Mar bu ghnàth dhi, bha Ciorstaidh aig a h-obair tràth mus tàinig a’ chòrr de luchd-obrach an supermarket dhan robh i na manaidsear a-steach, agus i fhathast dorcha. Cho luath ’s a neo-ghlais i doras na h-aitreibh bha fhios aice gur e madainn dhùbhlanach a bha gu bhith roimhpe. Shlaighd an dà dhoras fèin-ghluasadach fosgailte mar bu chòir, ach cha do shlaighd ach aonan dhiubh air ais na àite na dèidh, a’ ciallachadh gum biodh rag-ghèile a’ sèideadh tro na h-aisles le gach oiteig a-muigh gus an tigeadh an dealanair, nam faigheadh i grèim air fear idir ann. Bhiodh gearanan ann agus cò dhan tigeadh na gearanan sin? Cò ach Ciorstaidh Nic an Tàilleir. Gus chùisean a dhèanamh na bu mhiosa, dh'aithnich i air an fhuaraidheachd a shuain i nach robh an goileadair teasachaidh ag obair mar bu chòir; a-rithist. A-rithist, dhìrich i an staidhir chumhang a lean suas dhan lobhta far an do thàmh a’ bhiast chaochlaideach ann an oisinn doilleir. Le cniadachadh air a h-uidheam-smachd is faclan brosnachail, bha an tinneal air dùsgadh mu dheireadh thall le srann. Air dhi teàrnadh dhan stòr-lann, chuir i fòn dhan roinn chàraidh. Seadh, seadh, bha iad air a’ chùis a chlàradh. Bhiodh innleadair an làthair san aithghearrachd; an aon duan a bha air a bhith aca fad grunn sheachdainean a-nis.
Thog Ciorstaidh a sùil bhon fhòn aice, a’ toirt a-steach am mì-rian ceithir thimcheall oirre. Bha na cèidsichean-troilidh air an sgapadh mun làir mar dhannsairean craicte a bha air an luchd a sgeitheadh asta mus robh iad air reothadh. Bha an t-aiseag dhan eilean air a bhith anmoch an latha roimhe is, a rèir choltais, cha deach aig sgioba na hoidhch’ araoir air an stuth a thàinig a-steach oirre a rèiteachadh. Rud a dh’adhbharachadh tuilleadh ghearanan mu sgeilpichean bàna. ‘Sin an treas turas taobh a-staigh cola-deug nach eil bainne Cravendale air a bhith agaibh, is e an aon seòrsa a thèid agam air òl. Na h-allergies agam, fhios agaibh.’ Chluinneadh i mar-tha na guthan na ceann.
Mu dheireadh, mu dheireadh, nas fhaide air a’ mhadainn, chaidh aice air snàigeadh air falbh bho ghearanan chustamairean is cheistean a luchd-obrach, is fhuair i a-steach dhan oifis aice far an cuireadh i aghaidh air cunntasan is clàran-obrach. Bha Sìne, an leas-mhanaidsear, mar-tha na suidhe aig a deasg, cupa cofaidh na boisean, plìonas air a haodann. Bha aighear na tè ud an co-rèir gainnead a cuid teòmachd. Bha i dìreach a’ dèanamh suidhe nuair a sheirm am fòn air a deasg.
‘Am faigh thu sin, a Shìne?’ thuirt i.
Thàinig Sìne a-null dhan deasg aig Ciorstaidh, stùirc oirre is thog i am fòn. Thàinig bìgeil fhann bhon labhrair.
‘Arthur Semple. Tha e airson bruidhinn riut.’ Bha coltas buadhail oirre nuair a shìn Sìne am fòn gu Ciorstaidh.
‘Arthur, ciamar a tha sibh?’ bhruidhinn Ciorstaidh a-steach dhan inneal. ‘Dè a tha a dhìth oirbh an-diugh?’
