But this present bitter mood was something new and disturbing, a stream that had burst its banks and no one knew where it might go.
Tormod came with a message the next morning. Chrissie was wanted over the glen to help with the milking and setting the cheeses for the next few days, but he himself could come in and do the fire for us. I told him we would manage, and sent him off with a bag of peppermints from the supplies. I was sure Chrissie was needed, but part of me suspected that she had wisely volunteered to be busy elsewhere.
It helped that Archie and I were now in a season that required concentrated work if we were to get our papers completed before term began, the last days of summer ticking down now. It was not hard to work long into the small hours since the light stayed with us so late. Midnight seemed nothing more than a passing shadow before the landscape lay bleached and still as an eclipse once again, gradually regaining its colour. That was how I was still working at my desk when I saw Chrissie out on the grass in front of the bothies one morning.
I hadn’t spoken to her much other than to say hello or good evening all week. I unbent myself from the desk, stiff and stale, and hurried outside into the chill wind and the wistful calls of oystercatchers from the shore. We sat on the low wall that ran between the crofts and the bothies, facing the sea. It was the first time that I’d been alone with Chrissie since Archie’s return. I could see that she too was hesitant in how we should be after so many days apart, aware of all that had passed between us, sitting together, unshielded from the eyes of the village along the glen. I wanted to take her in my arms, rest my lips against her head and breathe her in, but we sat a little apart. She seemed shy, troubled.
‘I am glad you are up about early,’ I said, ‘before the village is awake.’
‘But it’s not so early,’ she said. ‘It’s a Sunday, people having their lie-in on the Lord’s day of rest, though the cows still need milking. They will be coming out for the chapel service soon. Perhaps I will see you in there, sit across from you and think of you all the while.’
‘Damn. I forgot it was Sunday.’ I was in no mood to break off my work and sit in the chilly building for an interminably long morning of piety. ‘I think today I will contemplate the Lord’s creation from the window here.’
I saw Chrissie look over at the house, a blush on her cheeks. Archie was at the door, dressed and shining with his hair combed and a clean shirt. He called out that he’d be ready to go soon, then disappeared back inside.
‘You won’t come too?’ she said. I read disappointment in her eyes.
‘Why would you think I would? I never do.’
‘I just thought, from all the things you said when we talked so much, it was as if we understood each other so well. . .’
‘But, Chrissie, I’ve never said I was a church man.’
‘Yes but, you know, you know full well that I cannot think of a world without the love of our God, not any more than you might drain the sea away from the island. I thought, being so close, we were surely to understand each other.’
I heard the worry and confusion in her voice.
‘Chrissie, dear, why does it bother you so much, such a little thing?’
‘It’s no little thing. If a man does not have a faith in the Lord, I wonder how people might have faith in him and his promises? How can a man know who he is?’
‘I don’t see a connection.’
‘Don’t you?’
Along the village row people were appearing in their Sunday best, the older women with a white pleat under their scarf, the men in tweed jackets. Archie came striding down, wearing the jacket that Mr MacKinnon had tailored for him, the pale rust of the tweed so like the pale gold of his hair.
‘And we’re ready?’ he said.
I held up my hands. ‘You go on.’
‘Quite sure you won’t come, you old heathen?’ he said affably.
And they were gone, Archie leading Chrissie away along the bothies.
I had the impression that Chrissie purposefully avoided me for the rest of the day. I finally found her in the byre. She had an arm over the back of her little brown calf, her head against its flank. She was singing softly in Gaelic. A prayer. The St Kildans pray at every event, the old biddies and fellows even kneeling down and praying in the byre for their cows each evening as they tend them, their beasts being both pets and friends, givers of vital milk and income. I stood and watched her in the smoky light of the cruachan lamp. She must have sensed me there for she looked round.
There were tears in her eyes.
‘Chrissie, what’s the matter?’
She wouldn’t answer for a moment. ‘So now you will think me foolish for praying with my cows?’ she said. But her look was defiant.
‘You must do as you think fit.’
‘But all the same, you think that my thinking is lacking. So sure that your way is so superior, with your cities and universities and all the glory of the world out there.’
‘Chrissie, why are you saying this? You know I love you. I respect you, all that you are. You have a fine mind, and if you were ever at university with me then I doubt I’d ever keep up.’
‘But I’m not, Fred dear, and I never will be. And your world thinks so very poorly of my world, I understand that much.’
‘Please don’t be sad like this, Chrissie. Look, if it makes you happy, I will stay here. I’ve never been as happy as I have these past weeks, with you.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps you will, Fred. And it is true that I love you with all my heart, but I cannot see our way ahead.’
I took her hands in mine, pulled her up close to me, and after a moment she raised her face to kiss me. For a long time I held her in the smoky air of the cow byre, warm against me, the red-haired cow every so often stamping its hoof like the thud of a sudden heartbeat. She pushed me away.
‘It’s no good now, for when a girl has done what I have done, it’s shameful. Oh, a man can do so, and be still a man, but a girl becomes something different. Something bad in the eyes of the world. And that is how it is. That is me now.’
‘Chrissie, don’t say such things. You are my own dearest girl, my wife.’
