On perambulating the clachan the day before, tossing sweets and tobacco amongst the natives, Sir and Lady Acland had been absolutely appalled to see that nothing had improved since their previous visit. The natives still lived in the most miserable and un-Christian hovels. Not even the most wretched vagabond who squatted on Acland’s lands in north Devon lived in such filth. The horror that they felt on seeing the clachan again was quite natural and right as it arose from love of the less fortunate and a genuine social affection. The well-being of the St Kildans was of great concern to Sir Thomas, who was a philanthropist as well as a politician, and he had decided to invite the good minister and his wife to dinner to discuss the matter.
Some of the natives had turned out on the landing rock to watch as the boatswain of the Lady of St Kilda arrived to pick up Mr and Mrs MacKenzie in the dinghy. Mrs MacKenzie wore her best summer dress of white calico printed with small blue and purple pansies. It had been made shortly after her wedding five years previously, and Lizzie was relieved that she had spent some time last winter updating it. Her sister Annie had sent her recent images and drawings of young ladies in Glasgow. Lizzie had lowered the neckline so that it rested on her bare shoulders and she had puffed the sleeves using material from an old blue dress which she had torn on the rocks. She had no crinoline, of course, but in order to achieve the right width of the skirts she was wearing three petticoats starched with sugar. The underskirt had been lined at the bottom with a willow band which had been shaped around a large barrel. She had been quite pleased with the result at the time, but now she worried that her creation would look hopelessly out of fashion. The tight corset made her sit very upright in the rickety boat as they rowed towards the schooner. Betty had helped her to fasten pretty blue ribbons in her dismal hair and she had formed ringlets at her temples with a hot iron spike. The coarse hands of the servant girl had worked slowly and methodically. The result was surprisingly good, and now Lizzie hoped that her coiffure was not getting squashed beneath her bonnet. There was a little seawater in the hull of the boat and Lizzie lifted her feet under the petticoats in order to save her best boots from the salt. Her husband, on the other hand, looked completely at ease in his black coat with the velvet collar. His white cravat had gone slightly yellow from disuse. To the natives who were watching from the shore the scene was utterly alien. They had grown used to the minister and his wife, and it worried them that the couple should look so different on this evening. Even the myriad of puffins, returning overhead from their missions at sea, seemed to take a curious interest in the colourful spectacle as it crossed Village Bay.
When they reached the schooner the MacKenzies were helped on board by strong deckhands and greeted by the steward, who ushered them down a flight of stairs below the poop deck. As they entered the master’s cabin Lizzie removed her bonnet and looked anxiously for her own reflection in the polished brass. Her cheeks were badly flushed and her hair had curled above her temples. She could feel her throat contracting above her beating heart and her voice was pitched rather too high as she greeted their host and hostess.
Sir Thomas Dyke Acland looked exceedingly elegant in a blue velvet coat and slim cream trousers, but Mrs MacKenzie only had eyes for Lady Acland, whose vast gown of light green silk taffeta, strewn with tiny silk roses, like the satin sheet of a bridal bed, seemed to fill the best part of the salon. Lizzie lowered her eyes and blushed as she thought of the ugly contraption of starched petticoats hidden underneath her own crushed skirts. She was sweating in the hot cabin, and as she sat down she could feel the melting sugar sticking to her thighs.
A valet served the dinner. Venison trimmed with greens had been brought from the Long Isle, and as the claret was poured into the crystal glasses it sent shadows of blood on to the white tablecloth. The candlelight was reflected in the brass and mahogany of the cabin and framed the diners in a warm, becoming glow. MacKenzie observed his wife as she bit delicately into a perfect potato, a spit of gravy clinging to her lower lip. She was well tutored, he saw, and recognised some of his own efforts in her manners. But there was something else too – something quite individual which he could not put his finger on. Perhaps he had underestimated her. His eyes rested on her golden features for a moment longer and he suddenly wished that he had been able to give her more.
Lady Acland watched her guests closely as her husband was talking. She saw that the minister was a handsome, dark man although, judging from his bronzed complexion, it was all too obvious that he often went without a hat. He had been to university in Glasgow, she understood, but it was not clear if he had ever graduated, nor if he had achieved a distinction in any of his subjects. Two of her own sons were at Oxford at the moment, but they were quite a different class of gentlemen, of course, and it would be unfair to the minister to make a comparison. As for Mrs MacKenzie, she had beauty, that was clear, although of the natural rather than the sophisticated kind. There was something disturbingly youthful about her, Lady Acland realised. It would be altogether more appropriate if her fresh spirit could mature into something less gleaming. A decent soul, Lady Acland thought, as she smiled graciously at the younger woman across the table, though not a lady by any means.
‘So what brings you to St Kilda this second time, Sir Thomas? I thought politics would keep you in the south.’ The minister accepted another slice of venison from the valet.
‘My dear Reverend, a gentleman must never cease searching for adventure. Lydia and I needed a drama. It is as simple as that,’ answered Acland cheerfully, and raised his glass to the churchman.
Mr MacKenzie raised his glass and inclined his head in response.
