Morag wanted gloves—black ones.
‘For the wedding?’ I murmured.
‘They’ll do me for church and funerals too,’ she replied.
Lachy, still hankering after an English wife, pressed me to bring one back for him.
‘Blonde or brunette,’ I asked jocularly with my pencil poised ready.
‘Ach, I’m no carin’ one bit,’ he said. ‘I’m willing’ to take whatever you bring for I think by now you know my tastes pretty well. Just be sure she’s no wearin’ one of them weeks.’ It took me a moment of puzzled thought before I could translate ‘weeks’ into ‘wigs’.
Kirsty, the gaunt and wrinkled spinster, peeped shyly in through the door one evening shortly before my departure. She clutched a paper in one hand.
‘I can never get a hat that will suit me,’ she mourned as we settled down to a strupak, and anyone who had ever seen Kirsty’s homely features could well believe her complaint. ‘See, will you get me a hat like this one,’ she continued nervously unfolding the paper and pointing to an advertisement which depicted several hats of alluring designs. Her dry, knobbly finger came to rest on one of them. ‘A peek-a-bo style’, ran the caption, ‘a debutante’s dream’. I studied it carefully, trying hard to visualise it surmounting Kirsty’s tired face from which all trace of the debutante had vanished a quarter of a century ago.
‘I think I will suit it, don’t you?’ she enquired timidly.
‘What colour were you wanting?’ I asked evasively.
‘My coat is brown and I was thinkin’ blue would go awful nice with it.’ Her tones became apologetically firm and as any attempt at argument would have been construed as unwillingness to make the purchase for entirely different reasons, I merely nodded and ventured only an apathetic suggestion that green might look better.
‘But my eyes are blue, and they say blue-eyed people always suit blue,’ she replied with childlike candour. Her pale eyes met mine briefly and slid away again and, not for the first time, I cursed the authors of the ‘twopenny loves’ with their inevitable blue-eyed heroines, wearing the equally inevitable ‘little blue dress’ which ‘deepened the colour of her forget-me-not blue eyes’. Fatalistically I folded the paper and tucked it inside my shopping list which by this time had grown to considerable length.
The very evening before my departure I was doing some last-minute ironing when there came a timid knock on my door and in response to my invitation there entered Euan the half-wit. I was very surprised to see him, for though he sat sometimes in Morag’s kitchen he had not so far invaded the precincts of my own room. His presence was by no means welcome, but having by this time resided long enough in the Hebrides to have acquired a little of the Gaelic courtesy, I suggested half-heartedly that he should take a seat. In reply Euan swallowed twice, grinned widely, but remained standing awkwardly beside the door. Deeming it wiser to ignore him until he chose to speak, I carried on with my ironing.
‘You go England?’ His voice jerked into my thoughts as I slid the iron carefully between the intricate frills of a blouse.
‘Yes, I am,’ I agreed.
Euan blinked rapidly in acknowledgement, but said nothing more.
‘Are you wanting me to get you something?’ I asked banteringly, being well aware that he had no money of his own.
‘Yes!’ The word burst from him with startling vehemence and was followed by a number of convulsive swallows.
‘Well, tell me what it is and I’ll do my best for you,’ I encouraged, and overwhelmed with pity for his feeblemindedness resolved that if it was at all practicable I would get what he wanted.
‘Bring me …’ he stuttered pleadingly, his eyes starting so far out of his head that I expected them to drop on to the floor at any moment.
‘Yes, bring you what?’ I coaxed.
‘Donkey!’
I stared at Euan so long that the iron scorched an ineradicable angle on my blouse.
‘A donkey!’ I exploded. ‘What sort of a donkey?’
‘With legs,’ he replied timorously.
‘Do you mean a real donkey?’
He nodded and blinked vigorously, but words failed him. They nearly failed me.
‘Goodness gracious! I couldn’t possibly bring you a real donkey.’ I told him. ‘How on earth do you think I could manage with a donkey on the train?’
His expression changed abruptly from eager anticipation to utter dejection. Slowly, and without another word, he turned and, closing the door quietly behind him, crossed the passage to Morag’s room. It was not until some minutes later that I heard her sending him home. When the outer door had closed after him Morag herself entered my room. The first thing I asked was whether Euan had told her of his request that I should bring him a donkey.
