One day I arrive home from a local farm with a scrap of a pup in the truck. She is long-haired, downy, like a soft, dark fox. She has tiny white paws and a white tip to her tail. As I hold her, my fingers sink deep into her silky fur. ‘Hello, Maude,’ I say. She stares up at me with bright amber eyes. I fall in love that day. She is more than a working dog to me. She fills the vacuum I am feeling as I wait for motherhood.
‘She can’t stay outside,’ I say.
I want to bring her into the house. She is so tiny, I don’t want her to be alone in the cold stone barn. But Rab is firm. ‘She’s not a baby. She’s a working dog.’ And one of the farmers, who is in the kitchen, nods in agreement, pours another dram. ‘Only way for a working dog.’
‘She’ll be too soft. And she’ll learn bad habits.’
‘You’ll be a laughing stock, ruining her for work.’
She is my dog. But the croft is man’s work. So we end up putting her in the barn.
That first night she cries and cries. I cannot bear that such a small life can feel so alone. So I go and sit with her in the straw. I have wrapped a hot-water bottle in a soft blanket and brought a ticking clock to echo the sound of her mother’s heartbeat. In bed in the cottage, I lie awake. I wonder why it is OK to keep a dog alone, away from a pack or company, for long hours of the day, and not a child.
She grows fast. ‘You love that dog more than you love me,’ Rab says. And I laugh. Because although that is inconceivable, I suppose in one sense it is true. Maude and I seek in each other a mutual trust and unconditional love that is unfailing. Our bond is as deep as the sky. We do not tire of each other. Some things are hard to put into words.
Every day Maude and I walk the length and rounds of the croft, familiarising ourselves with its sudden dips, hidden corners, cliffs and trees. It is a difficult terrain. With only a single enclosure, the ground is wild, open. I do not want to tie a rope about her, or let her drag a weight, as I have been instructed. I want her to be free. So I put words, signs and sounds to her movements and teach them to her.
I spend hours working and playing with her, introducing prompts of voice, whistle, arm and hand signs. Quickly we progress to working the sheep together. We are inseparable.
Later in the autumn, the months of hard work pay off. Hail is flying like bullets and the skies darkening as I track back, head down, barrelling into the freezing fields. We are gathering in the sheep from the high, exposed land of the north-facing croft into the southerly, more sheltered fields. The sheep have broken their cover, and a flighty gimmer, barely two years old, has recklessly split away from the flock. It is an anxious moment. The flock starts shredding. It is like a weak seam that is suddenly torn, so that the fabric on either side shears as its edges fray.
As Maude bounds away, the wind changes direction. ‘Come-bye,’ I yell, but she does not hear me. She is still a young dog. My lips are blue from whistling. I want to cry with the cold. I watch as she scales a cliff and then veers off to the left, looping back on herself. My heart freezes as the sheep scatter, heading towards the rough side of the cliff and a forty-foot sheer precipice below. It does not bear thinking about how wrong this may go.
‘Maude, look up. Please look up.’ Only she doesn’t. So I am running, hard into that wind, willing her to turn around. Suddenly I stop. I do not shout. I give up my calls, cries and whistles. I try to speak to her. Not with my voice, but with my heart. Whatever it is that reaches her, sheer determination or sheer desperation, it seems to have its own voice. As she looks up, I can feel something connect. It is like a key finding its lock. Gently I guide her in, semaphoring her whirling body like someone guiding a plane coming in to land. I can feel her effort, that intense, conscious intelligence, flickering like a live wire through the circuit board of her brain; feel the intuitive response to my silent call.
As the sheep come skittering past, I run after them. I pull the gate bolt shut and lean on it, panting, rubbing the wind and hair out of my eyes. I crouch down and hold Maude. Looking at those sheep, safe out of the wind, I feel like my heart will burst.
