I saw my chance. And after my ‘Yes’ added oh-so-casually, ‘Though I used a gun there, too.’ I could sense they were impressed as I added, ‘A throwstick’s not big enough for some o’ the things you’ve got to kill in India.’
‘What sort o’ things?’
‘I shot a mad dog, once.’
Mungo exclaimed, ‘You shot a dog!’ He sounded disgusted.
Duggie was scornful, ‘Anybody could shoot a dog – if they wanted – but who’d want to shoot a dog – eugh!’
I’d definitely made a false move there. I said quickly, ‘See that tree? I bet I can get further up it than you can!’
‘Bet you can’t!’
Next morning I rummaged in my trunk to find what I wanted. As soon as I met up with the boys Ewan gave me the lead-in I wanted. ‘They have tigers in India don’t they? Did you ever see one?’
‘O’ course I did.’ I didn’t linger long over my earliest memory, I knew what they’d want to know about was man-eaters. They did. I let them have a few details, finished with ‘…and all they ever found were her bracelets and a couple of fingers’, and then whipped out my photograph. ‘So obviously, it had to be killed. That’s me, with my gun, and that’s the tiger – after it was shot. You couldn’t photograph it before, of course, they move too fast.’
Three greasy caps clustered together over the photograph. A stubby finger aimed at the tiger, eyes peered at the face of the girl. Then, ‘It’s her, alright.’
Mungo pointed at the shotgun. ‘That your gun?’
‘Yes – it belonged to my father, but he let me use it.’
Duggie was sharper. ‘You shot a tiger – with that gun?’
I said quickly, ‘You don’t use shotguns to shoot tigers – they’re too big. It’s got to be a rifle.’
He muttered, ‘She’s right.’ He looked back at me, ‘You used to fire a rifle?’
‘Yes.’ Well, I had, once. And then the Paradox was a type of rifle, too.
I reminded them, ‘I told you about shooting the mad dog.’ Duggie frowned. Immediately I launched myself into: ‘It’s a rule, in the jungle, that you must always carry a rifle of a calibre big enough to shoot the largest animal that might attack you.’
They were clearly very taken with this idea, but then Ewan said, ‘That tiger’s a lot bigger than you – you must have had to fire upwards – so how did you—’
I didn’t give him time to finish. ‘People don’t shoot tigers on foot, not usually. You build a machan – a platform – up a tree. Then you get a live bait – a goat, or a young buffalo, and tether it beneath the tree, and when it hears the tiger around it starts yelling, and the tiger gets excited and—’ They were hooked.
Until an angry voice from the field beyond called, ‘Mungo!’ Although the rest was in Gaelic I got the gist of it. Someone hadn’t done his chores. As the three of them faded into the undergrowth in the opposite direction I heard Ewan saying, ‘Fancy – a girl – and she shot a tiger!’
I’d never actually said I had. Obviously if they’d asked me outright I would have told them the truth – but they hadn’t.
Next day I saw them scrambling round the rocks at the base of the Gob. I didn’t go over to them, I simply started climbing. All the way up, and then down again, over the crest. By the time I’d arrived back at the bottom I was a member of Duggie’s gang – or, as Mungo’s father put it, ‘The fourth young limb of Satan!’ He said it in Gaelic, but by then I understood every word. My grasp of the language had improved in leaps and bounds, especially now the school holidays had arrived.
On rainy days we sat up in the sail loft and I told them about how leopards cover up their droppings like a cat, while tigers are like dogs, and let theirs lie. And how you can tell whether a deer’s been taken by a leopard or a tiger because a leopard burrows into its kill’s stomach any old how, while a tiger first bites off the tail and pulls the guts out from the back before dropping them to one side. ‘Tigers are fussier – they gut and clean before they eat.’ Ewan grinned. ‘Like my Mam, with a herring. Tell us about the time you saw those vultures floating down the river perched on the corpses and feeding off ’em, Eve—’
On fine days we roamed the fields after rabbits – flushed up by Duggie’s Uncle Fergus’ terrier if we’d managed to borrow him. If not we’d often finish up arguing about the rights and wrongs of snares – I claimed they were unsporting, Duggie that their use was only commonsense. We came to blows on that one more than once, wrestling on the ground like puppies until some new excitement distracted us.