‘You see, I’m afraid I cannot bear the idle life of my class –’ the older man did not realise that this sounded somewhat pompous – ‘so when politics doesn’t keep me busy I travel.’
‘And what, if I may ask, do you hope to find on your travels?’
‘Oh anything really, anything that can catch my interest, or my pity for that matter.’ He was naturally restless and needed impressions that would serve as a contrast to the life he had been born into.
‘Well, I am sorry if you are disappointed because there is not much to cause excitement on St Kilda at the moment – we are in the middle of the harvesting of the fulmar and stormy petrel.’
‘Ah, but you are mistaken, my friend; St Kilda is as sublimely beautiful and as darkly terrifying as I remember her. You see, as a politician and a man of the humanities I am interested in exploring how sensation, impression and imagination are interrelated with our experience of art.’ Sir Thomas considered himself to be a fair artist and he had, when a student at Christ Church, composed verses which reflected his inner pain and the wonder of nature.
The minister had taken to the older gentleman, but he would not be patronised. ‘I agree that the place is utterly unique, but for those who dwell here throughout the year the concern lies in survival rather than in art, as I am sure you are aware.’
Sir Thomas looked surprised; he was not used to being contradicted outside Parliament, and deep down he was terrified of the rise of the middling ranks. But he hated mediocrity and admired this young minister who was anything but tame. So after a brief hesitation he swiftly composed himself and answered with a smile, ‘You must excuse me, Reverend, I am old enough to indulge myself in the dream of the Golden Age. I am sure your main concern, which inevitably lies in the improvement of the lives of the St Kildans, is a deal nobler than mere ramblings in search of beauty.’
‘I honestly believe,’ Lady Acland interrupted importantly while the bright feathers of some exotic bird vibrated at the peak of her lofty coiffure, ‘that you are the best thing that could have happened to these simple beings, these ultimate savages, Reverend!’ She almost spat her contempt for the St Kildans but continued in a seductive voice, her head beautifully tilted as she smiled at him. ‘Why, you can even speak that primitive language of theirs!’ He was arrogant a
nd handsome and she wanted him to admire her.
‘It is my husband’s language too.’ Lizzie regretted her indiscretion as soon as she had spoken, but was rewarded by a single smile from her husband.
Lady Acland did not quite understand, but saw that the younger woman’s dress was really dreadfully plain.
‘As a matter of fact I have been trying to persuade the islanders to build a new village and create a better field system, which would improve their yields of barley and make their houses more hygienic.’ The minister’s voice was suddenly serious, and he looked intently at Sir Thomas.
‘New houses – how perfectly romantic! It would be like a little hamlet of goblins and gnomes!’ Lady Acland had exceeded herself, but did not know it.
Sir Thomas looked at her incredulously before turning to the minister. ‘What a splendid idea, my dear fellow. Land reform might be just the thing to bring the natives into the modern world.’
‘Yes, that is precisely my ambition, Sir Thomas.’ The minister could not hide his excitement. ‘They hold the land in common, and at the moment each family farms small plots, using fermented offal and bird carcasses along with the soot-impregnated straw from their roofs as manure. I have studied Smith’s ideas of the division of labour and come to the conclusion that what we need on Hirta is something like an Act of Inclosure. I would have them enclose the fields and build a high wall which separates the infields from the outfields and protects the crops from the salt spray off the sea.’
‘I can see that your mission goes far beyond the spiritual, minister.’
‘Ah, but it is all linked – the spiritual well-being of a community cannot be separated from the elements of its physical livelihood. We have a duty to God to improve our situation on earth and make the most of the gifts of nature which He has provided for His people. Only in this place that is harder than in many other . . .’ MacKenzie’s voice trailed off.
The gentleman was not slow to pick up the note of despair in the minister’s voice. ‘I quite agree, but I can sense from your tone that there is a catch – what is it?’
‘Well, they say that they are happy where they are and their current dwellings have been good enough for their ancestors for a thousand years – they believe their ancestors to have been heroes of gigantic strength who could lift the huge boulders and built the houses and dykes with their bare hands.’ The minister sighed and raised his eyebrows in exasperation.
‘Hmm, I can see that they need an incentive.’ Sir Thomas thought for a moment while twirling the stem of the wine glass between his well-manicured fingers. ‘I will issue a bounty – a reward of twenty guineas to the first man who builds a new house for his family!’ He was delighted at the thought that this community might finally be transformed by his material expression of sympathy.
‘Twenty guineas!’ Lizzie was thrilled by so much potential. She thought of the poky dwelling of her friend Ann MacCrimmon. ‘Oh, but it will never work.’ She was immediately saddened by the realisation.
‘Whatever do you mean, Mrs MacKenzie?’ Sir Thomas asked in an avuncular manner. He saw that she was pretty.
‘I beg your pardon, sir –’ Lizzie looked to her husband for support – ‘but the islanders will never accept a bounty which would make them compete against each other, nor would any of them accept a gift that was not also granted to the others.’
‘My wife is right,’ said the minister thoughtfully. ‘The St Kildans are all equal, and fierce in their solidarity.’
‘Surely they will be persuaded by twenty guineas!’ Lady Acland had an undying belief in money.
