‘I have seen the minister,’ he advised in a low voice. ‘He will be willing to marry us the day after tomorrow.’
‘On Thursday?’ she exclaimed, her eyes widening in disbelief. ‘That isn’t possible. It is much too soon!’
‘Was I not after telling you I need to be back on Westisle for the cattle sale on Thursday next,’ he reminded her firmly. ‘We shall need to be away from here no later than Tuesday to be certain of reaching the Island by then.’
‘But I cannot leave here on Tuesday.’ The denial escaped from her lips in a shocked whisper and, seeing his puzzled expression she added hastily, ‘You don’t understand about these things. I am required to give her a week’s notice before I can leave here.’
He looked at her, a little pityingly she thought, and appeared to dismiss her protest. ‘Seeing I was nearby I called in at the railway station to book for you a ticket. I myself have the other half of the return ticket which brought me here.’
She felt momentarily breathless. ‘But I shall not be able to travel with you then,’ she insisted but even as she spoke she was conscious of a degree less conviction in her tone and a sudden vindictiveness darted, unbidden, into her mind. Wouldn’t it serve Isabel right if she left without giving due warning? And since she was intending to cut her links with ISLAY sooner or later why shouldn’t she cut them suddenly? Isabel deserved neither loyalty nor consideration and her own loyalty now must surely be to the man whom she was pledged to marry. And wasn’t the day after tomorrow the day she was due her afternoon and evening off anyway? Apart from the rush he couldn’t have fixed a more suitable time.
She felt him watching her keenly, no doubt waiting for her to reveal whatever was passing through her mind. Drawing a deep breath she looked straight at him. ‘I will be ready to go with you to Westisle on Tuesday as you wish,’ she said resolutely, ‘but neither of us must say one word about the matter until that day.’
‘That will be the way of it,’ he confirmed touching her shoulder lightly.
When she took his strupak into the Smoking Room she put an extra cup on the tray for herself. She could always drink a cup of tea in company no matter how many she might have drunk previously. There was still so much she wanted to find out about him and this seemed a good opportunity. After they’d been talking casually for a few minutes she said, ‘Tell me, do Island women work as hard these days as I remember my Granny working when I was a girl? I’m meaning outside work.’
‘Ach, I’d say there is not so much,’ he said dismissively. ‘Maybe the hens and the milking and the calf feeding.’ He paused for a second before adding, ‘But only if they have a mind that way.’
‘I should be willing to see to the hens and the milking and calf feeding since those things my Granny taught me to do and I daresay I could lend a hand at planting and harvest time, but I would not wish to be at the sheep dipping or the shearing and nor would I care to be at the calf cutting.’ He seemed to realise she was voicing not a wish but a refusal.
‘That is all men’s work,’ he snorted. ‘I doubt you would be needed or welcome at such times. My brother and myself have always managed these things without help.’
After another short silence she said, ‘I will need to get myself a portmanteau. There is very little I would wish to take from here but there will be a few things.’
‘Just so,’ he assented. ‘Will I get a portmanteau for you and keep it in my bedroom? It would not look strange for me to do that seeing I am to be leaving soon enough.’
‘That would be the best way,’ she agreed, nodding her head in approval. ‘But you must promise to tell me the cost so I can give you the necessary money.’
‘Ach, there will be no need for you to do that,’ he demurred.
‘But you must take the money,’ she insisted proudly. She wasn’t going to have him thinking she would allow him to spend money on her before they had made their marriage vows.
Immediately divining the reason for her insistence he slanted her a faintly roguish smile. ‘I will not buy the portmanteau until after we are wed,’ he promised her. She treated him to a spectral nod of acceptance, feeling curiously relieved, not so much because there would be no need for her to dip into her own small savings but because his conduct had banished her uncertainty about his attitude to money. She knew Island men were as a rule sensible about money matters but she’d heard stories of the odd one or two who were so ‘money hungry’ their dependents suffered miserably. Ruari MacDonald was plainly not one of them, she concluded.
