The Hills is Lonely (3 page)

‘That's all right, then. I'll tell Ruari to see to your boxes directly.'

‘Oh yes—Ruari,' I echoed, and had a fleeting vision of a freshly lime-washed Ruari braving this torrential rain, and began to feel better again. After all, I told myself, I had been roughly handled but then I had planned this as something of an adventure.

Opening my purse, I gave the driver his fare plus a moderate tip. He demurred at the latter but on my insistence thanked me courteously and pocketed it. ‘It is indeed,' I thought, ‘like coming to a different world, where even the taxi-drivers refuse to be tipped.'

Guided by Morag's lantern I followed her across the sodden grass, over cobblestones and into the tiny hall of the cottage where a candle burned lopsidedly in the draught from some hidden crevice. Taking off my dripping outdoor clothes I hung them on the antlers of a pathetic-looking stag's head. Morag opened the door of a room on our left and ushered me inside. ‘The room that wasn't a kitchen' was a neat lamplit place with an immense fire burning brightly in the well-polished grate. Half on the fire, half on the hob, a kettle stood spouting steam and rattling its lid in ill-concealed impatience, promising a speedy brew of tea. A small table was spread with a white cloth and on it my supper was laid invitingly. After the appalling conditions outside the whole place gave a welcome so much greater than I had expected that I exclaimed over it impulsively. I dropped into a chair and ignoring its formidable creakings watched while Morag, with a self-satisfied smile on her face, busied herself about the meal.

My landlady was a small woman with a broad back which, though not exactly bent, gave one the impression that it was accustomed to carrying many burdens. The rest of her figure was hardly discernible beneath the bulk of clothing she wore, but her movements were lively enough despite a gait which I can only describe as ‘running with one leg and walking with the other'. Her hair as I have said, was white, her face wizened and freckled. Her eyes, when they were not being soulfully blue, were as mischievous as a small boy's, while her hands were horny as a man's, the stubby fingers resembling calcified sausages. Her clothes, or what I could see of them, consisted of a thick tweed jacket over a homespun skirt, the front of which was partially concealed by a now sodden apron, for she had apparently added nothing to her attire when she left the house to come to my assistance. I judged, however, from the proportion of bulk in relation to size, that there were in all probability a great many insulating layers between her skin and her outer garments, which were no doubt as efficient under Island weather conditions as the more conventional waterproof.

The tea brewed, Morag departed, having first assured herself that she could at the moment do nothing further for me beyond promising to stir Ruari into bringing my cases indoors. Accordingly, soon after she had gone I heard the front door bang, and even while I sat sipping my third cup of tea there was a rumble of voices followed by a thudding on the stairs which indicated that my bags were being carried up to my bedroom. I repressed a desire to peep. A few minutes later there was a knock on my door and Morag entered.

‘I'm just sayin' I didna' bring Ruari and Lachy in to see you tonight, seeing you'll be awful tired,' she began. I protested feebly. ‘You see,' she went on apologetically, ‘Ruari's that deaf his shoutin' near splits the ears off you, and I'm after tellin' him to keep his mouth shut on the stairs for sure he grunts like a bull.'

‘But who is Lachy?' I asked, stifling a yawn.

‘Ach, he's the other half of the boat with Ruari,' explained Morag obscurely.

‘And what time will you be for takin' your breakfast?' she asked.

I suggested about eight-thirty.

‘Half past eight,' she agreed; ‘and if the Lord spares me I'll have your fire lit by eight then.' I glanced at her enquiringly.

‘Aren't you feeling well then?' I asked.

‘I'm feelin' fine,' she answered with some surprise; ‘why, d' you think I'm lookin' poorly?'

‘Not at all,' I rejoined hurriedly, ‘but when you said “if the Lord spares me”, I thought perhaps you were not feeling quite well.'

‘I'm feeling quite well tonight,' replied Morag piously; ‘but who can tell if the Lord may call any one of us before the morn comes; and if He chooses to call me in the night then I canna' light your fire in the mornin', can I?'

‘I rather take that for granted,' I said with a smile.

