Love and Music Will Endure (14 page)

The two men watched her disappear.

‘She’s a brave woman. You saw how she inspired the audience.’

‘True, John, but she bites too. There’s not much dulcet femininity there. Of course, like all women she lets her emotions overrun her reason.’

‘She seemed a little weary tonight beneath all the bombast.’

‘She still works, does she not, as a nurse?’ Charles enquired, ‘I wonder that she doesn’t retire given her age.’

‘I doubt if she can afford to. She’s far too proud ever to admit it of course but she needs her income from nursing. Now she spends so much time campaigning for our cause she has less time available to work.’ He let his words hang in the air.

‘Hmm. I hadn’t realised. She would be useful for electioneering too. She’s certainly got the common touch. I need someone who speaks the Highlanders’ language, literally and figuratively. It’s rather irregular to have a woman as an agent but why not? She’s a mother figure to the Gaels, after all, and a widow without family obligations. I could pay her expenses and some sort of retainer. What do you think?’

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Charles.’

He laughed and tapped John on the shoulder, ‘I admire her spirit but I do prefer ladies who are a little less like a bull mastiff in temperament. Keep me informed about the court case. I trust you’ll escape your enemies, like Prince Charles after Culloden. May I offer you a nightcap John? Ah no, you’re an abstainer. A cigar then?’

Màiri trudged along the empty street to Flora’s home, feeling disgruntled. I’m useful for warming up audiences and silencing the loudmouths, she thought. On the other hand I’m still a bit common for their refined tastes and they certainly don’t want my opinions. I’m still a sort of servant, really, and meant to know my place. All the same, I’m the lure that draws people in. The audiences respect the others but it’s me they love.

She licked her lips, anticipating the wee dram she would enjoy before she went to bed. That was another thing that annoyed her; John’s silly disapproval of all strong drink. While Charles was more tolerant you could see him flinching in disgust to see a woman drinking whisky.

Still, it was a pleasure these days to visit Flora and her husband Joseph when she came to Glasgow, now that they had their own home and a baby on the way, or as her friend Mairead used to say, “One in the loom.” It had been so hard in the early days when she first came to Glasgow. As well as pining for Isaac she missed Inverness. She had been happy there but how could she have stayed when she had been so humiliated? She was grateful for the chance to train at the Royal but she had felt dispirited and friendless, having to sleep in that grim nurses’ room off the ward. None of her children seemed to understand that although they had lost their Pappa she had suffered much more severely. After all, most animals push away their young when they are grown enough to fend for themselves, look at the deer or the swan. The young go on to build their own families and forget about their old home but she … she had lost her life companion, the one who shared both her yoke and her pasture. Like the swan that loses its mate she had hunched over with a drooping neck, staring at the water and willing the reflection to become the dead
one returned to life. Was it so surprising that grief drove her a little mad for a time?

How strange that it was shinty that had helped her recover. It had been the turning point when she began to look forward more than back over her shoulder. Joseph loved shinty and was a fair player himself whereas Flora hated it.

‘It’s like a battle between the clans with split heads and spitting out teeth,’ she said, glaring at her husband who had sacrificed a couple of teeth to the game himself. Màiri loved shinty too because she had grown up with the stories of the heroes playing the game, like the herdsman of Cruachan who beat the champion who had the gold ball and the silver caman. In the next few days she found herself remembering the shinty games of her youth down on the flat plain of the Snizort. They marked each corner of the pitch with a bottle. The game would go on for a long time, new players coming in to replace those who were exhausted. The high spirits of the young men spread to everyone watching. One and all brought mounds of bannocks and cheese which tasted as good as manna from Heaven to appetites sharpened by the open air.

‘The Gaels of Greenock have challenged the Glasgow lads to a game at Hogmanay. Why don’t you come and watch it?’

‘I’ll do more than just come, Joseph. I’ll make a feast.’

So the day before the match found her in the Highlanders’ Great Hall, sleeves turned up like a blacksmith and sweat dripping down her face as she rolled and baked and stacked. The President of the club sat beside her, surrounded by a thicket of sixty camans he was getting ready for the players.

