An Island Apart

by Lillian Beckwith

  Before going back to the house she fed the hens, stuffed a sack with hay for the cattle and made a potach for the milk cow. Then in the kitchen she took most of the hot peats off the fire, dropped them into a pail, carried it outside and left it on the cobblestones. This way, she reckoned, by the time she got back from the cattle the range would have cooled enough for her to easily locate the flues and dampers and perhaps to discover why the oven did not get hot.

  Donning the oilskin and slipping her feet into the gumboots she had worn the previous day, she set out to find the cattle. She was in no way overawed by the misty loneliness of the moors but rather felt that she was easing herself back into a childhood from which she had never managed to detach herself. How had she filled the intervening years? Had she been truly content? Had she really convinced herself that she’d known no yearning to go back to an Island life – that the city had claimed her? She knew this morning, as she drew in deep lungfuls of the sweet damp air, that the yearning had only lain dormant, that the moors were impatient to reclaim her. She felt an urge to kick off her gumboots and to walk barefoot through the moss and heather but she put the boots on after a few steps. The moss was cold and wet and the heather was scratchy. When the warm weather came she must condition her feet to cope with it, she promised herself. She trudged on, her pleasure mounting as the morning brightened, the mist shredded itself into tendrils and the only sounds that broke the silence of the moors were the occasional bleatings of sheep, the mew of a buzzard and the clumping of her own gumboots.

  She followed as nearly as she could recall the path which Ruari had shown her the previous day, stopping briefly to admire the ‘spelled lochan’ and the Glen of Bluebells where it was so still and quiet that even the trees seemed to be listening in the hope of detecting whispers of other life.

  She found the cattle in much the same area as they had been the previous day, and when they saw her they raised their heads to look at her curiously but they did not approach. She started to pull hay from the sack and set it out in tufts and they began to come forward, apprehensively at first and then more trustingly. She was doubtful about being able to identify the milk cow but one of the herd disregarded the hay and came purposefully towards her. Kirsty offered the potach and crouched down to take her requirement of milk.

  Instead of going back the way she had come, she decided to make her way across the Island and by so doing she came across a scattered settlement of derelict houses which she assumed had been the home of the crofters who had abandoned the place so many years ago. Now sheep grazed on the short winter-crisped grass; rabbits scuttled among the moss-grown stones while a pair of hooded crows squabbled over a carcass. Resting on a boulder she contemplated the setting: the gentle slope down to the shingle shore where at that moment a stately heron was waiting at the edge of the tide for the sea to service him with a meal, while a couple of otters indulged in sinuous exploration of the dark sea-covered rocks. She thought, if I’d wanted to build a home this is the spot I would have chosen, not the place the Laird chose to build his son’s house. Turning again to look at the ruined cottages she let her imagination people them with figures such as her Granny had described to her. Women, young and old, sitting at the doors of the cottages and working at their spinning wheels; men making nets or fashioning hazel withies into creels while children watched and learned; dogs lying in wait to chase a gull or a hooded crow which dared to venture too close to the dwellings.

  She would have liked to linger there, but reminding herself of all the work she’d planned to do before the two men returned from the mainland, she started homeward.

  The range was certainly cool by the time she got back and it was easy enough for her to locate the oven flues. One had jammed due to lack of use, but she managed to free it with the aid on an iron rod and a stone, and then with a long-handled scraper she had discovered in the barn, she began to take from under the oven shovelful after shovelful of tight-packed peat ash which she scattered on the turf at the back of the house, telling herself it would be good for the garden she planned to have there before very long. Next she gathered dry kindling and peats from the peat shed and lit the fire. It took off well and she very soon had a kettle boiling and a pot of tea brewing. Adjusting the dampers of the oven she piled peat on to the fire and after they had been glowing brightly for an hour or so she opened the oven door. Heat wafted out and she hastily shut the door again. It had been blocked with ancient peat ash and now she had found the flues she could make the oven hot whenever she wanted to. She was highly satisfied. She could experiment with dishes other than boiled fish and potatoes.

