Over the inevitable cuppie, Mary filled in the details about the forthcoming wedding.
‘Of course, Rhuari’s family is Roman Catholic. I don’t think Catriona will change to Roman. Her grandfather was the Free Kirk minister on Rhuna for years, y’see. So I suppose Rhuari will be exterminated . . .’
Startled, I paused with the teapot in mid-air, but then I remembered that this was Mary speaking.
‘Excommunicated?’ I suggested.
‘Aye. He’ll have to be or the minister won’t marry them,’ gabbled this irrepressible lady. ‘He’s an awful mannie, indeed!’
‘But what about Rhuari’s mother? Isn’t she Roman Catholic? Doesn’t she mind?’
‘Ach, Peggy’s no mindin’. She’s no been to her kirk for years. Their priest doesna come to Papavray very often, anyway, so he’ll likely not know.’
After digesting this surprisingly relaxed attitude to the usually strict Roman Catholic protocol, I asked, ‘When is the wedding?’
‘Oh, after the lambing and before the steamers, I expect.’
It took me a minute to work this out to be April or May. Rhuari worked a croft, so the lambing was important, and Catriona served in a shop near the pier and would be busy in the tourist season, such as it was. But the lambing frequently went on into May, and the steamers began in earnest on the first of June, so I felt that there was a very short ‘weather window’ here.
Without thinking, I asked, ‘Why not after harvest?’
‘Too late,’ said Mary, matter-of-factly. ‘The baby’s due in October.’
This was something that I hadn’t heard about and should have been told in my capacity as midwife.
Rhuari was easily the biggest man on the island and his strength was prodigious, but far from using his Herculean strength to his own advantage he was unfailingly considerate of children, animals and anyone small or frail. Many a cow stuck in the mud or a calf that had fallen into a hollow owed its life to Rhuari. He was well liked and his looks matched his nature, so Catriona would be considered a lucky girl. But she, too, was strikingly beautiful, with blue eyes and dark hair.
‘They’ll have the dance at the Kilcaird hotel,’ continued Mary, still pursuing her current interest. ‘It should be a big night.’ Island weddings were a great source of excitement and the dance that always followed was a wonderful excuse for a ‘big night’.
Mary munched on a shortbread biscuit and then looked at it with a surprised air. ‘This is good, Mary-J.’ Praise from Caesar, indeed! I was only now beginning to master the art of Scottish cuisine: pancakes, clootie dumpling, Athol brose, proper porridge, and so on. The art? Scottish dishes were rather more of a pick-and-shovel sort of cookery!
‘Catriona is going to wear her sister’s wedding dress. It’s a lovely creamy lace, with real court shoes to match.’ Mary took a fortifying gulp of tea. ‘She’ll need to change into the shoes in the porch. Yon kirk path is that muddy under those awful great trees.’
‘But, Mary, those are beautiful flowering chestnut trees. They are just coming into bud and by the time of the wedding will be in flower. Super for the photographs.’
‘Huh!’ Mary snorted.
In common with most crofters, she did not like trees, whereas they were the things that I missed most in the landscape.
‘Is Catriona to have any bridesmaids?’
‘Aye, of course. Wee Janet and that great lump of a Kirsty from Dalhavaig, I’m hearin’. And do you know who is to be best maid? Katy!’
‘Katy! Are you sure? Will she be well enough, I wonder?’
‘Ach, Catriona will no have her do anything. Just walk up the church and hold her flowers in the service. Katy will be fine.’ Mary’s faith was obviously greater than mine.
*
Rhuari and Catriona were married on 1 June. The great day dawned bright and clear. Too clear, said the pessimists! The ceremony was at four-thirty, by which time surprised cows would have been milked, startled hens shut up for the night, ewes in lamb left to nature, and horses given an early nosebag. The usually grim, bare church had been festooned with flowers, some real and some artificial. The laird’s wife had agreed to play the ancient organ, as she was the only person on the island who could coax more than a wheeze out of the tired instrument, which, in this austere denomination, was only used for special occasions.