It is a joy to be in the cottage. For weeks after we move in it is bare. We live with a couple of chairs, an old cooker and a thin mattress on the floor. One day I salvage a small traditional table from the barn. It is covered in cobwebs, dust and fusty old haylage. As I strip it back, tiny silverfish wriggle out of its hinges and joints. I imagine its life before, the conversations and secrets it has heard. It makes me wonder if our hopes and struggles are the same as those of our predecessors. I find an old torn photograph in the wooden kist left in the cottage and pin it up on the wall. It is a portrait of a man and a woman. They have strong faces and watchful, reproachful eyes. ‘They must be family to this place,’ I say. Only Rab takes it down. ‘There are enough eyes watching already,’ he says. I think I know what he means.
I notice him, some days, staring out at the sky. He is drinking and smoking more than he used to.
One day I stiffen when he remarks: ‘Sometimes I wake thinking, is this it? This and only this?’
I glance at him to try to read his expression. I am so tired of moving. I remember how Rab was before those London streets got too close. I thought we had left that all behind. Restlessness leads to a disruptive unhappiness. I try not to dwell on that. It made our city life feel cramped and small. The skies here feel immense to me. It worries me when I catch that look on his face.
I smooth a dark oil over the table. When it is dry, I bring it inside. I lay a cloth and put plates on it. We have not sat at a table for months. I pick a tiny posy of wild flowers, harebell and wild thyme, gathered on the hill. We have caught two brown trout in the loch. That evening, we wash, dress and sit down to eat. It feels like a date. We look at each other and laugh. ‘So stupid, but I feel shy,’ I say.
The next minute, Rab jumps up. There is the unmistakable noise of a tractor approaching. ‘Holy shit, it’s going to crash into the barn!’ It doesn’t, instead braking hard to miss the tight corner. But it comes so close it clips the water butt. Then, abruptly, it stops.
‘This could be interesting,’ he says. ‘Some island action at last.’
I have just put the beautiful, steaming pink trout on the table. ‘So much for supper, then,’ I say, suddenly annoyed. Rab is already out of the door.
In the yard, two men are lying sprawled in the dust. I can see they have been working at sheep. Their checked shirts are covered in fleece, and muck spatters their jeans. An empty bottle lies on the ground. Slowly, the younger of the two hauls himself up, leaning heavily on the other. His face is thickset and reddened, but the rest of him is slim and pale.
‘Sorry.’ He shakes his head, slurring, ‘Think I must’ve tripped up there.’ He leans over, pulls his companion to his feet. ‘Tricky turn. Stopped a bit smart. Came to see our new neighbours.’ He sways over to Rab, slapping him hard on the shoulder. ‘Now you think you’re staying at Hector’s croft.’
I walk over and stand next to Rab. He steps forward to offer a hand to the older man, who suddenly sinks against the tractor wheel. I turn to face our upright visitor and realise I have seen his face before.
‘Ah, a bonny lass for all that,’ he reasons, roughly jostling my arm. It is not quite a handshake. His fingers wrap about my wrist so it is hard to disengage. I try to step away but he doesn’t let go.
I glance around quickly, looking for Rab, but he is still assisting the other man and his back is turned to me.
‘Not at all,’ I say, taking another step back. ‘If you don’t mind … you’re hurting my arm.’
‘Ach, like that, is it?’ His face flickers, switching from a smile to something harder. One minute he is holding my wrist, and then his fingers slide down the back of my arm. It happens so quickly, I am not prepared. His hand catches my armpit, fingers resting close to the straps of my dress. It lingers there, for a probing second, against the soft skin hidden just under the posterior curve of my breasts. My skin burns at that unwanted touch.
‘So now we’ve made our introductions,’ the man banters testily, ‘are you not going to let us in?’
He stares at Rab, eyes darkening. ‘Don’t want us to think you’re not …’ I watch his lips, as each syllable is enunciated deliberately, ‘… not very hos-pit-able.’
‘Of course, you’re welcome,’ Rab says carefully. ‘And now you’ve met my wife,’ he flashes me a look, ‘you’re welcome to a dram.’ He frowns at me, not understanding, as I shake my head. My eyes are fierce. They tell him no.
There is an awkward silence.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I say, to fill it. ‘I’ll go and get some tea.’
Rab scans my face, bemused, uncomprehending. Then he shrugs and walks ahead to the door.