  Estimating that it would be nearly dark again by the time the two brothers got back from the mainland, she made herself a strupak and sat meditating over what dish she could provide from the limited ingredients in the safe and which might appeal to both men. Apart from fish, there was butter and milk; there were plenty of potatoes in the clamp in the barn; there was oatmeal and there was flour. There was a paunched rabbit hanging in the scullery, she reminded herself and since the weather had been cold, it should still be in fresh condition. She decided to try making a rabbit pie and when it was put before them she would observe their reactions, but in case either of them found it not to their liking they could have potatoes and herring or roast crabs. Nothing need be wasted, she told herself. Her husband had enjoyed pastry at ISLAY. She herself enjoyed pastry, and if her brother-in-law found it unpalatable, what wasn’t eaten could be mixed with the hens’ mash.

  When the two men got back the pie, with its crisp, gravy-stained crust was keeping hot on the hob alongside a dish of roasted potatoes hot and golden and glistening. Ruari sniffed curiously while he was taking off his boots and oilskins but forbore to comment. He threw a folded oilskin and a pair of gumboots on to the bench.

  ‘There now, do they please you?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed they do,’ she responded, putting her feet tentatively into the boots and measuring the oilskin against her. ‘I like them fine.’ She smiled approvingly. ‘They will be gey useful on the moors.’ In the city she would have been more gushing but now, in the Islands she knew that even heartfelt appreciation must be expressed laconically.

  She put the pie and the roast potatoes on the table. She thought they both looked and smelled delicious.

  ‘My, my!’ said her husband. ‘What do we have here?’ He looked pleased.

  ‘I cleaned out the range this morning and I got lots of stale ash from under the oven. When I lit the fire again the oven got hot enough to cook pastry. I’d seen the rabbit hanging in the scullery and knowing you liked pastry I thought I would make a rabbit pie. The potatoes I roasted because you said you liked them that way,’ she reminded him, putting a helping of pie and some roast potatoes on his plate. She turned enquiringly to her brother-in-law but he had ignored the meal on the table and was already helping himself from the pan of potatoes on the hob. Disappointed, she put a portion of the pie on to her own plate and began to eat in silence.

  ‘This is good!’ her husband complimented her. ‘I like it fine. You should take a taste of it, Ruari Mhor. You would like it,’ he urged his brother as he helped himself to another portion.

  ‘Ach, I like to eat fish when I come in from the sea,’ was the chilling response.

  ‘I could bake other pies if you would like that,’ she said. ‘I could make tarts and shortbread and puddings. I could even make bread if you could bring me some yeast.’

  ‘Aye indeed?’ he queried.

  ‘I believe we would use a good many more peats to heat the oven regularly but I used to work in the peats for my Granny and I could do so again for you,’ she volunteered.

  ‘There is plenty of peat on the wee Island I showed you yesterday,’ he said, with rapidly ebbing interest.

  He had brought a newspaper back with him from the mainland and was settling himself to read it. She picked up her knitting and, since her brother-in-law had left the kitchen, she settled in the other chair. When t
he hour of her usual bedtime came round she said, ‘Ruari, I am going to make my hot milk. Is there anything you would like me to get for you before I go to bed?’

  ‘No, no,’ he declined. ‘I will make myself a mug of tea after I have walked my brother’s back for him.’

  She thought she had misheard him. ‘Walk your brother’s back, did you say?’ she asked banteringly

  ‘Indeed. That is what I said,’ he answered gravely.

  ‘But why do you do that?’ she was perplexed.

  ‘My brother gets a very sore back sometimes and I walk it for him to give him relief from the pain,’ he explained.

  ‘You’re telling me he lies down just and you walk on his back?’

  He nodded. ‘Very lightly and with bare feet,’ he elucidated.

  She was bewildered. ‘And you are saying his back is troubling him tonight?’

  ‘It is so. I could see by his face that he was suffering even before he spoke of it to me.’

