Fortunately, there was some good news. Huge numbers of soldiers had escaped capture in the evacuation of Dunkirk at the end of May. It was indeed a miracle. These men would be crucial to the defence of Britain. Yes, their equipment had been lost, but equipment could be replaced, though that would take time and time was precious.
The other good piece of news was that Winston Churchill had taken over from Chamberlain in early May- and everybody knew what that meant: decisive leadership. Whether you liked him or not, he was a man who would get things done, and that was what was needed now.
Elsewhere in Europe the situation had deteriorated. France had capitulated; the Nazis had occupied Norway; the Italians had entered the war, threatening British control of the Mediterranean and the Suez Canal.
A storm was coming. The British people all knew that as they worked to build up their defences. Whether or not they would be strong enough only time would tell. For the moment, as Mr Churchill said, there was ‘blood, toil, tears and sweat’ but there was also a little hope, and a profound need to feel there could still be something that was good in all of this.
For the active participants: Dr Macleod and Miss Mackinnon, their immediate families and friends, the short ceremony which took place on June twenty-eighth 1940 was an affirmation. No-one who witnessed the small procession they led from the town up the hill to the church, or the service which followed it, could have been unimpressed by the simple warmth of the occasion. For John and Mhairi, it was a statement of love, without fabrication of adornment. For many others it was a reminder of their own past- good memories set in more hopeful times. For others with a passing acquaintance of the couple, it was a welcome distraction.
There had been one tricky moment, when a convoy of army trucks came over the hill from the pier just as the procession was crossing the main road. The war should have had priority but the rider of an army BSA on convoy duties determined otherwise and brought them to a standstill until everyone had crossed. Perhaps you need to be a doctor for that to happen to you.
In the parish hall next to the church, Graham Clare in his role as Best Man gave a typically off-beat speech, describing the groom as a ‘well known local golfer’ who was lucky to be marrying ‘a highly skilled teacher and valued member of the community’. There was recourse to golfing analogy, and much was made of the importance of listening carefully ‘when the teacher is giving out instructions’. Jamie’s report card (with small embellishments to ‘protect the innocent’) was presented as the model to aspire to. And of course, the engagement had come as a complete surprise.
“Same here!” someone had shouted from somewhere near the front, to gentle laughter and a shaking of heads. It was a predictable contribution, for those who knew Andrew Ker, and everyone in Gairloch knew Andrew Ker.
Thus it was that for a few, delightful hours the community of Gairloch was transported to a better place, even as the lorries chugged their way up one side of the hill before whining down the other, and a corvette berthed in Gair Loch itself, ready to take on stores.
But inside the hall, where the music played and drink was consumed, Elizabeth danced with Jamie; Mhairi’s mother danced with the minister; John’s mother, all the way from Inverness, was moved about the floor rather unsteadily by Graham Clare… It was a flash of colour in a darkening gloom, and something to be held on to.
The official Honeymoon (or family holiday, to give it its proper name) was a three day sojourn in Edinburgh. John, who had qualified there fifteen years previously, knew the place well but for Jamie it was a real adventure: the castle on the rock; the huge Princes Street shops; the trains- and just the sheer size of the place.
For Mhairi the value was more personal, more intimate. It was the feeling of being complete: of not having to plan on her own, to work and care for Jamie on her own, and of not having to be alone. It was as if a great, unresolvable question had simply melted away, the great question asking what she was capable of: could she love and be loved; could she protect Jamie? Now, for the first time, she knew these things were possible without pretence and by remaining herself. Somehow, she felt it strange that it had taken someone else to make her see that.
As it happens, three nights was enough. On the third night there had been searchlights and some anti-aircraft fire near Rosyth. Perhaps it had been an exercise, or a false alarm, but it could have been a real raid by the Luftwaffe. The bridge would be a prime target, after all, just like the naval base. It made them feel insecure, being amongst strangers at a time like that.
They left Edinburgh earlier than they had intended originally, taking the nine forty-five train to Inverness. This would give them time to visit Granny Macleod, they told Jamie, so they could make sure she had recovered from dancing with Mr Clare. In fact, the ankle was only slightly swollen and John was able to tell her she was on the mend.
“Mr Clare’s a bit odd, isn’t he,” Granny had said. “Sorry Jamie, you didn’t hear that.”
He looked confused.
“I mean I want you to pretend you didn’t hear that.”
Jamie smiled.
“But I can see why you like him. Is he like that all the time?” she asked Mhairi.
“That’s just the way he approaches things. He wrong-foots people a bit. He’s good to work for, though. You should see him with bureaucrats, the state he can leave them in. I’d far rather have bruises like yours, ones that you can see. Treatable ones.”
“Good for him. I like him even more now. Please tell him that I enjoyed his speech a lot and that I’m making a full recovery…Why are you both laughing?….I don’t understand…”
“Well mum,” said John,” you make it sound like it’s his speech you’re having to recover from.”
“Oh yes, I see.”
“We’ll tell him that anyway,” said John. “He’ll love that.”
Mhairi and Jamie nodded. “Definitely,” Mhairi said.
