a dark suit. He looked away from his wife and out of the window, where the croft sloped down towards the sea. His sheep grazed peacefully, and only the sound of a shrieking seagull disturbed the sabbath calm. The cat had caught a rabbit, and the gull was attempting to muscle in. The cat appeared to be standing its ground.

"Iain's nineteen years of age," Calum said at last. If he doesn't want to attend church then that's the way of it. He's old enough to make his own decisions."

"And you're old enough to know that the father should lead the son in right paths," said Dina, taking a small clothes brush from a mirrored holder on the wall. Its bristles were worn into complete irregularity.

"And what do you mean by that?" Calum Handy glowered at as wife before turning his back towards her.

Dina started to energetically brush his jacket shoulders. "I mean what I say."

Calum's eyes rolled towards the ceiling.

"How many drams did you take last night?" Dina asked sharply, still brushing.

"What has that got to do with it?"

"It has everything to do with it. Iain didn't come in until three in the morning. A car roared up - I think it was Donnie Creg's - and the sound of laughter and door-banging was absolutely shameful. Enough to wake the village."

Calum pushed back his hat and scratched his head. "I never heard a thing," he said.

"And why not?" said Dina. "Because you were in a drunken stupor, that's why not. When you were needed to give moral guidance to our son, you were dead to the world." She stepped in front of Calum and slapped the brush into his hand.

"I was not drunk," shouted Calum, starting to brush his wife with alacrity. "Am I not standing here now, sober as a judge and ready to attend worship?"

"Not so hard," squealed Dina, and wrenched the brush from his hand. "I heard you singing… after midnight."

"So, I was singing. After a hard week's work, can a man not have a christian drink and a few verses of the Caioradh?"

"There's no such thing as a christian drink."

Calum snorted. "It's in the bible. Take a little wine for the sake of your stomach."

"There's a big difference between a little wine and half a bottle of whisky. A big difference."

"I was not drunk," said Calum. "Just relaxed."

"So relaxed that you didn't hear Iain blundering in after being out half the night - doing heaven knows what."

"The lad's still young."

"A moment ago you were saying he was old enough to make his own decisions. You change your tune quickly." She gave her hat a final adjustment, picked up her bible from the table and walked to the back door. "Are you coming?" she asked brusquely.

Calum sighed and followed his wife out to the car.

The seagull stopped buzzing the cat, and its parting cries mingled with the sound of Calum's car starting up. The seagull climbed and wheeled gracefully north as the car made its way through the village. Up in his darkened bedroom, Iain 'Hasty' Macdonald heard it go. Iain had once been referred to as a 'Handy', like his father, grandfather and great-grandfather before him, but several incidents involving his Kawasaki had caused the alteration.

Iain's eyes opened and there was a slight grin on his face as he lay and contemplated the silence. Then he flung back the bedclothes and jack-knifed onto the floor. Wearing just a pair of red underpants he opened the curtains and critically examined his body in the wardrobe mirror. He grinned and his reflection grinned back. It was a slim reflection, but quite well-muscled and in good shape. True, there was a wicked purple bruise on its left side, caused by a spill from a supermarket trolley in the Town Hall car park around midnight, but apart from that, all seemed well. Iain assumed a body-builders' pose, but quickly dissolved into laughter. He pulled on his jeans and raked through a heap of cassette tapes on a table. He found the tape he wanted, placed it on his stereo, and turned the volume high.

Iain crouched in front of the mirror with an imaginary guitar in his hands. The opening chords reverberated through the empty house like artillery shells exploding, and he thrashed his guitar in a windmill motion. He catapulted into the air, landed on his bed, bounced twice and hit the floor just in time for the lead vocals.

Nimble fingers ran up the non-existent fretboard. He switched between guitar and microphone, and burst through the bedroom door with the music in hot pursuit, singing along in his best blues-metal voice.

He cleared the stairs in two jumps, and Iain Hasty - bare footed and bare chested - launched himself into both the main guitar solo and the sitting room. The music echoed, and Iain's air guitar fired notes like machine gun bullets. He tossed his head, and his long black hair flew from side to side. The notes rose, fell, crashed together and bounced off the walls. Iain bounced with them, from chair to couch to floor. On the sideboard, pictures of his elder brother and sister - both in graduation gowns - vibrated in their frames along with various ornaments. On the wall, his mother's favourite minister looked bemused. The guitar solo gathered momentum and headed towards its finale. Iain matched the pace and headed for the kitchen. The solo reached its climax and the vocals cut in like an air-raid siren.

