‘Well, let’s see what you’re made of,’ she says. ‘If we get on, we can talk about a few regular weekly hours. That’s really all that matters. Wouldn’t you agree?’
My heart is laughing as I put down the phone. I say her name again: Cristall. It feels like a promise.
Beyond the crossroads, where the north of the island shifts into its south, the hills steepen. The single-track road narrows until it is a thin, winding ribbon. My bicycle flies down the hills. On its inclines, I stand panting on the pedals. Highland cattle and birds are my only company. Occasionally I pass a farm where hens wander across the hills, and at one lies a dairy cow, chewing her cud contentedly in the middle of the road. When I run out of breath, I dismount and push the bike up the steeper ascents. Not for the first time, I have underestimated the ruggedness of this countryside. It is wilder, more windswept and more remote than the softer, undulating agricultural heartland of the north.
At last, I stand gasping at a summit. It takes me a moment to get my bearings. The view is so exquisite it hurts my eyes, but then I see a white house sitting quietly, surrounded by trees. Later I call it by its Gaelic name, Brea an Aluinn, meaning the Beautiful of the Beautiful. I could not know then how dearly I would come to love it. Only that I loved it at first sight.
‘Don’t let’s come in,’ a voice greets me as I knock at the door. ‘It’s such a day waiting to meet us outside.’ I gaze at the woman as she clasps my hands. Her skin feels cool and worn rough, only thin, like fine paper. She has an open face that complements the clarity of her voice. I seek her eyes. You do this, when a stranger takes you by the hand. It is an unexpected, startling familiarity.
She contemplates me inquisitively, like a bright, beady bird. I can feel something in her eyes, reaching out to understand. It makes me feel as if the world is once again a safe and a beautiful place, and wish that every meeting could be like this, open and welcoming. As she briskly takes hold of my arm for balance while she puts her old wellingtons on, I look at her shyly and examine more closely. A tight cluster of curls is jammed under a hat, so it is hard to guess her age. But beneath the strong fingers clutching my arm I sense an unexpected fragility. They are gnarled like branches and weathered, reddened by the sun and the rain, as if they have always lived outside. ‘Ugly old roots,’ she quips, catching my gaze. ‘But they’re all I have, so they’ll have to do. Here,’ she adds, reaching for an elderly trug containing some gardening tools. ‘Take the secateurs, the wires and the gloves, and come and see the garden. That’s why you’re here, after all.’
Our hands thread soft wires through the thick foliage, tying sweet peas and runner beans to upright willow canes. When our fingers brush as I wrap the ties around each shoot, I learn not to keep apologising. Somehow such intimacy feels natural when working outside. ‘Thank you,’ Cristall says. ‘These wretched hands struggle with those fiddly fine knots.’ We begin to share the work like that – me tying, and her holding – and I am glad because it clearly helps her aching, swollen joints.
Initially our arrangement is measured by the exchange of two hours of simple chores for a cup of tea and a freshly cut lettuce stuffed into a frayed string bag to take home. And then she says, ‘You know, I think you and I will get along just fine.’ I begin to go more frequently, and on each visit I end up staying a few minutes longer, until the minutes stretch into hours.
Slowly I learn to work more closely with the plants, rather than trying to force them into angles they do not want, and to pair leafy shoots together in a mutually beneficial alliance, to give the maximum possible strength and support against the winds. We look to the skies to predict the weather. It fills most of our conversations in unexpected and subtle ways.
‘Everything needs something to hold on to,’ Cristall tells me. ‘Sometimes even nature needs help to keep it safe from itself.’ It is tough finding shelter when a cold wind blows. We all feel the brunt of those winds in this often harsh environment. We talk, as our hands weave in and out through cold-freshening weeks and months. I love to listen to her stories. Each day I am awed by her resilience and stamina. She is out before 7am every morning, working all day in the garden, coming in only to eat, or at nightfall. She takes her energy from the seasons. She is, I learn, of strong Scottish ancestry and her roots lie deep in this land. She has lived this way on the island, with her husband Anthony, for over twenty years.
