Murdo's War by Alan Temperley

curtains and it was dazzling. There had been a good fall, the snow was weighing heavy on the heather. Beyond the headland he could see white horses, suggesting a blow of force six or seven. He listened to the sigh of the wind around the house and caught the faint keen- ing in the landing skylight – force seven most like. He reached for a packet of Woodbines: it was the only time of the day he liked a cigarette, first thing in the morning before he got up.
    The snow was beautiful. With a romantic eye Hector appreciated it; as a countryman it disgusted him. He gazed at the wintry scene and wondered how long it would last. Gradually, as the new day swam more fully into focus, he became aware of an occasional swishing, scraping sound from outside. He could not place it. Intrigued, he swung his feet to the bedside mat and reached for an old coat which served as a dressing gown. Tying the cord at his waist he crossed to the window.
    Murdo was nearing the top of a rough knoll at the side of the house with an old tin tray in his hand. He dropped it on the snow, settled the toorie on his wild hair, sat on the tray and launched himself at the steepest part of the slope. Legs and arms flying he shot down, slewing wildly out of control, bucking over boulders and little cliffs, finally tumbling and careering head over heels to the bottom. He sat up smothered in snow, brushed himself down and rescued the tray from a wilderness of whin bushes. Earlier tracks showed where he had started on more gentle slopes.
    Hector was pleased to see him enjoying himself. He pushed open the window. A ledge of snow whirled in and sifted to the bedroom floor.
    ‘Have you had breakfast?’
    Murdo looked up, his face glowing, and nodded vigorously.
    ‘Well I’ll make dinner for two o’clock. All right? Don’t be late.’
    ‘Right. What time is it now?’
    ‘Just on twelve.’
    Murdo raised a hand and returned to the top of the knoll. Because of the bad early conditions and the fact that many children had a good distance to travel, school had been cancelled for the day. Murdo saw boys sledging on the main hill at the far side of the village. Tucking the tray beneath his arm he went off to join them.
    From his seat at the fire after lunch, Murdo could see the white waves racing up the bay. A long, low swell was beginning to surge across the rocks of the headland, sliding in from the north-east. Throughout the afternoon it worsened. Ominous clouds began to rear above the horizon.
    ‘I doubt that’s it for tonight, boy,’ Hector said, turning once more from the window. ‘It’s not the sort of weather I like out there.’ Murdo looked up from sharpening his father’s pocket knife, seeing the dark thrusting clouds beyond Hector’s silhouette. They were hostile and forbidding, and spoke of storm. The coming night was not one in which to be abroad – on the land, let alone upon the water. He had been carving a small mallard from a piece of drift-wood. Brushing the chips from his lap, he picked the matches off the dresser and put a light to the lamp.
    As he did so the clock whirred into life and chimed once: half past three. Hector gazed at its fine yellow face, then down at Murdo, and once more out of the window. He was restless.
    ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better go down and have a word with Mr Smith. See how he feels about it.’
    Murdo tested the blade of the knife with the tip of a finger, and snapped is shut.
    ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
    The snow had not thawed at all. As the sun declined over the snowfields they walked in blue shadow. The few cars and lorries had compressed the crystals into shining ribbons. Murdo ran along the road in his rubber boots and slid in the tracks. When he bent to make a snowball to throw at a neighbour’s chimney the snow was too powdery to stick, and crumbled as he threw it. His fingers ached with the cold and he thrust his fists into the pockets of his battledress.
    When they reached the inn