Back in the kitchen she put on the kettle ready to make her own bowl of brose. I must see I get them a meal that will more than please them when they get back from the sea, she promised herself. Maybe I could bake them a bramble pie to finish off with. The thought had hardly crossed her mind before she was taking two of the largest pails, one for milk and one for the berries she hoped to collect, and setting off in the direction she expected the cattle would be and where she knew were the most fruitful bramble bushes.
The weather looked promising enough she judged, surveying the dove-grey clouds that were being shepherded gently over the mainland hills by a light breeze. Choosing to amble rather than spur herself into her more customary brisk pace, she allowed herself the occasional pause to inhale deeply the early dawn scents and the earthy autumnal smells of the moorland; to scan appreciatively the deepening tawniness of the heather; to catch an occasional glimpse of winter gentians cushioned discreetly in the grassy bank. Though heedless of the strident ‘Go back! Go back!’ warnings of startled grouse as they erupted from the heather it struck her that the population of these birds on this side of the island seemed to have increased considerably since the two Ruaris had passed on and she puzzled over the reason for it. She had no recollection of either of the brothers ever-having spoken of shooting grouse nor indeed had they ever brought one home for her to cook. She hadn’t thought this unusual since she herself had never in her life tasted grouse flesh so it had been easy for her to assume that they, like herself and her granny and her crofter acquaintances, had absorbed from childhood the tenet that grouse were ‘gentry folks’ food’ and therefore must be shot only by ‘gentry folks’ bullets’. She wondered if the brothers’ indoctrination had been so rigorous it had resulted in a genuine distaste for the flesh of the birds since, despite their being the indisputable lairds of the island, they had not, to her knowledge, ever touched a grouse. Then why, she pondered, had the numbers increased in the last year or two. She’d heard it said that the number of birds must be limited because too abundant a population would result in disease and possible starvation. This was certainly not to be desired so how, without shooting, had the brothers managed to keep the population down to a reasonable level? And since she was now undoubtedly the laird and responsible for the management of Westisle, how should she tackle the problem? She decided she must first consult ‘the boys’, though she thought it improbable they would have any advice to give her save to consult the factor who dealt with all the details of her inheritance. For a moment or two she toyed with the idea of asking Jamie to shoot one of the birds so that they could at least taste it before having to make any decision. They might even like it, but she dismissed the idea almost instantly.
Although the brambles were proffering themselves for the picking it was fairly late in the afternoon when, accompanied by the sound of corncrakes among the reeds, she started for home with her half pail of milk and a very full pail of berries. As she neared the house the hens, anxious for their evening feed, rushed eagerly to meet her, their feet thudding on the trodden earth as if they were shod.
A couple of hooded crows keeping watch above the henhouse cawed despairingly and flapped unhurriedly out of sight. There was no evidence of ‘the boys’ having returned, so as soon as she had disposed of her two pails and had fed the hens she took a fork from the end of the house and made for the still undug potato plot. Once there she lifted a pail of potatoes and pulled a large turnip. Back indoors she immediately banked up the fire with sticks and dry peats to ensure the oven would soon get hot enough to cook the meal she planned to have ready for them when they did return.
Though she always liked to ensure that they took plenty of scones, oatcakes and eggs to sustain them while they were away in the boat, there remained, at the back of her mind, a niggle of worry that they might have stowed the food a little thoughtlessly on board; perhaps the entrance to the tiny galley had not been sufficiently secured against an unexpectedly truculent sea; perhaps water had seeped unnoticed into one of the tiny lockers above an unused bunk, turning the good food into a messy pulp by the time they came to eat it. Neither of them had ever mentioned any such mishap having occurred but even if it had, she doubted if they would have admitted to it. It was hearing tales from other fishermen in other boats that had led to her concern and to her firm resolve that when they came ashore they would always find a meal they would think worth coming for.
The peats were glowing brightly as she put the big stock pan on the hob and set about skinning the skart which Jamie had shot a couple of days previously. Along with turnip and potatoes and a mealy pudding it would make a tasty casserole. When the oven was nicely hot she made the bramble-berry pie which, when well sugared and served with a jug of thick cream she had skimmed from the setting bowls the day before, would make an appetising last course. She doubted if there would be a single berry of it left by the time they went to bed.
