I remember the promise I gave to Cristall’s husband Anthony three years ago, on a cold afternoon in December, that time of year when the island is burned raw by the wind, all life stripped barren, pared down, desolate. A pair of buzzards were wheeling silent in a low-lit gloaming sky, that liminal time when day and night are distinct and yet inseparable. When light bleeds into darkness, and the sharp, chiselled edges of the mountains run deep into a restless sea. It is at times like this you feel you can speak of more delicate, fragile things, perhaps because these wilds are strong enough to hold them.
Gently, I took the hands stretched out to me. I knew and loved these hands. Even in the glow of the bedside lamp, the skin was grey, translucent, paper-thin. I knew that the Macmillan nurses had done all they could for Anthony. The room was warmed by a low-voltage storage heater, but despite the freezing cold, the window remained propped slightly ajar. There was no way round acknowledging what was happening: these were dying hands. Resting in my fingers, they felt waxen, cold, as if his life was slowly draining out of them. Cancer bleeds the life out of you until there is nothing left. Once the body is not able to eat, it starts to sleep and its muscles and strength begin to waste away. But even then, the mind can still be strong.
I swallowed, felt the muscles of my face set rigid. I looked fiercely into Anthony’s eyes. He was cool-eyed and clear-sighted, wearing a faint smile, of amusement and tender concern. I bit my lip, working hard to blink away my tears. Beyond anything, I wished to make this goodbye as easy as possible for him, or at least a graceful thing. Because this was someone who had lived a beautiful life. He had lived with an open mind, a generosity of spirit and a fire for searching for all that life might give, not just for his own enjoyment, but to help others experience it, too; his family, friends and all those he had known and loved. I had known him as a man committed to the guardianship of the earth, of the wilds, of nature; a man who planted trees and shared his passion and knowledge of them. And for this I will be eternally grateful.
We sat there in silence, listening to the clock tick. I ignored the scratching at the door and the murmur of voices downstairs. His family were gathered from the furthest reaches of the globe to spend these last days close to one another, together and alone. Death brings you into stark proximity with your own life, with your loved ones and with those you are about to lose.
Somehow the dimming light and darkening night sky outside made this farewell a more difficult ask than I had anticipated. No one wants to say goodbye in the dark. He said softly, ‘I will miss you. It has been my great gift to know you.’
Waiting for death involves sharing a deeper degree of candour as you dare to express all the things you will never again be able to say. It is also a time of keeping silent when you long to speak, because you know that, for all your effort and love, no words can help. Outside, the wind was picking up and, in the distance, I heard the raw-edged cry of the buzzards slicing the darkness. Anthony smiled again and raised an eyebrow. His eyes showed me he was listening intently. There was a concentrated, faraway look in them. I waited. Listened. Held his hand.
And then, out of nowhere, came a burst of light. It was dazzling; luminous, fierce and beautiful. Wordlessly, we lifted our clasped hands together and held them up in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the window. Mine were dark shadows, solid, dense, opaque. His were otherworldly; I could almost see straight through them, the flickering veins a blue-pulsing, soft-beating grip on life. And then the young spaniel that had been whining and scratching furiously at the door barged into the room. It was Isla, an adolescent pup who wouldn’t be separated from Anthony by something as insubstantial as a wooden door. And we laughed in spite of ourselves. Because life and love are beautiful. And sometimes, if you do not laugh, something will break inside. This was no time for the indignity of tears. They cannot help to mend that which is tearing open. I turned to leave, still grasping his hands tightly. It was hard to let go. As I flashed him a last look, his eyes locked on to mine. His voice was clear, but with a hard edge. It cleaved the space between us, so stark and uncompromising. ‘Promise me you’ll look after her when I am gone.’
I nodded. It amazed me how someone facing death so bravely was still concerned with the care of others. How can you prepare? I wondered. I cannot imagine how this feels. Knowing your life is slipping away, not knowing what lies beyond, if anything. Death asks of you a surrender and a courage greater than any I can conceive of. Outside the buzzards wheeled in silence. For a long moment we both watched them through the window. We both knew what the other was thinking. That these magnificent birds pair for life.
And then I left the room.
When someone dies, their spirit is free. But no one is free that is left behind. When Anthony died, Cristall buried herself, and I remember how helpless I felt, because there was nothing I could do. Sometimes it helped to be there, sometimes not. Grief is like soil. It is heavy and clings to your skin, even when you come up for air. And sometimes, even after you think you have brushed it off, it is suddenly there again, miring you in something heavy and dead and weighted and dark. It took Cristall a long time to come back; to sit in the sunlight and fresh air. I know some part of her is still buried under that soil. I did not lose my husband in the same way that Cristall lost Anthony, but I lost him all the same. And it occurs to me how so often life runs full circle. And how, three years on, someone I promised to look after has ended up looking after me.
‘Can you feel this?’ I try not to wince as Cristall gently touches the fingertips of my left hand. I nod. It is a relief to feel something. Physical pain is at least a connection to myself. Inside I am still numb. My fingertips are all I can see of my hand. I try to picture how these hands and fingers will be once the plaster cast is off. ‘As good as new,’ Cristall tells me. But in my heart, I don’t quite believe it. And, by the look on her face, I know she has her doubts, too. I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. With an effort, I clench my jaw while she washes my hands. When I open my eyes again, she is watching me closely. She rests her own hand next to mine.
