An Island Apart (13 page)

He roused himself. ‘It is the door across the passage,' he told her. ‘It is the room my parents used to sleep in and when they passed on it became my room.' His matter-of-factness disconcerted her.

‘Show me,' she invited, and pulled him up from his chair.

The bedroom, like the kitchen was austerely clean and contained a double bed, two large chests of drawers and two brass-bound chests that looked as if they had once belonged to some seafarer. The bed was covered with blankets but there was no sign of sheets and the pillows were of plain ticking.

‘She is a good bed,' her husband told her., in a slurred voice. ‘And stuffed with feathers from our own birds.'

‘She is not damp?' she questioned.

He looked at her, shocked. ‘I have never wet a bed since I was a child,' he denied. ‘And this mattress goes outside in the sun every spring.'

‘No, no,' she hurried to say. ‘I was meaning rain damp.' Her grin was apologetic. ‘And you don't use sheets or pillowcases?' she asked.

‘Not since my mother died I don't, but in one of the chests there you will find plenty of sheets and things packed away in bog myrtle. My mother always kept them that way.'

Kirsty was relieved. She hadn't fancied sleeping in blankets though she had been well used to doing so when she was a child. ‘I should like to put sheets and pillowcases on the bed before I sleep on it,' she told him. ‘Can we sort them now?'

He lifted the lid of one of the brass-bound chests to reveal neatly folded piles of white linen. Kirsty lifted out a pair of sheets, a bolster case and two pillowcases, exclaiming delightedly as she pressed them to her face to detect the faint but still discernible fragrance of bog myrtle. While she was making the bed Ruari went back to the kitchen and when she returned he was fast asleep on his chair and snoring loudly.

‘You'd best get to your bed, Ruari,' she told him severely and again grasped his arm in an effort to pull him out of his chair. He protested but was obviously in favour of going to bed and made no resistance when she put an arm around his shoulders and guided him to the bedroom. ‘Now you will take off your jacket and trousers and get into your bed, Ruari,' she directed him. ‘And I will come when I have dried my nightdress. I daresay it has got damp lying in the portmanteau.'

He grunted and sat down on the bed.

Kirsty returned to the kitchen and opened her portmanteau, took out a nightdress and draped it on a chair in front of the fire. She made herself a cup of hot milk and sat beside the range, moving her nightie from time to time to ensure it was thoroughly dry. She was startled when the scullery door opened suddenly and her brother-in-law came into the room. Surreptitiously she watched him take a couple of scones from the barrel, butter them lavishly and, still holding them in his fist, leave the kitchen presumably to go to his bedroom. He'd made no acknowledgement of her presence. Indeed for all the notice he'd taken of her the kitchen could have been quite empty. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd douted the lamp before leaving the kitchen and left her in the dark.

After topping the fire with damp peats to keep it alight until the morning she picked up her nightie and carried the lamp through to the bedroom she was to share with her husband. She found his jacket and trousers had been just dropped on the floor while he himself lay slantwise across the bed. He made no murmur as she pushed him aside, rearranged the covering blankets and crept timorously into the bed beside him.

Kirsty thought she had slept only lightly, if at all, that night but when the night sky was beginning to be washed by a grey dawn she became conscious that she was alone in the bed in a quiet bedroom, a quiet house and, since she could hear no wind, a quiet land. Evidently Ruari had managed to slip away in the early dawn during one of her fitful spells of slumber and what she had keyed herself up to expect some time during the night had simply not happened. There had been no intimacy. She was still a virgin.

For a few minutes she lay examining her emotions, identifying a sense of relief mingled with an unaccountable sense of disappointment. She hadn't looked forward to intimacy but she had prepared herself to submit to it, and now she was experiencing an inexplicable sense of letdown. Was this marriage, she asked herself. Had he been too drunk? Or too shy? Was he impotent? Was he too much in awe of his brother's disapproval? On the other hand, was there something about her which on closer acquaintance, had made her less attractive to him? She wondered how long it would be before the answers were forthcoming. Meantime she must be prepared to respond to him whenever he might approach her. And if he proved to be impotent, she reminded herself, it would make not the slightest difference to her. She had married him for a home and the ring on her finger.