While everything was cooking she got out the box iron and started on the basket of ironing which had been waiting for the best part of a week. But the meal was cooked and the ironing basket was empty and there was still no sign of ‘the boys’. She was disappointed. Surely they’ll be staying out the night now, she told herself, recalling the remark Jamie had tossed off when they were building the winter stack. She had not taken him very seriously at the time but it was plainly too late to expect them now. As she stowed the food away in the scullery she found herself having to stifle her own repetitive yawns and had to face the fact that she was flagging with weariness. After laying damp peats on the fire she lit a candle and was carrying it through to her bedroom when through the window she caught a glimpse of the ‘Merry Dancers’ pulsating in the night sky. Flinging open the outer door, she stood enchanted by the spectacular display. It was by no means a rare sight; she had seen it many times, but tonight it was too arresting to think of forsaking it for sleep. Forgetting her tiredness, she stood watching until the brilliant colours had been chased from the sky by the oncoming dawn. Only then did she seek her bed.
Chapter Four
She easily filled a second pail of brambles after milking the cattle the next morning. Since she planned to make jam with them before ‘the boys’ came home she wasted no time in getting back to the house. They were back earlier than she was expecting them.
‘You’re throwing good smells out of the door,’ accused Euan Ally as he and Jamie kicked off their sea boots outside the kitchen.
‘She’s making jam, is she not?’ explained Jamie.
‘That indeed is what I am doing,’ she agreed. ‘And no doubt the time it has taken me to make it will be twice as long as it will take you two and Wee Ruari to eat the lot of it between you,’ she retorted.
‘There’s nothing I like more than a few spoonfuls of warm jam straight from the jar,’ Jamie enthused. ‘How about you Euan Ally?’ But Euan Ally had gone through to the scullery. Jamie threw down a mailbag onto the bench before going to the dresser drawer to root out a spoon but Kirsty raised a restraining hand.
‘No, you will not then,’ she told him sternly. ‘It is a wee whiley only since I finished filling the jars and if you go now digging with your spoon you will not only find the jam will scald your tongue but it will not keep so well in the jar.’
Jamie’s eyebrows shot up exaggeratedly. ‘Who’s wanting it to keep,’ he teased her. She frowned. ‘Ach,’ he pretended to grumble, replacing the spoon and closing the drawer. Picking up the mailbag he swung it towards her. ‘We collected the mail today seein’ we’ll not be going to sea tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Me and Euan Ally have taken out ours, so it’s all for you.’ He grabbed a towel and went through to join Euan Ally in the scullery.
She glanced after him, a little surprised. The bag seemed unusually full. She expected it to contain one or two mailorder catalogues, probably promoting new veterinary products for cattle and sheep but as she tipped the contents onto the table she saw that in addition to the catalogues there was a parcel addressed to Wee Ruari a
nd another parcel of books for herself. There was also an envelope addressed to her. She leafed quickly through the books which she thought would make promising reading but she only scanned the envelope briefly before putting it, still unopened, on the dresser. She’d received very few letters in her lifetime, whether in the city or on Westisle and had developed a curious reluctance to read them. She had guessed who the letter was from, and decided it could wait until ‘the boys’ had taken their meal.
Jamie returned from the scullery. ‘So you have a letter,’ he remarked, glancing towards the dresser.
‘Indeed I have so,’ she replied. ‘From the look of it I believe it will have come from the young couple who tried camping near the old settlement last year and got blown away. They have sent more books for Wee Ruari which will please him,’ While she was putting the food on the table she remembered a question she had been going to ask him. ‘You were after saying you will not be going to sea tomorrow. Is there some reason for that? I don’t see a sign of coarse weather coming. A breath of autumn maybe …?’
‘No weather at all,’ he interrupted her, ‘but there’s a very good reason,’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘Are you fit for a shock?’ he asked blithely.
‘Fit enough,’ she answered, reassured by his light tone.
