Summer of the Red Wolf

by Morris West

  We perched ourselves on a pair of stools and took stock of the company. There were the boys from the two trawlers, the lads from the farm, a girl for every man, including this time the blonde and kissing one from the pub in Stornoway. She too was in Highland dress – which made her as near to a lady as she’d ever get. There was Duggie Donald; there was Rawlings; there was Fergus William McCue and his two sons, and one of the constables who had questioned Kathleen and me on our poaching foray. There were three young couples whom I hadn’t seen before, whom I took to be neighbours from the crofts around Carloway. Thirty people, thirty-five, enough to fill the broad chamber and make a steady clatter of talk and laughter.

  The fire in the open hearth was banked high with peat sods. The kitchen bar was loaded with food. The table was pushed to one side so that the floor was open to the traffic of drinkers and for the dancing afterwards. I noticed that some of Ruarri’s more precious things had been moved off the walls and off the shelves, lest some high-riding laddie had a mind to play games with them at midnight.

  I took Kathleen on a round of the people I knew: Athol Cameron and Jock Burns and the rest. Then we came by inevitable progression to give a salute to Chief Inspector Rawlings. He was in fine humour; and when he saw Kathleen in all her finery, he brightened even more.

  ‘My God! I’m beginning to be glad I came. In spite of all the trouble I’m having.’

  ‘Are you having trouble, Inspector?’ Kathleen was wide-eyed innocence itself.

  ‘Let’s say, Doctor, I’ve got my nose rammed against a brick wall so hard that it’s hurting, and I’m thinking of going home. Now that I’ve seen you I might reconsider.’

  ‘I’m bespoken, Inspector. I’m engaged to one of your suspects.’

  ‘This fellow! Good Lord! Well, I’ll just have to concentrate on Miss O’Donnell, though I’m not very popular in that quarter, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why?’ It was my question now. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Not only saw her, my dear chap. Damn near turned her back at the airport as an undesirable alien. Then I thought better of it, because I’d never really had a chance to chat with her before, and I thought I might pick up a tip or two to beat the bookies. All I got was a flea in my ear and some language I never expected to hear from those ruby lips. I hope she’s mellowed by the time she gets here…This looks like a good party.’

  The fiddler and the piper and the squeegee man marched themselves in with a flourish, dumped their instruments in a corner and begged to be led to the drink because of the chill outside and the warmth that was needed to make decent music. Then Maeve O’Donnell walked in with the air of a virgin martyr, kissed Ruarri, waved to the rest of the company and presented the inspector with a sealed package.

  ‘It’s a present from Ireland, Inspector, and I dare you to open it without a bucket of water handy.’

  He was a game bird and he knew a game joke when he smelled it. He opened the package, fished through layers of sawdust and brought up a small bottle of clear liquid. He opened it, smelled it, tasted it and then shook his head.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Holy water, Inspector. We use it for the baptism of the heathen, the purification of mothers after childbirth and the exorcism of the evil one. I thought you might find a use for it.’

  That got her a laugh, and the inspector got himself a kiss for his decency in letting her into the country, which was a doubtful privilege but appreciated this time.

  Then, with a piece of footwork that left me gasping, she prised me away from Kathleen, put the inspector in my place and backed me out of earshot of them both.

  ‘Now tell me, seannachie. What the hell is all this? Has Ruarri gone out of his mind?’

  ‘I’m beginning to think he has, lover girl.’

  ‘What’s he trying to prove?’

  ‘He calls it his statement. He’s saying he has no guilt before God or man.’

  ‘In a pig’s eye, he hasn’t.’

  ‘Would I joke about it, Maeve my love? With the inspector and Duggie Donald and all this bunch? Who knows what’ll be said when they’ve all got their drinks in?’

  ‘And you, seannachie? What’s with you now?’

  ‘We’re getting married as soon as Morrison’s out of hospital.’

  ‘And what brought that on.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. But if Ruarri gets a pie in his face tonight, you’ll know who threw it.’

  ‘Are you really that mad? Are you really, seannachie?’

  ‘I’m out for blood, Maeve O’Donnell.’