‘We all need to know where we belong. Everyone needs to know they are cared for,’ she explains as I learn to companion-plant for next year’s growth. ‘There is no point in facing those together that would rather look the other way. Plants are so much wiser than people. You will find your own people once they start looking for you.’
I think I know what she means. Everyone has to find a way to live in their own small community. Some days, as we talk, we walk out and look at the trees. It is calm and peaceful surrounded by that rustling, dense foliage. The fields around the house are planted with young oak and birch trees. I notice where beech saplings and fir have seeded in an adjacent field. One day, Cristall explains how bonds are forged in this green, leafy community. ‘Even trees have friendships,’ she tells me, ‘some closer than others. They are no different from you and me. Some don’t get along, others even have enemies. Sometimes you just have to learn to coexist. Trust me, it can be difficult for everyone. See how this tiny birch is still being nourished? It has a friend over there.’ A single shoot bravely grows from a stump of close-chopped wood. ‘It often happens when birch and firs live together. Yet over there,’ Cristall nods sagely, pointing at a sickly oak surrounded by beech trees. ‘Those, I’m afraid, do not, and will not ever get on.’ And she gives a sigh. ‘And there is no point trying to persuade them otherwise.’
I admire Anthony and Cristall. Their own roots are closely entwined. Their bonds run so deep, they sustain each other with a self-sufficiency so complete, the ground around them feels nourished, fertile and rich. It makes me think how like those great trees they are. Their love creates life around itself, sustenance for others. I wonder what happens, in such close relationships, if roots break, fall away or start to fracture. And how those roots are able to salvage or repair that straining or broken bond. Sometimes Anthony seems more tired than he might. I try to help as much as I am able. Working outside in the natural world teaches you that patience, strength and love are all relative terms. You place your trust in the sky over your head and the sap growing all around you. As I handle seeds, plants and saplings, I stop looking elsewhere for answers. Sometimes I am sure Cristall sees the things I don’t say. I trust in that, too.
One day we are picking broad beans. The air is chilly and the wind is keen. My eyes are glistening wet. I do not wipe them. In my hand lies a smooth green pod. I take off my gloves and gently tear it open along its string thread. It is dark and quiet inside the womb of this fruit. Its small naked globes stare blindly up at me. Their skins are calm, pale, translucent. Each nestles its imprint into the soft, fibrous interior of the pod. It matters that I can feel such small lives breathing. My hope of having my own feels increasingly like an empty promise. Time rolls barren on. Infertility is a silent weight. It smothers early hopes in an all-enveloping, crippling darkness. Sometimes it is hard to know if my childlessness is early miscarriage or simply an inability to hold any precious life inside me. It feels as if your own body is gaslighting you so that you do not know what to believe or trust. Every month the darkness extinguishes the early flickers of hope. By contrast, in this tiny shell is a whole miraculous world. I flinch as my fingertip gently breaks a minute embryonic cord. We work on in silence, but I feel Cristall’s eyes watching me. There is no hiding from that all-seeing gaze.
The next day I sit down and write a letter to Rab. I tell him all the ways that I love him. Writing is relaxing – it distils all that is held inside. It is only as you relax that you realise how tense you are; only when you smile that you know how sad you are. I give him that letter. There is a small drawer full of others he
has not touched. But this one I give him. And I hope he will open and read it.
It is a relief to have somewhere to go. My connection with Cristall and Anthony is not just one of friendship. Trust creates its own safe haven. Sometimes it is enough that someone else is listening. Sometimes it matters to know that you are seen and heard, and that your voice is wanted and cherished. These days, these things are important to me. There are days when I feel invisible at home. I have lost my voice, and with it all the bright sounds have gone underwater. It is hard to feel that only those thick walls are listening. With Cristall and Anthony it is different. When I am with them, I can finally breathe deeply, fill my lungs with air. They are more than just friends to me, they are like family; the one you choose for yourself.