‘Well then, it’s because Euan Ally’s wanting to go across to Clachan to see his sweetheart,’ Jamie announced.
‘Euan Ally has a sweetheart in Clachan?’ she echoed. ‘I’ve heard nothing of that.’
‘Nor will you have heard,’ he replied. ‘They wish nothing said about it for a whiley.’
‘He’s gey young, but he’s a nice enough laddie,’ she allowed. ‘What do you know of the lassie?’
‘Not much just,’ he shrugged. ‘She seems right enough and folks say she’s a good worker. Good at the spinning too, I’m told.’
‘They’re planning to marry, I take it?’
‘Ay, as soon as they can.’
‘Is she any sort of cook?’
‘Euan Ally thinks she is or he wouldn’t be wanting to marry her, would he? Not after having a good spell of your own cooking.’
‘And have they planned where they are going to live?’ she asked. ‘I take it he intends to go on fishing with you.’
‘Aye, we’ve agreed that.’ He sat down and started to take his soup. His bowl was empty, but there was still no sign of Euan Ally.
‘He’s long enough out in the scullery,’ she observed. ‘Does he not want food tonight?’
‘He’s hungry enough, but he’s a wee bitty shy.’
‘Euan Ally’s shy about facing me?’ she asked surprised. ‘Why ever so?’
‘Say no more,’ cautioned Jamie as the scullery door opened and Euan Ally came in, sat down at the table, and began to take his food in his usual hearty way.
‘My, but that’s good,’ he declared when he had finished his second helping of bramble pie. ‘I’ve never tasted the like of that before.’
‘Did your mother never make a bramble pie?’ she asked,
‘Ach, no, mother never troubled herself to make fancy things like that,’ said Euan Ally. ‘She’d maybe boil a few berries and mix them with cream or crowdie if she was expecting the missionary, but she never put a crust to anything. The old man had no liking for such. He only took food that would slip down without he had to chew. He’d got mighty few teeths for chewing anyway and, seeing there was no such thing as an oven that would get hot in the house, the cailleach reckoned he got all he needed.’
Kirsty wasn’t surprised. She’d not met many crofter wives who’d bothered or perhaps not even learned to use any cooking equipment other than a pan and a girdle. Even if there were a cooking range with an oven she’d found the oven flues would, through lack of use, be blocked solid with peat ash so that the oven never became more than lukewarm no matter how much the fire was stoked. She herself had never seen her granny use the oven in their own range, which, though it had called itself a ‘Modern Mistress’, had been used only for drying kindling. Indeed, she had not known it could be used for any other purpose. It wasn’t until she had gone to live in the city that she had seen an oven used for cooking. When, under her old employer’s tuition, she had become what even she herself allowed to be a passably good cook, she’d found she enjoyed oven cooking. When she had landed on Westisle, to be confronted by a stark though well-swept kitchen where a few damp peats had been smoking sulkily in a range that looked almost hostile in its neglectedness her spirits had quailed. Curiosity, however, had compelled her to investigate what she believed might be blocked flues. It had been a daunting task but she had been proved right; surveying the appetising spread on the wax-cloth-covered table she complimented herself on her perseverance. Indeed, the whole kitchen looked completely different. Not only was the once shabby range shiny, its grate full of glowing peats; the rough wood floor was smoothed with linoleum; the once bare window embellished with pretty curtains; the primitive wooden bench and the upright chairs, plainly fashioned from driftwood, looked almost inviting with their bright cushions. Her presence had certainly made a big difference and she permitted herself a complacent smile. It was still basic when contrasted with city kitchens but it had acquired its own aura of down to earth welcome and, though she planned further improvements, she was happy enough with it.
Jamie rose from his chair. ‘There’s light enough for getting a rabbit or two. Will we take a gun?’
‘Surely!’ agreed Euan Ally. ‘We might as well just. It’ll maybe save time in the morning,’ A moment later they were striding off, guns under their arms.
