A Better Place

by Tania Roberts

  A Better Place

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  A Better Place

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Epilogue – Hawera 1995

  About the Author

  Dedicated to Alexina Lynn Pollock

  13 September 1942-20 September2011

  An amazing and inspirational woman

  who lived with Parkinsons

  with dignity, grace and a sense of humour.

  TANIA ROBERTS

  A BETTER PLACE

  National Library of New Zealand Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Roberts, Tania

  A Better Place / Tania Roberts

  Format: Paperback

  ISBN 978-0-473-25437-7

  Format: EPUB

  ISBN 978-0-473-25436-0

  This novel is a work of fiction. The persons and events in this book may have representations in history, but this work is entirely the author’s creation and should not be construed as historical fact.

  First published 2013

  Red Rose Publishing, New Plymouth

  Copyright © Tania Roberts 2013

  Tania Roberts asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  ISBN 978-0-473-25437-7

  Cover Design by Adrian

  Printed by PublishMe Print & Publish, New Plymouth

  Acknowledgements

  So many people have been part of the journey in creating this novel and my heart felt thanks go out to all of you. In particular I want to make special mention of the ‘M’s’ in my life, Marion (my Mum) and Margaret for their love, support and encouragement. To all my relatives who have shared memories, photos and their own research – my aunties Isla, Lynn and Gillian, extended family Bill and Erica; thank you.

  A big thank you is also extended to my mentor Joan Rosier-Jones and the members of the writing groups to which I have belonged. Their valuable critiquing, input and encouragement have helped ensure this project maintained its momentum.

  Thank you also to my friends who have given their time to read my work and provide valuable feeback. You are many and varied and all saw something different.

  Thank you to all involved in the publishing process for your professional advice and contribution.

  And lastly, but not least, thank you to my family for your patience, to my three beautiful children for allowing their mum to have some ‘me’ time.

  Chapter One

  Coigach, Scottish Highlands October 1877

  Murdo stands on the limestone doorsill at the front of the croft. To his left the early morning sun is rising over the hills of Ben More Coigach and casting its first light over the waters of Loch Broom. From his vantage point Murdo looks down to the loch and tries to fathom her mood. The loch can be kind and surrender her bounty – the many white fish that are the lifeblood of the villagers - or she can be wicked and whip up waves to suck the villagers into her murky depths.

  Murdo needs her to be kind. Now, into autumn she can be rather fickle and the catches of late have been light. He is struggling to meet the ever increasing demands of the factor who collects the land rent on behalf of the Cromartie Estates and with another year of poor crops they will need some extra fish for salting. Winter will soon be upon the Highlands of Scotland and the villagers’ boats will be confined to the safer waters of the river, their small sails without the strength to hold the winter winds. Until the snows melt, fogs lift and rains abate well into the next year, fishing in the deep waters of the loch will be too dangerous.

  “Will it be good today, me husband?” Annie asks as she joins Murdo on the doorsill.

  “Aye, me love, it’s a gentle breeze that blows. I must be off to meet the men. We need to raise the nets while the tide is right. What brings ye from bed at this early hour? Is it the wee bairn?”

  “Aye, must be another boy. Does nae lay still this one.”

  “Ye must call on Mother. She will take care of the children if ye need to rest.”

  “We will be fine. Ye go and fill ye nets to the brim.”

  Murdo gathers his coat and hat from inside the croft, gives Annie a gentle kiss on the cheek and sets off on foot down the potholed, gravel track which winds down from the five houses huddled on the hillside to the river below. The village of Achadh’ a Braigh lies, as its name suggests, among the wild fields of moss, rock and heather on the hills overlooking the river of the same name. From the river there is easy access by boat to Loch Broom.

  Murdo and Annie Campbell’s croft sits lowest on the hillside and is the newest in the village, having been built not four years ago by Murdo, his family and the other villagers in anticipation of his marriage to Annie. Unlike the other black houses in the village, the walls are built with the new lime wash technique and it has the luxury of a built-in chimney at the gable end of the house.

  At this early hour there is little smoke curling from the chimney. Rekindling the fire is the first chore to be done and Annie knows it is futile to return to bed. She might as well get started before the children wake and slow her down even more. But walking to the rear of the croft where the peat bricks are stacked she has to brace herself against the end wall as she is gripped by a sharp spasm in her lower back. Annie knows the bairn is not due for a few weeks so breathes her way through the pain and sets off again to the peat stack.

  .....

  Murdo reaches the shores of the river just as James, Duncan and Murdo’s older brother Roderick, are dragging the smack from the shingle embankment where it had been docked the day before. James has come south from Badenscaille and brought his son James, a young lad of but seventeen years who is eager to learn the fishermen’s secrets. Greetings and handshakes are exchanged, as is the normal morning custom, before the men all climb aboard. James and Duncan are at the oars first this morning until the sail can be unfurled when they reach the loch. Yesterday they had set the net in a favourite fishing spot over towards Horse Island. Today’s gentle easterly soon fills the sail and the half-mile sea journey is easily covered.

