Love and Music Will Endure (16 page)

While The Clach struggled to hide his annoyance behind a pinched smile, Charles glided in, ‘It's an excellent idea to develop intelligence throughout Scotland. For the time being though I think we should make further use of John's network, men like
Mr Nicholson here who has worked so diligently while Angus has an ear to the ground in Sutherland and Màiri of course on Skye. Despite the tepid response Mr Nicolson received in The Braes I believe that we'll soon have veritable thunder and lightning. If we have advance warning we can moderate its effects.'

As if anyone could control either the Highland weather or the Highland people once roused, thought Màiri, but this time she kept her opinions to herself.

Lachlan MacDonald was in a good humour as he breathed deeply in the summer afternoon’s sunshine. He still felt somewhat shaky and shivery but overarching everything was his enormous gratitude at being free from pain. Three months of throbbing agony in his right big toe seemed torment enough but then the gout had ravaged his left elbow as well. He considered himself to be, in general contented with his lot, but the illness had driven him to the very limit of despair. Still, in the last two weeks he had hauled himself out of the deepest part of the pit. Now he could drink moderately again and, even better, not be restricted to the miserly two cheroots a day that the doctor permitted. The vile tasting medicine that had given him a few hours of
nightmare-drenched
oblivion each night was again banished to the back of the cupboard. He felt strong enough to turn his mind to business and had just finished casting his eye over the letters from India, noting with pleasure that the indigo planting had been successful.

What a miracle it was to feel the warmth on his face and to anticipate the short ride in the dog cart without the fear of agonising jolts. He patted his jacket pocket to check that his notes were there, not that he really needed them. It would be amusing too to see the antics of the Land Leaguers; John, affable as ever, would be trying to keep his unruly colleagues in line. The Clach would be throwing his voice and his weight around as usual while Blackie would be preening his feathers. At least I’m quick enough on my feet now to sidestep his theatrical embraces, he thought. There, at the heart of events, would be Màiri herself,
roistering one moment, imperious the next but she deserved her moment of glory.

The circus of Land Leaguers had been in Portree the day before when he had made a brief visit to the bank. He had heard them outside the Royal Hotel before he had seen them.

‘Look at me now, I’m as brown as the heather after spending so much time in the Highlands,’ Blackie had cackled.

Lachlan had kept his distance and hurried away to go shooting with Captain Jackson. It had been a fair bag too; a hare and a brace of snipe, a much more rewarding occupation than listening to reformers spouting hot air.

Damnation! Who were those figures walking from their carriage towards him? Was it some of the mob he’d missed yesterday? Yes, he could see John’s leonine head bobbing among them. Well, now that he had been cornered there was nothing for it but to be civil.

Lachlan fixed a smile on his face and welcomed them to his home. John explained that most of the party had gone on ahead but just as he was about to set out himself three more friends had arrived. It seemed a good opportunity to introduce them to Lachlan before the ceremony. Two of them he knew already. The neat, slightly built Glaswegian schoolmaster Angus Sutherland was the candidate for the Sutherlandshire seat. He seemed a cold fish, ambitious rather than passionate. The bluff Reverend MacCallum from Waternish had too much swagger for Lachlan’s taste. He had a fanatic’s gleam in his eye and a disputatious manner. Clergymen should stick to their proper sphere. They shouldn’t confuse their flock by meddling in political matters. Their companion was a stranger but his thin soled shoes and sharply tailored coat marked him as a city dweller. John introduced him as Mr William Saunders from London, a gentleman with a keen interest in land matters. Lachlan hid his scepticism behind a mask of attentive politeness.

The party settled themselves back into their carriage and followed behind Lachlan for the short journey. As they arrived they could see a gathering of a considerable crowd; local people, Land Leaguers from the Island, John MacPherson of Glendale, among others, and Norman Stewart, nicknamed Parnell, from Staffin. There was a scattering too of tradespeople from Portree but the gentry were conspicuous by their absence.

Lachlan leant into the gathering breeze as he walked up the gentle slope. A louring sky threatened and he felt the splash of the first raindrops on his face. He looked down towards the loops of the Skeabost River as it coiled through the plain of the
Bugha Mòr
. Over to his right the hummocks of tough grass were swallowing up the parings of previous lives. The gashes of
lazybeds
, the broken stumps of walls and the scratches of paths were all that remained. Were there ghosts in that abandoned landscape, watching and listening? He brushed away the fanciful thought as he wiped away the speckles of rain on his face. He looked at the living ahead of him. There among them was the poetess herself, a dignified statue standing beside a sack-covered stone. Her face radiated anticipation and pride as he greeted her.

‘Where’s the well then? Oh, is it that small thing?’ Saunders’ cawing voice slashed across the hum of Gaelic. He strolled over and dipped his fingers in the water, letting it spatter over the mud of his shoes. He failed to notice the sudden intake of breath from those near him. How could the ignorant dolt commit such a desecration? Didn’t he know that wells were sacred and carried deep wisdom from within the earth up to the surface? Màiri looked thunderous. So Lachlan hurried to start his speech before the foolish fellow was set upon.

‘Màiri, nighean Iain Bhàin is a bard who needs no introduction. Like so many sons and daughters of Skye she was forced to leave her home to make a living for herself. Unlike most of them she has been able to return, cloaked in fame and honour.’

Then he asked her to remove the sacking. She did so with a magician’s flourish, revealing the inscription, ‘
Tobar Iain Bhàin
’.