‘So he did,’ she replied, ‘and I was askin’ him if he’d ever seen a donkey to be pesterin’ you to bring him one.’
‘And has he?’ I enquired.
‘He was sayin’ no he hadna’ rightly but he thinks a donkey looks like a squashed horse. He doesna’ think you’ve seen one either.’
‘Me?’ I echoed. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, he was sayin’ if you’d ever seen a donkey it’s fine you’d be after knowin’ it wouldna’ need to go on the train. He says you’d know that it has its own legs and can walk.’
‘I wonder what he expects me to do with it?’ I asked drily. ‘Ride on it, walk beside it, or hitch it on to the back of the train?’
Morag laughed. ‘Ach, but Euan doesna’ know but what England’s any further away than Shuna,’ she excused him. Her eyes came to rest on my open, neatly packed bags on the sofa. ‘So it’s all ready for off you are,’ she observed.
‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘But I shall leave my cases open and pack the crushables at the last moment.’
She nodded, briefly confirmed the rest of the arrangements for the morning, and said good night.
After a broken night during which my sleep was continually interrupted by dreams that the clock had stopped or had failed to ring; that my luggage had mysteriously disappeared; or that I had mislaid my purse and was unable to pay for my ticket, the strident burr of the alarm startled me into wakefulness. I lit a candle, slid reluctantly out of bed and threw a dressing-gown around my shoulders. As I poked my feet into bedroom slippers I became hazily aware of the sounds of most unusual activity downstairs. There was the noise of windows being thrown open, doors flung back on their hinges and a muffled roaring, coupled with the acrid smell of smoke,
‘Come quick, Miss Peckwitt! My house is on fire!’ I doubt if there is another sentence in the English language which can galvanise a person into activity as quickly as that which my landlady had just uttered. Frantically I tore downstairs and bursting into my room was confronted with the sight of a tremendous fire which raged in and around the grate, while a deluge of glowing soot cascaded from the chimney on to the floor and smouldered fiercely on the linoleum.
‘Shut the door and the window!’ I commanded, recollecting the instructions I had once seen on a cigarette-card. Obediently Morag leaped to the window and shut it down with such a bang that the two lower panes of glass shattered. The next few minutes were utter confusion. Morag sensibly grabbed a brush and swept the red-hot soot towards the hearth and immediately the odour of singeing bristles mingled with the choking smoke. I grabbed pails and raced down to the sea but, as luck would have it, the tide was out and it was quite impossible to fill the pails unless one waded until one was almost knee-deep—no enviable task on a dark, cold and frosty morning. With two full pails and a torch it is difficult to race and I should have known better than to try to leap up three steps at a time. I fell heavily and the chill water flowed round and under me before I could arise. Back to the sea again to refill my pails, one of which now leaked shockingly, and with as much speed as could be combined with caution I hurried back to the house. Morag was still sweeping for all she was worth, that is if pushing soot about with a bald and smouldering broomhead can be called sw
eeping. The room was so full of smoke that it was well nigh impossible to see. I sluiced the water over the floor, but during my absence the tablecloth had caught fire and the wallpaper above the fireplace was rapidly browning with the heat.
‘Run for Ruari!’ sobbed Morag. ‘Run for him quick.’
Seizing the tablecloth I flung it outside to burn away harmlessly on the grass, and then ran for Ruari. There is no doubt that there are times when deafness seems to be the worst affliction anyone can suffer. Certainly I thought so as I pounded at the door of Ruari’s house and flung handfuls of pebbles at the window, but though I had the assistance of the dog, who from his kennel contributed to the uproar to the full extent of his capacious lungs, there was no acknowledgement from within. Discovering that the door was only latched I went inside, continuing to yell unceasingly for Ruari. The only reply was a duet of serene, undisturbed snores from above. I climbed half-way up the stairs, still calling; I gained the landing; I went into the bedroom from which the snores were coming and grasping Ruari’s flannel-clad shoulder shook it vigorously. With my mouth close to his ear I entreated him to wake up and come and help. At last aroused, he shot upright with such suddenness that his head bumped my teeth.
‘Wuff, wuff, wuff!’ he spluttered as might a bulldog that has been compelled to take a cold plunge.
