‘Come in, Shona. Would you like a coffee?’
‘In a while maybe. I was wanting to ask you - is it okay if I bring over some contraband?’ Rose looks puzzled. ‘Some of the party food and drink,’ Shona whispers.
Rose wonders who Shona thinks might overhear their conversation, then realises with a smile that the party conspiracy is simply the latest form of home-made entertainment in what must be a hard and monotonous life.
‘Yes, of course, Shona. Shall I come over and give you a hand?’
‘Och, no - I'll load up the car and drive over. You’re sure it’s no bother now?’
‘I’m honoured to be part of the plot. Does Calum really have no idea?’
‘No! Even the bairns don’t know! They think I’m just batch-baking for the freezer. Put the kettle on, Rose. I'll away and fetch The Goods,’ Shona says with upper case emphasis and a wink.
~
Shona clearly intends to go one better than Our Lord and feed the five thousand not with loaves and fishes, but sausage rolls, mini-pizzas, paté and quiche. Rose’s freezer is soon filled to capacity. Cardboard boxes full of beer and whisky are unloaded and concealed in the workroom. Megan, making coffee in the kitchen, laughs out loud as Shona appears at the back door stooping under her final load: a full black bin-liner carried over her shoulder.
‘Shona, you look like Father Christmas! What on earth have you got in there?’
‘Och, it’s just a few wee bags of crisps.’
~
Later the weather improves and Rose insists on taking Megan out for a drive to see the island. They set off heading south on the road that circles North Uist with Rose pointing out sites - and sights - of interest as they drive.
‘On the other side of those dunes is the Atlantic.’ She winds down the window. ‘Hear that roar? You should see those breakers... There’s nothing between us and Canada. It can be pretty wild at this time of year, but glorious in the summer. Mile after mile of clean, empty beaches. A man and a dog constitute a crowd. You feel as if you’ve been shipwrecked on a desert island... On your right now we have the RSPB reserve, Balranald. A lot of the tourists come here for the birds... It’s a lovely walk in the spring and summer. You’ve come at the wrong time of year really.’ Rose looks sideways at Megan who is staring out of the window, refusing to be drawn on the purpose of her visit.
‘What are those piles of bricks outside people’s houses?’
‘Bricks?’
‘Well, they look a bit like bricks - black blocks of something.’
‘Oh, the peat stacks! It’s fuel - peat cut into briquettes. They make a lovely fire when they’re dry. That’s the distinctive smell in the air here - peat burning on open fires. Of course not many people have fires nowadays. They’ve gone over to central heating like everyone else. The attraction of free fuel can’t compete with the convenience of flicking a switch for instant warmth. But some people still stick to the old ways and cut the peats in the summer, then bring them home and stack them carefully to dry out. It’s quite a knack. Some of the stacks are so carefully built they’re almost works of art. I’ve photographed some of them.’
They drive on through the drizzle meeting few cars on the single-track road. Rose swerves to avoid a suicidal black-faced ewe that suddenly decides the grass is greener on the other side of the road. Surveying the low-lying, boggy and largely uninhabited terrain, Megan says, ‘There are more sheep than people!’
‘Oh, almost certainly,’ Rose answers.
‘It’s kind of... bleak, isn’t it?’
‘Do you think so? I think it’s rather beautiful, but I admit it’s an acquired taste. I love all the subtle shades of green and brown, the moss and lichen and the heather. It’s like a glorious tapestry. And you have such vast expanses of sky here. A bit like Norfolk, but the light is quite different here. It’s a northern light, much brighter, cleaner. A lot of artists live and work here because they like the light.’
‘But it’s all so flat. So exposed.’
‘Well, yes if you compare it to Skye or the Highlands, it’s flat. But we’ve got some decent hills - Ben Lee and Eaval. Eaval’s the wedge-shaped hill that gives Uist its distinctive outline. It feels flat here because you can see so far. There are no big buildings in the way to block the view, so when you look, what you see is mostly sky.’
‘Skye?’