Màiri enjoyed listening to Lachlan’s speech. Like a fluent minister he had the gift of speaking naturally, without relying on a book of words. As he spoke of the Gael’s love of the mountains and the sea and the exile’s pain in losing them she looked about her. She saw the mingled colours of a bale of tweed tumbling out; the greyish cushioned clumps of heather splashed with the sharp green of mosses, the rocks studded white with lichen and the spiky whin whose gaudy flowers could burst out at any time of year, like kissing it was never out of fashion. It was odd though to hear herself described as a poet of nature. She just sang about what she could see and remember. It would be grand today to sing in the open air with a background chorus of birdsong, rather than in a stuffy Glasgow hall.

She decided to sing a new song first, a sad one that might seem surprising at a celebration. They were the words that had given their birth cry inside her head all those years ago when she returned for her father’s wake,

She paused and for a moment there was silence except for the soughing wind and the rasp of a seagull’s call. Then she smiled and opened her arms wide, ‘But now that sadness is changing. I have a song of blessing and prophecy for you, one that I was saving for the New Year. But it seems to me that a new dawn is beginning for us Gaels, so I shall sing it now,

The applause swooped and wheeled around her. Before it was over Professor Blackie’s voice fluted above it, ‘Màiri sang about the new landlords who, like the Vikings before them, invaded to seize what didn’t belong to them. No Turkish sultan is more absolute than an absentee laird in the Highlands with a factor to do his dirty business. However, we are fortunate to have among us Mr MacDonald of Skeabost who is very different, a true father to his people. He is also a champion of our ancient, poetic tongue. He’s made a generous contribution towards the fund to create a chair in the Gaelic language.’

There was a pause as the audience tried to make sense of Blackie’s mangled Gaelic and the strange idea that you could somehow sit on what you spoke.

‘I think he speaks through what he sits on,’ an old woman declared, causing ripples of laughter to spread through the crowd. Lachlan’s name though brought a hearty cheer.

Afterwards they went back to Skeabost House for luncheon. Màiri was gratified to be seated next to the Laird. Lachlan was determined to keep the conversation light among the motley crowd of Land Leaguers and assorted worthies.

‘Mr Saunders, did you know that Mrs MacPherson is renowned for her poetry?’ he said, drawing her into the conversation. But she just stared back vacantly, letting her mouth hang open.

‘You’ll have to translate for the poor woman,’ Saunders cackled.

Lachlan frowned but obliged.

Màiri simpered. ‘Indeed, I have written a great deal,’ was all that she offered in reply.

‘Ask her what she thinks about the land question. Does she agree that the land should be taken from the landlords and given to the crofters?’ He spluttered a fusillade of crumbs.

‘I don’t agree,’ she boomed. ‘I want the wheel to turn back to the old ways. The true Highland lords, like the laird here, have always taken care of their people. It’s the grasping
Sasannachs
and Lowlanders who have treated us badly.’

Lachlan smiled ironically, ‘The good lady believes that the Highland landlords can be trusted, unlike the outsiders.’

Saunders gazed at both of them in contempt before turning to listen to The Clach on his other side.

‘I believe that proprietors’ rents should be spent on educating crofters’ children’, he said.

Saunders took a hearty bite of venison and said, ‘That doesn’t go far enough. Crofters should follow the Irish example and refuse to pay any rent at all.’

Lachlan looked at the shrapnel sprayed around the Englishman’s plate.

‘If you’ve finished eating perhaps you would like a brief tour of the estate before you return to Portree?’

‘Indeed, I would. However I shall be staying in Portree a little longer and I should welcome the opportunity to find out about the life of the peasan … crofters. Some of them are fishermen too, I believe. I should like to have a trip on a fishing boat.’

Màiri had been sitting still, her heavy features totem like, but now she turned to Lachlan, her eyebrows raised. He sighed and then translated. She became animated and grinned broadly, promising to arrange the trip for the next day, as long as Lachlan would come as interpreter. What was she scheming, he wondered. He opened his mouth to decline but to his astonishment it was the voice of his younger rapscallion self that hurtled out, ‘What a first rate idea.’

So the next day saw the three of them waiting at Bayfield, on Portree Bay. They stood on the shore of the tidal inlet where the fishermen’s houses clustered together with their toes in the sea.

Kenneth MacRae welcomed Màiri aboard ‘The Brothers’ Pride’.

‘We fishermen are superstitious about a woman coming aboard but as it’s yourself Mistress MacPherson, you can only bring us good luck.’

‘Are you saying I don’t count as a real woman?’ she said, punching his arm playfully.

As a brisk wind made the boat skip through the water Saunders plagued the fishermen with questions. Màiri he ignored completely.

‘Well, my good man, what drove you to take to the sea? No doubt you suffered at the hands of a landlord?’

‘No’, replied Kenneth, ‘My parents had a croft, a good one, in Camustianavaig. My father was offered the tacksman’s house when he came over from Raasay. We’re a big family though, so we couldn’t all stay there. He helped me get started with the boat. There’s plenty herring and salmon, enough for my three sons to make a living when they’re grown.’

‘But it would have been better if your father had owned the land rather than just renting it.’

‘How is that? If we had all stayed it would still have had to be divided up between us.’ He looked hard at Saunders through clear blue eyes, deep set in a weather-beaten face.

‘How are these matters arranged in England? Does the land go to one son or does the government hand out more land so that all the children can have a decent share?’

‘Er … the eldest son usually inherits but the tenant has more rights of course and …’

‘Well Sir, may I suggest that you sort out the problems in your own land where you are more familiar with how things are done.’