In the months that follow, I visit more frequently, and she comes to see me at the croft. Gradually, gardening becomes secondary as a deep friendship grows. We sit for hours watching the swallows. I lose myself in their effortless rising and falling motion. When I look at Cristall’s eyes, I smile. ‘You have eyes like a swallow’s back,’ I tell her. And when she laughs and says, ‘Blue as the sky,’ I begin to think of her when I look upward. Anthony’s eyes, too, are blue, but they shine pale as moonlight. They twinkle like glittering powder snow. In his eyes I see bare branches, breath clouding with ice, dappled shadows. Laughter is a precious gift we often share. We laugh because we do not talk about what we do not talk about. We do not speak of the lack of laughter in my own marriage. And I am grateful for that.
‘Will you play for me?’ Cristall asks one day on a visit to the cottage when she senses I am troubled. And so I sit down at the piano and run my fingers over the keys. Music is always a source of comfort and inspiration. Ever since I was a child, I have turned to music to help me to make sense of all that is hard to articulate or seems incomprehensible or overwhelming. As I play a Bach prelude, a cool breeze blows through the open back door and windows. I smile as Cristall sways, waving her hand at our sheep all clustered together on the hill overlooking the garden, watching us.
‘Look! They are listening!’ she exclaims, delighted by the idea that those clear, beautiful notes could summon sheep. At the sound of Cristall’s laugh, I feel suddenly transported, light. Music connects me to a bigger world, even when the space I inhabit feels lonely or small. After that, we often sing together on walks, or take my old portable vintage gramophone, bought years ago from Portobello Market in London, out from the cottage and on to the hills. It sounds strange, but hearing music outside in the wilds makes you feel that even the mountains are listening.
As autumn advances we stack logs. When they are dried, we bring them inside. Each kind of wood has its own scent, and its flame burns differently. I love to watch the fire wrap our lives closely together. Cards are shuffled, chess pieces moved, poetry read, confidences and laughter shared. Our lives gently take root, our fibres nourished by small, mundane, repetitive tasks enfolded by our voices. It is a bond that makes my heart beat true. In those moments my heart floods with something as vital as oxygen. Each day I look forward to these times we share together. It is hard to imagine life on the island any other way.
By the arrival of autumn Rab and I have sold the cows. I am sad to see them go, but the prospect of winter feeding costs when we are not making our own hay are exorbitant. Although twenty-two acres sounds like a lot of land, with our flock count increasing, our livestock is running at full capacity. While the cows know us and are generally peaceable, once they calve they can become aggressive and unpredictable. Rab is lucky to have avoided serious injury when a protective mother charged him, pinning him to the ground, as he was tagging her calf. It feels like a warning of sorts. The sheep are gentle and easy to work by comparison, and more resourceful.
One day I drive up to Cristall’s house and return to the croft with her to pick the season’s last windswept flowers. When it starts raining, we bring the wet, broken stems into the cottage to fill vases and bottles, and to have tea. Already there is an atmosphere. The rugby is on the radio. Rab insists he is allowed to listen to it in silence. I try to talk quietly, but when Cristall laughs at something, I am embarrassed that Rab makes a cutting remark. I know what is coming. I can feel that dark cloud approaching. I get up quickly. I can hear that my voice is too bright as I say, ‘Let’s take our things with us. I have something to show you outside.’ I know how stupid that sounds, and that there is no hiding from it, because it is still raining.
As we leave, he kicks the door hard behind us. I can hear him shouting. My hands are trembling. I am upset and embarrassed – it is hard to be exposed like this. But more than that, I am so weary, the rain is tipping down and I cannot see for tears. ‘Let’s wait a moment in here.’ In the barn I hunt about in the straw and pick up a fresh, warm egg for Cristall from where a hen is nesting. As I drive her home, I feel her bright eyes watching me closely. ‘I am so glad we have each other,’ she says gently. And then she reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘Island life is tough at the best of times. But trouble at home makes it even harder. You know you can come here any time.’ One day, I hope I can keep her heart as safe as she does mine. I look back at her steadily, without blinking. I know she knows, without any words shared between us, that I understand she has troubles of her own.