On the day itself she organised a horse and cart to carry creels full of bannocks, cheeses as big and round as full moons, and whisky to spur on the lads. She followed behind the sixty players down to the park, their camans held like rifles on their shoulders, half in kilts and the rest in knickerbockers, with pipers fore and
aft. The game started at 11 o’clock in the morning and continued until it was too dark to see the ball. She cheered the home players until she was hoarse, waving her scarf in the air and encouraging the children to leap up and down. ‘I expect you to set an example to them, Mother. You’re shrieking like a banshee,’ said Flora, scowling in disapproval. But Màiri didn’t even hear her. When had she last had so much fun? Not since she had rolled down the sloping meadow with Mairead or been in that crowd with Jeannie when the carts were thrown into the harbour. The game ebbed this way and that, with neither side gaining a clear advantage until, with the light fading fast, the visitors scored an audacious goal. Spurred on by this late set-back the Glasgow lads surged forward and scored the equalising goal with a thirty yard strike homing in on its target out of the gloom. Surely the game couldn’t go on much longer? But then, from nowhere, Donald Ferguson outran his opponents to settle the score with a fine single-handed effort and the Glasgow lads had won a memorable match.

After the match Màiri handed out her refreshments, with a word and a joke for each man.

‘Will you give us a song?’ one asked.

‘Not today. I’ve no voice left but I’ll compose one later about your grand victory.’

‘Come and join our team, you’d scare the other side witless!’

‘Aye, especially if I stood in goal. No ball would get past me.’

It was then that she realised that this harsh, brash city had become a familiar, cheerful presence to her, even though her heart would always remain on Skye.

She kept her word about the song:

Singing to herself she picked her feet up and swung her umbrella like a caman, startling a thin cat that was lurking in the shadows.

‘Ah,
piseag
, I would give you some crowdie and milk if you came back with me,’ she crooned, but the animal gave her a suspicious stare and slunk away.

‘Another snooty Lowlander,’ she called after it.

John Murdoch stood against the weak wash of sunlight trickling through the tall windows and skimming over the table. Màiri smoothed her thick fingers along it, admiring its burnished surface. Her cornflower blue dress was vivid among the dark suited foliage. The secretary of the Skye Vigilance Committee, Henry Whyte, opened proceedings and invited John to speak. He nodded and began, his eyes sparkling and his voice breathy with excitement.

‘Well, my friends and fellow Gaels, I don't wish to sound smug but it's a wonderful thing to have one's predictions proved right. I've long maintained that the spirit of the age is sympathetic to our ideals. Now Captain Fraser's unjust and inhumane actions have been roundly condemned in the Press. He …'

Màiri interrupted, slapping her palms down onto the table, ‘Yon dreadful man. He's the very devil for spite. First he tries to close down your paper, John, and when that doesn't work he's back to evicting tenants.'

The bearded, black garbed men sat around the long table like diners. They all turned to stare at Màiri, trussed and stuffed into her good dress, opening their eyes wide in amazement as if the celebratory turkey had suddenly come back to life and was squawking in protest.

Alexander Mackenzie winked across the table at Màiri, his fat schoolboy's face crinkling with amusement, ‘You're right Màiri. He's as bad as Sellar was when he cleared the people from Sutherland.'

‘No, he's far worse because this man is a hypocrite too,' Màiri thundered, ‘I heard that two weeks before he sent out warnings about evictions he gave out wee gifts of tea and sugar to those he thought were deserving tenants; the ones who bow down to him.'

‘He's cunning,' Alexander continued, ‘He knows the newspapers are watching closely. He hopes to keep in good odour with them.'

‘Good odour indeed! That man's doings reek to high heaven,' Màiri retorted, ‘He's a very midden of …'

Whyte cleared his throat and spoke in his soft voice, ‘I think everyone is agreed about his wrongdoings. However, his misdeeds have achieved one useful purpose. They have strengthened opposition to him. Our good friend, Charles, and of course The Clach here,' he nodded at Alexander, ‘have led the way in pressing for a Commission into the Land Laws. Now at last the Federation of Celtic Societies has come together to support Fraser's Valtos tenants in resisting him. Our committee's role is to keep track of his actions and be alert to other developments on Skye.'