I dare say Euan Ally’s wanting to take a couple of rabbits as a present for his sweetheart, Kirsty thought as she cleared away the dishes and poured herself a cup of tea before sitting down beside the fire and opening her letter. It was, as she’d surmised, from the English couple; a very ordinary letter, or at least it began that way, wishing everyone well and bemoaning the bleakness of the suburbs where they lived, but when she’d turned to the second page her brows began to knit in a small frown; gradually her expression grew more and more incredulous. She started to read the whole letter again, nodding her head every now and then as if to make sure she was grasping the full import of its message. She looked up, staring unseeingly before her; the letter slipped from her loose fingers into her lap where it stayed until she moved to pour herself another cup of tea in the hope that it would help settle her mind. The letter had a curiously discomforting effect on her since, after stating they had fallen in love with her island, it went on to propose quite seriously that she should allow them to buy a small plot of land on Westisle near the old settlement and to rebuild one of the abandoned cottages as a holiday home to which they could come each summer and eventually retire to. They would be glad to pay an annual feu duty as they had understood was the custom and they were careful to stress that she would not be involved in any expense. Apart from the stone already on the site or nearby they would be responsible for transporting all the other building materials required and they could perhaps persuade a Clachan builder to come over each summer until the house was habitable. Kirsty found the whole idea fanciful. It was all very well for folks to claim they had fallen in love with the island after spending only a couple of weeks’ holiday, possibly in reasonably good weather, which she recalled the young couple had not been fortunate enough to experience, but she was extremely doubtful if they would want to face the severity of the winter gales, the inevitable shortages and the long isolation from the mainland during days or even weeks of stormy weather. It was different for her having been born and bred on an island and thus well accustomed to such disadvantages.
She’d still been at school when the death of her granny, the only mother she had known, had meant her having to leave her island home and go to live in the city with an elderly aunt who had been her only surviving relative apart from Uncle Donny, her granny’s only son. But the authorities had classed Uncle Donny as a ‘dummy’ and decided he must go to a
‘home’ where he could be properly looked after.
She had at first found city life exciting and bewildering, but it had not been long before she had begun to contrast the dirty streets and hurried people with the freshness and timelessness of the land she had left. Had she not been well inured to accepting all life’s little disadvantages she would somehow have contrived to return.
When she had reached her teens and had been considered old enough to go into service it had been arranged for her to start work at Islay, a superior boarding house belonging to a middle-aged widow who would train her to be a cook general. The widow had been exacting, generous enough with her tuition if not with her money, and since Kirsty had never been used to having money of her own she’d been more than content with her position. The widow had been delighted with her pupil, who had quickly developed into an excellent cook and a conscientious and trustworthy general. The situation had continued happily for over twenty years until the widow’s health had deteriorated and as a consequence the management of the boarding house had passed into the hands of a couple of avaricious younger relatives who had all too soon revealed that they had scant interest in the place except as a means of extracting money from guests for minimal food and indifferent service, while on the other hand demanding maximum servility from their staff in return for grudgingly paid wages.
For almost two years, mainly through a feeling of loyalty to the widow who had trained and befriended her, she had endured the situation, but with guests becoming distressingly infrequent it had become plain the boarding house was doomed to failure. She had realised the time was coming when she would have to seek a similar position elsewhere. But where? Employment of any kind with keep was scarce and at the age of nearly forty what chance had she when cook generals were reputed to be ‘two a penny’? For some time now she had regarded Islay as her home. The worry of her likely predicament had been on her mind for some time when the shy Ruari MacDonald had chanced to book in at Islay for a couple of weeks. She’d guessed as soon as he arrived that he was an Isleman but when, after only the slightest acquaintance, he had written her a note suggesting marriage she had at first been too astonished to take his offer seriously. It was the first proposal of marriage she’d ever received in her life. And much as it had shaken her at the time, it had made her face up to her position, compelling her to at least consider the possible advantages of accepting his proposal. Here was someone offering her a home. Even if she were honest with herself, she knew she had no desire to return to the rigours of island life – shreds of which still lingered in her memory – it was at least an alternative. It would be a hard life after so many years in the city, but it had needed only a few hours of question and discussion before she had made up her mind to accept.
A Breath of Autumn Page 3