The Sea for Breakfast (24 page)

‘No indeed, I'm no disappointed about that at all.'

‘Well, you're not like yourself,' I said.

‘I don't feel like myself then.'

‘You mean you're not feeling well?'

‘Ach, I'm fine. I just don't feel like myself.'

I gave him a cup of coffee and put on the table some biscuits and cheese, and waited for the confidence which I knew was on its way.

‘It's funny,' said Erchy, after a sip or two of coffee. ‘I believe I must have been in love with Jeannac.'

‘Jeannac? The Jeannac who got married on Wednesday?'

‘Aye. I must have been in love with her, or why else would I feel so bad at her marryin' another man?'

I could only stare at him in speechless sympathy and wonder how much he was suffering.

‘It was the same when Marjac got married. I felt just as bad then, so I knew I must have loved her,' he told me.

‘But, didn't you realize before either of them married that you were in love with them?' I asked him.

‘No, that's my trouble. I always have to wait for them to get married before I can tell. If I feel bad on their weddin' day then I know I was in love with them. If I don't feel bad I know I wasn't,' he said miserably.

His complaint, I thought, constituted the best recipe for remaining a bachelor that I had ever heard but Erchy was much too serious on the subject for me to dare any comment. I tried to take his mind off his sufferings.

‘I suppose they've stocked up well with whisky for the party tonight?' I said.

‘They stocked up well. They got seven bottles the other night and they thought they'd have a wee drink to start off with and before the night was through they'd finished the seven. I was there myself. Adam's havin' to go in to the pub on his motor bike to get some this evenin'.' He brightened considerably and by the time he had embarked on his second cup of coffee and reinspected the burning of the stove he was practically his normal self again. ‘This coffee's good,' he approved. ‘I don't rightly care much for coffee, but I like this stuff you make. Those pilgrims gave me a cup of coffee when I was in sortin' a chair for them the other day and it tasted no better than singed water.' He accepted a third cup and then decided he must go home and ‘take his potatoes' (his dinner). ‘I'll see you tonight,' he told me as he went.

‘Yes,' I replied meaningly, ‘probably in triplicate if past functions. are anything to judge by.'

About ten minutes after he had left he was back again. ‘Here, come and see a sight,' he commanded.

The afternoon sun was still shining brightly but within the hour it would be snugging itself down for the night behind the humped shapes of Rhuna and the outer islands, and I had a great deal to do before it got properly dark. I demanded to know if the sight were really worth my taking time off to see.

‘I doubt you'll never see the like again,' promised Erchy. ‘I've never seen it before anyway.'

He led me in the direction of Murdoch's cottage and how I wished when we got there that I had taken my camera with me. Murdoch, who by turns was irascible, obstreperous, rhetorical and benign, was born to be a clown. If there was a situation in which he was involved it would inevitably become a comic one. He sat there now in his garden on an upturned pail watching with morosely unswerving eyes about twenty dripping one-pound and five-pound notes which were pinned with safety pins to his clothes line.

‘God!' murmured Erchy appreciatively, ‘the old bodach's washed the lot of it.'

When I arrived for the wedding party at Jeannac's house the guests were already overflowing the kitchen and ‘the room' and were sitting happily on the stairs right up to the tiny landing. For all I knew there may have been more in the bedrooms. The heat inside hit one like a poultice though cold breaths of frost panted in through the wide-open door. I managed to insinuate myself into a corner of the kitchen where someone handed me a glass of sherry and a piece of crumbled cake. Everyone was talking and laughing happily and strangely enough no one appeared to be more than moderately intoxicated. Sandy Beag called that we ought to be dancing and clutching the reluctant Jeannac he started to jig, kicking his feet behind him but he was made to desist after nearly de-skirting one or two of the black-draped old women who were standing near.

‘Here, take her, Ian,' Sandy Beag pushed the bride towards her groom who was leaning pallidly against the dresser.

