FOR CALUM BEAG OF RIGG
“This life has joys for you and I;
An’ joys that riches ne’er could buy,
An’ joys the very best.”
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Glossary
Copyright
Chapter 1
If I had not caught a bad cold and developed bronchitis, and if I had not upset the supper tray one night in June, I might never have taken the long road from my quiet street in Chelsea to the Isle of Mist in the Hebrides. It happened as simply as that. I suppose it had to happen that way. Like the strange message, thrust into my hand in the darkness, that sent me to the Hill of the Red Fox and made me lie shivering in the wet heather watching the shadowy forms of my pursuers.
But I can feel Duncan Mòr’s* big hand on my shoulder and hear him saying in that deep, commanding voice of his, “A story should start at the beginning, Alasdair Beag.” And so it should.
It all started one night in June when the three of us, my mother, Aunt Evelyn, and I, were sitting in the little flat above Aunt Evelyn’s bookshop. It was quiet in the flat. The only sounds were the muffled rumbling of traffic in Sloan Square, the busy click of my aunt’s knitting needles, and the chink of crockery as my mother prepared the supper things in the tiny kitchenette that lay off the living-room.
I was sitting on a stool by the fire reading an adventure story, but my eyes scanned the words on the printed page without really taking in their meaning, for I could feel my aunt’s eyes fixed upon me.
After a while, she said, “What are you reading, Alasdair?”
“A book,” I said, not looking up, conscious of the disapproval in her tone.
“Alasdair, you really are a most aggravating child,” she exclaimed angrily.
She knew I hated being called a child, and I raised the book so that she should not see the hot flush that spread over my cheeks.
“Of course you are reading a book,” she went on. “But what book? Don’t tell me it is more nonsense about Prince Charlie and his precious rebellion.”
“Yes, it’s about the Jacobites and Prince Charlie and the men who sheltered him even when the English put a price on his head.” I paused for breath. “And it is not nonsense,” I added defiantly.
The busy needles stopped clicking, and I knew I was going to catch it, but I did not care.
“The English put a price on his head,” said Aunt Evelyn coldly. “You are not English, then?”
“No,” I said, “I am a Scotsman.”
“A Scotsman who has spent almost all his twelve years in London,” she mocked.
“I was born in Skye,” I said stubbornly, “and so was my father, so I must be a Highlander.”
My mother came in with the supper tray and placed it on the low table in front of the fire. She took the book from me and said wearily, “Alasdair, you really must stop arguing with Aunt Evelyn. It is terribly bad of you.”
“I was simply trying to get that boy’s nose out of his book,” said my aunt. “It is not good for him. Just look at the hours he spends reading when he should be outside in the sunshine. You know he is supposed to be convalescing after bronchitis. Really, Anne, you should do something about it. No wonder he is so pale and thin.”
“Who can I play with?” I said. “All the other boys are at school.”
“There was plenty of time before supper when they were not at school,” retorted Aunt Evelyn in a tone that brooked no contradiction.
I stuck my hands in my trouser-pockets and looked down at my shoes.
“Well, I like reading,” I said loudly.
Aunt Evelyn laid her knitting on her lap and looked at my mother.
“Anne, anyone can see that that boy has never had a father to keep him in order,” she declared. “You are far too lax with him.”
I knew what would follow and I wanted to say I was sorry, to help my mother, but the words choked in my throat and I sat there dumbly, looking down at my feet, not wanting to catch my mother’s eye.
“Alasdair was two when his father’s ship went down,” said my mother quietly. “You know I can’t take his father’s place.”
“My dear Anne, that does not alter the fact that the child is developing into a dreamer and a bookworm,” replied my aunt, “and it is our duty to make a man of him.”
“Aunt Evelyn doesn’t like me,” I burst out. “She is always nagging at me. It’s — it’s not fair,” and I jumped up from my stool and made to rush out of the room.
As I straightened up, my right elbow caught the corner of the tray, knocking it off the table and scattering the supper things all over the carpet.
There was a horrible silence that seemed to last for minutes on end, and I stood quite still looking down sheepishly at the smashed cups and the spreading milk and tea stains on the pale pink of the carpet.
When my mother spoke I knew she was really angry.
“Everything Aunt Evelyn says about you is true,” she snapped. “You are rude and careless and clumsy and if your father could see you now I am sure he would be ashamed of you. Don’t stand there gawking so. Run and get a cloth and a basin of water before this carpet is ruined.”
I did as I was bidden, feeling my mother’s words worse than the cut of a cane. But worse still was the knowledge that I had deserved it, and that my aunt had triumphed. I expected her to say something scathing, but she picked up the broken crockery and helped my mother sponge the carpet, and never said a word.
It was later, when we were taking our supper, that she spoke.
“Anne, I think it would be a good thing,” she said thoughtfully, “if you sent Alasdair to Skye for a long holiday.”
My mother put down her cup so hurriedly that the tea splashed into the saucer. She swallowed.
“Send him where?”