She shook her head, angry and unconsoled. Then she was gone.
Archie hurried to scrape together enough notes to pass as an essay and two weeks later was ready to leave with the last tourist boat of the season. I knew joining him was the right decision if I was to be sure of making it back to Cambridge in time for the new term, but I had decided to chance a few more weeks, leave the island on some passing trawler. After all, the start of term was still a good month away.
‘What if the storms set in early and you’re stuck here for another two months, or even more? It won’t go down well with the dean. Come on, Fred. You know it’s time to go.’
But my mind was made up. I could not bear to leave, and certainly not with Chrissie still so distant and dark in her moods.
‘Very well, then. If you’re so set on staying, then I’ll stay too.’ An arm around my shoulder, pulling me tight to him. ‘And if no boat turns up before winter sets in, then so be it. We’ll stay here till next spring.’
‘Archie, now you’re making me feel so guilty I’ll have to leave with you. But it won’t work, I won’t change my mind.’
‘Fine, fine. But neither will I. When the Dunara comes in for the last time, we will stand on the jetty together and wave her goodbye. We stay together or we go together. And believe me, Fred, we will go.’
CHAPTER 29
Chrissie
ST KILDA, 1927
I had seen little of Fred over the past couple of weeks while he and Archie bent their heads to their work. There was so much I longed to talk with Fred about and I did look forward greatly to the peace that would return when Archie left, Archie always bringing a storm with him.
Above all, I worried that Fred had decided that he’d not be leaving with Archie, feeling it in my bones that he was running a risk by lingering on here and not returning to t
he life that claimed him beyond these shores.
But I preferred to not think of such worries, reluctant to dwell on a time when my dear Fred might be gone.
I tried to avoid Archie as he came and went in the Great Glen seeking his bits of pottery inside the dwelling we call the warrior queen’s house. It was hard for me not to blurt out the truth to Fred, but I had made a promise to Callum to never say who had really let Lachie fall. I knew why Archie’s eyes looked sunk back in their sockets as if he slept badly each night. Why he was never still and comfortable, always jiggling a knee or tapping a hand.
I settled on the bank to milk my russet cow, after milking my grandmother’s beasts, the bucket with their milk already in the warrior queen’s house. It had been dug up inside as a result of Archie’s seekings, but we could still keep the milk on the ledge at the side, cool and away from the sun. Not that there was any sun that day as I worked. A bank of cloud had rolled across the sea, stretching from east to west, eating up Boreray and advancing stealthily up the hill. I watched it come near, felt it creeping with wispy breath into my mouth and hair, wet and cold. Soon I was lost in a thick gloom, breathing in more damp than air. I finished milking the last cow, found her by the sound of her tearing at the grass. The bucket heavy, I walked up to the ancient dwelling, thinking of the people who had lived there in that strange beehive of stones that keeps out the rain well even now, but which always gives me a shiver of fear, expecting the stones above to fall heavy on my head so long as I am inside.
The Great Glen is where we keep our fairy tales, of meetings with enchanted folk, with ghosts who carry away the unsuspecting, so it made me jump to see a figure detach itself from the shape of the beehive and move towards me in the mist.
I stopped dead, but hearing a voice calling my name, I took courage, laughing at my own foolishness. It was only Archie, come to work on his uncovering of the past.
‘Here,’ he said, taking the handle of the pail. ‘Give me that.’ He carried it inside and placed it on the stone bench where ancient ones must have slept or sat. The cold in there made me reluctant to linger but Archie called for me to stay and admire two broken beakers and some burned antlers from a time when deer and men must have lived together on the island, the one eating the other.
‘You know, I’m glad to find you, Chrissie. I’ll be gone with the ship by the end of the day, and who knows when I will see you again. My dear own Chrissie.’ His laugh was rueful and sad. ‘Remember when we were children? How we promised to marry one day?’
‘The talk of children indeed. I thought you were from a story book back then, Archie.’
‘And I took your devotion for granted. Chrissie, you can’t know how much it kept me going, to think that you, at least, thought well of me. Loved me even. Not that I expect you to feel the same way now. I understand. I can see how far things have gone between you and Fred.’
I felt a jolt of warning. Unsure what Archie meant. What did he know about the private moments between Fred and me? None of his business. And I didn’t like it because wherever Archie goes, whatever Archie touches, then something will be broken.
‘You know what the decent thing to do is, don’t you, Chrissie?’
‘The decent thing?’
‘Yes. You know how damaging it could be to Fred’s chances of a good degree if he’s not back in Cambridge when term begins. Really, you should tell Fred that he must get on the Dunara when she comes in today. You know perfectly well that he shouldn’t risk being stranded here for the winter.’
‘Fred will do as he thinks fit. It’s not for you or for me to tell him.’
‘Come on, Chrissie. He’ll do as you tell him. And if you do tell him to stay, he’ll be ruined. There’ll be no second chance for him if he wastes this last year of his degree. My father’s estate won’t pay for his studies twice. He might as well learn to catch birds on the cliff.’
I turned away, angry that Archie had needled his way into my soul so quickly.
‘You know I’m right, don’t you?’