Mrs Macleod turned to Mhairi.
“It was lovely to meet Elizabeth and your parents. I had a good long chat with your mum. You are very lucky, you know, to have a mother like that. And Jamie is lucky too,” she added quietly.
After a light lunch in a small restaurant, they said their goodbyes and took the train to Achnasheen, then the bus to Gairloch. Edinburgh had been good- but being home; that was better.
22 A Strange House
2014
It was dusk in Ullapool and the ‘Isle of Lewis’ had left harbour by the time they were out on the main street, along the sea front. Most of the shops had closed but they could see the lights of the bookshop just past the corner and the big windows of the woollen mill illuminating cars parked at the roadside.
“A lovely evening,” Tom thought to himself, “if a bit chilly.”
He pulled the neckwarmer out of his jacket pocket and stretched it over his head. His hat was in the car but he could manage without it for half an hour.
He could hear the slap of ropes coming from the boats moored in the harbour, an irregular rhythm of gently swaying masts. Sometimes you could watch one ripple stirring a whole line of boats one after the other. It was a swell rather than a ripple, he supposed, though one could look pretty much like the other.
Some comparisons are just hard to avoid. This main street, for example, with its boats, its clean and brightly lit mill shop, its restaurants and friendly pubs made him think of Hamilton. Its main streets took boarded up shops, fast food outlets, charity shops and pay day loans and shoved them in your face. Not forgetting scrap gold for cash, of course. Mental note: must check household rubbish for scrap gold, just in case he was throwing it out inadvertently. Incredibly, it could turn out to be worth something.
He was just about to ask himself why anyone would choose to live there, in Hamilton, when he realised it was the wrong question. He should be asking himself why he had chosen to live and work there; because it was an active choice. Perhaps it was more inertia than deliberation, but it was still a choice he had made. He thought again a
bout the houses in Gairloch, or was it Gruinard. There would be an estate agent’s somewhere.
Alastair was up ahead, standing looking at something. When Tom caught up, Alastair began to speak.
“Isn’t it just fantastic, this house?”
It was set back from the road, unlike all the others which fronted on to the pavement. There was a long garden with a few trees on it, including palms, which took the eye up to the house itself- a strange looking structure to find in a street of stone built properties. It seemed to be mainly timber, and fairly old because of the way the timber had faded.
“It’s a wonderful house. I’ve often wondered why it is set back. Do you think there might have been a slipway here, so boats could have been stored far off the beach?”
“Quite possibly. Or it could have been built by someone who was interested in a garden, or maybe someone who was arty. I’m not sure I like it. I prefer something that’s, well, a bit more robust.”
“What appeals to me about this house,” Alastair said, “is that OK it looks a bit patched up in places, but it makes you feel you could sort it yourself.”
“That would make it robust but in a different way, I suppose.”
“Just as it’s like a house, but in a different way. Yes, I like that. It’s part of the charm.”
It was quarter to seven: time to head back to the Arch Inn. They crossed the road so they could walk beside the low sea wall. Some shallow boxes were being unloaded in a cone of light directly opposite them, on the pier. The gulls were interested, whooping and wheeling. A couple of sneaky ones were sidling up on the concrete, on the off chance: horrible things, but you had to admire their nerve.
They went through the archway. Unlocking the door on the left, they went into the twin room and dumped their coats. Tom took the bed furthest away from the windows. Alastair collected the two bags from the car and brought them in. Then they locked the door and crossed the passageway into the restaurant and bar. It was a bit busier but, now that the main tourist season was over, the dining area was only half full. They took a table next to one of the windows, so they could look out over the loch.
“Wind’s getting up,” said Alastair. “Look at the swell. It could be a rough crossing if it’s like that here.”
“How long is it, to Stornoway from here?”
“About two and a half or three hours I think, depending on the weather. They have to cancel it sometimes, but it’s not that bad tonight.”
Tom shivered at the thought of the men in the thick yellow oilskins, unloading the boxes. They could be caught out in just about anything, many hours away from safe harbours. It made Hamilton seem a warm, safe world, despite the sharks gathering in Quarry Street.
“And I’m a solicitor,” he thought. “I could be one of them.”
23 Downhill Racer
1941
With the development of naval facilities in the Gairloch area, there was an influx of personnel and this included contingents from the Medical Corps. Large numbers of casualties were not anticipated, even though the base was within range of some German twin-engined bombers. However, the importance of the base was only likely to increase the longer the war went on, especially now that major units of the Home Fleet had been moved to Scapa Flow in Orkney. Medical facilities in Poolewe and Gairloch were therefore upgraded. Service personnel would be looked after by the Medical Corps and a small hospital was kitted out for that purpose. For civilians, doctors like John Macleod would continue to be the appropriate resource. In practice, so to speak, medical staff simply helped wherever there was a need. After all, a broken arm is a broken arm.
About sixteen miles north of Gairloch, at the end the coast road branching off at Aultbea, is the village of Mellon Charles. This was as far north as John Macleod’s practice extended. Indeed, only some of its residents were patients of his: many were served by the practice situated in Gruinard. To the south, John was the local doctor down to Redpoint, though it was rare he had to go there since there were few inhabitants. Mostly, his work was in Gairloch and Poolewe.