"A whole... lotta..."

Iain's face twisted as he mouthed the words. He crouched on the hall floor ready for the crescendo. "Lo... ove!" Iain Hasty yelled as he hurled himself at the kitchen door.

"Did I set the oven for 375 or 450?" Dina Handy pondered as they approached the Marabay Free Church of Scotland.

Calum shook his head in exasperation. "Well, how do you expect me to know. I'm not telepathic you know. "Surely you can do a simple thing like setting the oven?"

"Yes I can, but you were upsetting and distracting me."

"Me upsetting you! That's not my recollection."

Dina ignored him and looked at her watch. "There's over ten minutes. We can go back and check."

"Oh, come on woman. We're almost there."

"Well, if you want your dinner to be spoiled."

Calum growled and performed a racing three point turn in the next passing place. He put his foot to the pedal, causing them both to slam back into their seats. "You check while I turn the car," he said, on reaching their own driveway. "And don't be all day about it."

Dina's heels clicked briskly up the path, and she entered the back door. Her brow immediately wrinkled in puzzlement, for the entire kitchen seemed to be vibrating. Cups on their hooks were chinking together, while loud thumping sounds were coming through the wall from the sitting room, accompanied by a cacophony of screams and wails.

"What on earth!" she said to herself, and opened the door into the hall. She was met by a multi-decibel wall of sound and a half-naked figure flying towards her, kung-fu style. Its face was hideously contorted, and it was uttering a shriek that seemed to come from the depths of hell. Dina Handy - a sensible, plain-speaking nurse by profession - was not given to flights of fancy. Given just a few seconds, she would have recognised the vision that assailed her in her own hallway. Time was not on her side however, and Dina Handy's scream was even louder than her son's music.

The orange cat was so full of rabbit that it waddled and swayed like a hippo. It made its way into the byre, found a bale of hay and collapsed. There was a tractor in the byre, and a Kawasaki with flames painted on the tank. Iain Hasty sat astride the motorbike with his hands resting on the bars. He was staring into space with a look of quiet resignation. He too was full of dinner. In fact, he had made most of it while his mother was plied with large quantities of tea. The dinner had been a bit burnt, but otherwise fine. He had also washed the dishes, dried them and tidied the kitchen. He had listened to a catalogue of the virtues of his brother and sister, both with honours degrees and doing very well in the Far East and Glasgow respectively. He had been told to pull his socks up; to mend his ways; to remember his creator in the days of his youth; to put on his only suit for the first time in over a year, and to accompany his parents to the service that evening. He had looked his mother in the eye; apologised from the heart; squeezed her hand with genuine affection -- and refused. He made the concession of putting on a pair of clean, unripped jeans that went well with his gansey.

He patted the tank of the Kawasaki and looked at the cat.

"Puss. You don't know how lucky you are. No hassle, no fuss."

The cat regarded him sagely. It let out a belch and settled down to sleep. Iain dismounted from his bike and walked to the door of the byre. Outside, the sabbath calm continued. He would go and call on Donnie Creg soon and maybe go for a spin, just for the crack. Meanwhile, he walked slowly down the croft to the walls of the old blackhouse. It had no roof, but it was an excellent shelter for the sheep. It had probably the best preserved walls in the village, and hardly a single stone had fallen away. Iain idly ran his hands over the stones, vaguely registering their colours and textures, and the way their veins of quartz caught the afternoon light. One of the lintels was still in place - a massive flat slab, grainy and covered in lichen. He leaned his hands against it while looking down the croft towards the sea, from which there was a constant, muffled roar - the background music to the whole of his life so far.

Beneath his fingers, Iain could feel the warmth of the stone slab. Overhead, he noticed a solitary cruising gull. As he watched, it began to soar and veer, for no obvious reason other than the sheer thrill of it. He looked down at the wings knitted with perfect stitches in the central front panel of his gansey. As he admired them his melancholy mood began to melt away, and he was slowly filled with a sense of exhilaration and optimism. A whole lotta love! Very quietly, so not to be heard up at the house, Iain Hasty began to laugh.