  A flock of gulls hovers over the water where the net lies. The gulls are a sure sign of a good catch and the anticipation is reflected in the men’s smiles. There is little chatter as they set about hauling the net aboard. Cod and haddock, which the loch is renowned for, spill into the bottom of the smack. It is a good day. The net has been snagged on some rocks and torn in several places but it is a small price to pay for the bountiful haul.

  Returning to the mainland, they must gut the fish. The technique passed from father to son over many years is today shown to young James. The heavy knife is cumbersome in his boyish hands and he
lacks confidence with its sharp blade. Duncan and Roderick have gutted ten fish to James’ one but their hands are broad and calloused and bear the scars from their days of learning. After dividing the catch into three creels, the woven baskets that are essential to Highland life, there is time to boil a lone lobster trapped in the net and share it for the midday meal.

  “Did ye hear tell there’s been another drowning?” James asks, wanting to share the news.

  “Ach, nae more good fishermen gone to the Lord?” Murdo remembers the many young men who have lost their lives in recent times.

  “Nae, Thomas and John Mackenzie from Achiltibuie. Sailed to Ullapool to do some business and left that same night to return home, ne’er to be seen again.”

  “Tis dangerous this time of year when the squalls come up unexpectedly,” replies Murdo, “and those old men wouldnae have the strength to battle the big waves.”

  “Aye. A bailing dish and an oar is all that’s been washed ashore.”

  The lobster finished, the men set about mending the net and restacking it in the smack ready to be relaid in the morning. It is mid afternoon by the time the men are able to head home with their share of the catch; James and his son back north to Badenscaille and Duncan to Achinenver. Murdo and Roderick each grab a side of the creel for the trek back up the hill to Achadh’ a Braigh. As the only fishermen in the village they will share the catch among the five crofts to help ensure everyone has food to eat today and some fish to salt and store for the winter.

  .....

  “Seanmhair! Seanmhair! Come! Mama hurt!” Angus yells as he bangs his fists on his grandmother Jessie’s door. “Seanmhair! Seanmhair hurry!”

  “What is it, wee Angus? What are ye making all the noise for?”

  Angus grabs his grandmother’s hand as she opens the croft door and pulls her towards his home. Tears are streaming down his cheeks and Jessie wonders whatever could possibly be wrong. They haven’t gone far when they hear Annie cry out in pain. Jessie knows that sound.

  “Angus, go and tell ye Auntie Mary to fetch Mrs McLeod.” Angus looks up at his grandmother with a confused frown. “Go wee Angus. I’ll help ye Mama but we’re gonna need Mrs McLeod. There’s a wee bairn ready to come into this world.”

  Angus doesn’t understand but his little legs toddle as fast as they can back to his grandmother’s croft. Grandad Murdo comes to the croft door and is stretching his arms above his head, having just climbed out of bed to see what all the commotion is about.

  “Mama. Mary. McLeod. Help Mama,” Angus manages to stutter between sobs.

  Grandad Murdo, being father of six and grandfather of many more, lifts little Angus into his arms.

  ”Ne’er ye mind wee lad, us men are best to stay clear of these matters. Come inside with ye Seanhair and we’ll get some oatmeal for breakfast,” he says comfortingly before calling for his daughter, Mary, to go fetch Mrs Mcleod.

  There are two Mcleods in Achadh’ a Braigh who could attend the birth. Catherine lives in the croft adjacent to Murdo and Jessie’s, just a little further up the hillside. Mary sees smoke rising from the wooden barrel, which has been set in the thatched roof to serve as a chimney. It is a sure sign that Catherine is up and about and Mary goes there first. There is no response to her knock on the door but Mary hears noises from within so hesitantly opens the door. She crouches to see beneath the pall of black smoke rising from the central fire of peat bricks. It is only the chickens pecking and squawking about the earth floor, eager to be let out to scavenge in the yard. Leaving the door ajar slightly so the chickens can make their escape, Mary crosses the track to the croft of Catherine’s older sister Margaret.

  Margaret is thought to be in her early seventies. Since her husband’s death four years ago, she lives with her daughter Ann. It is Ann that answers Mary’s knock at the door. She is dressed and just pulling a shawl about her shoulders.

  “Good morning to ye Mary. I’m just off to work at the big house. What can I do for ye?”

  “Annie’s bairn’s on its way. We need ye mother’s help with the birthing,” explains Mary.

  “Ach, they’ve all gone down to the river. It’s washday, ye know. It’s such a chore. They wanted to get on with it while the rain was staying away. Me mam will help though. We’re ever so grateful for all the food ye give us. Me meagre wage doesnae seem to buy much.” Ann steps outside and shuts the door behind her.

