Bruar's Rest

ability to disguise himself. Inspector Martin agreed that this was the reason he’d evaded capture—the police had no definite picture of Bull Buckley.
    Knowing how Megan had suffered, it was young Sam who interrupted them. ‘Inspector, hasn’t she given enough? Can’t you see how tiring this is for her?’
    ‘That’s all right, Sam, I don’t mind. If it puts him away, I’ll sit here all night.’
    ‘Well now’, said Michael butting in, ‘it is four o’clock in the morning, and that is, as far as I’m concerned, all night. So if you are quite finished, Inspector, we all need our beds.’
    ‘I’ll come back later,’ the lawman told Megan. ‘Better we continue this here, rather than you come to a police station.’
    She smiled and nodded in agreement, then said, much to everyone’s surprise, ‘I gave him a right slap in the face with a piece of heavy firewood. I’d arrest everybody with half their face bruised.’
    ‘Did you hear that, lads?’ the inspector called to the policemen who were dizzy with lack of sleep, ‘Let’s find this fiend.’ Holding out his hand to shake hers, he added, ‘And it will be all thanks to you, my dear gowpie.’
    There were still enough hours of darkness left for the welcome blessings of sleep, and Megan did sleep right through until six the following evening. Thankfully Martin didn’t come back that day. ‘He is probably far too busy checking every public house in Northern England for a bruised face,’ Stephen said, while they shared dinner.
    There was not much in the way of conversation, and the household took an early night. Next morning the police would probably be back, so the house was made ready for them. However, after breakfast and still no sign of the law, Bridget and Stephen went for a ride.
    ‘Come and see Fiddler’s foal,’ Michael asked, but Megan couldn’t rest in her mind until she had news that Bull Buckley was captured, and at first she refused to step outside even in daylight. Yet Nuala went on and on about the lovely foal, so with great reluctance she gave in, and went to admire the young horse. It certainly was a beautiful little animal, and had the look of a future champion about it. It was chestnut-coloured with a flash of pure white running from the tip if its black nose and from eye to eye.
    Its young owner pulled at her sleeve asking for her opinion on the horse, since most of the time Megan’s eyes were elsewhere, watching the horizon.
    ‘She’s a born royal,’ she told the child after being tugged at and questioned, ‘a lovely wee horse, but to me there’s only one great horse and that’s Beth. Can I see her, Michael? Will you walk me to the barn?’
    Leaving Nuala playing with her foal they were soon in the barn, where memories came flooding back to them; she blushed, her eyes on the loose hay scattered underfoot. He turned her to face him, hands firmly on her shoulders, and said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I have neither been sleeping nor thinking clearly since that day. You made me feel alive, special. No woman will ever reach me as you did. For that one heavenly, stolen afternoon I give thanks to you, my darling.’ He drew her to him and kissed her quivering lips. She didn’t flinch or run off, frightened and confused, as she thought she might. Instead, much to her surprise she kissed him back.
    Buckley had done as good a job of knocking the stuffing from her, she felt so weak. She needed someone to pick up her pieces and remake her shattered spirit.
    ‘Listen to me, Michael, I too found great comfort and pleasure in your arms, but one day was all it was, and now it’s a bittersweet memory. It’s in the past and best left there. In the south of this country in a place called Sussex there’s a home for shell-shocked soldiers, Kingsland House. I have no money to get there, nor can I read or write, but I will not take another decision regarding my life until I know for certain if my husband is alive, buried or if his brain is dead. It is a promise I made, and as a Macdonald from Glen Coe I am duty bound to keep my word. Now, if you mean what you say, then take me to him and let that be an end to things.’
    ‘Leave his memory, for that’s all he is, and come back to Ireland with me, stay with me. I can give you the world on a plate if you want.’
    ‘Michael, you’re not listening. If he is buried in some soldiers’ graveyard, I will close our door and go anywhere with you. If his mind is gone, I will