‘You do not confront this,’ he tells me silently in that look. ‘Or overreact. Not here, not now, not with this level of alcohol.’ I know to him it is important to emerge none the worse for this exchange. But from what I can see, both of our visitors have had more than a skinful. Any more drams and both will be out cold on the floor. Suddenly I am furious. I wonder, if not here, and if not now, when? I am not sure which side is right or wrong, not sure what to do, aware only that our home is not our own. And that somehow Rab has distanced himself from me. I do not like how that feels.
We file silently into the room. The fish look up at me with cold, flat eyes. I switch the oven off and put them back in to keep warm. Rab goes to a cardboard box and takes out two more glasses. I watch him pour out hefty drams. He makes an effort to keep things light, but the atmosphere is strained. After about an hour, both men pass out.
‘What do we do?’ I ask anxiously. ‘They’ll be here all night.’ I feel so upset and angry. ‘Rab, for God’s sake. This is our home.’
We stare at each other, unseeing. I hate it when we react so differently. And then Rab kicks a chair. ‘Don’t be so uptight.’ And that is worse than anything I have felt before.
As he shakes the men awake, he is rough and casual. He is still processing my hasty explanation of what happened out in the yard. It irks me that to him this is merely a move in some kind of game.
‘Well, thanks for coming over. Time you were on your way.’
In the yard, the atmosphere changes right in front of my eyes. It is excruciating. One minute they are going. Then, in a flash, something sparks. The younger man shoves Rab from behind. He stands shoulders squared, legs braced, fists balled at his sides. I feel my own hands clenching, my nails biting deep into my skin. As I watch his fleshy lips working, I feel my own mouth go dry. I freeze as he thrusts his reddened face up against Rab’s. Then he turns to me and leers, ‘So, you’re here, all nice and cosy. Think it’s going to be easy, do you? Well, if there’s one thing I hate more than fucking incomers, it’s a shower of bastards coming up to where you don’t belong.’
I blink as I feel my limbs move slowly in that slick way they do when you are pumped full of adrenaline. Rab puts a hand on the man’s shoulder and I gasp as, roughly, he shakes it off. He must sense my fear and incredulous anger because his face is so close I can feel his breath hot on my cheek. I fix my eyes on his, and for a moment I stare back hard. Then I drop them quickly. I want to hurt him but there is real hatred in his look. I stare at the spittle on his chin, his too-soft lips, his tongue slurring his words, and feel the space around me shrinking. ‘Nice tits, breeding hips,’ he leers. ‘A sweet young heifer for bulling is what this croft needs.’
After they are gone, we don’t eat the fish. They are dried and burned. We sit in silence.
‘Fancy a dram?’ Rab asks eventually.
‘Make it a double,’ I nod. And then I pick up the bottle myself. My hand is shaking as I fill up my glass.
By the autumn I have a beautiful Highland mare. She is a cream dun, as bright as pale winter sunshine. I call her Fola. She is a brood mare, as wild as the hills. But after a long summer running with a stallion, she is still barren. ‘Time you got rid of her,’ a neighbour tells me. ‘No use for a freeloader on the croft.’ And I am sad. Because I know they are right. Yet there is something gentle in Fola’s eyes that stops me. ‘Let’s give it a bit longer,’ I argue with Rab. ‘Maybe we can think of another use for her.’ Rab is unconvinced.
On rainy days, her hoof marks fill with water. ‘It’s poaching the soil and wrecking the croft,’ he says.
‘But what about the cows?’ I ask. ‘There are so many of them. Their hooves make far more mess.’
‘They pay their way with calves,’ he says. And then he folds his arms and looks at me challengingly.
I cannot argue with this. ‘Let’s keep her till the spring,’ I suggest. ‘I’ll try to find a way to make it work.’
I am determined. We have discovered that our croft used to be the home of the blacksmith. Below the broken thatch posts, in the derelict barn, cobbles and stalls remain where gentle working horses used to stand. I love that, with Fola, horses are returning to the croft and I wonder if she might one day work the land.
