It was a pleasant morning at the ‘Fort’. Streets were busy, with the town in bright sunlight. Several yachts and white motor cruisers sat quietly at their mooring buoys and contrasted against blue waters of the loch. The huge wedge of Ben Nevis loomed behind it all and the pagoda of a local distillery gleamed.
Each Saturday, relaxed men stowed purchases in the parked Commission vehicles and for a time drifted with tourists along the High Street. Come noon, most had disappeared into one or other of the local bars. A few ‘did solitary’, as the phrase had it, by spending their time in the local museum or library. Silas was often referred to in this way: he would kickstart his Enfield and roar into the scenery, unless the weather was foul. He never talked of where he went, but then he rarely talked, seen as no bad trait.
Away from the bothy, there was an embargo on trading tales of past lives. This convention had existed since Polloch had first been occupied. Over many decades, the majority had been grateful for it, as though in joining the Commission they had been grafted a new skin and reincarnated into an amnesiac world of forestry workers.
The current crop were typical of many who had gone before. Privacy was important in a physically close community. No-one unburdened on another excepting a close companion. Backgrounds varied and a worker’s provenance was confidential, so glimpses of the past were offered sparingly, often by way of a compliment.
They did not regard themselves as oppressed, underpaid labour. To the contrary, they considered themselves to be a liberated few. George had penned a quatrain of doggerel which expressed a feeling shared;
O how privileged oi be
To plant the Sitka Spruce
In tremendous quantity
And live in a Forestry hoose.
And ‘O how privileged oi be!’, followed by a rhetorical pause, was used by Ruairidh and Blue both as a sarcasm and an expression of well-being.