Quickly I explained what had happened, insisting that the house was in imminent danger. With surprising speed one of Ruari’s legs appeared from under the bedclothes but, recollecting himself, he hastily tucked it in again.
‘I canna’ get dressed with a woman watchin’ me,’ he said reprovingly.
‘Sorry,’ I said, and retreating from the room started downstairs.
‘Hi! where are you goin’ with that torch?’ came a shout. ‘I canna’ see what shape I am and where is my clothes without a light, can I?’
Returning to the bedroom I found Ruari, still a little dazed, sitting on the edge of the bed in his nightshirt. At the sight of me with the torch he immediately scrambled back beneath the clothes, pulling them right up to his chin.
‘Woman, woman!’ he chided me. ‘Let me get into my breekis in private will you!’
‘But I can’t see my way down again without a light,’ I retorted. ‘I don’t know my way about your house in daylight, never mind in the dark.’
We effected a compromise by my holding the torch round the edge of the door into the bedroom while the rest of my body stayed outside.
‘Is your eyes shut?’ demanded Ruari.
‘Of course!’ I snapped back.
Muttering and breathing heavily, he attired himself in clothes which were, I suspected, both in quantity and quality, more suitable for an expedition to the North Pole than for wrestling with a fire in a neighbouring house. Having accomplished this much he decided to wake Bella who had slept profoundly throughout the disturbance.
‘Come and get watter to quench Morag’s fire,’ he bade her shortly. As we hurried downstairs Bella’s querulous voice pursued us, demanding to know how she was going to see to dress herself without a light. I affected not to hear: it was no concern of mine that Ruari and Bella made a habit of staying in bed until daylight.
‘Wait now while I get my boots on,’ said Ruari as I made for the door and, while I seethed with impatience, he retrieved his boots from under a chair and sat down leisurely to put them on. As soon as he had tied the second bootlace I bounded outside and bolted back to Morag’s, leaving him to be guided by the glow of the fire, which could now plainly be seen through the windowless window. Once again I recalled the instructions on the cigarette-card.
‘Salt!’ I shouted, rushing into the room, ‘plenty of salt to dout the fire.’
‘My God!’ whimpered Morag. ‘I used the last pailful of it only yesterday for the herrin’ and I havena’ as much left as will salt the potatoes.’
Ruari appeared, and with a determination born of panic Morag seized his ear.
‘Salt!’ she yelled in her turn. ‘Get me salt, plenty salt!’
Ruari shook his head. ‘We have none,’ he replied flatly, ‘we hadna’ enough for all the herrin’ we got and the grocer has none either.’ His hand went to his ear as though to protect it from further savagery.
Morag’s expression was tense. ‘We’ll need to sacrifice the salt herrin’,’ she decided heroically.
I shook my head doubtfully, for though I am at all times only too willing to sacrifice salt herring I wondered if salt in this form would serve the same purpose. Before I could voice my doubts Ruari had charged off into the shed, had heaved the heavy barrel from its corner and, spurning my inefficient help with an untranslatable growl, was stumbling with it back into the house.
‘Clear oot the way!’ he warned Morag and she, dodging nimbly into a corner, only just managed to avoid the cataract of herring, salt and liquor as Ruari hurled the contents of the barrel on to the fire. There was a fierce sputtering, and choking smoke billowed out once more into the room; the house began to smell worse than a kipper factory, but the fire was considerably quelled and by the time a strangely attired Bella arrived with more water and wet sacks, the steady roar had become fretful and was gradually, but unmistakably, subsiding. Daylight was breaking as we carried more water to douse the hot walls and the charred linoleum and Ruari climbed up on the roof to ram wet sacks down the chimney from above.
‘Why did you start that?’ he demanded truculently as soon as we were able to breathe again.
‘Indeed wasn’t I in such a fret to get Miss Peckwitt’s breakfast, and then this spiteful old fire goes sleepy on me,’ exclaimed Morag with a malevolent glare at the red-hot grate. ‘I was wantin’ her to have a nice bitty warm before she went out, so I dosed her with plenty paraffin and bless me but puff! the old bitch went and flies away up the chimbley.’
