Rattray had long since imparted to the recovery crews all the information he possessed on the failure to prevent fire from reaching the farm and the men who had certainly died there, and was standing alone and unmoving in the floodlit area, staring towards the smoking plantation of larch when he felt a gentle touch on his arm.
“Come away now,” Mackinnon said quietly, “it’s getting late. Never you mind the hotel, you come to my place tonight. Dinner’s ready and there’s a bed already made up. Just follow me in the car, eh.”
The Regional Chief allowed himself to be led out of the brightness, past sympathetic glances from blue uniforms and white coats, past revolving blue and white lights, into a moonlit night. The sky behind him glowed orange. He walked to his car, Mackinnon beside him. A policeman bent and dutifully removed the cones and sagging tape. Rattray engaged the gears and followed Mackinnon’s rear lights.
Mackinnon’s good lady was unobtrusive around her husband and their guest. The air hung with tragedy and little was said. The forester’s wife had intended to buy a gas radiator that simulated a coal fire in a homely grate. She had not yet done so. As they sat after dinner she was thankful that there was no pretence at flame to taunt her living room. Sensitive to the oppressive atmosphere, the young children of the house had already gone, hushed and uncomplaining, to their upstairs bedroom.
After their meal, Mackinnon’s wife retired to bed and the two men sat quietly with whisky. The living room window was south facing and the southerly heavens sparkled with stars, for the fire was to the north and east. There, it polluted the midnight blue of the sky and overwhelmed starlight with smoke.
Mackinnon spoke quietly for a time, reporting excellent progress at the firebreak and general confidence in the measures taken. The Polloch to Strontian road would define the southern limit of conflagration. Every effort would be directed towards ensuring containment of the fire.
Before inviting Rattray to his home, Euan Mackinnon had accompanied the local police sergeant to the marquees where a role call was made of all the volunteers to identify those absent and engaged in the search and recovery effort. Rattray was reassured that Mackinnon had accomplished all that could be done locally. Little was said. They sipped their whisky, guessing the intermission would be brief.
Shortly after ten o’clock, the telephone rang. Rattray had been tracked down. The phone continued to demand being answered and Mackinnon watched the haggard face answer call after call from distraught families pleading to be assured that a man who was dead was alive. Many calls were from families whom Rattray knew well. He offered them no false hopes of survival.
At one am, the telephone went silent. Mackinnon rose from his chair, whisky glass in hand, and disconnected the instrument. “Enough,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Rattray slumped into a chair. “I’ll be fine here.”
“It’s this way.” Mackinnon helped the forester to his feet. He led him to a bedroom with its curtains drawn and floral bedspread neatly triangulated. He pushed open the bedroom door and switched on a bedside lamp. “See you in the morning.”
The door closed with a soft click and Rattray was again alone. The room was almost feminine in its comfortable warmth, and he slowly pulled his sweater over his head and unbuttoned his shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed and set a carriage-case alarm clock for six.