The announcement of the engagement of Jeannac and Ian had hit the village with startling suddenness and no matter who I met during the intervening weeks before the wedding day the question ‘Why is Jeannac marrying Ian?' was always one of the first to be asked. The ‘Bruachites were great diagnosticians. In sickness, whether of animals or humans, the symptoms were discussed profoundly and the ailment diagnosed before the arrival of the vet or the doctor. The symptoms of a forthcoming wedding were discussed in much the same way, for though addicted to romantic fiction the crofters were sceptical of romance in their own lives and they liked to have some incontrovertible reason to offer for any impending marriage. The engagement of the vet brought the comment, ‘Well, right enough he's got to have someone to answer the telephone for him,' while another marriage, an obviously incompatible union, was excused because ‘since his mother's died his sister's afraid to sleep by herself and they can't afford a girl to share her bed.' However, I had heard no plausible reason advanced for Jeannac's acceptance of Ian. Jeannac was strikingly good looking, intelligent and financially secure, and looking across at her now, glowingly happy beside the sleazy Ian, I wondered more than ever why she had chosen him. I said so out loud to Old Murdoch and Morag, who were standing close beside me.

‘Ach, well, Miss Peckwitt,' Old Murdoch began with a slightly apologetic air, ‘a woman comes to a certain stage just like a salmon at the back end that will jump at a piece of old rag, and then she'll take anythin' at all.'

‘But Jeannac's not old,' I protested, turning to Morag for confirmation. ‘Surely you don't think it's a case of last chance with Jeannac?'

‘No,' she admitted, ‘I dunna believe it's that at all, but I'm hearin' he made a song for her, though what was in it she never told a soul, and then she made a song back for him and the next everybody knew they was plannin' to get married.'

‘Did you hear how the wedding went off?' I asked.

‘Ach, it was quiet just. Just the two of them and Johnny and Elspeth, though I did hear that Johnny was so keen not to lose the ring he put it on his own little finger and when he came to hand it to the bridegroom it had got stuck. He was after havin' a great struggle with it, Elspeth said, and indeed at one time she thought Ian would be after marryin' Johnny with the way it was.'

More and more people were packing into the house and a good deal of drink was being spilled on dresses and suits and on the floor as we were jostled against one another. I was thinking how much more pleasant it might have been if the party had taken place in the summer so that the guests could perhaps have taken their refreshments outside and conversed or danced without too much discomfort.

‘Here,' said Erchy, threading his way towards us with an open bottle of whisky. ‘You're lookin' miserable. Fill up your glass, there'll be plenty more when Angus get's back.'

‘I'm not miserable,' I denied, lifting my still half-full glass out of reach of the threatening bottle. ‘But Erchy,' I asked him. ‘Tell me will you why Bruach people always choose the winter time for their weddings?'

Erchy stared me firmly in the eye. ‘Because the nights are longer,' he replied with unflinching candour.

‘What's happened to Angus?' asked Morag.

‘They're wonderin' that themselves,' replied Erchy. ‘He went off on Adam's motor bike to get some more drinks about three hours ago and he said he'd be back within the hour, and he's no back yet.' He wandered away again, still proffering the bottle indiscriminately.

‘I didn't know Angus could ride a motor bike,' I murmured to Morag.

‘I don't believe he can,' she said, ‘but he's gone off on it just the same. Somebody had to go, they said, and Adam's crinkled his back and canna' stand up on his legs.'

‘I should jolly well think they would be wondering what has happened to him in that case,' I said with an anxious glance in the direction of Angus's mother. ‘He might have had a spill.'

‘Ach, if that lad has a spill he'll make sure he chooses a soft spot,' said Morag lightly.

One of the highlights of the evening was to be the reading of the congratulatory telegrams without which no Highland wedding would really be complete. After much hilarious discussion it was decided to wait to read them until Angus had returned so that he should not miss the fun. Since attending my first wedding in Bruach I had become inured to hearing the youth of the village composing bawdy messages to send to their friends when they got married. In the last few years Hebridean post offices have become much less easy-going than they used to be in their attitude to the sending of such messages and there had been bitter complaints this time that two of the verses composed for the congratulatory telegrams had been refused for transmission on the grounds of their being too coarse. Dollac, who was not only beautiful but also as happy a natured girl as I have ever met, was particularly adept at such compositions and when the subject came up she was loud in her condemnation of the post office.