“To Skye,” said Aunt Evelyn calmly. “By the time you get everything arranged the school holidays will be almost here, and there is no point in sending Alasdair back to school for a week or so, not after his illness. A long holiday in Skye would do the boy a world of good.”
I could see the bewilderment on my mother’s face and something else too. If they had not been discussing me I would have said she was frightened. She glanced at me, and rubbed the palm of her hand along the edge of the table, as if to reassure herself with the feel of something solid.
“But where could he stay?” she stammered at last.
“At Achmore, of course,” replied Aunt Evelyn. She smiled one of her rare smiles. “I never can pronounce those Gaelic names properly. I think Highlanders must be born with a special sort of tongue.”
“Achmore,” said my mother, as if she had never heard the name before. Indeed, I had not.
“Why,” went on my aunt, and she smiled a second time, “Alasdair is a property owner at Achmore, is he not?”
“The croft and cottage at Achmore belong to Alasdair,” said my mother slowly, not looking at me at all, but keeping her eyes fixed on a spot above my head. “When he comes of age he can take over t
he croft if he wishes.”
“But how is it mine?” I asked. “In Skye.”
“It was your father’s croft,” she answered, “and his father’s before him. You were born there during the war.”
“But I don’t remember,” I started.
“Of course not, silly,” smiled my mother. “You were only two when I came back to London.” She sighed and the smile left her face, leaving it pinched and drawn. “I came back to London after Black Alasdair’s ship went down. And a few months later the war was over.”
Black Alasdair was my father’s name. Alasdair Dubh in the Gaelic.
“But why didn’t you tell me I had a croft in Skye?” I persisted.
My mother fingered the plain gold ring on her finger and it seemed to be a long time before she spoke.
“You are only a boy at school, Alasdair,” she said at length, “and the croft at Achmore is one of the things that won’t really be yours until you are a man. Besides, Skye is a long way off.”
Aunt Evelyn glanced sharply at her, and said briskly, “Well, there you are. Alasdair really owns this cottage and croft at Achmore and this relation of his who has been staying in the place for nothing all these years should be only too pleased to have him for a few months.”
“But he isn’t really a close relative,” protested my mother. “He is only a second cousin of Black Alasdair’s.”
“Nonsense,” said my aunt firmly. “You know perfectly well, Anne, that it is quite different in the Highlands. Even a second cousin is looked upon as a member of the family, and I am quite sure that Mr … Mr …”
“Mr Beaton,” said my mother. “Murdo Beaton.”
“Well, I’m sure that Mr Beaton and his wife will look after Alasdair as if he were one of their own family.”
“His wife is dead,” said my mother, in a curiously expressionless voice. “He has a daughter, but she is only a child about the same age as Alasdair. His old mother keeps house for him.”
Aunt Evelyn clicked her teeth, a sure sign that her patience was being tried.
“That is neither here nor there,” she declared. “Alasdair has had too many women around him, anyway. It will do him good to have a man to deal with for a change.”
“But Murdo Beaton might not like to take him in,” protested my mother.
“Has he ever paid you rent for the use of the cottage and croft?” inquired Aunt Evelyn.
“Well, no,” admitted my mother. “After the Empire Rose went down I had a letter from Murdo Beaton saying that Black Alasdair had given him permission to use the cottage and croft when we were in London. At that time I didn’t care what happened. I didn’t want to go back to Skye, and Alasdair was only a baby.”
“And Mr Beaton has occupied the cottage ever since,” prompted my aunt.
My mother nodded.
“That settles it then,” declared Aunt Evelyn briskly. “The man can hardly refuse to take Alasdair when you have been so generous with him.”
My mother cast me an anxious glance.
“But the journey,” she said helplessly. “All the way to Skye from London.”
“You can take him as far as Glasgow,” said Aunt Evelyn, who liked nothing better than organizing people. “Stay the night in Glasgow and put him on the morning train to Skye. Alasdair isn’t helpless. As long as he has a tongue in his head he can find his way about quite easily.”
“But he is so young to be going there alone.”
“Anne, unless you are careful you will be tying this boy to your apron strings,” said my aunt severely. “After all, his father was at sea when he wasn’t much older than Alasdair, and as far as I can see it did him no harm. How do you suppose he rose to be a sea captain before he was thirty?”
“But Alasdair is so small for his age,” protested my mother. “And he is only twelve.”
I saw my aunt’s contemptuous gaze on me, and the words burst from me in a breathless rush.
“I’m nearly thirteen,” I cried, “and if I have a croft in Skye I want to go and see it, and I know the way because I’ve looked it out on the map dozens and dozens of times.”
That clinched it. My mother’s protests were swept aside, and when I went to bed that night she was already writing a letter to my father’s cousin in Achmore.
