An Island Apart (16 page)

‘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.

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.

When an interval was announced for the musicians to rest and satisfy their thirst, guests were called by name to sing. Some were eager enough, though inevitably a pretence of reluctance was obligatory. Others had to be coaxed, even pulled up from their seats, while between each performance Mairi Jane regaled Kirsty with a brief outline of their genealogies, their circumstances and their rumoured idiosyncrasies. Kirsty was conscious that she herself must be a focus of discussion and responded by exchanging smiles and nods with everyone who smiled and nodded at her. She doubted if she'd remember more than two or three of them but was confident they would remember her.

When several singers had obliged there was a lull until the name of Jamie Eilidh was called, and it seemed to Kirsty that a discernible instant of tension descended on the room when a young boy of about fourteen years of age stood up and began to sing. It was an old Gaelic tune which she vaguely remembered her Granny singing at times when she was bent over the girdle. The refrain of the song was soon being quietly hummed by everyone in the room as hands beat into laps, feet tapped the floor and old heads swayed rhythmically. When the song had ended and the boy had sat down Kirsty remarked to Mairi Jane, ‘That boy has a truly lovely voice and that is a lovely old tune.'

‘It is an old tune and I have not heard it sung much for a long time,' Mairi Jane told her. ‘I've heard it said that some singers find it too, too,' she sought for a word, ‘too kind of fickle,' she explained.

‘I can well understand that,' Kirsty agreed. ‘It has a fair amount of warbling to be mastered. My Granny had the voice for it but I suppose her voice had grown fairly warbly with age.'

‘It is a pity that young Jamie cannot speak as well as he sings,' Mairi Jane confided. Kirsty looked at her curiously. ‘Hasn't he a stammer that will almost clamp his throat when he tries to speak,' Mairi Jane went on.

‘How tragic!' Kirsty exclaimed. ‘Could he not have had treatment to help him?'

‘Maybe he has, maybe he hasn't,' Mairi Jane shrugged.

‘He's a very handsome boy,' Kirsty observed. Mairi Jane looked slightly shocked. ‘I'm not fancying him if that's what you're thinking,' Kirsty laughed. ‘But I do think it's a shame he has such a handicap. Has he any brothers or sisters?'

‘No, nor will there be any,' Mairi Jane declared. ‘See, I'm telling you, when Jamie was born his mother's brain broke, just. There was nothing anyone could do for her so she was sent away to a kind of Home to be looked after by nuns. Mind you, she was young and her parents were queer enough folks that took little to do with folks here. Not that any of us wanted to do with them,' she added haughtily. ‘They were Papists and wouldn't have come to these parts only that he was a vet and was wanting experience.'

‘Papists?' Kirsty echoed.

‘Fierce Papists,' confirmed Mairi Jane. ‘Jamie was let to them to look after but seeing he was a bastard fathered by a Seceder they were ashamed of a daughter who had done such a thing. They left here pretty soon afterwards and nobody heard much of them except that the daughter had passed on and the boy had been sent off when he was hardly more than a bairn to some school where there were only nuns to teach him.'

‘What about the child's father? Was he also a Papist?' Kirsty asked.

‘He was not!' Mairi Jane said vehemently. ‘He was as good a Seceder as his father and mother had been before him.'

‘I would have thought a staunch Seceder would have avoided any contact with a Papist,' Kirsty reasoned.

‘Ach, but Papist women are said to like the boys and she liked them too much,' Mairi Jane retorted. ‘And this one was known to be a wayward lassie. Going out at night in secret. Teasing the young fellows into taking more whisky than they were used to. It wasn't all that long before she had a bairn in her belly.'

‘And the man did not marry her?'

‘How would a good Seceder come to marry a Papist?' Mairi Jane derided. ‘And how would a fierce Papist come to marry a Seceder?'

Her tone made Kirsty feel guilty for having asked the question.

‘But it was his baby,' she pointed out.

‘Aye, but the fellow was young and foolish and his father had been over-strict with him. No doubt when his father was changed the fellow went a bit wild for a time.' Mairi Jane shook her head sadly. ‘The Dear is to be thanked for taking his mother a year or so before her son was named as the father of the lassie's child. She was a fine woman, a good Seceder, a good wife to her husband and a good mother to her family and I believe she would be curdling in her grave still at the very idea of such a thing happening in her family.'