  ‘Whose blood?’ asked Ruarri from behind us.

  ‘Yours. Brother Wolf.’

  ‘I’ll bottle some for you, seannachie.’ He shrugged it off with a grin. ‘Help yourself to the food.’

  Maeve watched him swaggering away and let out a long, soft whistle. ‘Holy Patrick! I think you both mean it this time. If it comes to a donnybrook, seannachie, watch him! He fights dirty…Let’s go and eat. I’m starving.’

  In the crush around the food we were separated, and by the time I had a plate in my hand I found myself once again shoulder to shoulder with Rawlings. Kathleen was in the far corner, deep in talk with Daddy Burns, who would keep her busy for a while.

  Rawlings said, ‘Why don’t we sit at the bar. I hate standing around trying to balance food. It makes me feel like a performing seal.’

  ‘Enjoying yourself, Inspector?’

  ‘Better than I expected. I’m learning something too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Everybody knows what I want. Nobody’s going to give me a word to cheer me. I might as well pack up and go home.’

  ‘You’re back to the tribes here, Inspector.’

  ‘Off the record, I like it.’

  ‘Also off the record, Inspector, how do you read our host?’

  ‘I like him, very much. I imagine he’d be first-rate company.’

  ‘You answered the wrong question, Inspector.’

  ‘So I did. It’s a bad habit. This job really does make one unfit for polite company. How do I read him…? He is a man who’s chasing something he doesn’t want. When he gets it, he’ll break it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know him well enough to answer that. But I know I’m right. This party tonight…’

  ‘Ceilidh, Inspector. You’re in Gaeldom now!’

  ‘Whatever you call it, it’s the same thing: an act of contempt. Matheson knows he’s in the clear. I know it. So do you. There’s no way in the world we can fill in the last blank hour on the Helen II. There’s no way we can nail him for the guns, but he’ll slip up on that one day. But the murder – I’m convinced it’s murder, and I’m telling you because there’s no one near enough to shout libel – he’s waving that at us all like the flag of the revolution. Don’t you agree?’

  It was a tempting discussion and I knew he was tempting me to embark on it with him. Regretfully I had to refuse.

  ‘Sorry, Inspector. No go. You build your own theories.’

  ‘I’ve got one that might interest you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think you’re hiding something because it would throw more suspicion on Matheson, but still not convict him.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘Because you hate his guts – and yet you’re too meticulous or too squeamish to get at him through the law.’

  ‘You’re very astute, Inspector.’

  ‘Aren’t I just? Problem is I always get my best ideas when I’m off duty… Excuse me. I think I’ll try some of that roast beef….’

  I had enough to digest, so I poured myself another drink and went over to rescue Kathleen from Daddy Burns. Before I could get to her, I was ambushed by Fergus William McCue, who fixed me with a rheumy but triumphant eye and told me of the twelve-pound salmon he had landed in my absence. Fergus sober is eloquent enough, but Fergus drunk – and I don’t mean tipsy; I mean ripe, slopping-in-the-scuppers drunk – Fergus drunk would silence th
e last trumpet and shout the dead from their graves himself. Finally his boys rescued me by the simple expedient of hoisting Fergus under the elbows and carrying him out into the garden to cool off. By the time I reached Kathleen, she was staggering under another of Daddy Burns’ typhoons, so we found ourselves a quieter spot near the door while the fiddler tuned his instrument and the piper and the squeegee man were hoisted on the table and enthroned above the multitude, as bards should be. Then Ruarri took the floor, clapped hands for silence, waved everyone to seating places and delivered himself of a speech in Gaelic.