It was still dark in the bedroom so she lit the lamp, dressed and went through to the kitchen. The glowing peats gave her a snug welcome, the kettle came to a swift boil and within a minute or two she had made a pot of tea and had a pan of porridge summering on the hob. Since there were no used bowls on the table she assumed the two Ruaris had taken only a mug of thin brose before going about their morning chores; probably fishing, she deduced, since fisherman were known to favour the early hours.

After she'd eaten her own breakfast she finished unpacking the portmanteaux and not until then did she realise how unsuitable were her clothes for even the lightest land work. She'd thought her old clothes would serve but inspecting them she could see how flimsy and inadequate they were for conditions she would now have to face. She urgently needed to get herself a serviceable waterproof and a pair of gumboots. Last night she'd noticed a supply of oilskins hanging in a recess at the back of the passageway and a row of gumboots ranged below them. She looked to see if there were any there now and was relieved to find there were. Investigating them she found a pair of gumboots that were not too roomy to stay on her feet, and an oilskin that was not too voluminous to restrict her movements. Donning them she ventured out to feed the hens. They seemed surprised to be called to feed and she put it down to the earliness of the hour.

She scanned the weather prospects. The breeze, though it was no more than a breeze after the previous night's storm, was sharp and cold and run through with rain. Across the sound she could see it teasing the hovering clouds to shred themselves on the gaunt dark hills of the mainland. The day would improve, she predicted.

The hens fed, she decided to do a little exploration of the Island and, going through a cattle gate, found herself on rough moorland that was scored with meandering sheep tracks, jumbled with craggy rocks and bounded this morning by heavy mist. Trampling placidly along the varying tracks and skirting the most formidable outcrops of rock, she began to congratulate herself on her recall of a terrain that struck her as being almost a replica of that she had been used to roaming barefoot in her childhood. Suddenly, one gumbooted foot squelched deep into a patch of sphagnum moss, causing her to step back quickly. She blamed herself that her native caution seemed to have deserted her momentarily. She ought to have remembered that treacherous bogs often concealed ‘themselves beneath a coat of innocent looking sphagnum.

She stood for a minute or two, estimating the likely extent of the bog and its possible depth, and decided that one of the first things she must do was to ask Ruari to accompany her on a reconnaissance tour of the Island and point out any similar hazards. Turning, she retraced her path to the house. Her over-large gumboots were tiring to walk in and years of pavement walking seemed to have devitalised not only her desire for exercise but also her stamina. She'd take herself in hand, she vowed. In no time at all she would be ranging over these moors, perhaps not barefoot and sadly not as lissomely, but with at least a good share of the energy she'd had in her early years.

When she got back to the house she found the two brothers just finishing their bowls of porridge. Her husband looked at her enquiringly.

‘I've been doing a little exploration,' she explained, ‘so I borrowed an oilskin and some gumboots. I hope that's all right?' She lifted her feet and the boots slid off. ‘It is the first time I have ever worn gumboots, or boots of any kind to wander the moors. I had footwear only for going to church; the rest of the time I went barefoot.'

Ruari said, ‘If you will tell me the size of your feet I will get you a pair from the store next time we are across.' He frowned. ‘As for oilskins, I doubt they make such things for women but only for men just.'

‘If you bring me the smallest men's size it should be suitable,' she told him. ‘I believe I could cut some off if it was too long.'

He nodded in agreement. ‘I'm after thinking you've fed the hens,' he observed.

‘I thought you would be wanting me to do that,' she said. ‘I was always told that the earlier hens were fed the more eggs they would lay.'

‘Maybe so,' he acknowledged, ‘but when we need to go early to catch the tide it is likely to be too early for the hens to be fed so they have to wait until we get back. We feed them once a day just and we find they lay well enough on that. Is that not so, Ruari Mhor?' he addressed his brother but there appeared to be no recognition from Ruari Mhor that he had been spoken to. He rose from the table, gathered up the two empty porridge bowls and went through to the scullery.