‘Ah indeed, it's no wise to take anythin' for granted with the Lord,' she rebuked me, and then added determinedly: ‘But I'll have your fire lit for eight certain if I'm spared,' and as though to underline the words she closed the door firmly behind her.

After the long journey, the fright, the bitter cold and now the warmth and food, I became unconquerably sleepy. Wearily I climbed the narrow linoleum-covered stairs to the bedroom which Morag had already pointed out to me. In the room a lamp had been lighted and burned dimly, but more than that everything appeared to be clean and comfortable I could not have told that night. Unpacking the minimum of necessities, I undressed and tumbled into bed, where I lay for a time listening to the storm outside. Conscious of a queer little thrill, I turned out the lamp. It was the first time in my life that I had actually used an oil-lamp and I was not at all sure whether to blow or keep turning the knob until the flame was completely extinguished. I managed a successful compromise, and as I dropped back on to the pillows and drifted into sleep I was aware of the rain spattering against the window and drumming with dogged persistence on the tiled roof.

I awoke after what seemed a very short time to the realisation that the rain had ceased and that chill, grey daylight was filtering through the lace curtains of my window. My head still echoed the rhythmic jogging of the train, for I am one of those unfortunates who, if they travel five hundred miles in actuality, travel at least another thousand during sleep.

The bed was cosy enough to make the prospect of leaving it seem unattractive and I lay sleepily surveying my room and listening with drowsy intentness to the sounds of the morning. There was a clanking of cans, which I assumed to be milk-pails; the impatient clucking and questioning of hens, interspersed with loud flutterings of wings; a strange intermittent wailing noise which I was quite unable to identify; doors opening and closing and dishes clattering: sounds which seemed to indicate that the Lord had seen fit to spare my landlady for another day's work, and also that the poultry still awaited their morning feed.

The hands of my watch were pointing to half past eight when there were footsteps on the stairs followed by a knock at my bedroom door.

‘I've brought you watter and she's fine and hot,' Morag's voice announced.

‘Take her away!' I entreated with an involuntary shudder. ‘I shall wash downstairs where it's warmer.'

Morag began speaking again, but her words were drowned by an acrimonious bellow which reverberated up and down the stairs and almost dislodged me from my bed.

‘Sorry,' I apologised when there was a moment's lull, ‘but I didn't catch what you were saying.'

‘That's just Ruari,” explained Morag with patient resignation, ‘and I'm just sayin' he's fine and warm already for I have him blazin' up the chimney with a dose of paraffin.'

Her footsteps retreated down the stairs. After a moment of confused horror I succeeded in disentangling this rather surprising piece of information; though had I supposed my landlady to be capable of such villainy the strength of Ruari's bellow would undoubtedly have lent credence to her statement.

As I reached the bottom stair Morag came out of her kitchen bearing a steaming bowl of mash.

‘Sure I hope you slept well after your long journey,' she greeted me. I agreed that I had.

‘Something smells awfully good,' I observed.

‘It's just the meal I'm after scaldin' for the hens,' said Morag; ‘though it smells that good many's the time I'm takin' a lump of it for my own breakfast. Indeed it fairly makes my teeths watter.'

Although the later part of her reply was patently untrue—over her shoulder I could see her ‘teeths' adorning the dresser and they looked positively arid—I could not doubt the temptation of the smell, and had the bowl been a little cleaner I might perhaps have sampled it for myself.

Among the chorus of noises outside I again noticed the strange wailing call I had heard earlier.

‘What sort of an animal makes that queer noise?' I asked.

The ghost of a smile curved Morag's lips. ‘Why, that's my cockerel,' she explained.

‘Really?' I said, then, seeing her smile broaden at my ignorance, added lamely: ‘I thought cockerels always said cock-a-doodle-doo, but that one sounds as though he's been crossed with a circular saw.'

‘Ach, he's just young yet,' she excused him; ‘another six months and he'll be cock-a-doodle-dooin' as well as you can yourself.'

It became plain that my landlady was prepared for a long conversation but I could not, as she did, ignore the greedy clamour of the hens who, in their eagerness for food, had thronged the tiny hall and were endeavouring to reach perching positions on the edge of the mash-bowl. Out of consideration for the hens as well as concern for the state of the floor I decided to withdraw and hurried into my room.