I don’t know why, but somehow or other I never really expected my mother to get a reply from Murdo Beaton in Skye. To me, Skye belonged to the land of make-believe; to stories of Prince Charlie and his hurried flight across the island disguised as a spinning maid; to clan feuds of long ago, and to old sad songs. It was another world from the one I lived in. My world was bound up with the smell of new books in Aunt Evelyn’s shop; with escalators and tube trains; with endless streets and hurrying people, and dead flies in the window of Mr Goldsmith’s antique shop on the corner, where I waited for the bus to take me to school. It did not seem possible that I could step out of my drab world into that other far-away world where Prince Charlie had rallied the clans and the Fiery Cross had flamed on the hills.
But one Tuesday morning the letter came. I knew it at once because it was postmarked Portree. My mother took it from me and sat down. She did not seem to hear me when I urged her to open it, although Aunt Evelyn was caught up in my excitement.
“Oh, do open it, Anne,” she exclaimed. “Can’t you see Alasdair’s just dying to know what the man says?”
My mother opened the letter without a word and unfolded a single sheet of crumpled notepaper.
“What does he say?” I cried. “Can I go?”
My mother cleared her throat.
“Dear Mistress Cameron,” she read. “You know what a great friend I was of Alasdair Dubh, poor man. I shall be pleased to welcome his son to Skye. But it will be strange for the boy after life in the city, so do not be surprised if he gets homesick and I have to send him back to you.”
She paused.
“Well, go on,” said Aunt Evelyn.
My mother handed her the letter.
“That’s all,” she said.
“Dear, dear,” clucked Aunt Evelyn, as she scanned the brief note. “What a strange man. You would have thought he would have had more to say than that.”
“I don’t suppose he writes many letters,” said my mother.
No more was said about it. The shortness of the letter was soon forgotten in the excitement of planning the journey. Aunt Evelyn took command and drew up a list of the things I would need, but my mother was strangely silent and withdrawn, and I could not help feeling that she should have been pleased with me now that I was setting out on my own for the first time. I felt sure my father would have been, if he could have seen me.
As soon as supper was over, I went to bed. I was already travelling, in my imagination, through the purple hills on my way to the west — travelling over hills and lochs with names like proud battle-cries. For a long time I lay awake, saying softly to myself, over and over again, “By Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go,” until the words gathered momentum, like the wheels of an express train, and I was plunged into an uneasy sleep.
I dreamed I was striding through the heather, when I saw an old woman with a creel of peats on her back. I took the creel from her and she straightened up and I saw that it wasn’t an old woman at all, but Prince Charlie, and I cried out in astonishment.
My mother’s voice whispered, “Hush, Alasdair, you’ve been dreaming.”
I tried to tell her that I had seen Prince Charlie, but before I could speak I felt her cool fingers stroking my forehead, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* There is a glossary at the end of the book giving English translations of Gaelic words.
Chapter 2
Aunt Evelyn saw us off at Euston Station on a sunny Monday morning. In the dim cavern of the station all was bustle and movement. Porters rushed here and there with trucks piled high with baggage; long queues formed outside the ticket offices, and latecomers hurried for their trains. At regular intervals a voice blared over
the loudspeakers announcing train departures.
“Attention, please,” boomed the voice. “The eight-thirty to Glasgow will be leaving Platform Twelve in five minutes’ time, calling at Rugby, Stafford, Crewe, Carlisle …”
“Oh, hurry,” I urged, one eye on the large black minute-hand of the station clock, slowly creeping round to the half-hour mark, “or we will miss the train.”
Aunt Evelyn was calmly selecting magazines at the bookstall, and all she said was, “Don’t fuss so, Alasdair. I have never yet missed a train, and I do so hate spending hours over farewells.”
She collected several magazines and paid the girl, then added in a kindlier tone, doubtless conscious of my squirming impatience, “Don’t worry, I promise you we shan’t miss the train.”
Aunt Evelyn was as good as her word. She found us two corner seats, settled our luggage on the rack to her own satisfaction, and kissed my mother good-bye before the guard’s whistle shrilled.
She shook hands with me through the open window and when I withdrew my hand I discovered a pound note in my palm. I blurted out my thanks, but the train was already moving slowly out of the station, and I doubt if Aunt Evelyn heard me. But she smiled and waved, and I felt, without knowing why, that she was pleased with me, and the realization of this was so unexpected that I wanted to cry out to her that I was sorry for all the things that I had said and done in the past. But such thoughts always come too late, and, as if to make up for all that I had left unsaid, I waved and waved until she was a tiny speck in the distance. I was still waving when the platform could no longer be seen, and my mother called to me to come away from the window.
I hardly remember anything about the journey to Glasgow, although most of the time I gazed out of the window watching the green fields go spinning by. My mother never spoke, except to answer my questions, but from time to time I felt her eyes on me. Whenever I looked up she smiled and went on with her reading, but I knew that something was troubling her. I could not understand why she could not accept my holiday in Skye in the same happy spirit as Aunt Evelyn had shown. But such dismal thoughts were soon forgotten in the growing excitement of the journey ahead. In a few hours we would be in Glasgow, and the very next morning I would be starting out on my own, like any lone adventurer from a tale of long ago.
The Hill of the Red Fox Page 1