  The effect of it was curiously moving: the big redbeard, in Highland costume, standing in the centre of the floor with his own small tribe about him, the very image of a chieftain or a prophet at his first acceptance. He spoke, very quietly at first, with many gestures and a kind of lyric challenge to the emotions of the company. Then he brightened and made them smile first and then laugh. Whereupon he turned to me and to Rawlings and to Maeve at our different points in the room and made a slightly offhand translation:

  ‘For those of you not fortunate enough to have the Gaelic, this is what I’ve just said. This ceilidh is for the memory and the honour of Lachie McMutrie, a shipmate of many here, a crewman of mine, lost at sea. We’re here to raise money for his family, and there’s a big glass bowl by the door that you’ll drop it into before you go out if you’ve got any left after the games and the forfeits, in which I hope you’ll all join. Whatever money is given, I’ll double from my own pocket, since no man who sails with the Mactire will ever be afraid for his family… Let’s have the music now and a little dancing to limber up.’

  As the fiddler and the piper and the squeegee man launched themselves into a lively disharmony, Ruarri brought Maeve onto the floor and led the dance himself. I danced with Kathleen and Rawlings reached out for the other one in the kilt, which made six people on the floor, each with murder in the mind because, if ever a woman was jealous of Ruarri, the blonde was dying of it… The others followed a little sheepishly at first; but it was lively in a moment, and risky too, because some of the boys were rearing and kicking their heels like stallions in clover.

  We danced in couples; we danced in squares; we danced, men and women in concentric circles, scrambling for partners each time the music stopped. And when Ruarri judged us exhausted, there was a pause for drinks, while the piper played a pibroch just to prove he had lordlier themes in his head than country dances. Then we played the forfeit game, which, in case you’ve forgotten your childhood in this quick-changing world, goes like this:

  You put names in one hat and the tasks to be performed in another and the forfeit to be paid in a third. You draw out a name at random. You draw out a task at random: to sing a song or recite a verse, or tell a story, or stand on your head, or dance a jig. If you don’t want to do it, or you can’t, you pay the forfeit which is named on a card from the third hat. It’s a game with infinite variations and one which can be very easily rigged if you put your mind to it and have a sense of malice or humour. Ruarri had both, and a considerable ingenuity as well; but, in the beginning at least, he played the game for laughter. The forfeits were all to be paid in cash to Lachie’s family, and there was a comical penalty tacked on just for the fun of the thing.

  Donan, the Barra boy, had to bob for an apple in a bowl of water with his hands behind his back, and transfer it without a hand’s touch to the lips of his girl, who had a bosom like a pouter pigeon. Athol, the taciturn, had to sing two verses of ‘Scots wha hae’ with his pipe stuck in his mouth, which almost gave him apoplexy and lost him his money. Calum had to talk for three minutes on any subject of his choosing without mention of a woman and without a swear word. He lost in the first forty seconds. Maeve had to dance a jig with Daddy Burns playing the fiddle; and they did it to vast applause because Daddy played with a rare sweet tone, better than the fiddler we had…It was all good, simple fun with drinks to help it along, and Ruarri, the master of village ceremony, heading the laughter and clapping and totting up the fines like a happy banker.

  It must have been towards midnight, when we were getting down to the last names in the hat, that Ruarri pulled his first little trick. It was staged for my benefit. It had to be because no one else in the gathering knew all the relationships involved. Ruarri walked across to the wall where the claymores were hung behind their buckler. He took down the two blades and laid them crosswise on the open dancing space. Then he held up his hands for silence and announced:

  ‘This next one should earn some good money. Two girls will dance the reel and the swords against one another. The winner will be chosen by popular vote. Each girl has her own man to back her. The loser pays ten pounds into the fund for Lachie. I close my eyes now and dip into the hat and bring out the name of …Miss Flora Jamieson! Come up here now and let’s see you…’

  It was the blonde from Stornoway, with I love-you-Ruarri written all over her. And damned if he wasn’t admitting it to one and all.

  ‘This young lady is a special friend of mine, worth much more than the bet we’re putting up. So dance for me, Flora love. Dance your feet off.’

  He dipped again into the hat.

  ‘And the contender, ladies and gentlemen, is a beautiful visitor to these Blessed Isles, Dr Kathleen McNeil. Of course, if she doesn’t want to dance, we’ll excuse her. You do? You’re a gallant woman, Doctor. I presume you’re backing this lady, seannachie? If you are, it’s a fiver on the table and may the best girl win.’