‘Oh come,' I pleaded, ‘they must have been pretty bad if the post office refused them.'

‘Indeed they were no bad at all. I've sent worse. They're gettin' so particular nowadays it won't be worth while spendin' our money on them.'

‘Tell Miss Peckwitt what was in yours,' urged Morag, with a sly smile.

‘Yes, go on, tell me,' I encouraged.

Dollac giggled, ‘May your honeymoon be like our dining-room table—four legs and no drawers,' she quoted unblushingly.

‘And the other one?'

‘Ach, that was just:

“Ian, Ian, don't be shy,
Put out the light and have a damn good try”.'

‘What's wrong with those, I'd like to know?' demanded Morag indignantly. ‘They must have nasty minds those telegraph fellows.'

‘They're no worse than I sent my cousin when he got married,' said Dollac, ‘and they took that one all right.'

‘What did you have to say then?' I pressed, conscious of a sneaking admiration.

‘Two little pillows edged with lace,
Two little people face to face,
And everything in its proper place',

she recited amidst shrieks of female laughter.

At this moment Angus flung himself sulkily through the door and plonked down some bottles emphatically on the table.

‘Why Angus, what on earth has been keepin' you back?' asked his mother.

‘Those bloody pollis, that's what,' Angus retorted with seething resentment.

A strained hush fell over the kitchen. ‘You mean you're after bein' caught?' his mother whispered.

‘Caught? No, but I had a lucky escape.' He labled himself a drink of water and swallowed two or three times before pouring the rest back into the pail. ‘What happened was I was just comin' out of the bar when I sees those two pollis passin' in their car. They sees me and they stops. “Where are you away to?” they asks me, quite friendly. “I'm away home,” I tells them, “whenever I can get. I've just been gettin' the drinks for my sister's weddin' party.” “And how are you gettin' home,” they asks me. Well I couldn't tell them I had the motor bike because I have no driving licence and anyway Adam has no insurance for his bike. “There's a fellow goin' that way says he would give me a lift,” I says. They asked me who it was so I told them the only name I could think of. “Ach,” they says, “you'll wait all night for him, he left over an hour ago. Come on and we'll give you a lift with us,” I was swearin' to myself I can tell you. “Are you goin' to Bruach?” I asks them. “Not all the way,” they says, “but a good part of it. Come on and jump in.” I knew if I didn't go with them then they'd guess somethin' and start lookin' around. So I just didn't look at Adam's motor bike and I got into the car with them and they took me as far as Sheehan. Indeed at one time I thought the buggers were goin' to take me farther. When they stopped, I got out and as soon as they was out of sight I hid the bottles in the ditch and started walkin' back again to the pub for I didn't want the bike to be found there. When I got there the pollis car was still not back from Sheehan. Hell! I thought, what do I do now? So what I did was to get on the bike and start off, for by this time it was dark and every time I saw a pair of headlights comin' towards me I had to jump off and fling myself and the bike into the ditch and lie flat. I'm wet through. I could have murdered those bloody pollis, I can tell you.'

Relief spread over everyone's face at the successful outcome of Angus's escapade and at the sight of the full bottles on the table. The party rapidly became noisier and distinctly less pleasant so far as I was concerned. The male Bruachites firmly believe that they must get-drunk before they can enjoy themselves, and the women, who seemed to find the men too inhibited unless they were drunk, encouraged them in their belief.

In ‘the room' a gramophone began to contribute to the general cacophony and Morag drew me through there to listen to records of Gaelic songs. They found a record of ‘Loch Lomond' which they put on for me because it was in English, though it was little more than a tuneless whisper.

‘That record is nearly worn out,' I said to Morag.

‘Yes,' she rejoined, ‘but it's a very old tune, isn't it?'

Janet, looking very merry and bright, beckoned us into the kitchen where tea was being prepared and we inched our way through, passing Erchy, who was sprawled on a bench beside Sadie, a young girl from a neighbouring village. Sadie was full-bosomed, strong and possessed of gypsy-like good looks and Erchy was proposing marriage to her with sleepy earnestness. ‘An' I'll make you a good … good husband,' he was saying. ‘… An' I'll work … work hard. …'