‘Not Skye, the island - the blue stuff,’ Rose says pointing upwards. She falls silent, disappointed that her island has been found wanting in topographical interest.
They drive southwards over the causeway to Grimsay, the tiny stepping-stone island between Uist and Benbecula and Rose stops the car at the short causeway leading to Benbecula. The walls at the side of the road are low and the wind is whipping waves into a frenzy right across the road.
‘I wouldn’t fancy walking across there now,’ Megan says.
‘Even driving can be a bit hairy. But people used to walk across before the causeway - they waded across or went on horseback at low tide. Benbecula comes from the Gaelic Beinn a’bh-fhaodhla which means Mountain of the Fords - although I think calling Rueval a mountain is pushing it a bit... The high school where Calum teaches is on Benbecula. It’s the only one, so all the older kids go there. There’s another causeway on the other side of Benbecula taking you on to South Uist. Soon there’ll be yet another to take you over to Eriskay, which is a really tiny little island. Would you like to continue south? Or we can turn back and circle North Uist. We could have tea at the Arts Centre in Lochmaddy.’
‘Is that where you’re holding your exhibition?’
‘Yes. And they do jolly good home baking.’
‘Well, I didn’t really fancy crossing that causeway in this wind.’
‘Where’s your spirit of adventure, child? Lochmaddy it is, then.’
~
Rose suddenly stops the car in what appears to be the middle of nowhere and turns to Megan. ‘Fancy taking in a stone circle as the rain’s stopped?’
‘Yes! Is it spooky?’
‘No, not really. Utterly benign in fact. But I think there’s a certain energy there. Well, I can feel it. See what you think.’
They tramp a little way across the heathery moorland, ascending Ben Langass, a low hill, until they come upon a modest collection of lichen-covered stones, the largest not much bigger than a man. Megan doesn’t conceal her disappointment. ‘Oh... It’s not exactly Stonehenge, is it?’
‘I didn’t say it was. But look at the view - isn’t it fantastic?’ From their elevated position the women can see as much water as land. ‘If you view North Uist from the air it looks like lace - there are so many small lochs. It’s a fisherman’s paradise. About a third of it is water and the sea is clawing back more land all the time. We’ll be the first to disappear when the icecaps melt.’
‘What’s the big land mass on the horizon?’
‘Skye.’
‘It looks huge!’
‘It is huge, compared to Uist.’
‘So what’s this stone circle called?’
‘It’s known as Pobull Fhinn.’
‘Which means?’
‘Finn’s People. Because of the scale of the stones, I suppose. They aren’t very big.’
‘And you say you can feel an energy here?’
‘Can’t you? Inside the actual circle?’
Megan takes a step further into the circle and looks around. ‘No... I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, I expect I imagine it.’
‘Shall I test you?’
‘How?’
‘Shut your eyes and I’ll walk you round and you tell me when you think you’re inside the circle.’
‘Gosh, how very scientific! Okay... Don’t walk me into a bog will you?’
Megan takes Rose’s arm and leads her, giggling at first, on a meandering route. ‘Shut up and concentrate, mother! This is a scientific experiment into the paranormal. And no peeping!’ Rose stumbles forward, led by Megan who eventually comes to an abr
upt standstill. ‘Right - keep your eyes shut. Where are we now?’
‘Wait a minute, I have to feel... No... no, we’re not inside it. Am I right?’
‘I’m not saying. Come on, we’re off again.’
After a few moments Megan brings Rose to a halt again and waits.
‘Oh, yes, I think we are... We are inside the circle now.’ Without a word Megan drags Rose back and forth and then halts again. Rose says tentatively, ‘Yes, I think we’re still inside... I’m pretty certain.’
‘Open your eyes.’
Rose looks about her, blinking. ‘We are!’
‘Yes. And you were right the other two times as well.’
‘Was I?’
‘How do you do it?’