By now I ran barefoot, just as the boys did. How could I admit my own fear of snakes, when they were so casual about the risk of a bite from one of the local vipers? So the soles of my feet hardened and my toes spread and strengthened their grip as I climbed over the rocks and up the Gob.
The boys and I had an understanding that climbing right up the Gob was strictly a female occupation – their parents were inflexible on that one. Another understanding between us was that when we went swimming, in the icy North Sea or a convenient loch several miles inland, then I stayed a respectable distance from the boys – since none of us ever used bathing costumes.
Otherwise I only made two concessions to my femininity that summer – I wouldn’t chew tobacco, so I had to spit unaided when we had competitions – and I learnt how to gut a herring.
I’d go down the harbour when the boys were still at school – or had failed to evade their daily chores – and hang round the farlins when the women were working. As always when I saw somebody doing something unfamiliar I wanted to try my own hand at it, so when times were slack I’d get out one of the old gutting knives I’d found in the dresser at the croft and practise with the spoiled herring. After a while I could take a turn at the farlins myself – and in return for my efforts Aunt Ethel and I would enjoy fresh herring for tea, and for the next day’s breakfast. And so I grew to love the delicate flavour of grilled herring. I enjoyed fresh grilled salmon, too – but whereas the fishermen caught the herring, the salmon I had to poach for myself.
Not by myself, though – I’d go with the boys up the Helspie river or over to Dunbeath water, and then we’d usually be led by Duggie’s Uncle Fergus. Duggie had been doubtful as to whether his Uncle Fergus would let me join the party – his prejudice against the feminine gender was known to be deep-rooted. But the breeks I bought in Dunbeath combined with the lure of my jungle tales fortunately proved adequate to overcome his scruples – though he always referred to me as: ‘That Gunn boy – the one with the plaits.’
Duggie’s Uncle Fergus cited political justification for his poaching – he claimed to be waging a war of vengeance against the lairds for their role in the clearances – and as long as we promised total obedience to his commands he was often prepared to allow us to assist him in his mission. That obedience was gladly given, because we respected him as a master of the art (or should I say craft?) of poaching, and we four were the keenest of apprentices. Fish spear, gaff, snigger – or the larger ripper for when the water was low – Uncle Fergus kept a formidable armoury hidden in the thatch of his croft, and when in a good mood would give us practical instruction in their use. He had a more conventional armoury for when he fancied venison for a change, but I’m not giving any secrets away on that one! But I will say that my experience with kakar and chital came in handy. Yes, there’s a lot more to education than just what’s to be found between the covers of a maths textbook.
And he taught us dance the hornpipe – down on the quay with Angus McLeod playing the accordion accompaniment. A man of many talents, Duggie’s Uncle Fergus – most of them profoundly disapproved of in Helspie. However, I’m delighted to say that he’s still living at his croft and is now enjoying a ripe and prosperous old age – which just goes to show that the Devil really does look after his own.
I was luckier than Duggie, Mungo and Ewan – who when they turned up with their share of the salmon had to listen to the ‘You’ve not been out poaching again
! Just mark my words, you’ll get into serious trouble one of these days…’ lecture before the family all tucked in. No, all I got from Aunt Ethel was praise. ‘Salmon again, Eve? How delightful – you are clever.’
And when, having gone out on our own and taken one chance too many, we were caught by the water ghillies and soundly thrashed – Aunt Ethel was warmly indignant on our behalf. ‘The fruits of the forest and the wild beasts of the field should belong to all of us, Eve. That’s why I’m a supporter of socialism. The principles…’ Aunt Ethel was really interesting if she could just forget her religions, but she hardly ever did.
I hadn’t forgotten about mine, either, and on Sundays I went to church, as Apa would have wanted me to. The Sabbath wasn’t observed as strictly in Helspie as in Lewis and the other Western Isles, but it certainly was observed. I found it strange to be living in a village where the majority of people shared my religion – I say majority, because when I asked Aunt Ethel about going to church the second Sunday I was there she said, ‘I’m a Bhuddhist, my dear – but naturally you must worship as you please.’
So I made enquiries and was informed by Duggie that my proper place of worship was the kirk that stood high up on the hill between Helspie and the next village. ‘That’s where all the Gunns are buried.’ And so they were – with their grey grave-stones looking out towards the sea.
