How hateful to be the mistress of a manse where she could not serve a proper meal, Lizzie thought bitterly. The manses on the mainland could serve both food and wine in abundance and they were filled with beautiful furniture, rich textiles and valuable books. She made a mental note to order a larger supply on the taxman’s next visit and went out to search the outhouses for some of last year’s apples or potatoes.
When she returned, the small ship was drawing up towards Dùn and the crew started to take down the canvas and put out the oars. She could make out five people on board the open vessel. Two tall men in hats were standing idly by the bulwarks, looking towards the island.
‘There seem to be two passengers,’ said Mr MacKenzie importantly, needlessly confirming her own observation. ‘Indeed I believe them to be gentlemen!’ Lizzie could sense that her husband’s excitement at the prospect of meeting the strangers was as great as her own, although in contrast to her he had made several friends amongst the natives. He was especially attached to Donald MacKinnon, who was the headman of the St Kildans. MacKinnon was still a young man, but he had earned the respect of his kinsmen and they had recently elected him to represent them in dealings with the taxman and to settle disputes. MacKenzie was also very fond of John Ferguson, who was unusually intelligent and who could read and write a little and helped out with the religious education. But even so Lizzie knew that her husband missed the company of learned and civilised men. She had done her best to engage him in what she thought would be intellectual conversations, secretly reading old copies of the Edinburgh Review, trying to memorise some of the arguments presented by the authors, and then reproducing them in conversation. At such times the wish to please her husband was greater than the humiliation at her weakness being exposed. She knew that he craved the company of these gentlemen as much as she did, and she suddenly felt a hot surge of jealousy. As a man he could easily befriend the guests, but she would not have the opportunity to enjoy their company in the same way. Oh how unfair! Had she not suffered the isolation more than he had? Lizzie had never contemplated her home before coming here. The house of her parents had been a place to live: no more, no less. But it was not the place itself she missed. She longed for the familiar smells, tastes and sounds that had made her belong in that place which she could no longer clearly remember. Would she be able to feel at home in this place and yet be forever alien? She could already feel the strangers putting a wedge between her and her husband. Suddenly she dreaded their arrival. She could have cried for her own weakness – she was too desperate to see their faces and hear their voices.
By now, Mr MacKenzie had changed into his black coat and white cravat and looked every bit the Glasgow gentleman that he had once, if briefly, been. He was talking to her while he moved agitatedly about the house, telling her to draw the best chairs close to the fire and look in the storeroom at the back for the bottle of claret they had kept for a special occasion. Lizzie was not concentrating; through the window she could see the natives gathering on the landing rocks to greet the visitors. Men, women and children were milling around in a turmoil. Lizzie had never seen them so excitable and emotional. She had often watched them from the windows of the manse as they went about their business around the hamlet and she had been struck by their leisurely movements; the men especially seemed to be characterised by extreme laziness.
‘Let’s go down to the rocks to meet them – why don’t we go now?’ she enquired of her husband somewhat too languidly. ‘Be still, dear.’ He gave a short laugh and patted her on the shoulder. ‘I will wait a moment yet – you wouldn’t wish me to appear as easily excited as the natives, would you?’
‘I suppose not, no.’
‘And I will go on my own.’
‘But . . .’ Her voice faltered as he gave her another stern look.
He avoided her bewildered gaze and dragged his dark fringe out of his face with the fingers of both hands. ‘You had better stay behind to tend to the luncheon. We do not want these gentlemen to think that the minister’s wife does not do her duty, do we?’ he said humorously, knowing that he was hurting her. She looked at him incredulously but said nothing. He came to stand next to her at the window, their shoulders not touching, and as the boat approached the landing rocks he said to her calmly, ‘It is important that I exercise my authority as the spiritual guardian of the island in these situations.’ He walked out of the manse then, and she, diminished now, watched him from the window as he strolled nonchalantly down the path past the store towards the rocks.