And what could I say to contradict him when I too was worried about Fred’s hasty willingness to risk his future?
Archie was close behind me, his hands suddenly on my shoulders, rubbing with consoling strokes of his thumbs on my shoulder blades.
‘Oh, Chrissie, all this with Fred, it’s a passing fancy. You loved me before. Why did you stop loving me, Chrissie? You were the only one who believed in me, all those lonely years. You don’t know how much I want to see that in your eyes again.’
I turned round to answer him but all in a rush he was pressing his lips on mine, his arms circling my back and pulling me tight, his mouth stopping my breath, too hard and too rough. I could smell the sourness of whisky. I pushed back at his chest with all my might, catching a glimpse of him as he hit his head against the sloping wall as I ran outside. In the space of a moment he followed, hurling himself at me so that we fell to the earth, the damp and the water soaking dirt into my shawl and skirt as he scrabbled at my clothes.
But so much hard toil had made me the match of any man. I pushed him away again, pummelling him hard each time he grasped at me, still not believing that such things could be happening. Finally, I staggered up. So did he, and we stood like two dogs halfway through a fight.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I shouted. ‘It’s me, Chrissie. Are you mad?’
Then I ran. I could hear him crying out, ‘Chrissie, I’m sorry.’
I could not see where I went, the cold air scratching at my lungs. All I could do in the thick mist was follow the slope up the hill towards home, listening for the screeches of the birds on the cliff to know how close I was to the drop. Slithering and slipping down the slopes on the other side. The mist thinned as I came down the slopes of Mullach Mòr and with great relief I saw the familiar line of bothies, their lamps already lit in the windows.
I got inside, no one else there, never more grateful to find myself alone. I took off my muddied clothes and steeped them in a bucket. I wrapped myself up in a blanket and took to my bed, shaking and cold, not wanting anyone to see me like this with the shame of Archie’s disrespect still on me. Had I done something wrong to draw this down? And how could I ever tell Fred what had happened? No wisdom to follow in this other than my own wits and nerves all stormed up and jangled.
All I knew was that Archie Macleod was wrong. My love for Fred was constant and real and would stay true until the day I died.
And yet. And yet. Could I really ask my Fred to stay here and throw his life’s prospects away on me?
If I loved Fred, if I truly loved him, shouldn’t I let him go before the summer was out?
A ship’s whistle sounded out in the bay.
Not yet. Not on this boat.
My mother came in, wanting to know what was ailing me. I told her I’d tumbled in the mist on the wet slopes. She felt my forehead and told me to sleep, took the clothes away to wash and gave me brandy for the chills. I felt so weary. I would talk to Fred in time, soon, of what had passed, and I would try and persuade him that he should go home for now, perhaps.
But now I wanted only sleep.
Mother said she would be walking up to the nurse’s house for a while to help her wind some white wool she wanted to knit into gloves, but she’d stay if I wanted. I said to her to go and then I let sleep take me. All problems put aside for another day. Somewhere in my dreams, I heard a door close, and in the distance, the whistle of the boat.
And then my mother was by me, shaking me to say Fred was outside. That he wanted to speak to me or else he would be away on the boat. Would I not come out and speak with him? He was in an awful pother.
I blinked at her words. Fred was thinking of leaving? Now? Tears sprang to my eyes. I sat up as fast as I could, scrabbling for a shawl to wrap around my nightshirt. And then I stopped. Sat very still. For I knew now what I should do.
CHAPTER 30
Fred
ST KILDA, 1927
I had worked at the desk
in the bothy window all morning, watching a dreich fog come down as if autumn were already here. On St Kilda, the summer is a brief season and the bright days that meet hand to hand at midnight were already drawing apart, ceding to the long dark that would soon return.
I heard the plaintive whistle of a boat out in the mist. The Dunara was in – the last tourist steamer of the summer, and the boat on which Archie would be leaving. I’d known all along that his protestations he was going stay on with me were not serious.
He’d already made some attempt at packing, but had left a lot still to do. He’d hurried over to the Great Glen for the morning to glean what he could at the last minute and would no doubt be back soon.
Down on the jetty the village was gathering to meet the tourists, the Dunara’s dinghy slowly coming into focus through the gloom. I walked listlessly down to join them. Even the dogs were quiet and subdued in the mist, padding in circles on the jetty, whining and fretting.
All morning the fog stayed with us while the men took the last of their bolts of pale ginger and reddish tweed down to the jetty to be shipped back to Alex Ferguson in Glasgow who now acted as middle man for the sale of most of their goods. The cleits were being emptied of barrels of dried fish. Knitted goods, cheese, and several of the cinnamon and black Soay lambs were also rowed out through the wet mist to go to Dunvegan for rent.
The handful of tourists had walked up to the village, the village women fluttering around them, knitted socks and gloves hanging over their arms in hopes of a sale. Finlay, for the occasion, had brought out a stuffed puffin.
Archie was still nowhere to be seen. No sign of Chrissie either, but I knew she’d also left early to go over to the glen and milk the cows. No point wandering over trying to find her in this opaque and grey atmosphere. You could walk past someone a couple of yards away and not know it.
The Lost Lights of st Kilda Page 17