She felt even more assured when the next moment he said, ‘I will need to buy a ring for you to wear, will I not? A gold wedding ring?’ She looked speculatively at her bare hands resting in her lap. ‘Is that not the way of it?’ She acknowledged his question with a grave smile. ‘How am I to know the thickness of your finger?’ he asked. There was a hint of eagerness in his tone. ‘You will take time to meet me at the jeweller’s shop?’
‘That I do not intend to do,’ she told him. ‘I believe it is not the custom, but I will take the measure of my finger with a piece of wool,’ she promised him. ‘I’ve heard tell it is the way it is done,’ she added quickly in case he should think she was speaking from previous experience. As his lips shaped to ask a further question she forestalled him by saying, ‘I will leave the piece of wool on the tray on top of the dressing table in your bedroom.’
Just at that moment she glimpsed Meggy passing the window, and then heard the thump of the back door and felt the draught as it opened and closed. Rising from the chair she said, ‘I must away now and set Meggy to preparing the vegetables.’ He looked at her questioningly as she picked up the tray.
‘Will I come to the kitchen tonight?’ he asked.
‘Not tonight. We could not be sure of having it to ourselves.’
‘You will not forget about the wool?’ he called after her as she was leaving the room.
‘I will not forget the wool,’ she assured him with a coy grin.
That same evening in her bedroom she took her few clothes out of the wardrobe and inspected them carefully. It would be nice to buy something new for her wedding, she thought, but what money she’d managed to save she was not going to squander on clothes which might not be suitable for Island wear even supposing she could take the time off to go shopping for them. She held up her Harris Tweed suit on its hanger. It was almost new and looked in as fresh a condition as it had looked on the day when it had been given to her by a young woman who’d stayed briefly at ISLAY while en route to Gibraltar where she was to marry and settle down. The young woman had told her she had been a schoolteacher on the Isle of Lewis; her fiancee had lived in Edinburgh but had now been transferred to Gibraltar, from where he’d written to say she would need only lightweight clothes for the climate there so the suit was something she could very well dispense of. Observing that they were of similar build, the young woman had suggested Kirsty should try it on. The suit had fitted perfectly with the result that Kirsty had been persuaded to accept it as a gift. She’d used it only for church going on fine Sundays and consequently it had seen very little wear.
Satisfied that it was ideal for a wedding at this time of year, she returned the suit to the wardrobe and took out her cherished Burberry. Ever since she had see the Laird’s wife and guests wearing what her Granny had described as ‘Grand Folks Cotamors’, which she had subsequently come to know as Burberrys, she had aspired to wear one herself. It had taken her years to save for one and it was already several winters old but she had taken great care of it, as she had of all her clothes and it still looked as good as new. Her problem, as she saw it, was that the Burberry was not roomy enough to wear over her suit jacket. Her suit jacket, on the other hand, was not waterproof. She wished she could still ‘read the sky’ as her Granny had taught her to do, but since she’d come to the city she’d seen so little of the sky her aptitude had waned from lack of practice. All she could do now was to resign herself to waiting to see how the day after tomorrow should
dawn, weatherwise before she would know what she should wear. If it was wet it must be the Burberry over the skirt of the suit and her prettiest jersey. If it looked reasonably fine she would wear the suit and as a precaution take the light macintosh she used when nipping out on short errands such as visits to the local library. It was a trifle shabby but unless the weather turned really wet she would keep it draped over her arm.
Finally she inspected her one and only hat and her Sunday shoes. The hat – a soft black cloche of which old Mrs Ross had tired – she had to admit looked somewhat defeated, but she reckoned it could be enlivened by a judicious steaming and pressing. She twirled the hat in her hand, grimacing at it as she did so. She’d always rebelled at wearing hats and had shunned the thought of spending money on them. When she’d needed to confine her hair she wore a black chenille tammy which she’d knitted from an old shawl, again one of Mrs Ross’ cast-offs, which she’d unravelled. Her shoes has also seen their best days but she’d made a habit of keeping them so well polished that they didn’t betray their cheapness.