Donald MacKinnon and a couple of the other men were holding the boat steady as the two gentlemen and the three crewmen stepped ashore. The taller of the two passengers removed his hat and put out his hand to greet MacKinnon and the other men. He greeted them heartily in English and they answered as gaily and politely in Gaelic, quickly followed by a question which the newcomers did not understand. By this time Neil MacKenzie had reached the rocks. He extended his hand to the young man, saying, ‘Welcome to St Kilda, sir. I am the resident minister by the name of Neil MacKenzie. To whom do I owe the pleasure?’ MacKenzie studied the man in front of him; he was tall with thinning fair hair and a narrow nose that made his face look rather long. He was not exactly handsome, the minister noted, but he looked like a cheerful and agreeable man.
‘I am pleased to meet you, sir,’ the younger man exclaimed. ‘George Clayton Atkinson. I am a naturalist and artist from Newcastle and this is my brother Dick, who is also a true devotee of the beauties of nature!’ He indicated the other gentleman, who was nearly as tall but darker and slightly heavier. ‘I say, what is it that these kind people ask us?’
‘The natives enquire whether there is any war raging in the Empire. This is always their first question to a visitor – we are rather isolated here.’
‘Of course, I understand. You can reassure these peaceful souls that there is no war raging within our borders at present – apart from the usual domestic and political squabbles of course!’
Neil MacKenzie looked relieved and relayed the good news to the islanders before turning back to the young travellers. ‘What is your business on the island?’
‘We have come to make a study of the birds and wildlife.’ Mr Atkinson’s voice was somewhat slurred and the minister thought the two brothers looked a bit unsteady after their long journey. He shook hands with Richard Atkinson, who had kept in the background thus far, and addressed them both. ‘From Newcastle, you say? Do you know of the artist and ornithologist Thomas Bewick? I have his book on British seabirds in the manse – it has been an invaluable source of information to me since I came here!’
‘How uncanny!’ cried George Atkinson. ‘Bewick is my mentor – indeed it was he who suggested that I should undertake this journey to the Hebrides!’
‘Ah, my dear friends, I cannot say how pleased I am to welcome you to St Kilda. We will have a lot to talk about no doubt, but it can wait a while I am sure . . .’ MacKenzie was interrupted by loud laughter from the St Kildans, who were welcoming the crew the Atkinson brothers had hired for the crossing. They seemed to be exceedingly well received and no wonder, for they were a merry group and they had brought a supply of whisky for the journey which they were willing to share.
Dick looked on with a slightly worried expression. ‘I hope they will not keep serving these islanders whisky at the same pace as they served us.’
The native men and women were emptying the boat of its sails and movables and as soon as this was done they started hauling the small vessel on to the rocks under a particular cry from MacKinnon the headsman: ‘Robh maht na gillean, Robh maht na gillean – shid I, shid I! Well done, lads – there she goes!’ There was much laughter and chatter.
One of the native men cried, ‘Tha fios an fhithich’ aige!’ and his friends laughed loudly but not unkindly.
‘What did he say to make them laugh so?’ Atkinson asked curiously. ‘Oh,’ MacKenzie rep
lied with a smile, ‘they say that you have got the Raven’s intuition.’
‘Whatever could they mean by that?’ Atkinson looked greatly alarmed.
Now it was MacKenzie’s turn to laugh. ‘They use that expression for somebody who turns up unexpectedly, and I would dare say uninvited, to dinner. Which reminds me, you and your brother must be hungry – would you care to join me and my wife for luncheon. Mrs MacKenzie has put the kettle on and I believe she is preparing some roast fowl. Bird is all the food you will get while you are here, I am afraid, but the puffin is quite acceptable when roasted!’
The Atkinson brothers looked greatly relieved at this prospect. They had been sailing in an open boat with a few wisps of straw and a peat fire in an iron pot as their only comfort. In spite of this, the young men seemed to be in remarkably good spirits and MacKenzie suspected that the five or six bottles of whisky that they had brought along for the journey had helped to keep them warm.
