The Lewis Man Read Online Free PDF

blackhouse where his forebears had lived for centuries, and where he had played as a child, happy and secure, never once imagining what life might hold in store for him.
    Above that the road wound down the hill through the strung-out collection of disparate dwellings that made up the village of Crobost. Red tin roofs on old loom sheds, houses whitewashed or pink-harled, irregular fenceposts, tufts of wool snagged on barbed wire fluttering in the wind. The narrow strips of land known as crofts ran down the slope towards the cliffs, some cultivated to raise basic crops, grains and root vegetables, others supporting nothing but sheep. The discarded technology of distant decades, rusted tractors and broken harvesters, littered overgrown plots, the rotting symbols of a once hoped-for prosperity.
    Beyond the curve of the hill, Fin could see the dark roof of Crobost Church dominating both the skyline and the people over whose lives its shadow fell. Someone had hung out washing at the manse, and white sheets flapped furiously in the wind like demented semaphore flags urging praise and fear of God in equal measures.
    Fin loathed the church and all it stood for. But there was comfort in its familiarity. This, after all, was home. And he felt his spirits lifted.
    He heard his name carried on the wind as he pulled on his boots, and he turned, scrambling to his feet, to see a young man standing by his car where he had abandoned it at the gate of the crofthouse the night before. He set off, wading through the grass, and as he got closer, saw the ambivalence in his visitor’s smile.
    The young man was about eighteen, a little less than half Fin’s age, with fair hair gelled into spikes, and cornflower-blue eyes so piercingly like his mother’s that they raised goosebumps on Fin’s arms. For a moment they stood in awkward silence sizing each other up, before Fin reached out a hand and the boy gave it a brief, firm shake.
    ‘Hello, Fionnlagh.’
    The boy thrust his jaw in the direction of the pale-blue tent. ‘Just passing through?’
    ‘Temporary accommodation.’
    ‘It’s been a while.’
    ‘It has.’
    Fionnlagh paused for a moment, to give his words emphasis. ‘Nine months.’ And there was a definite accusation in them.
    ‘I had a whole life to pack up behind me.’
    Fionnlagh canted his head a little. ‘Does that mean you’re back to stay?’
    ‘Maybe.’ Fin turned his gaze over the croft. ‘This is home. It’s where you come when you’ve nowhere else to go. Whether or not I stay … well, that remains to be seen.’ He turned green eyes back on the boy. ‘Do folk know?’
    Their eyes locked for several seconds in a silence laden with history. ‘All that anyone knows is that my father died out on An Sgeir last August during the guga hunt.’
    Fin nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He turned to open the gate and walked down the overgrown path to what had once been the front door of the old whitehouse. The door itself was long gone, a few remaining pieces of rotten architrave still clinging to the brick. The purple paint with which his father had once lavished every wooden surface, including the floors, was still discernible in odd, flaking patches. The roof was largely intact, but the timbers were decayed and rainwater had streaked every wall. The floorboards were gone, leaving only a few stubborn joists. It was a shell of a place, no trace remaining of the love that had once warmed it. He heard Fionnlagh at his shoulder and turned. ‘I’m going to gut this place. Rebuild it from the inside out. Maybe you’d like to give me a hand during the summer holidays.’
    Fionnlagh shrugged noncommittally. ‘Maybe.’
    ‘Will you be going to university in the autumn?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘I need to find a job. I’m a father now. I have responsibilities to my child.’
    FIn nodded. ‘How is she?’
    ‘She’s fine. Thanks for asking.’
    Fin ignored the sarcasm. ‘And Donna?’
    ‘Living at home with her parents,