‘Can’t you feel it? I get a sort of humming feeling. I don’t know how to describe it really... It’s just a kind of energy that I pick up.’ Rose shrugs. ‘It sounds really silly - but when I’m inside the circle my teeth vibrate... ’
~
The women stop for tea at Taigh Chearsabhagh in Lochmaddy, the capital of North Uist, a quiet coastal village enlivened by the comings and goings of the ferry to Skye. Rose shows Megan the exhibition space and the heritage museum and they settle down in the cheerful café with a pot of tea and cakes.
Megan tucks in happily. ‘So what is this place exactly?’
‘An arts centre. A meeting place. A café... They run workshops here and sell souvenirs to tourists and they make lovely cakes. It’s actually a very old building and it stands on the site of an even older one - Taigh an t’Salainn - which means The Salt House. It was built in the early seventeenth century to provide salt for the herring industry. King Charles I set up a herring fishery here, hoping to make a fast buck out of the fishing grounds of the Minches. Hard to imagine this sleepy little village as a hive of industry, isn’t it? And before that it was a rendezvous for pirates. But now it’s quite respectable, unfortunately. More tea?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Well, come outside and I’ll show you where I was sitting when I decided I was going to come and live here.’
Rose leads Megan away from Taigh Chearsabhagh to a little roadside promontory overlooking a small bay where a bench is placed to take advantage of the view eastwards, a view of the sea littered with countless little islands and skerries through which the Skye ferry is obliged to weave its way to berth at Lochmaddy.
‘This is one of my favourite spots. Isn’t it gorgeous? With the bay and all those little islands... And it’s always so calm here, positively balmy. Listen - you can’t hear anything but seabirds and waves lapping... I was sitting here waiting for the ferry to Skye. I thought Skye was where I was going to live. I’d stayed there with Gavin, it was familiar and handy for the mainland. Then while I was sitting on this bench - I think it was May, I can remember there were wild flowers scenting the air - Uist just grabbed hold of me by the lapels and said, ‘Come and live here!’ So I did. And I love it, I absolutely love it. And I love that Gavin was never here, that you’ve never been here. It’s my place, I can re-invent myself here. Begin all over again without being encumbered by my past. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, it does. But it sounds so... hard. I wish you had more support, Mum. More friends, more of a social life.’
‘Oh, my life wouldn’t suit you - wouldn’t suit most people, I suppose. But I didn’t want excitement or commitments, or any kind of... complications. And people, relationships bring all those things, don’t they? Friends, lovers, husbands, children - they all make life complicated. I’d had enough of all that. I wanted to simplify.’ Rose laughs. ‘You’re looking very sceptical, Megan!’
‘Am I? I suppose it’s because I don’t really buy it. I don’t really believe anyone can survive all on their own - or should have to. You least of all, Mum. What’s that quotation about islands? No man is an island or something.’
‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main... ’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
‘If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less... Well I hardly think Europe is the less for this particular clod having been washed away, do you? Come on - let’s go home.’
CHAPTER TEN
The following Saturday morning Rose makes a huge lasagne while Megan washes up after her. After lunch they both sign a birthday card for Calum. Rose resents having to share the card’s blank space with Megan’s signature, especially as she made the card herself. It depicts in fragments of collaged fabric the outline of a mountain range against a bruised purple sky. She thinks the mountains look a little like the Cuillin ridge on Skye and hopes Calum will notice the similarity. Her gift, which she has not mentioned to Megan, is wrapped and waiting by the front door.
Rose looks at her watch, then telephones Calum.
‘Hi, it’s Rose. Are you busy?’
‘No, not really. Planning next week’s lessons, pretty much on auto-pilot. What can I do for you?’
‘You can come and have tea with us. I’ve got something I want to show you. Something I’ve made for the exhibition.’
‘I’ll be right over. By the way, Rose—’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m over to Shona’s for supper later - she didn’t invite you and Megan by any chance, did she?’
‘No.’ Rose tries to sound nonchalant.
‘Oh.’ Calum is audibly disappointed. ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes, then.’
Rose telephones Shona to give her the all-clear.