Now, without the mellowness of lamplight and the contrast of the storm outside, it struck me as repulsively ugly. The floor covering was shabby; the two easy chairs were grey with age and, on closer examination, I discovered that their ability to support the human frame was due solely to the circumstance that a famous brand of margarine was packed in wooden boxes. A yellow-grained sideboard took up nearly the whole of one wall of the room; a dreadful monstrosity of a thing, which looked for all the world as though it had been set upon by someone suffering from a fit of delirium tremens, using as a weapon a paint brush dipped alternately in yellow ochre and black treacle.

The table was glaringly home-made and, though a cloth covered its major crudities, I was soon to learn that none of its four legs matched in shape or length and that the only way to keep it steady while eating was to balance it on my knees. The wallpaper, which last night had seemed self-effacing, now intruded its garish pattern of vermilion buttercups with a frieze of neglected false teeth, though the latter were no doubt meant to be autumn-tinted leaves.

Had I embarked on my venture with the full approval of my friends I might have permitted myself some doubts as to the probability of my remaining long with Morag. As it was I determined to look only on the more comforting side and, after reassuring myself that the curtains, the cushions and the tablecloth were fresh and clean, turned to admire the old-fashioned grate with its deep fire of glowing peat, the gleaming brass fire-irons and the clock which had already ticked its way through a century of time.

A knock on the door heralded Morag's appearance with my breakfast tray, the sight of which effectively dispersed any misgivings for the time being, and soon I was settling down to do full justice to the excellent meal she had provided. There was porridge—my first experience of porridge made with fresh-ground oatmeal—there was cream, thick, smooth and rich; there was sugar, though my landlady shook her head disapprovingly as I spooned the latter on to my plate.

‘Ach, mo ghaoil,' she chided, ‘but you were never meant to eat sugar with porridge. Sure it'll spoil the grand taste of it.'

‘I should never manage it without,' I retorted and tucked into my well-filled plate with a most uninvalidish appetite.

Next a dish of succulent-smelling bacon and eggs was placed before me. As this had been keeping warm on the hob beside the fire I easily ignored the fact that the dish was signed distinctly with a greasy black thumbprint. After all, had I not realised even while contemplating my Island sojourn that I could not afford to be overfastidious? My suggestion that she should join me in a cup of tea, Morag accepted with alacrity.

‘I don't know that I ever refused a cup of tea yet, supposin' it was my twentieth,' she admitted ruefully as she helped herself from the ample brown teapot. Subsequent experience convinced me that twenty cups per day was grossly understating Morag's capacity for tea, and that the enormous tea-caddy which dominated the mantelpiece in her own room was not there solely for ornament,

After breakfast, as the weather showed a distinct improvement, I set out on a tour of investigation. My own waterproof and shoes were still sodden from their experience of the night before, so my landlady offered me a spare oilskin and a pair of gumboots. I accepted them dubiously, fearing that the boots would be too heavy for my unpractised feet and that the oilskin would be only an encumbrance. But once the initial awkwardness had passed, I wished very much that my friends, particularly Mary, could see me as I clumped about in the strange outfit.

Out of doors the view was unimpressive, for though the rain had ceased it had merely given way to clouds of mist which rolled in from the sea and hovered sluggishly over the surrounding moors, intensifying the roar of the waves and curiously deflecting the sounds of the land. Morag, hopping eagerly about me with her odd gait, pointed out the approximate bounds of her domain; approximate because she shared a croft with her brother Ruari, Morag owning one-quarter and Ruari the remaining three-quarters, with no recognisable boundary between the two. I asked how they managed about letters, since both houses were number fifteen—the numbers being given to crofts only—and the surname common to both. The explanation was simple; the postman was thoroughly familiar with the goings-on of each household and could thus decide for himself which letters were for which person. He rarely made a mistake, but, all the same, I was delighted to learn that official correspondence was addressed to Morag at ‘One-quarter of number fifteen', and to her brother at ‘Three-quarters of number fifteen'. The preciseness of officialdom is commendable but it does look slightly ludicrous on an envelope.