Amid much coughing and whispering, the congregation assembled. There was a distinct aroma of mothballs. As befitted non-relatives, we sat at the back and so, inadvertently, had the best view of all the arrivals. The hats were amazing! They seemed to range from tight cloches as worn by the flappers of the’20s, through sensible wartime headgear, to 1950s pillboxes, which, when perched precariously on the stiff curls of a fresh perm, bounced alarmingly with every step. The younger women favoured the fashion of the time and were colourful visions in wide-brimmed, much be-feathered creations of every hue. These flapped and fluttered in the draught from the open door so that a group of girls near the back looked like a restless flock of exotic birds.
I turned my attention to the footwear, which was equally diverse. I saw good stout lace-ups, winkle-pickers, patent leather courts, platform soles and fancy buckled affairs circa 1910. It was like watching a pageant. By contrast, the men were boring in their uniformity. Good Harris Tweed suits of a nondescript colour, slightly gaudy ties and brown brogues. At least the wellies had been left at home! Here and there I could see a kilt.
Everyone was impressed by Rhuari. At six feet seven inches, Rhuari was resplendent in full regalia: MacDonald tartan kilt, sporran, white socks, skean dhu, black velvet jacket, and crisp white jabot. He looked extraordinarily handsome, and his old mother had a proud but startled look as though she could not quite believe that she had actually borne and reared this striking man.
The organ struck an asthmatic note and we all rose respectfully for the bride. A radiant Catriona appeared in her cream dress with her long, dark, curly hair peeping from below her lacy veil. Her feet were daintily shod in the cream court shoes (changed in the porch, of course).
There was no false sophistication here. Everyone turned to watch and a lot of whispering and nodding went on. Following Catriona was Katy, dainty and beautiful in pale blue. There was an excited buzz as she appeared and, amid the kindly nods and smiles, I noticed that she seemed to have caught the eye of Catriona’s brother, Hamish, who was the best man.
The Reverend was oddly nervous, and I couldn’t think why because he had conducted every Papavray wedding ceremony for the last 20 or 30 years. I heard the reason later.
Apparently Rhuari had once come upon him rebuking a small boy whom the Reverend suspected of stealing something from the church. He was holding him by the ear and the lad was roaring his protests. The scene offended Rhuari’s sense of fair play, so he lifted the holy man bodily and strode to the burn, where he dumped the hapless creature in the water. Since that day, the Rev. McDuff had been ill at ease in Rhuari’s presence.
The rain held off just long enough for the photographs to be taken at the church door, and I was amused to see Mary scowling at the chestnut trees.
The evening was a huge success in spite of the thunder that accompanied the band for most of the evening, while the sweating musicians were well fortified with frequent drams at the bridegroom’s expense. The old ladies who sat round the edge of the room reminisced about their own weddings of long ago. In their day, weddings were much less formal affairs. The obligatory white dress and smart wear of today was unknown: no one would have considered it necessary to do more than wear one’s ‘Sunday Best’ and make sure that the children had shoes. Life was hard but weddings were a time for fun and dancing, while the ceremony itself was just a necessary part of the day—the excuse for the party. It was still rather like that in the’70s.
Now too old or infirm to dance, the old folk, in their fusty and outdated ‘best’, tapped their feet and drank their whisky whilst watching the young ones twirling and laughing. Strip the Willow (my boys called
it ‘Strip the Widow’, of course), Eightsome Reels, The Dashing White Sergeant, and others were played enthusiastically by the island band. During a brief break for folk to get their breath, Janet played the bagpipes. She was shy but made a lovely picture in her bridesmaid’s dress, with the faraway look that she always adopted when playing the pipes. I think she genuinely felt the beauty of the music.
Some of the men spent their time propping up the bar, while two youngsters fell asleep under a table. Fergie, a little the worse for wear, danced with a doormat on his head, and the bride and groom disappeared for a long period of time. There were ribald comments when they reappeared to dance the night away.
My lasting impression of that day was the sight of a radiant Katy dancing with Hamish. Could this be the next wedding?
SIXTEEN
Disaster at Dochart Bay
‘Have you no heard the latest?’