Sir Thomas ignored his wife and rested his eyes on the minister. ‘Well, I will let you decide how to make best use of the money.’
‘I would like to thank you on behalf of the whole community and I am sure they will be very touched by this most generous gift,’ said Mr MacKenzie. Sir Thomas, who was at once pleasantly rewarded by the good-heartedness of his own generosity, puffed his cheeks and brushed aside the expected admiration with his hand.
‘At last, minister, you can move them out of their beastly hovels and into the world of human beings – they can leave their savage customs behind forever!’ Lady Acland, who credited herself with the knack of finding the right remark for every situation, believed that she expressed what everybody must be thinking at that moment.
Only a few years previously Lizzie would not have reacted, but now her eyes were wide with disbelief. ‘You speak of them as if they were no better than animals! It is precisely because they revere the past of their community and recount its stories and myths that they are human. How else would they survive?’ She wanted to weep. She knew she was ordinary, mediocre even, but she could not let this woman whose jewels glittered in the light from the candelabras slander the people that she had observed closely over the last few years, since the twins died, and even begun to admire. Losing the children, and sharing her grief with the other St Kildan mothers who had experienced the same misfortune, had created an affinity that went far deeper than any social conventions. She wanted to protect her sisters from the outside world. How could anyone know about humanity who had not lived? How could Sir and Lady Acland, who had to sail this far to perceive the thrill of beauty, understand that the human soul is at times closer to nature than it is to God. Lizzie felt sullen and childish and wished that somebody would save her from this unpleasant situation.
It was Sir Thomas, rather than her husband, who came to her rescue. ‘I think, Mrs MacKenzie, that your wisdom exceeds your years. I’m only sorry that I will not have enough time to speak to you on these subjects.’ He looked at her with regret. ‘It is late, and my steward must bring you back before it gets too dark.’
As the boat glided through the black water of the August night the minister remembered another such night of light and dark when he had failed to stand fast in his loyalty to God and been drawn into a myth where his own burning desires were as primal as those of a beast of nature. He could feel the warm arm of his wife against his own as they rocked gently with the strokes of the oars. She smelled faintly of burnt sugar. He suddenly broke into a cold sweat as he thought of her as she had been on that night three years previously, when the glowing algae had outlined her body in such beauty that he had not been able to tell whether she was an angel of God or a temptress sent by the Devil to taunt him. He realised that there were times when he did not know her at all, and that frightened him. She seemed to be continually changing: whether with the seasons or with the age of man he could not tell.
Lizzie felt foolish and uncomfortable – she wished she had never accepted the invitation to the dinner. But what choice did she have? There was no alternative on this island, no tea-party that would keep her occupied, no evening lecture or charity ball. The dinner had rocked her hard-won equilibrium. She felt ugly and coarse: not a lady at all but a simple minister’s wife living amongst savages – at least according to that peacock Lady Acland. Is that how she should think of herself? Oh no, she did not think like that at all, not any more! She felt closer to the St Kildans than to the gentry on the schooner. She had learned to be happy on the island, but now she felt miserable again as she remembered her youth in Paisley, her friends and family. She tore the blue ribbons out of her silly hair and crushed them tightly in her hand.
As the boat drew up towards the landing rock a flock of kittiwakes lifted from the still water of the bay, their flight as silent and soft as a silk slip pulled from the warm skin of a naked woman.
Neil MacKenzie broke the good news to the St Kildans the next morning at the mòd. As expected, they would not accept the gift unless it was granted to the community as a whole. There was much discussion amongst the men who made up the parliament. MacKenzie explained with great patience, over and over again, what the virtue of the new clachan would be. A couple of hours later he could feel his endurance waver as the men were still chafing the
ir backs against the stone walls of the houses without having got any closer to a conclusion. As they smoked and spat and chatted they would often be carried away by another topic and the minister found it very difficult to keep them on track. ‘Our ancestors were much stronger than us. They built these houses with their bare hands. How are we going to be able to build a whole new village with no building material?’ asked MacKinnon, the maor. ‘We will use the material from the existing houses and import some timber for the fittings of the doors and windows,’ answered MacKenzie. There was a surprised murmur at the mention of windows. ‘Where will we live while the new houses are being constructed?’ asked another. ‘We will build one house at a time, and we will share the work between us,’ came the answer. ‘What if the spirits of our ancestors get angry if we abandon the houses they built for us?’ asked John Gilles, who was not as clever as some. ‘What have I told you about spirits, John? You had better come and see me in the manse tomorrow after your work is done,’ answered the minister, who really was running out of patience. ‘But if we reuse the building material from our old houses, what then would we need the gentleman’s money for?’ asked one who was better equipped. ‘I thought you could buy furniture and household equipment such as bedsteads, windows and chairs,’ suggested the minister languidly. There was renewed muttering and spitting, itching and shuffling. ‘Och, minister, we are not sure about this. It would be nice to have a window, that is for sure, but these new houses may not be able to stand the seasons. And to move an entire field system . . . We need some more time to think it over,’ said MacKinnon after another interlude which seemed to have passed with agonising slowness.
Island of Wings Page 11