Kirsty sat on her bed assessing how she would look in either outfit and accepted with a rueful smile that though she would not look exactly bridal, neither would she disgrace her wedding-day by looking like a tinker. Pulling open a drawer, she looked at the three clean and neatly folded winceyette nightdresses it contained, one floral, one pink, and one white all with lace trimming round the neck and sleeves. Thank goodness she’d always made a point of wearing pretty nightdresses, she thought. For a few moments she stared at them reflectively and then pushing the drawer firmly shut she got quickly into bed.
She waited until Meggy had finished cleaning the bedrooms next morning before nipping up to Ruari MacDonald’s room to put the small finger-sized piece of wool on a tray as she’d promised. When she returned to the kitchen Meggy’s first remark was, ‘How much longer is that Mr MacDonald booked in for? D’ you know when he’s supposed to be going back to his Island?’
For an instant Kirsty was startled into suspecting there might have been some form of thought transference but she managed to reply offhandedly, ‘One day next week, I believe. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it’s just that I’ll be sorry to see the last of him,’ Meggy said as she ran hot water into the sink in preparation for washing dusters. ‘I could wish we got more folks like him at ISLAY,’ she continued, ‘He’s a real nice gentleman. Never a cross word from him and never leaves his bedroom untidy like most other men. And he never uses the chamber pot, or if he does he empties it himself. Not like some,’ she grumbled. ‘Honest, you‘d swear they spent half the night peeing instead of sleeping.’
Kirsty chuckled and hurriedly made as much noise as she could while replenishing the fire with coals. She had no wish to embark on a discussion of Ruari MacDonald’s habits good or bad at this stage but it was comforting to know that at least he’d won Meggy’s approval. Remembering Meggy was due to take part of the afternoon off she asked, ‘Meggy, is there a chance of you calling at the draper’s this afternoon? I could do with a new pair of stockings and the nearest shop I can get to closes this afternoon.’
‘Yes I’ll get them at the shop near our house,’ Meggy offered. ‘I believe he’s a halfpenny cheaper with most things than the one you go to. Is it the usual grey or will I get you some flesh coloured and cheer your legs up a bit?’
‘Grey,’ Kirsty said firmly. ‘You know perfectly well I only ever wear grey or black.’
‘More fool you,’ retorted Meggy. ‘When somebody’s got nice legs they ought to show them off a bit. That’s what my mother says.’
‘And have I got nice legs?’ Kirsty put the question indifferently.
‘The greengrocer says you have.’
‘The rascal!’ exclaimed Kirsty witheringly.
The greengrocer came weekly, his horse-drawn cart creaking under its load of fruit and vegetables but though she welcomed the freshness and cheapness of his produce his foul language and his persistent attempts to flirt with her made her shudder. She’d shuddered even more when she’d learned he was a respected member of the church which, among her acquaintances, was invariably alluded to as ‘Dommed Papist’.
At that moment Isabel came into the kitchen carrying a frilled blouse which she put down on the table. ‘I want this ironing for tonight,’ she announced, ‘and make sure you don’t singe it.’ Kirsty merely glanced at the garment. ‘It’s tussore so you’ll need to take great care. Don’t leave it to her,’ she added, with a derisive glance at Meggy.
‘She won’t leave it to me because I’m due to go off from one o’clock until three this afternoon,’ Meggy told her pertly.
‘Well, see you’re back on time,’ Isabel warned.
She was about to leave the kitchen when Kirsty said, ‘Isabel, we’re getting very short of butter for the guests. I did mention it to you a couple of days ago but you haven’t ordered any and we really shan’t last out until the grocer comes again.’
‘There’s cooking margarine, isn’t there?’ Isabel demanded.
‘Yes, of course, but you can’t surely …?’
Isabel cut short Kirsty’s protest. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t mix it with what butter we have left. They’ll not be likely to notice the difference.’ Seeing Kirsty’s expression of dismay she went on, ‘We’ll have to do some detectivising and find out where all the butter goes to these days.’ Her eyes slid meaningfully towards Meggy’s back.