Kinship is invisible. I am struck how it can be conveyed in a fleeting glance. I wonder, too, how, with so little movement, laughter and sorrow etch themselves so deeply into our faces. All those tiny fine lines are the Braille of our lives. All that we experience, intensely, but don’t speak of aloud. Sometimes we can read what is left unsaid in each other’s eyes or faces. I know to hide my cares from others. Some things that matter are safer held inside your own walls. Over time, I learn to read Cristall’s face as well as she reads mine. I start to see a worry that sharpens her beautiful blue eyes to a freezing sapphire. I notice how Anthony’s cheeks are chiselled like bare branches, how his own eyes gleam pale as a winter sky.
I promise her, ‘You know I am here. You can talk to me if ever you need to.’ Only some things are so hard to talk about. I know that. She knows that. Driving that beautiful, winding road together feels like a promise and a hope. I do not know where it is heading. But I can’t help but feel I have travelled it before.
6
Winter
Winter arrives sharply, like a breath of ice. Its bitter northeasterly wind ravages the exposed cliffs and headland. Wet, blackened stumps of heather are barely distinguishable from the glistening grey rocks. The livestock rounds become a daily sliding battle after the grasses and rushes die back. Forty hungry mouths wait desperately by empty troughs, foraging lean pickings. Each ewe weighs sixty kilos. Each step is a hard, staggering push against the tightly pressing flock. As the mountains darken to sullen crimson, the bright cottage lights beckon. I turn swiftly, scattering hay bales with raw fingers, my snow-wet cheeks smarting from that cruel, stinging wind.
Ice barricades the island for days as fierce blizzards shatter the skies. White-capped waves batter the windswept rocks. The low horizon gleams sulphurous, but it is a momentary lull. Shortly afterwards, the ferries flick their amber warnings to red: storm-force alert. The boats are winched in tight on metal chains, hauled close against fenders and protected by high harbour walls. The island is lost from low to high water, cut off by raging winds over tide. The winter seas are dragging broken shingle and snowmelt off the foreshores. The great ruckling stones lift in a churning suction of hissing foam, bladderwrack and plastic-littered surf. As the grey waves thicken, I watch mesmerised by the dense rising weight and force that curls not from their crests, but drives irresistibly forwards from each rippling truncated core. It is a muscularity that rips my breath away.
It is shocking to witness the destructive power of the waves and weather. Offshore, a lighthouse funnels a beam across the dark water, spindrift flecking the howling darkness with a bright salt spray. Inside every household, lives move quietly as the mercury plummets in the barometer glass.
The shipping forecast stutters its clipped updates whilst the open seas rock, oblivious to its news. Carefully, I tune the radio across crackling surges of interference. I learn how, out in the channel, an adolescent seal is struggling against the current and high water. It has been washed offshore from its safe anchorage between the smaller rocky islets. Exhausted, it strives to beat against the tide. As volunteers arrive to help, snow is still falling. The seal is nowhere to be seen. And still the waves pound on.
At the slip, engines are left running, exhausts juddering, as a collection of vehicles assembles on the shingle-strewn tarmac. Wipers glide, slicking slow as blank faces peer silently out to sea. It is one of the season’s strange contradictions. Winter is a time of solitude and isolation yet also one of gathering together, a winding-in of the skein of the year. Each day we watch the falling snow whirling and the sea wrack building, our eyes fixed stoically on the horizon. Christmas is only days away, and no one can move.
I rest my forehead against the window, eyes narrowed at the dark, whirling treetops. As my breath freezes against the glass, the bright lights across the water suddenly feel a world away. I hold on to every last chink of light. I worry that Christmas with our families will be cancelled again this year. Our excitement builds as the holiday draws closer, yet inevitably the weather takes a turn for the worse. I wish we could leave early to reduce the risk of disappointment, but the school term finishes so close to Christmas that it is often too late to seize any brief lull in the conditions. I feel guilt at the thought of once again losing this time with my family. We so rarely get together and we all live so far away from each other. The hope of seeing old friends, too, is as precious as a wrapped gift under a tree. Rab’s frustration is palpable.
I Am an Island Page 7