Bu chòir gun cuireadh luchd-ceannaich na h-òrduighean aca a-steach air-loidhne, ach cha robh dòigh air thalamh gun dèanadh fear a rugadh fada mus robh sgeul air an eadar-lìon a’ chùis air sin. Bha Ciorstaidh air a h-àireamh a thoirt seachad dhàsan is do dhòrlach de dhaoine eile a bha san aon shuidheachadh gus an cuireadh iad na h-òrduighean aca asteach air a’ fòn.
‘Dìreach na chumas mi an taobh sa dhen uaigh.’ Thàinig gròcail tron loidhne. An sùil a hinntinn chitheadh Ciorstaidh an fhàrdach dhìblidh san robh an truaghan a’ tighinn beò, taobh thall na loidhne, taobh thall an eilein. Soithichean salach air an càrnadh sa mhias, seann phàipearan-naidheachd sgaoilte timcheall air mar gun deach an ruagadh tron t-seòmar leis a’ ghaoith, an cat robach, aosmhor aige suas is sìos air clàran-obrach a’ chidsin is a’ bhòrd-bìdh. Air a bheulaibh, an teilidh aige, a chluinneadh i air cùl guth an duine, ’s e a’ seirm dhan t-saoghal, a’ cumail cuideachd leis. An aon chuideachd a gheibheadh e taobh a-muigh a’ chairteal na h-uarach a bhiodh an cùramaiche aige a-staigh.
‘Briosgaidean, tha fhios agad air an t-seòrsa is fheàrr leam, aran, bainne.’ Gu h-obann gheàrr Arthur a-steach air fhèin. ‘Tha rudeigin agam ri innse dhut. Feumar innse do chuideigin agus ’s tusa i.’ Bu chòir do Chiorstaidh greasad a chur air an duine, ach cha b’ urrainn dhi. Shuidh i air ais san t-sèithir aice. ‘A Shìne, am faigh thu cupa cofaidh dhomh?’ thuirt i ris a co-obraiche, a shiolp air falbh na thòir gu diombach.
Chuir i làn a h-aire air a’ fòn na làimh. ‘Niste, Arthur, leanaibh oirbh.’
‘Ceathrad bliadhna bhon diugh fhèin.’ Bha an guth aig Arthur fann, fad às, mar gun robh e gu dearbh a’ tighinn thuice thar ceathrad bliadhna ceòthach de thìm. ‘Bha mi air Mullach Mont Blanc. Ràinig sinn e sa chamhanaich, fhios agad, às dèidh dhuinn an refuge fhàgail san dorchadas. Bu sinn fhèin a’ chiad rud air an do bhuail a’ ghrian. Fada shìos fodhainn, bha na bailtean fhathast san dorchadas is na solasan aca a’ priobadh oirnn mar reultan, mar gun deach an saoghal bun os cionn. Dh’fhairich mi mar dhia an latha ud, am fianais cruitheachd an domhain. Bha mi nas beò an uair sin na riamh roimhe no riamh bhuaithe.’
Lean sàmhchair fhada, san do sheas Ciorstaidh is Arthur air Mullach Mont Blanc, taobh ri taobh, a’ coimhead sìos air latha air ùr-bhreith gus, mu dheireadh, chuir Arthur crìoch air òrdugh.
Nuair a thill Ciorstaidh dhan bhùth shìos an ceann beagan ùine, bhuail oiteag Artach oirre tron doras leth-fhosgailte. Fa chomhair bu lèir dhi an dithis newstart òg aice is iad a’ siabadh mu na sgeilpichean mar chearcan gun chinn. Bho oir a sùla mhothaich i do chustamair a bha a’ dèanamh oirre le sgoinn. Gu h-iongantach, fhuair i nach robh dad dhe seo ga cur suas no sìos. Cha robh anns na rudan buaireasach sin ach solasan fann a’ priobadh oirre aig astar is i na seasamh air mullach beinne.