Archie was full of the news. He had come over with a rabbit that he had shot, and he and Mary were sitting by the fire drinking a large whisky (Archie) and a cup of tea (Mary).
‘No. What?’ I was always ready to hear ‘the latest’— whatever it may be.
‘They are going to build an airport near Dalhavaig!’
‘An airport?’ George was unable to believe his ears. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Aye,’tis in the Free Press. They’re beginning next year. It’s to be down by the sea near Kirsty’s croft, y’mind.’
‘On disclaimed land,’ added Mary, not to be outdone.
‘Ach! The woman means reclaimed land.’
‘Hmm,’ mused George. ‘Any pilot will have to gain height rapidly to avoid Ben Criel.’ Avoiding a 2,000-foot mountain within a couple of minutes of take-off would not be easy.
Mary was excited about the project, as yet another of her many cousins was looking for work on Papavray.
‘There’ll be plenty work while they consecrate the ground!’
We stared at her for a moment. We couldn’t think what she meant this time. Then light dawned.
‘Do you mean “consolidate” the ground?’
‘Oh aye. Something like that.’ Unconcerned as ever, she continued, ‘They have to stamp it down to stop it from falling into the sea.’
Had this really been the method of runway building, I felt that few people would have much confidence in air travel Papavray-style.
The four of us decided to go and look at the site. We were not alone! Most of the able-bodied population of the island seemed to be gathered at Dochart Bay. Some of the crofters were pacing out various areas with knowledgeable comments.
‘It’ll no be long enough for this airyplane!’
‘They’ll end up in the sea. You see if they don’t!’
‘Well, you’ll no get me up in one of yon things!’
Kirsty, whose croft lay nearby, was worried. ‘The noise will turn ma cow’s milk sour in her udder, it will. Indeed and what about ma sheeps? They’ll be droppin lambs like flies, they will.’ She shook her tousled head. ‘It will no be the same at all!’ she prophesied.
It seemed that this wonderful ‘airport’ was to be a hut, a windsock and a runway, and that was all. The area was at least flat, because it had been reclaimed from the hungry sea years ago for a purpose now forgotten. A tiny lane led to the windswept place and on to Kirsty’s croft, and I could see at a glance how dangerously near it was to the lofty heights of Ben Criel. The pilot of a tiny plane tossed about in the turbulent air would have to be skilful, indeed, to take off towards the mountain.
Meanwhile, crofters were telling each other how easy it would be for relatives to visit, children in distant colleges to get home for the holidays, and how there would be more ‘visitors’ to the island. Already, Kirsty was planning to do B&B (in spite of the sour milk, apparently).
Fergie was gazing up at Ben Criel. Suddenly, he said, ‘Do you mind that American bomber in the war?’
I was intrigued. ‘What happened?’
‘It crashed high up on the Dhubaig side of the Ben. Everyone was killed. I was away at sea, but Old Roderick was here.’
We all looked at Old Roderick. ‘Aye. ’Twas a bad do indeed.’ He shook his head. ‘In bits it was and every single body dead.’
George and I had been children in the war, and we wanted to know more.
Old Roderick perched on a rock under a bank. ‘ ’Twas only an exercise,’ he told us. ‘Getting ready to bomb Germany, they were. Big American plane . . .’
‘A Flying Fortress,’ prompted Fergie.
‘Aye, so it would be,’ continued Old Roderick. ‘It was at night, rainin’ and blowin’ and that dark. No moon—no indeed! Anyways, we were in our beds about two of the mornin, I mind, when we heard the plane. Very low it was— much lower than we had ever known. And then there was this colossal bang! We ran outside and there, high on Ben Criel, was a terrible fire! We could see the flames from the house.’
Appalled, we waited for the old fellow to shift to a flatter rock to continue his story.
‘All the men in the village came out and we started to climb up. We had torches and lanterns, and we hoped we might find the crew, or at least some of them, alive, so we just kept going towards the blaze up there. It took us hours and hours!’ He paused and appeared to be reliving that arduous climb.