Summoning a wan smile, I glanced at the clock, and Morag, seeing the direction of my glance, climbed on a chair and rubbed the coating of soot from the glass with a corner of her apron. It was exactly the time my train should have been leaving the mainland station. ‘Why, you’ve gone and missed your train,’ she remarked superfluously.
‘So I have,’ I agreed as I wearily surveyed the sooty contents of my suitcases, and collected my freshly ironed crushables for relaundering.
‘Oh well,’ said Morag comfortably; ‘that’s the very first time I’ve felt sure that old chimbley was really clean.’
No further calamity occurred to prevent me from setting off for England the following day and after an uneventful journey the train drew into the station of my home town where Mary was awaiting me. The return to town life was exciting and I revelled once more in ‘all modern conveniences’; in the wearing of light shoes; in nice peaceful church services, and in eating thin bread and butter. My shopping expeditions were amazingly successful, though the pink frilly garters necessitated some diligent seeking. We unearthed a sumptuous pair at last in a decaying little shop in an insignificant side street; they were speckled with rose buds, bordered with lace, and tufted with swansdown, and I could be very certain that the bride-to-be would be enchanted with them. Kirsty’s ‘debutante’s dream’ was purchased and despatched to her in a debonair hat box. The bridesmaids’ head-dresses, very blue and very beguiling, were packed safely in the bottom of one of my cases. Eventually all the items on my fist were scored through—Lachy’s wife and Euan’s donkey excepted—and I could safely concentrate on my own plans.
For some time I had been toying with the idea of purchasing a small car for use in Bruach, and now I set about putting my plan into action. As I explained to Mary, I was tired of being allotted a space in the cattle float or distorting my body to fit into the backs of inadequate vans on the very frequent occasions when the Bruach bus was unfit for service. The hearse too was still a disturbingly regular feature of Island transport and, though up to the present I had always been fortunate enough to have the seat beside the driver, I could not help feeling a little apprehensive that the time might come when this would
prove impracticable. I was lucky enough to purchase an old Morris two-seater car which we promptly christened ‘Joanna’, and at once I embarked on a course of driving lessons from a reputable instructor. At the end of a few weeks I was confident of my prowess and. saying goodbye to England, ‘Joanna’ and I set off, a little uncertainly to begin with perhaps, on the four-hundred-mile journey to Bruach, intending to reach our destination rather less than a week before the wedding.
The sensation of homecoming which I experienced when I drove ‘Joanna’ off the ferry boat and introduced her to the Island—the crossing was mercifully calm—was strange indeed for a town-bred Englishwoman. The charm of the Island struck me afresh and, although it was December and what slight breeze there was stroked my cheeks with icy fingers, I drove with both windows of the car lowered, and drew deep, eager breaths of the fresh, invigorating air. To the left of me the loch stretched out, placid and still, reflecting the dark, rain-washed hills, the anchored fishing-boats, and the slow flight of the homeward-bound gulls. The setting sun was no more than a sliver of vermilion above the horizon, while to the north the rapidly purpling sky was laced with brilliant green. I was glad to come upon the first thatched houses of Bruach looking for all the world like sturdy brown mushrooms that a snail has eaten its way through; from the snail hole curled the now familiar blue of peat smoke mingling its fragrance with that of scorching flour, reminding me that it was Saturday evening and the Sabbath baking would be in progress. Bringing ‘Joanna’ to a stop beside the wall, I jumped out, and a beaming Morag came hurrying to greet me. It would have been churlish to try to avoid the embrace she had so obviously determined upon and, before it was over, Bella had appeared, to bestow upon me similar evidence of affection, while a flushed and smiling Ruari waited impatiently to shake my hand with ferocious warmth. The fervour of the welcome from all three of them was impressive and made that which I had received in England seem frigid by comparison. It was difficult to repress a feeling of elation, for the geniality of the Gael, despite its lack of sincerity, is an endearing trait. While the women prodded my limbs to see if I had lost weight, and enthused over ‘Joanna’ and over my new clothes, Ruari busied himself with my cases. Back again in my own room I was fussed over and petted and repeatedly assured that my company had been very much missed, and by the time I was ready for bed that night I was feeling so flattered by their attentions that I experienced no regrets at all that town life was once more behind me.
The Hills is Lonely Page 22