  ‘Does this happen very often?’ she probed. ‘And is there anything I can prepare for you to take to him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he told her. ‘And I will be best pleased if you say nothing to him of what I have told you tonight. He will not admit that there can be anything wrong with him.’

  ‘No, I shan’t say anything but can’t you get him to see a doctor?’

  ‘Never till two Sabbath’s meet,’ he said. ‘My brother will have no doctor near him.’ He rose from his chair and swung the kettle over the glowing peats. ‘He will be glad of a mug of tea and a dram and by morning I doubt he will be himself again.’

  She filled her mug with hot milk and started towards her bedroom.

  ‘I will try not to wake you when I come to bed,’ he said. ‘You will be tired, will you not?’ Could she detect a note of regret in his voice or was he giving himself an excuse for his avoidance of her?

  ‘Fairly tired,’ she agreed.

  In bed she found herself pondering the character of her brother-in-law. Had there been, at some time in his life, a tragic event or perhaps some tragic circumstances that had caused his features to be set so grimly? Or could it be that there was some lurking illness which was betraying his apparent robustness? And could she, instead of striving to be indifferent to his presence, bear with his impassivity and scrutinize his appearance more caringly so as to be able to read the signs of pain on his face? Perhaps then she would be able to understand his attitude towards her.

  She was still awake when Ruari came to bed but she feigned sleep and he did not disturb her.

  Chapter Ten

  After one of their trips to the mainland, Ruari brought news of a forthcoming wedding.

  ‘A grand wedding too it’s to be,’ he declared. ‘It will be at the church and there’s to be a meal following at the hotel.’

  ‘A young couple?’ Kirsty enquired. Since it was unlikely she knew either the bride or the bridegroom or any of their relatives, it was the only aspect of the wedding she was interested in.

  ‘Young enough,’ Ruari said. ‘Willy, that’s the bridegroom, is younger than myself and the lassie’s not much more than twenty-seven or eight.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You will wish to be there?’ he asked.

  She was somewhat taken aback. ‘I? No, of course not,’ she denied. ‘I have not been invited, surely?’

  He produced an envelope from his pocket. ‘ “Mr & Mrs MacDonald and Ruari Mhor MacDonald”,’ he pointed out, displaying the envelope.

  ‘Will they be relatives of yours?’ she asked.

  ‘In a way, I suppose,’ he replied dubiously.

  ‘It is very kind of them to include me,’ she said.

  ‘How could they not? You will be welcomed. Several folks have said to me that you must be a real hardy to agree to come and live on Westisle and they will want to hear from yourself how you are liking it.’

  ‘Curiosity just,’ she commented with a smile. ‘Tell me, when is this wedding to be?’

  ‘Thursday week,’ he told her. ‘At eleven in the morning.’

  ‘And you intend going?’

  ‘If it is not too stormy,’ he replied. ‘And you must come too. They might get to thinking you are too swanky for their company.’

  ‘Then I must certainly come,’ she said. ‘But Ruari, how will we get a wedding present for them in time for Thursday week?’ she demanded.

  He looked vague. ‘A wedding present?’ he repeated.

  ‘Is it not the custom to give a wedding present when one goes to a wedding?’ she asked, but even while speaking she was reminding herself that there had been no talk of a wedding in any way connected with the village during the period of her childhood. Was present-giving only a custom of the city?

  Ruari’s dubious expression cleared. ‘Ach, I will put a pound or two in an envelope and give it to Willy on the day,’ he said nonchalantly.

  ‘And will I need to give the bride something?’

  ‘A kiss and a handshake only,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Will I not be expected to contribute anything to the meal?’ she pressed. ‘I shouldn’t wish to be thought mean.’

  ‘Nothing. It is only the men who give at weddings,’ he assured her solemnly, adding as an afterthought, ‘they tell me the bride’s aunt who used to work in a hotel in Glasgow is to make a grand big bride cake dressed with icing.’

  ‘It sounds interesting,’ she said, and began to look forward to the event.