‘Start looking in your larder,’ Meggy advised her saucily. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve got a whole brigade of rats in there.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Isabel snapped and left the kitchen.
‘Meggy!’ Kirsty reproved her warningly.
Meggy tittered quietly. ‘She’s a narky old besom,’ she said.
As soon as Meggy had gone Kirsty lit the gas-iron and placed the ironing pad on the table and after she’d pressed Isabel’s blouse she brought down her own clothes and gave them a final pressing before taking them back to her room. She stood for a moment surveying them and then took out a pair of plain black gloves and a crisp white handkerchief from her knick-knack box and placed them on her dressing table. Satisfied she could make no further preparations for her wedding-day she went down to the kitchen.
Sleep that night came fitfully and it was with a sigh of relief she heard the alarm clock signal that it was time the kitchen fire was lit and breakfast preparations got under way. She made her own early morning cup of tea and started to prepare the porridge expecting Meggy to arrive at any moment to lay the tables in the dining room but half an hour later Meggy had still not arrived. Kirsty went through to the dining room and lit the gasfire, and after another half hour had passed and still no Meggy she herself began to set out the tables for the guests’ breakfast. She became anxious. Had Meggy met with an accident? Should Isabel be told? She glanced at the clock. Isabel would be expecting Meggy to be bringing her early morning tea in five minutes. She waited another five minutes before taking up the tray.
‘Where’s Meggy?’ Isabel demanded sleepily.
‘I’m afraid she isn’t here yet,’ Kirsty told her. ‘Something must have delayed her. She didn’t say anything last night about not coming in so I daresay she’ll be here soon.’ ‘She’d better be,’ Isabel said grumpily. But Meggy had still not turned up when Kirsty was due to leave for her afternoon off. Isabel came into the kitchen. ‘That good-for-nothing still not here?’ she burst out irascibly. ‘I suppose it’s no good telling you to give up your afternoon and have it tomorrow instead?’
‘No, what I have to do today will not wait until tomorrow,’ Kirsty told her firmly. ‘The meal is well prepared so you should not have much to do.’
‘But I wanted to bring some of my friends here this afternoon for a game of whist,’ Isabel grumbled. ‘And I wanted Meggy to see to the fire in the Smoking Room and to bring us in some tea and biscuits.’
Kirsty merely raised her eyebrows. ‘Too bad!’ she murmured relentle
ssly. ‘I expect she’ll be in soon,’ she comforted, but Isabel had already left the kitchen.
Up in her room Kirsty dressed carefully. The morning had looked settled enough but though there was now rather more grey in the sky, she decided she would be safe in wearing her suit livened up with a Cairngorm brooch her aunt had given her and carrying her mac over her arm. She had arranged to meet Ruari MacDonald outside the public library as near to three o’clock as she could manage so, at ten minutes to three she let herself quietly out of the front door of ISLAY and walked briskly in that direction.
The minister was waiting for them at the Manse and, giving the impression that he was anxious to get on with the ceremony, he bustled them into the church where, after introducing them to his wife and the verger he began to read the wedding service. They made their solemn promises: the ring slid onto her finger; the blessing was given and they signed the register. The minister then did justice to the expected half bottle of whisky Ruari had produced from his pocket, wiped his mouth thoroughly on his handkerchief and then ushered them out of the church and back to the Manse where, at his wife’s invitation they stayed for a cup of tea and a scone that Kirsty thought was so stale she would have thrown it out for the birds.
It was all over bewilderingly quickly and when they earned out on the street again a thin drizzle had already started. Not sure what to do with themselves they went into one of the big stores, took the lift to the top floor and then walked down the flight of stairs to the ground floor again. People were rushing in, lowering their umbrellas as they came through the swing doors, their clothes limp with rain. They entered another store where an enterprising department head was directing some of his staff to make a display of umbrellas conveniently near to the exit. Ruari MacDonald stopped.
An Island Apart Page 6