~
Calum is greeted at the door with a ragged chorus of Happy Birthday. Megan holds a plate of four chocolate cupcakes, each decorated with a lighted candle.
‘I got them in the Co-op. One for each decade,’ Rose explains.
Calum stares open-mouthed and then starts to laugh. ‘How on earth did you know?’
‘Shona. Isn't that why you’re invited to supper tonight?’
‘Aye, that's right.’
‘Is it actually your birthday today?’ Megan asks.
‘Aye. Do you not see I’m dressed in black? I’m in mourning for my misspent youth.’
‘Talking of black, come and look at this. Megan, would you put the kettle on?’ Rose takes Calum’s arm and leads him to the door of the workroom. ‘Close your eyes.’ She positions him in front of the completed Basalt wall-hanging. ‘All right, you can open them now.’
Calum blinks several times and is silent.
‘Well? What do you think?’ Rose asks nervously.
‘Is this for the exhibition?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it one of my poems?’ he asks, awestruck.
‘Yes.’
‘Basalt?’
‘Yes!’ Rose claps her hands, excited. ‘You recognised it! What do you think?’
‘I... it’s...’ He shakes his head slowly from side to side, staring at the hanging. ‘I don’t know what to say. I was about to say it’s beautiful but that seems... inadequate. In any case it’s too disturbing to be called beautiful. It’s... astonishing! And you’ve done it just using black. Black and more black.’
‘Yes. Different blacks. You probably didn’t realise that blacks are different, the way whites are different. Working in monochrome is where textiles really score over paint. You can achieve so much by playing around with different textures.’
‘Aye, I really feel I want to touch it.’
‘Go ahead. You know I don’t make untouchable things.’
Calum approaches the wall-hanging reverently and lays his fingertips gently on the surface of the cloth. ‘It has a kind of crust. It's... crustacean... Surprisingly solid, isn’t it?’ he says, taking hold of the edge of the fabric. He lifts it, feels the weight, then peers closely at the stitching, fascinated. ‘So thick and... dense. There are so many layers.’
‘Like your poem.’
He looks up at Rose, surprised. ‘Aye, I suppose so.’
Calum runs his fingers through
the tangled curling fragments of black muslin hanging from the bottom edge of the cloth, a gesture that reminds Rose of the way he drags his fingers through his hair when thinking. ‘I like the dangly pieces. They look kind of fragile compared with the rest of it. Ephemeral.’ He points at a crater towards the centre of the work. ‘Is this meant to be a mouth?’
‘It means whatever you want it to mean.’
He grins at her. ‘Now where have I heard that before?’ He takes a step back from the wall. ‘All this stitching, this swirling pattern here... I’m wondering if it’s meant to be a face?’
‘Can you see a face?’
‘Aye, I can.’
‘Then there’s a face.’
He nods. ‘An agonised face. Twisted. Tortured. I think that’s what’s so unsettling about the piece. Underneath these abstract layers there’s a face - buried almost.’ He points. ‘These slits - they look like eyes to me... and this big circle, this hole could be a mouth. Or is it maybe... a wound? The hanging pieces, the shreds of cloth, they’re coming out of the mouth... like words. Or a cry.’ He shakes his head, suddenly excited, emphatic, as if realisation has dawned. ‘No, it’s a wound and this is blood. It’s weeping black blood. Haemorrhaging grief.’
‘Ugh - how horrible!’ Megan is standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, shoulders hunched. Rose turns to look at her, startled. She had forgotten her presence. Megan shrugs. ‘I thought it was just an abstract thing... You know - patterns.’
‘It is, Megan if that’s what you see. There are no right answers. I’m just interested to hear Calum’s response, especially as he wrote the original poem.’
Calum turns to Rose and asks gravely. ‘Is my poem as unsettling as this?’
‘I think “gut-wrenching” might be a better description.’
‘Is that so? Well then, Rose, you’ve shown me my poem. I think you’ve improved upon it!’
Emotional Geology Page 15