*
As usual Kirsty was at her work early. It was still dark when she rummaged in her pocket, fished out a clump of keys and activated the sliding doors into the supermarket of which she was the manager. The doors whirred ponderously open. Only one closed behind her. It was then she knew it was going to be one of those mornings. Until an electrician came, if she could even get hold of one, an Arctic wind would blow up and down the aisles with every flurry of wind outside. There would be complaints. And who would those complaints come to? Who but Kirsty Taylor. To make matters worse, as soon as she stepped into the store and found herself enveloped in cold, dank air, she knew the heating boiler was not working; again. Again she climbed the steep, narrow stair that led from the warehouse up into the loft where the slumbering beast dwelt in a dark corner. She caressed its controls and whispered encouraging words to it until eventually it awoke with a sonorous hum. Returning to the warehouse she phoned the maintenance department. Yes, yes, they had recorded the problem. An engineer would visit soon. The same response she had been getting for weeks now.
Lifting her eyes from her phone Kirsty took in the confusion surrounding her. The trolley cages were scattered round her like crazy dancers who had spewed out their contents across the floor before freezing on the spot. The last ferry to the island had been late the day before and the night shift had apparently failed to get all the goods that had come across on her out on the shelves before scarpering. More complaints. About empty shelves this time. ‘That is the third time inside a fortnight you have had no Cravendale milk. It’s the only kind I can drink, you know. It’s my allergies.’ She could already hear the voices in her head.
Eventually, eventually, later that morning she managed to steal away from customer complaints and the questioning of her staff and retreat to her office where she would confront her accounts and staff rotas. Jean, the deputy manager, was already at her desk, a cup of coffee cradled in her palms, a vacant smile on her face. The woman’s capacity for cheerfulness was in inverse proportion to her ability. Kirsty had just sat down at her desk when the phone rang.
‘Will you get that, Jean?’ she said.
Jean drifted reluctantly across to Kirsty’s desk. There came a faint squeaking from the speaker.
‘It’s Arthur Semple. It’s you he wants to speak to.’ With a triumphant look Jean handed the phone back to Kirsty.
‘Arthur, how are you today?’ Kirsty’s good humoured voice gave no hint of her simmering vexation when she spoke into the phone. ‘What do you need today?’
By rights customers would put in their orders for home delivery on-line. Of course there was no way that someone like Arthur, who was born long before the internet was even dreamt of, would cope with that. Kirsty had given her own number to him and a handful of others in the same situation so that they could phone their orders in.
‘Not much. Just enough to keep me this side of the grave.’ came Arthur’s croaky reply. In her mind’s eye Kirsty visualised the man’s wretched home at the other end of the line. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, old newspapers scattered round him as if a whirlwind had ripped through the room. His old cat up and down on the kitchen table and worktops. In front of him the telly which she could hear in the background blaring out, his only company outside the half an hour that his carer would be in; or the five minutes or so it would take him to phone in his food order every couple of days.
‘Biscuits, you know the type I like, bread, milk.’ Suddenly Arthur cut in on himself. ‘I have something to tell you. I need to tell someone.’ She should have cut him short, told him she didn’t have time. But she couldn’t. She sat back in her chair. ‘Jean, will you get me a coffee?’ she said to her colleague, her hand over the mouthpiece. Jean sloped off as if she was dragging a heavy load.
Kirsty gave her full attention to the phone.
‘You were saying, Arthur.’
‘Forty years ago, from this very day.’ Arthur’s voice was faint as if it was indeed coming to her across forty misty years of time. ‘I was on the summit of Mont Blanc. We arrived at dawn. It was dark when we left the refuge. We were the very first thing to be lit by the sun that day. Far below us the villages were still in darkness. Their lights glimmered like stars, as if the whole world had turned upside down. I felt like a god witnessing the creation of the universe. I was more alive that day than ever before, or ever since.’
There followed a long silence in which Arthur and Kirsty stood side by side on the summit of Mont Blanc looking down on the birth of a new day until, after some time, Arthur finished his order.
When Kirsty returned to the shop floor towards lunchtime she was struck by an icy wind sweeping through the half-open doors. In front of her two newstarts were drifting aimlessly round the shelves like headless chickens. At a distance she could make out a customer heading in her direction with great intent. Strangely she felt calm. All these irritations heaped upon her were only as faint lights blinking at her as she stood resolutely on her summit looking down on them from a distance.