I suppose I’d hoped there might be some Gunns still living, too – but there weren’t, not in Helspie any more. Oh, there were people who must have been some kind of fifteenth cousin of mine, half-a-dozen times removed – but nothing closer. Lachlan Gunn, who’d been the last person to live in the croft before Aunt Ethel, was up in the churchyard too – he’d died, full of years and still a bachelor, some time after Apa’s visit.
Apa’s visit. That had been forty-three years ago, which is not such a very long time in a settled community like Helspie, and there were people who remembered him staying at the croft when he was a boy. They spoke to me about him. Part of me wanted to hear – and part of me wept inside as I listened. But only inside. Though one Sunday, after the service, an old man stood in the sun talking to me of Apa, and of how he’d taken him out with him in his fishing boat – and afterwards I could hardly bear it.
When I went back to the croft Aunt Ethel was shut in her room as usual. I walked backwards and forwards outside the window until at last she raised her head and saw me. She came out. ‘Are you alright, Eve?’ When she saw I wasn’t she made me a pot of tea and we sat outside in the stillness of the summer evening drinking it together, and talking.
Aunt Ethel talked to me as an equal. She spoke of the inevitability of loss, of the unwisdom of planning too much for the future, and the importance of living in the present. She had her own version of: ‘live for the day’ – hers was: ‘Seize the lamp!’ She leant foward and covered my hand with her own knobbly-knuckled one, ‘Remember, Eve, life is so precious – not a moment of it must be wasted.’
She talked too of how my Aunt Kitty had been killed beside her, and of her distress. ‘But then I buried my head in the sand, Eve – your grandmother was so much braver than I.’
‘But you went to South Africa, Aunt Ethel.’
‘Fanny was dead by then – I felt I had to take on her mantle. But I didn’t stop it, they fought on to the bitter end.’ She sighed. ‘When will men ever learn?’ Then she straightened her bent back as best she could and said firmly, ‘But you must never give up hope, Eve. If you tell the world how wrong war is, then one day, surely, mankind will listen.’
It was dawn by the time we went to bed. I felt years older, as if I were fully grown – talking to Aunt Ethel had that effect on you. She made you feel as if you could cope. And I did – until the day she fell ill.
Chapter Twelve
It was autumn and the boys had not long gone back to school. I went out without my oilskins, got drenched and picked up a putrid throat that was going around. I spent two days huddled up in my untidy bundle of bedclothes, shivering. Aunt Ethel came in with tepid cups of tea and soggy biscuits – when she remembered. I was so miserable, missing my Apa so much – desperate for him.
I thought nothing could be worse, but then Aunt Ethel caught the infection from me. She was eighty-seven, and that Saturday she looked a hundred and eighty-seven. I was terrified – suppose she died, too?
I was struggling to make her some porridge – I hadn’t a clue how – when Duggie arrived. ‘Are you coming out, Eve?’
‘No, I can’t – Aunt Ethel’s ill, I’m making her some porridge.’
The raindrops from his hair dripped on to the glutinous mass in the saucepan as he peered suspiciously into it. Then, scornfully, ‘You call that porridge!’ Grabbing the spoon from me he thwacked one of the solid lumps of oatmeal and announced, ‘I suppose it might just do for rebuilding the harbour wall, but nobody’d want to eat that!’
I’d had enough – snatching my spoon back I yelled at him to shut his great gob, ‘Duin do chab!’ He turned and left.
Twenty minutes later he was back again – with his mother in tow. Mrs Fraser stood in the doorway, looking around. ‘Dear me – the state of this kitchen! And with the old lady poorly, too. Duggie, run along and ask Mrs MacAlister if she’d kindly step over.’
By lunchtime Aunt Ethel was lying warm and comfortable between clean linen sheets, a fire was burning in the bedroom hearth and she’d drunk a whole bowlful of barley gruel.
Back in the kitchen Mrs Fraser turned her attention to me. ‘And you should be at home doing the housework – not running off with the boys every day. A big girl like you shou—’
She was interrupted. Mrs MacAlister had opened the door of my bedroom. Her eyes bulged when she saw what I’d been sleeping in. ‘It’s just like a mouse’s nest!’ She rounded on me, ‘Too lazy too even make your own bed!’
I protested, ‘The sheets are clean—’
‘These blankets are damp – everything needs airing.’