  Mary thanks Ann, hitches up her skirts and hurries across the fields, still damp with the morning dew. From the brow of the hill she sees Margaret, Catherine and Roderick’s wife Barbara, busy at the riverside. Barbara, being half the age of Margaret and Catherine, resigns herself to the most labouring task and is standing in one of the wooden barrels treading the washing with her bare feet. The river water feels icy against her ankles. She flexes her reddened toes with each step but cannot feel them, numb with cold.

  Mary hurries down the stock track zigzagging down the steep hillside, breathlessly calling to the women as she goes. They think she is apologizing for being tardy and are impatiently waiting for her help in lifting the heavy loads of wet washing stacked in the creels.

  “It’s Annie. The bairn’s on the way. We need ye help. Please come quickly.”

  “Ach. I’ll go Catherine. Me aching body is giving me grief and this chilly water is nae helping,” says Margaret knowing her arthritic limbs are slow to move after a cool autumn night. Earlier her gnarled fingers have struggled to tie her apron strings about her cumbersome waist. But birthing was more about words; a woman’s body knows what to do, she just needs encouragement. Sensing a need to hurry, Mary offers to help Margaret back up the track. In the old woman’s eyes, Mary just needs to be patient.

  “Ye just stay here me girl and help with the washing. I’ll go help Annie and all will be well.”

  By the time Margaret shuffles her way back up the track, fetches her birthing kit from the croft and makes it to Annie’s, the bairn is ready to make its way into the world. Jessie is cooling Annie’s brow with a damp cloth but decides it is best if she leaves Margaret to tend her. Annie’s second born, also called Mary, is still asleep in the small box bed of heather she shares with her brother Angus. Mary barely gives a whimper as Jessie lifts her from the bed and wraps the two-year-old in a woollen blanket. They head back up the track and into the next-door croft to see Grandad Murdo removing the oatmeal from the fire and Angus licking his lips in anticipation.

  .....

  On the trek back up the hill, Roderick and Murdo make plans to come back to the river with their rods at sunset. The saille are running at this time of year and they should be able to land two or three good-sized fish before dusk. The laden creel is heavy so they stop to rest their aching arms.

  William and Angus, Roderick’s sons, come running up the track on their way home from school. The only schoolhouse in the district of Coigach is several miles away. At this time of year when there is no field work to be done, the children make their way by foot, to be taught basic reading and writing by Mr MacAndrew the schoolmaster.

  “Ye lads have too much energy,” Roderick jokes with his sons. “Did Mr MacAndrew nae make ye lessons hard enough today?”

  “Aye, Papa. He is wanting us to learn some English but there’s nae wrong with the Gaelic we know.”

  “Well, ye should listen. Ye may need to leave these fair shores one day. There’s many a Highlander who’s gone south, willingly or forcibly in the clearances and it’s English they speak in them faraway places.”

  “What places, Papa? What places?”

  “Some of the ships have sailed to Canada. Some to the other side of the world, to Australia and a small country called New Zealand.” Roderick often day-dreams of a new life in these foreign lands. The stories he has heard: of all kinds of jobs, for good pay, opportunities to buy land, build your own house out of wood and weather that does not ruin your crops. At 45 years of age his body is weary from the daily struggle and he cannot see anything improving if he remains in thes
e lands, even though he loves his homeland. Roderick’s reverie is broken by William’s question.

  “But Papa, would we have to row all that way?”

  “Nae, ye sail in a big ship from Ullapool.” Roderick laughs at the boy’s innocence. “There would be 100 other people and ye’d be at sea three months.”

  The lads look at each other, their blue eyes alight with mischief. Three months at sea would mean no more Mr MacAndrew. Together they ask,

  “Can we go Papa? Can we go?”

  “Nae, nae today. Today, ye’d best get home and do ye chores and help ye mama with the animals.”

  The red-headed lads run on ahead, laughing and scheming about all the adventures they could have on a huge sailing ship. Lifting the wicker basket of fish between them, Roderick and Murdo continue their walk back to the village.

  .....

  “Ye are just in time young Murdo,” Margaret greets him as she is leaving the croft, her arms laden with bedding to be washed. “Ye fine wife has just given ye another healthy son.”

  “Ach, she wasnae due yet,” Murdo counters in disbelief.

  “Aye, but bairns come when they will, nae when we want them to.”

  “Me thanks be to ye then Mrs McLeod for taking care of me Annie.”

  “Glad to help,” Margaret replies, “ye’d best get inside and decide on a name for the new one.”

  Roderick congratulates his brother and knowing he wants to be with his newborn, offers to finish off the fish, prepare them for salting and distribute them to the villagers. Murdo’s mind is already elsewhere. His tall torso is infused with pride as he ducks his head under the doorway.

  Dappled light filters through the single window, allowing Annie to gaze upon the wee bairn cradled in her arms. Murdo’s eyes need time to adjust to the dimness as he comes to her side. Proudly looking down at them, he quietly thanks God for delivering another healthy boy and asks that he be given a good, long and fruitful life.