As the three men entered the manse, Lizzie, still humiliated and rejected, busied herself at the fireplace. Her back was stiff with disapproval. ‘Come, Mrs MacKenzie, and welcome these two gentlemen from Newcastle,’ said her husband, taking no notice of her mood. Thank God, they are English! she thought almost triumphantly as she turned to smile at the guests. ‘Welcome to St Kilda. I trust the crossing was not too hard?’ she said enquiringly. Ah, she could not take her eyes off them; they were her people, they spoke her language! The two young men seemed a bit embarrassed under her intense gaze. They bowed their heads and greeted her awkwardly. George’s boots suddenly felt too big and he wished that he had gone easy on the drink which had been served with the oatcakes that morning. He raised his eyes to hers for a moment and held her gaze. She was pregnant, he noticed, but her figure was still light and pleasing and her face open and pleasant. But it was her eyes that really caught his attention; they were of a dark steely blue that reminded him of gathering thunder – but without any of the malice. She looked remarkably fashionable for somebody living in this place, he thought, and her hair, which was softly gathered around her face, was arranged in the fashion of a lady.
‘Thank you, madam,’ he managed to answer at last, ‘our journey was quite pleasant. We sailed through a white night from Rodel, and the evening was so fair! It was marvellous – even without a moon it was so bright that I could still consult my watch at midnight!’
At this point Dick, who was not convinced that his older brother had the situation under control, remembered his manners and said, ‘It is indeed a great pleasure to meet such a fashionable lady in these barren parts of the Empire. We are much obliged to you for accepting us into your lovely home.’ He looked quickly around the small drawing room and couldn’t help noticing a damp patch on the wall.
‘You are very kind, sir, I am sure,’ said Lizzie, ‘but let us leave such formalities; please make yourselves at home. Luncheon will be served shortly. I am sure my husband would like to show you to your room.’ She was in charge for a moment and enjoyed being the mistress of the house, however insignificant.
The meal, when they finally sat down to enjoy it, was a cheerful event. The tension between the MacKenzies eased as they both drew pleasure from the presence of their guests.
The Atkinson brothers, who had been travelling around the Hebrides for some time, were quite threadbare of recent intelligence but they managed to convey some of the latest news from the mainland along with reports of the most spirited murders and accidents. The MacKenzies were much intrigued to hear about the suggestions of an abolition of the slave trade. George and Dick’s brother Isaac, who was trading in Jamaica, had sent them word of societies of black men calling for their freedom. Amongst the other news, Mrs MacKenzie was particularly horrified to hear of the unfortunate statesman William Huskisson who had been killed by one of the new locomotives that transported people along the recently built railway line from Liverpool to Manchester. She had seen a picture of a locomotive the previous year and it had terrified her; but to think that it could kill a man, and a Member of Parliament at that!
The two brothers continued to ask the minister about the nature of the island and its people.
‘I was struck,’ said Mr George Atkinson, ‘by the good looks of the inhabitants as they turned out to meet us on the landing rocks.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the minister enthusiastically, ‘although they are rather short they present neat and compact specimens of the human form.’
‘I have never seen teeth as white as theirs; did you not notice their teeth?’ asked Mrs MacKenzie of no one in particular as if the thought had just occurred to her.
‘Oh yes, I did indeed,’ said the other Mr Atkinson. ‘However, I was mainly impressed by the air of intelligence which they conveyed.’
Lizzie, who did not feel qualified to comment on the intelligence of the St Kildans, continued to remark on their looks. ‘The women have the finest flowing locks and yet their hair has never known a comb and the only water that cleanses it is the mists and rains of the Atlantic!’
‘Although I think,’ Dick disagreed, ‘that the women are not generally so good-looking as the men. The negligence in their dress is not becoming!’ He seemed to be blushing.
‘Is it possible then,’ George, who was greatly interested in the nature of man, mused, ‘that these natives have become quite sublime creatures by being bred in such an awe-inspiring environment?’
The minister laughed at this and remarked, ‘You must not ennoble them with more excellent virtues than they deserve, for they are quite crude in many ways.’
‘How so?’ asked George eagerly.
‘Well, for example, however much effort I put into teaching them the Scriptures, it is as if they will not take them to their hearts. They can repeat the catechism like a child repeats a nursery rhyme, but they do not seem to feel the weight of its truth on their souls. Nor do they let it influence their life and conversation. Indeed –’ the minister was heated now by that missionary zeal – ‘I have heard them swear in the most medieval manner!’
