With the coming of the weekend, Rattray stood everyone down, allowing the fire to spread unchallenged in the lonely area of forest it occupied. He continued as guest in Mackinnon’s house but spent a great deal of time in Mrs Mackinnon’s spare bedroom reliving the week gone by and writing a diary of events. There had been much to see to, and he was often diverted by Mackinnon to attend to small details that would maintain morale. As a consequence of one such suggestion, every displaced resident of Polloch would receive five hundred pounds in compensation for personal losses suffered in the destructive fire there.
Rattray had accomplished this by plundering an obscure Commission fund for discretionary disbursements under exceptional circumstances, (known as ‘The Town Councillors’ Golfing Allowance’). An imposing envelope, embossed with the Commission cartouche and containing a cheque and legal disclaimer, would be delivered to those bereaved of their belongings.
Mackinnon began Saturday by visiting those who were still making their homes available to the higher earning men burned out of the cantonment at Polloch. He spent time in each smart little house, spring colours bright in white fenced gardens. On several occasions he was met at the door by a mildly blistered face. Two of the cutters were breakfasting in bandaged hands, and he was reminded to visit young Archie whose hands had been dressed by Doctor Wilson in the office hut. None of those lodged locally had taken the traditional ‘recreational trip’ to Fort William that morning, unlike the planting squad billeted at the Community Centre.
The farmer whose property had been destroyed had persuaded his wife to visit her sister while he circulated amongst the local smallholdings where his livestock were temporarily quartered. Mackinnon found him hunched on an old wooden bench, a group of sturdy wethers jostling each other in front of him, knowing that the sack he held contained bullets of feed.
“I’ll need to sell the stock,” the farmer was matter of fact. “I’ll start again by rebuilding, but only after I’ve cleared that plantation completely away. It’s good enough land, you know. Too good to let it go.”
“You’re taking it well,” Mackinnon watched the wethers nuzzle the sack, impatient to be fed.
“Aye, maybe,” the farmer said, and began to throw handfuls of feed. The sheep scattered to eat. “But after what happened I don’t know if the wife will want to go back to the place.”
Several of the families visited by Mackinnon had been deeply touched by the deaths at the farm. The tragedy lay across the village like an open wound and the local minister would not neglect the subject in his Sunday sermon, or so Mackinnon, not a churchgoer, was repeatedly advised by a well-intentioned number of those who were.
Later that day, Mackinnon walked into the Argyll for a beer. The relief barman put down the book he was reading, “the usual, Mr. Mackinnon?”
“Thanks,” Mackinnon eyed the closed book. “Still reading Elizabethan drama?” he asked while the barman levered a pint.
“Not bloody likely,” the barman said. “Robbie asked me to tell you – here he is now,” the young man glanced over Mackinnon’s shoulder.
“Are the squad in Fort William?”
“They should be back by now,” Robbie replied. “They’ve been quiet the last couple of days. They were clearing up and the excitement had gone. Tired, but morale was high enough. I paired Silas with George and kept an eye on them but saw nothing out of the ordinary. If Silas started this fire then he must be a very cool customer.”
“Silas couldn’t show the slightest sign of guilt,” Mackinnon spoke with conviction. “If the squad thought that he had started the fire they would beat the living shit out of him.”
The barman came over to them. “Oh, Mr. Mackinnon, I was to mention the minister’s sermon tomorrow…”