‘And just see the state of that floor,’ Mrs Fraser seized my elbow, ‘Take the broom, now, and sweep it.’
They watched my efforts with amazed incredulity. ‘Anyone’d think you’d never swept a room in your life before!’
‘I haven’t.’
Duggie’s mother led the catechism. ‘Made a bed?’
‘No.’
‘Scrubbed a floor?’
‘No.’
‘Cooked a stew.’ I merely just shook my head. ‘Then,’ they chorused, ‘Whatever have you been living on?’
I flung open the door of the tin cupboard.
I still have no words to describe the expression on their faces as they looked at the banked-up rows of tins inside. Duggie’s mother rallied first. ‘I wonder you’re not both down with ptomaine poisoning!’ Then, ‘I never thought id live to hear myself say it, but it’s a mercy that rogue Fergus has been taking you poaching.’ Mrs MacAlister nodded her agreement. Then they both began rolling up their sleeves.
By late afternoon the croft was unrecognisable: so swept, scrubbed and dusted I hardly dared tread on the floor. And I had been taught how to make porridge that was as smooth as silk. Mrs Fraser then took me through the first elements of bed-making, before she left with the parting words, ‘Now Eve, the minute I’ve given my menfolk their tea I’ll be over to see Mistress McNiven about you.’ Mistress McNiven was the minister’s housekeeper – whatever was I to do with her? I found out the next morning. As soon as Aunt Ethel was well enough to be left, Mistress McNiven was to become my employer. ‘She’ll give you a thorough grounding, will Mistress McNiven.’
‘But I don’t want a thorough grounding—’ Aunt Ethel began to cough, and couldn’t stop – Mrs Fraser rushed over to her. After a couple of minutes she turned to me, ‘We’ll have to call the doctor in.’ I panicked, and Duggie’s mother stayed all night. By the time she and Mrs MacAlister had pulled Aunt Ethel round I would have agreed to do time in the Scrubs if only it kept Aunt Ethel hale and hearty.
When she was back on
her feet again Mrs Fraser and Mrs MacAilster took me on one side and asked, ‘Have you no other relatives?’
I shook my head. ‘There aren’t any Courtneys or Gunns left – only me.’
‘What about your mother’s side?’
‘They all live in Hungary.’
‘Tsk, tsk – well, it’s fortunate for your Aunt Ethel she has you. And she’s robust for her age, Doctor Lewis says – so it’s up to you to keep her that way.’ Mrs Fraser smiled. ‘Don’t you worry, when Mistress McNiven’s finished with you there won’t be much you don’t know about keeping house. She’s expecting you in the morning, 7.30 sharp – she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
I asked apprehensively, ‘Is she strict?’
Mrs Fraser nudged Mrs MacAlister. ‘Does a herring swim?’ They both laughed. I did not join in.
Mistress McNiven: ‘The finest sergeant-major the army never had’ – that was how Duggie’s father put it. Still, the British Army’s loss was Helspie’s gain. Together with her friend Annie Butterfield she’d run a school of domestic economy in Glasgow – until ill-health and the call of duty had brought her to Helspie to house keep for her recently widowered cousin, the minister.
Her health had improved in the bracing winds of the east coast so she’d begun to take on girls for training again. Only one at a time, but her influence was out of all proportion to the numbers – a Helspie mother merely had to mutter to a laggard daughter: ‘Perhaps it’s time I sent you to the manse’, for chores to be performed at the double. The more far-sighted girls like Duggie’s eldest sister Mairi escaped to the herring gutting, but those who contemplated the alternative career of good service knew they had to bite the bullet and serve their time with Mistress McNiven.
She was between girls when Mrs Fraser went along to see her – she hadn’t intended to take another until November – but when she heard of my need she said it was clearly her Christian duty to take me on at once. Christian duty my hat! I can see now she must have been thrilled to bits at the prospect, once Mrs Fraser told her how I didn’t know how to make a bed and couldn’t even handle a broom! You see, the other Helspie girls could do all those things already, so they didn’t provide the same kind of challenge. Sort out a few sloppy habits, inculcate a strict sense of routine – that was all she had to do with them. But me – I was virgin soil, so to speak. She’d not had an opportunity like this since Lord Dunkeith had enrolled his daughter in the McNiven-Butterfield School of Domestic Arts and Economy for a ‘good grounding’.
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