In the Macleod household life was busy and life was good. Mhairi was working in the school, enjoying it as she always had but feeling more and more ‘established’ as time went by. Graham Clare was still there, looking a little more grizzled- an appearance which somehow complemented his cynicism. Two years of war had deepened his intolerance of ‘pointless bureaucrats’. Mhairi was able to help here by dealing with more of the administrative work for him: a small price to pay, she felt, for all he had done for her. Under his tutelage, Jamie was flourishing and when she saw the children leave his room chatting about the lesson, or laughing at one of his jokes, or saying goodbye or thank you at the school gate, she realised that this support was there for everyone.
“I want him to stay on,” she said to herself. “I will do all I can to keep him here.”
It was early one evening in March 1942 that Mhairi received a phone call.
“Hello. Gairloch 19. Mhairi Macleod speaking.”
“Hello Mhairi. This is Joan, phoning from Poolewe. Could you please pass a message on to John. Mrs Simpson in Mellon Charles in unwell. Would he be able to pay a visit?”
John had just come through from the kitchen, since almost all the phone calls were for him anyway. Mhairi passed it over, then went to the kitchen herself, to dry more of the dishes.
When John came back through he had already picked up his coat.
“I’d better go and see her. It might be the same as before; but it could be worse this time. She is seventy-two after all. I’ll see you in about two hours.”
He reached over and kissed her on the cheek.
“Jamie!” he called, “I’m just going out for a while to see a patient. I’ll see you later.”
Jamie emerged from the room, with ‘Coral Island’.
“Boys,” thought John to himself. “They just love adventures. I was exactly the same. It’s a lot safer to read about them, rather than actually being in them.”
The Aultbea road was busy, as usual, with military traffic. He was waved through at the Poolewe checkpoint though he had his papers looked at in Aultbea. The sergeant was new and the corporal out to impress. The bay was full: fourteen merchant vessels at least, two of them very large tankers. Back and forth went the victualling craft, loading this, transporting that.
Adam Henderson and his wife, out walking the dogs, gave him a wave just outside Ormiscraig. His hip looked like it had improved. He continued on and pulled in at the second house on the right. There was a bicycle at the door. A part of him, the wicked part, tried to imagine Nettie Simpson on the bicycle, hammering down the hill into Gairloch, her round glasses whipped off by the wind, eyes straining, teeth bared (if they were in that day), legs trembling.
“Not professional,” he told himself. “Stop it now. You’re nearly at the door.”
He knocked and called inside
“Nettie. It’s Doctor John!”
Hearing a thin, reedy voice in answer, he entered, closing the door noisily behind him just in case she hadn’t heard his voice. Mrs Simpson was in the sitting room. She looked awful- very weak, very pale.
“Don’t get up Nettie,” he said. “Joan said you were ill. Joan,” he had to say again, in a louder voice. “Joan from Poolewe. She saw you earlier today.”
“It’s my chest again,” she wheezed, before being overtaken by a coughing fit. (It had probably just sneaked up on her on the final stretch of the downhill.)
“Let’s have a look at you,” said John. He reached into his Gladstone bag and brought out the stethoscope.
“Hmm. It’s a bit worse than last month. You have a temperature as well. What you really need is a complete rest. You know that nice bicycle outside? You must have been using it too much.”
Nettie Simpson smiled. “Oh it’s not mine. It belongs to the boy. He’s staying here now. From the base. Adrian.”
She had to squeeze these words out in the gaps between coughing.
“He’s out the back.”
John popped out the back door to find a young man, about seventeen or eighteen, chopping kindlers for the fire. It did not take long to establish the facts. Like many of the soldiers at the base, Adrian was billeted in the local community since many of the houses had rooms to spare. He had been there three weeks: many young soldiers had arrived recently because the base had been expanded. He had been anxious about Mrs Simpson, who appeared to be struggling, though she was clearly trying very hard to manage the house.
“I don’t think you should be here,” John told him. “You are quite correct about Mrs Simpson too. In fact, there’s a risk her infection could spread to you, especially in a house this damp. I’ll be making arrangements for Mrs Simpson since she’s my patient, but I’ll speak to your CO too.”
When he went back inside John knew he had to be direct.
“Nettie. You don’t need to go to hospital, which is good because I know you like being in your own house. But it’s not good for Adrian to stay here too. He could catch something and they need him to be well.
“Yes, you’re right. He is a lovely young man and we need to make sure he is well too. Avril from next door- she’s keen to pop in every day to check you are OK. That will mean you can have a proper rest. I can give her the medicine. You don’t have to worry about cooking and things like that. It will be a proper rest.
“And you are not to worry about Adrian. We will be able to find somewhere for him in another house until you are better.”
Mrs Simpson coughed into her handkerchief and nodded.
“I will pop in again next week to see how you are doing. In the meantime you have this bottle of medicine. I will give it to Avril and Adrian will make us a cup of tea.”
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