  There was no time to say anything, but the touch of her hand was enough to tell me that she would go through with it. I led her out to the floor, placed her in front of her opponent and joined Ruarri at the table. There were ten years between them. The one was a thoroughbred, slim and slightly built; the other was a big country girl who would be wide as a barn at forty, but she had good legs and a good body, and if Ruarri had picked her, then he knew she could dance like a champion. As for Kathleen, I just didn’t know, except that she was game, and I was backing her, and before the night was out I would settle with Ruarri for this very refined insult.

  He was finishing his spiel now. ‘There’ll be two sets solo for each girl, and the third will be in twosome. No break in the music, piper, and no applause until the dance is over. We’ll toss a coin now. Loser begins. You call, Dr McNeil.’

  She called tails and won, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The young one could warm up the piper and get him into rhythm. At a signal from Ruarri he puffed up his cheeks and began.

  Now if you know the Highland dancing, there’s nothing I can tell you. If you don’t, there’s little enough, because to recite the steps means nothing; but the feel of it, the lift of it, the wild, waking visions you get as the fiddle scrapes and the piper skirls and they go, heel and toe, tripping round the sword blades – ah! that’s something else. There’s one piper playing, but there’s a hundred others you can hear distant in the glens; and it’s girls that are dancing, but it’s men in kilt and bonnet with buckler and sword striding down the sheep tracks for the gathering of the clans and one last, losing fight for the lonely cause.

  Flora Jamieson looked like a tart, and on the evidence she was; but she danced like an angel, with never a slip or a falter. Her big body seemed light as thistledown, her feet sprung like a ballerina’s, her back straight as a rod under the arch of her arm. My heart lifted with her and then it sank for Kathleen, who must repeat the set after her and then join her in the final reel. When she had finished, there was a spontaneous burst of applause, and Kathleen moved in to pick up the beat of the pipes and fiddle.

  The change in her startled me. I had known her in many moods, but never in this one. Suddenly she was proud and disdainful as Lucifer. Her head was high, her eyes full of fire and contempt. And she could dance…Praise the Lord! She could dance on any Highland green from Inverness to Oban and you’d still be proud of her – and every twirl of the tartan was an up-you-brother for Master Ruarri, who couldn’t take his eyes off her. When the two
girls came together for the final set, they were at the top of their form, and no man in his right senses would have wanted to choose between them. We clapped them off the floor and shouted and stamped and declared in one voice that it was a drawn match.

  Ruarri picked up the swords and clashed them over his head for silence. ‘So what do we do now? It’s up to the men to decide the outcome. We’re the backers and it’s even money on the table. What do we do, seannachie? Dance for it? Spit for it? Toss double or quits? Maybe a hand of poker? Maybe you’re a swordsman…’

  He tossed one of the claymores to me, and I caught it, just as the boys caught the dirt in the joke and laughed.

  ‘Hold it now!’ Ruarri was laughing with them. ‘That wasn’t what I meant at all. I know he’s a writer and all, but for the rest of it, how would I tell? What about it seannachie, are you a swordsman?’

  He made a sham pass at me and I parried it and lunged instinctively.

  He stepped back and stood grinning at me triumphantly. ‘Och aye! It’s like that, is it? Are you game? They’re not foils and they don’t have buttons.’

  ‘I’m game, Brother Wolf. You name the stake.’

  ‘A hundred pounds for the fund. That suit you?’

  ‘Fine. We need an umpire.’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Inspector Rawlings out of the silence. ‘I’d hate to see either of you two fighting cocks get hurt. It’s Olympic rules for sabre and I know ’em, so you’ll do as you’re told. Right?’

  ‘Right you are, Inspector,’ said Ruarri and then addressed himself to the assembly. ‘Let’s clear some space, shall we? I’ll stoke up the fire. Get yourselves a drink and settle down….’

  Then Maeve O’Donnell stepped in and gave everyone a chance to laugh. ‘I’m making book. For anyone that’s interested. If someone’ll give me pencil and paper, I’m offering two to one against the Mactire.’

  In the flurry that ensued, Inspector Rawlings asked me a bland question. ‘What is this, trial by combat?’