‘Medieval, sir?’ Dick, who was secretly fascinated by all forms of vice, looked suddenly interested.
‘Oh yes. They use un-Protestant expressions such as “by the Book!”, “by Mary!”, “by the Sacred Name!”– and worse still! And some of the traditional songs which they are so fond of are frankly appalling! I do not think their manner of Christianity has changed since the Norsemen came to these islands.’
They were all quiet for a moment taking in this information while the minister calmed down.
‘Would it be possible to visit them in their homes?’ asked George.
‘Of course. I will take you to the clachan this afternoon,’ MacKenzie replied without hesitation.
‘Clachan?’ Dick was still keen to know more details about the native life.
‘Oh, it is the local term for that miserable little hamlet of theirs,’ the minister translated helpfully.
Dick pondered this for a moment before he asked, ‘On our departure from Harris we were assured that we would imbibe a stench from living amongst the natives that will adhere to us for five or six weeks. Indeed some friends told us that our whole neighbourhood back in England would be able to smell our return to their society – is that true?’ He was blushing violently now.
Mrs MacKenzie, who felt that she had something to contribute, started to speak at this point, but her husband interrupted her: ‘The stench in those hovels is villainous enough! I dare say that you will bring a souvenir of a rare and delicate perfume when you leave Hirta, but I assure you that Mrs MacKenzie and I do whatever we can to keep the manse as free of foul smell as possible. You will be quite safe here!’
At this they all laughed and the brothers glanced at each other, confirming their relief at being housed in the manse.
After lunch the three men set off towards the clachan. George asked if Mrs
MacKenzie was not going to join them, but the minister replied that she took little interest in the rest of the island and preferred to stay around the manse.
Lizzie did not let on that she had overheard the comment. She looked at her husband’s back as he walked brashly across the glebe between the gentlemen brothers. Is this the man for whom I left everything?
White clouds were sailing the skies above the island, carried swiftly on the strong westerly wind. Every now and again the sun came out to steam off the remains of the morning mist which had lingered in the shade. The men soon broke into a sweat as they climbed the short distance through the dewy grass towards the cluster of rude huts in the centre of the amphitheatre of enclosed land. The hamlet lay snugly under the peak of the mountain they called Conachair, or the Roarer, because the wind and the gales would often sound around its summit. As they walked, the minister often stopped to point out features in the landscape, and the two brothers marvelled at the beauty of their strange-sounding names – Cnoc na Gaoithe, or the Knoll of the Wind, Gob Chathaill, the Point of the Wailer, and Laimhrig nan Gall, the Landing Place of the Strangers. A peaceful-looking silver stream that dropped into Village Bay was called Abhainn Ilishgil – the Deep Stream of Evil.
George Atkinson looked around in wonder – the grandeur of the place far exceeded any expectations he had previously had. The rocks and cliffs around the bay were the most magnificent and sublime precipices that he had ever seen during his extensive travels in the British Isles.
The clachan of houses lay about a hundred yards from the sea. They were around thirty in number, and as the gentlemen approached the open yard in front of them George was for the first time met by the smell of fulmar oil, joined to the powerful odours of the profusion of putrid bird carcasses and unwashed men and dogs. Nothing could have prepared him for this stench. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and held it over his nose. As they drew closer to the houses he could see that a great many bird carcasses were jammed into cracks in the stone walls by their bills, thus drying in the air. Dogs were chewing on discarded bones and offal. A group of children were playing with some fulmar heads, feeding them to the dogs. George was appalled to see a girl of about four or five years old trying to pull the neck of a gannet over her foot as a stocking. The minister followed his gaze and explained. ‘They often make shoes out of the necks of gannets – they cut the head off at the eyes, and the part where the skull was serves as the heel of the shoe and the feathers on the throat offer warmth and waterproofing. They generally only last a couple of days, but at times there are so many birds that they can wear these disposable socks almost daily.’
Island of Wings Page 5