‘I was trying to do what I thought was right,' Kirsty said. ‘I well remember the morning and evening feeding of the hens was a kind of ritual in my Granny's time.'

‘You can certainly bring them round to being fed twice a day if that's what would best please you,' he allowed. He grinned. ‘No doubt they will be better for the pot that way.'

‘If you will just put me in mind of what you would like me to do then, just as I told you when we spoke of such things at
ISLAY
, when I promised to do my best to help you. I mind you mentioned there were cows to be milked but I've seen no sign of cattle hereabouts nor even when I was out on the moors.'

‘It is only the one beast we milk,' he told her. ‘The rest of the cattle have their calves running with them. They have the Island to roam just as the sheep.'

‘And where is the milk cow?'

‘She follows the rest of the cattle along with her calf, seeing we don't use much in the way of milk. All I do is when I go to feed them I take what milk the calf has left. She's a good milker, that particular cow, but if you will be wanting more milk you can bring her calf into the shed at night and then milk the cow before he gets to run with her again.'

‘I don't suppose my small consumption of milk will make that necessary,' she assured him. ‘But Ruari,' she hurried on, ‘as soon as you can find the time, will you come with me for a good look at the Island so I can get my bearings and you can acquaint me with any hazards? I'm asking you because I stepped in a bog this morning without even seeing it was there.'

‘Ach!' he said disdainfully. ‘There are no bogs deeper than your knees on the Island. Indeed, there is nothing for you to be feared at all. Unless,' he looked at her with a teasing expression. ‘Unless,' he resumed, ‘you will be feared of the wee folk.'

‘Not especially,' she countered. ‘Are you telling me there are still wee folk on Westisle? Have you met any?' she chaffed.

‘The old folk believed there to be wee folk still here. They believed too that they had put a spell on Loch Mor so no beast would ever take a drink from it.'

‘Are there other lochans on Westisle?' she asked him. ‘I didn't see any this morning.'

‘Just three and maybe one or two that can only be called lochans for a wee whiley after long rain. Westisle is a larger Island than it looks from the mainland and you will do a fair amount of roaming before you see the whole of it.'

‘Is Loch Mor this side of the Island?' she pursued. ‘I mean the one supposed to have the spell on it?'

‘Ach, no. It is more in the middle of the Island where the land is low and where the storms are not as savage as they can be here.' He glanced at the salt-frosted window and then went on. ‘I'll tell you,
Mho ghaoil
, what we'd best do now is take the day's hay to the cattle and you will see which cow is to be milked. This way I shall be able to point out to you the different places they are likely to seek shelter in the different winds. After last night's storm I reckon they would have made for Glen Roag or else Camus beg. We shall find them some place, and as we look you will learn your way about the Island.'

‘Right,' she agreed. ‘When do you want to start off?'

‘As soon as you have taken your strupak,' he said. ‘There is still tea in the pot if that will suit you.'

‘Is there nothing we should see to before we leave?' she queried, pouring herself a mug of tea.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing that I see. Ruari Mhor will clean the dishes before he goes off to his sheep and we shall be back in plenty of time to do whatever else must be done.' He put on his cap. ‘I will away now and get the hay for the cattle and you will bring the milk pail that hangs beside the sink.'

Slipping on her borrowed gumboots once more and pulling on the oilskin she went outside. Ruari was coming away from the barn, a sack stuffed tight with hay tied across his shoulders, a stout crook in one hand and a small, what she had been used to calling a ‘tinker pail' in the other. He handed her the pail, explaining that it contained a mash of oatmeal and herring bree which the milk cow was given as a supplement, bidding her at the same time to be sure to remember to do likewise when she went alone to do the milking, for fear the cow would not let her near without it.

The breeze was no longer laced with rain and there were even errant shafts of sunlight as they plodded on, she scrambling up rocky outcrops which he could take in a couple of strides and pausing more often that she cared to admit so as to slow her racing breath before hurrying to catch up with him. He did not notice or he politely ignored her occasional breathlessness, and strode on effortlessly while at the same time calling her attention to salient features of the terrain.