Aye, thought Màiri, and how many Skye folk are there involved? John is from Islay, Alexander from Gairloch, Charles from Inverness and Angus Sutherland – well his name gives the answer to where he's from. And to think I wouldn't even know about the Committee if I hadn't done a wee bit of eavesdropping and heard Henry Whyte, the one they call Fionn and a Glaswegian to boot, talking about it. Then I had to stamp my feet to shame them into inviting me to join.

John's voice cut across her thoughts, ‘For a long time I've advocated making common ground with our fellow Celts across the Irish Sea. Parnell and Davitt have made the Land League a powerful weapon and forced Gladstone's Government to pay attention to them. When the Irish Land Act becomes law it will give tenants fair rents, fixed tenure and the right of free sale. That
measure seems to me to be one that we should emulate here, at least as a starting point.'

There were noises of agreement from the listeners. Whyte hurried onto the next item before any more squalls from Màiri or The Clach could blow them off course. He introduced Charles Fraser MacKintosh, ‘He has done us the honour of attending our meeting despite the burden of his Parliamentary duties.'

The MP looked around with the slow deliberation of an experienced public speaker. ‘In truth, we live in historic times and it is gratifying that the Government is more willing to bend an ear to the plight of our countrymen. John and The Clach have long campaigned for the beleaguered crofters. However, we Highlanders must take care not to lose our reputation as law-abiding people. A good name is hard to earn but perilously easy to lose. How different is our reputation for fortitude and restraint compared with that of the Irishmen whose intemperate and violent actions have horrified the English nation. The likes of Michael Davitt demand not only that land be given outright to the tenantry but want to sever completely Ireland's ties to the Empire. I can only condemn such disloyalty, nay treason.'

The raised volume of his final words made Màiri's head jolt backwards sharply. Surely she hadn't dozed off while Charles was speaking? Well he did have a low rumbling voice and now The Clach's lively tenor tones were in full spate.

‘You speak of the Irish as being like rude boys who seize all the food set out on the table but their methods have succeeded. Their Members interrupt Parliamentary business until their voices are heard.'

‘But at what cost? The greedy child is hated by his brothers and eventually the father will lose patience and punish him,' Charles replied.

John joined in, ‘If I may continue in the spirit of your analogy, Charles, I see the head of the family as the English Government
which keeps the other British nations on short rations so that they can't grow into independence. Isn't it right that brothers in blood, Gaels and Irish, combine together as we did in history against the overweening Saxons?'

The Clach sighed impatiently, ‘We don't need the Irish. Our people can stand up for themselves. We must press for action to support the Valtos men.'

‘I've no objection to doing so as long as there is no Fenian style lawlessness. It's vital that we keep a close watch on events,' Fraser MacKintosh observed.

‘May I suggest we listen to a gentleman who is now waiting in the lobby?' John asked. ‘As you know I spend many hours on my travels through the Highlands. I also have men who keep an ear to the ground for me. Here's one of them. His name's Peter Nicolson. I believe that the cauldron of discontent is coming to the boil and we need to be ready to use the head of steam it produces.'

While they were waiting for Nicolson to come in Màiri turned to Alexander, ‘Where does your nickname “The Clach” come from? How are you like a stone? You're broad enough to be a standing stone. Or is it that you're as strong and solid as a rock, as Our Lord said to Peter?'

His round face split into a roar of laughter, ‘Your first suggestion is true but not flattering. Your second one is flattering but not true. My name comes from the Clachnacuddin stone.'

Màiri laughed too, ‘I stopped there often enough to put down my load of washing. But I don't see you as a washerwoman. I can imagine you stopping there for a gossip though.'

‘There's a simple reason for the nickname. My first place of business when I came to Inverness was a drapery shop called the “Clachnacuddin House”.'

‘So we do have something in common through clothes, then,' Màiri smiled, digging him in his well-fleshed ribs.