‘Well, we started to see bits of the plane long before we got to the crash, but as soon as we saw it, we were pretty certain they would all be dead. Everything was burnt and black. The rain had put the flames out, but most of it was still smokin’. Aye, it was a terrible sight, indeed. All those young men in bits. And burnt too! Ten of them, I mind. Poor lads!’ He sighed. ‘Aye. It was a bad do altogether. There was nothin, just nothin, that we could do. We covered up a couple of them with something or other, but the rest were . . .’ He glanced round. ‘Aye. Well . . .’ He lifted his head and stared out to sea. What were his old eyes seeing?
We were all silent, thinking of the needless suffering and waste of life on Ben Criel all those years ago. After a moment, Old Roderick rose, saying, ‘The military came the next day with lorries and ropes and stretchers and I don’t know what, and brought the poor chaps down. After the war, some of the American families came over to see where their boys had died. Very sad, it was! They put a stone there with all the names on. It’s maybe there still. I’ve not been up the Ben for years.’
(About a year later, George, Nick, and Andy, climbing the boulder-strewn, heather-clad hill, came across this stone with the list of names still visible among the lichen. A sad and lonely reminder of a terrible end to ten young lives.)
Just at that moment, the weather changed. In a twinkling we went from bright sunshine, with the silvery bay reflecting the turquoise of the clear sky, to a fierce wind with horizontal rain beating in from the sea. Black clouds were rearing up from the horizon, and Ben Criel had disappeared altogether. We were now standing on a bleak stretch of wet, muddy, slippery ground. Maybe Mary’s ‘consecrated’ would be a more appropriate future for this place after all!
But long before this ‘airport’ was built, something happened that seemed so much of a coincidence that one started wondering about ‘fate’ and the ‘paranormal’!
One evening I had picked the boys up from the steamer on their return from a day spent with friends on Eileen Mor. On our way out of Dalhavaig, Andy noticed two large earthmoving vehicles parked as though ready for action at the airport site.
‘Can we go and see if they have started yet?’ asked Andy.
We were disappointed to find that nothing at all had been done, and we were just turning to walk back to the car when we heard an engine of some sort.
‘What’s that?’ asked Andy, peering round.
Nick was scanning the sky. ‘Look! There’s a plane—a small one—out over the sea. It looks as though it’s in trouble. It’s very low! What is it doing?’
The engine noise was all wrong. Nick grabbed my arm.
‘It’s coming towards us, Mum. It’s going to crash!
Quick, Andy! Run!’
We ran up the lane, past my car, and crouched behind Kirsty’s byre.
The plane came in from the sea, swaying from side to side as it dipped and rose, obviously completely out of control. Then the engine popped, spluttered, and died.
With a rush of air, it skimmed the rocks on the shore and with a screeching, grinding noise, the wheels hit the soft sand, bounced and hit again. The nose dipped and the left wing buried itself in the ground. The plane slewed round and crashed into one of the bulldozers. The impact shook the air around us, and the sound of shattering glass and ripping metal was deafening. We watched in horror as the broken body and wings settled into the earth and an eerie stillness replaced the noise.
Nick began to run towards the tangled mess.
‘Andy, run up to the main road and stop the first car. Tell them police, ambulance, and fire brigade—all three. And get some help!’
Andy set off like a young hare, while Nick and I ran toward the tiny plane, scarcely bigger than the modern microlights. Incredibly, the cockpit seemed to be intact and we could see the pilot slumped forward in his seat. Was he dead? Was he alone? We could not see anyone else.
‘Mum, we could get to him by climbing up the wing.’
We scrambled up the slippery wing and reached the gap that had been the cockpit door.
‘Nick, go and see if there is anyone else here.’
I eased myself into the cramped and twisted cockpit and looked at the still figure. He was breathing! I felt his pulse. Thin and thready. There was a lot of blood soaking one trouser leg and he had a nasty gash on his head. The seat belt seemed to be pressing too hard on his chest, making his breathing laboured, but I could not reach the clips.
Nick returned. ‘There’s no one else as far as I can see, but it’s an awful mess back there. The tail is hanging off.’
I nodded. ‘Come and hold this man up a bit so that he can breathe more easily while I see where all this blood is coming from.’
Call the Nurse Page 10