  The day before the wedding, when she was attending the cattle it struck her that one of the cows appeared to be a little uneasy and did not come for her allowance of hay. She could see nothing wrong with it but it worried her enough to speak of it when the two brothers came in from the evening’s fishing.

  ‘Ach, maybe she’s about to calve,’ Ruari suggested casually. ‘Did you notice if the beast looked near calving? It’s early enough yet but the bull’s running with them and the winter’s been open enough.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to tell if a cow was near calving,’ she told him. ‘I was never taught the signs to look for even to tell if a cow was pregnant,’ she said flippantly. A few moments went by before she added seriously, ‘I think perhaps I’d best stay here and not go to the wedding tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Maybe the other cows will trouble her.’

  A look of irritation crossed Ruari’s face. ‘How long has she been troubling you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, just since this morning. I didn’t notice anything wrong yesterday.’

  ‘Ach, then there is nothing to be fretting yourself about. She will be able to take care of herself. Will that not be the way of it, Ruari Mhor?’ he challenged his brother.

  Kirsty shot an anxious glance at her brother-in-law who, though he still persisted in ignoring her, had now yielded sufficiently to sit at the table and share their evening meal. As always, in her presence, he answered his brother’s question with merely a nod but instead of the frigidly impassive nod she was accustomed to seeing, she detected in it more than a trace of confirmation.

  The morning dawned calm and bright and fearing the celebrations might tempt the brothers to linger on the mainland until after darkness, she decided to pay the cattle an early visit. She would have time, she judged, if they were not too far away, to milk the one cow, feed the rest and ascertain the condition of the beast which had been causing her some concern. When she reached them she saw that the one she had thought to be sick was still distancing itself from the rest of the herd and that it showed no inclination to come for its share of hay but on closer inspection she could see the trail of albumen hanging from its vulva. She is near calving, she told herself, and someone ought to keep an eye on her. She hurried back to the house where the two Ruaris, suitably, if not smartly dressed, were outside polishing their boots.

  ‘No calf?’ her husband greeted her.

  ‘No, I didn’t see one,’ she answered, ‘but she’s near to it.’ She described the albumen. ‘I’d far sooner stay and keep an eye on her than go to this wedding. I shall find myself
worrying about her.’

  ‘The tide!’ she heard her brother-in-law say brusquely. Kirsty looked to her husband for enlightenment.

  ‘Ach, I’m saying there’s no need for worry,’ he soothed. ‘The tide is high now and we have a belief hereabouts that a Highland cow will never drop her calf during an ebb tide. Seeing she hadn’t dropped her calf by the time you left she will hold it until the turn of the tide and that will not be before five this evening. We shall have left the wedding behind us by then.’

  ‘Truly?’ she questioned.

  ‘As true as I’m here,’ he asserted. ‘But make haste now and put on your wedding clothes and get yourself quickly down to the boat,’ he urged her.

  The day was windless, the sea virtually waveless and crossing to the mainland was so serene she could imagine the boat was gliding through smooth fresh cream. When they reached the modest little church the two Ruaris greeted the few people who had gathered outside but her husband left them to guess who she was. She fixed a steady smile on her face, mumbled a few ‘Tha e Breagha’ and followed him into the church where a small organ was being played inexpertly. The bride arrived, the ceremony was performed and in no time at all, it seemed to Kirsty, everyone was walking up to the hotel where the reception was being held and where whisky would be available.

  It was a good plain meal of chicken and potatoes and turnip followed by jelly and custard, the telegrams, read out by the minister, were satisfyingly lewd and the glasses were recharged unstintingly. When the guests adjourned to the hall – an annexe which, at some future date, was destined to be part of the hotel, a fiddle and melodeon player were waiting to provide the music for dancing. Kirsty was delighted to see Mairi Jane, with whom she had stayed the night before the crossing to Westisle, and together they sat on one of the wooden benches that lined the room while they watched the varied antics of the guests. Some danced, some merely stamped their feet in time to the music while others dozed until they fell, amid laughter, from their seats. But whatever they did it was plain that everyone was enjoying the occasion.