In the increasingly mechanised world of farming, I can understand the resistance to a working horse. Yet I begin to notice how, when other farmers stop by, my ideas or contributions are ignored, regarded with cool amusement or swiftly talked down. Sometimes I wonder if, to them, there is no legitimate place for a woman in the fields either.
I catch Fola and rub my hands, featherlight gentle, over every inch of her body. ‘It’s OK,’ I tell her. ‘You can stay here, with or without a foal.’ And then I whisper, ‘But you have to help me.’ And I am excited, because I think I have, if not a solution, then at least a working plan.
‘Takes a long time to break a horse’s spirit,’ a farmer tells me.
‘I’m going to do this gently,’ I reply firmly.
When we are alone, I make a promise to Fola. ‘I will never chain you to the back of a lorry and drag you,’ I tell her. Her sensitive eyes are watching me. I know she is listening. It takes time for a horse to trust you. I talk to her, smoothing every inch of her coat with a cloth. When a fly lands lightly on her back, I see the skin instantly ripple. It makes me think of how responsive that acute sensitivity can be. That day, I dream of us running across those hills together. The sun on our faces, the wind on our backs and all the sea for a view.
‘Are you sure you should be doing that?’ Rab asks when I sit bareback on her. I am elated and terrified as she steps nervously, in unsteady circles, on the grass. The next day I fall off. I learn to make my body soft just as I am slipping away from her. I practise this. I lie in the grass, quietly, and allow her to come and find me. Backing takes a long time. It takes longer than it might, because we are both learning. And then, one day, as I sit on her, and feel her body breathing, pressing into my thighs, I pat her soft neck. ‘Come on Fola, it’s now or never.’ Her pricked ears quiver, listening.
I lean forwards, my head close to her mane, her eyes shining as she starts to gallop. And suddenly, the wind is blowing against us, the hills falling away and I am flying with Fola. We are flying together. The sky is above us and the solid earth is drumming below in a steady beat of hooves. I have found a part of myself that is fresh and new to me. I am wild and free.
In the autumn, the deer swim over from the barren hills. The island sees them coming. It watches with a harder face. But the deer keep coming. Desperate with hunger, they risk the fierce crossing as tides set the island adrift. Survival depends on risking all for that sweet bite. Inland, rich furrows of pasture and common grazing running longitudinally up the island’s narrow spine hide this feral struggle. Yet at dawn, occasionally I spy the deer daring to follow those ragged rock seams in the hope of a smooth, shallow skein of grass. By breaching territory, they
risk their safety. They remind me to watch where I tread.
There are some who wish us well. And others who, even before they meet us, appear to want us to fail. Sometimes it makes me sweat.
‘We were going to buy this croft.’
There is an edge, a hostility and the suggestion of an illegitimacy to our ownership that makes me catch my breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rab says, rubbing his neck uncomfortably. ‘That’s too bad. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you. But on the other hand,’ he adds, ‘I’m glad we are here.’
Later, when the subject is not dropped, and glasses are filled and emptied, he asks straight out, ‘But did you put an offer in?’
And it transpires that, whilst it was a close-held intention, no action was taken either to offer or to take steps to buy.
‘Just let it go,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter. We are here now. These feelings, they will disappear in time.’
Only it does. And they don’t. Years later, those resentments are still there. We hear whispers of a handwritten scrap of paper and a hushed-up inheritance dispute. Sometimes it is easier to bury a half or a whole truth. Or to turn your back on those unsettling gusts. All whispers, just like the stinging salt wind, eventually lull, tire of themselves or simply drift away.
‘But it makes no sense,’ I say, the day after another bruising exchange. ‘If families so want to stay together, if communities only want their own to stay, why blame us and not take the quarrel to the vendor? Surely it is the family or individual selling that sets and accepts the price. Why not take less, and have more, in that case?’ Their argument seems unjust, a hypocrisy that rankles for its slight and sleight of hand. And it worries me. Sometimes it feels strange that where we live, we will always be invisible. No matter what we do, how long we live or stay, this will always be ‘Hector’s croft’.
I Am an Island Page 5