‘Try not to think about it,’ she says. ‘Beauty is on the inside. Look at my hands. Yours are a thing of beauty next to these ugly old roots.’ But I do not see that. Hers feel solid, warm, and strong. As she turns them over, I feel the pulse in her fingers beat softly against mine. We sit like that for a while, our fingertips resting together. I cannot imagine my life without her. I smile at her and then, on impulse, I lean forwards and kiss her hands. And for a minute, I cannot see.
2
Foraging
It is just past midday, or what is called the forenoon in the west of Scotland. It is nearly time for the post, which comes off the late-morning boat, and always used to be a hopeful time of day. I am in my dirty overalls, picking brambles with difficulty at the end of the rough track that links my house to the world, where the van drops off my mail. The single-track road is quiet, so I know the rush for the ferry will have passed and soon the boat will be in. There is an unusually warm wind stirring, and the barometer has been falling, signalling a drop in pressure and a change to the skies. It is a time of year when you look to the clouds more closely and try to predict when, and from which direction, the late-summer storms will blow in from the Atlantic on to our shores. Weather can be fickle out here in the islands.
A friend appears, making her way down the cracked asphalt road on foot. And because I haven’t seen anyone, or heard my voice, since yesterday, my heart lifts. I try not to admit to myself, but these days I am often lonely.
The road is so quiet that her greeting sprays like gunshot into the air.
‘You know, we wouldn’t be friends if we didn’t live here,’ she says, without preamble, the words flaring out of her mouth.
‘I’m sorry?’ I reply as the rooks and crows start a riotous, clattering alarm call. Initially, I stare at her mouth moving, because when you hear something unexpected, it can take a second or two for your eyes and ears to synchronise. With a
flicker of confusion, I look at her eyes.
‘Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?’ She glares back, and then repeats herself slowly, enunciating each word. ‘I said, if we weren’t on this island, you and me wouldn’t be friends at all.’
There is a long silence. At first all I can hear is a long, beautiful blackbird note, suddenly snared in a mire of briar thorns. But then I hear the hard ring of truth in her words. I do not like conflict, so I think quickly of all the good reasons not to fight. It is too easy to be sensitive and, these days, I have few friends. On an island where everyone lives together within such a small, tight compass, you need as many good neighbours as you need friends. For a long moment, I just stare at her.
‘I know,’ I say eventually. ‘Just think, we might never have met if we didn’t both live here.’ I try to imagine all the people I might never have met had our paths not crossed by chance. And then I think of all the others I have still to meet, and that is a welcome, intriguing thought. So I smile at her hesitantly. She does not smile back. There is a distinct tightness about her eyes and her lips are pulled thin. I can feel a tense, reflexive pulling about my own. I wonder, what is happening when a smile is not a smile? And then, ever so slowly, she shows me her teeth.
‘That is not what I meant,’ she says softly, folding her arms. Is this really happening? I ask myself. I can feel my eyes narrowing and my muscles tensing. I notice how she won’t catch or hold my eye. It gives me a hollow sensation, as if I am waiting for something bad to occur, something I know is long overdue.
This feels surreal and primal: two females, of different ages and status within their social hierarchy, standing outside, baring their teeth at one another. The day goes silent. I can no longer hear the birds or the wind in the trees. And suddenly I feel vulnerable, because it is just me and her alone on the road.
I know I do not have the emotional strength for this today, so I turn to her and lightly touch her arm. Sometimes physical contact can achieve what words cannot. ‘Look, aren’t the trees beautiful today?’ I say. She just shrugs and roughly shakes my hand off her sleeve.
Even though I don’t want a row, I know I must stand my ground. I tell myself I’ll just ask her straight out why she is doing this. But as my mouth wraps itself about the words, my question comes out differently. ‘How did we get to here so quickly?’ I blurt. ‘Why are we fighting like this?’
And then I am furious with myself and furious with her.
‘You want to know?’ she calls to me, her voice rising.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘OK, I’ll tell you,’ she yells. ‘You’ve no right staying on now he’s away.’
And there it is. A clatter of words, like carrion spraying out of the treetops. The birds whirl away above us, round and round in their own slipstream, moving at speed but not going anywhere. It is strangely calming watching that insular, circuitous flight. Gradually they drift into the trees and leave us in silence.
‘But why shouldn’t I stay?’ I ask in disbelief. ‘I live here. This is my home.’
‘It’s selfish! It’s too big for you! You can’t even have a family of your own. Why spoil it for someone else?’ she screams at me. ‘That croft needs a young family to work it properly. You’ve no business staying here, keeping it all for yourself!’
For a moment I am stunned. I want to ask her, how is a croft not worked properly when I am out all hours, breeding and running my ewes, tups and lambs? Why does that not count in the scale of reckoning? And I think over all of that effort and love – does that not matter at all? What of the other, invisible, unspoken years of heartache? I tried for a family, I want to tell her. I gave my all. But I don’t because no words I can find could ever come close to expressing the struggle and the pain of that love beyond all other. So I just shake my head, upset and incredulous.
‘That’s a shocking thing to say,’ I tell her quietly. As I turn away, I wonder, how can such white, blinding heat come out of nowhere? And I am struck by the sheer futility of this exchange, as if the heat of anger could shift the very cornerstones of life. A minute ago, this was an ordinary day, calm and peaceful. I am bewildered at how swiftly we have reached this point of no return.
‘There is so much you don’t know,’ I say quietly. ‘And one day, I will tell you. But not now.’
‘Yes, you do that. Why don’t you tell me, and all of us,’ she shouts, ‘so we can understand why you’re still here!’
But already I am walking away. This island wind blows differently from any other wind I know.
It is not always easy to live quietly where the skies are so big and the wind blows free, brave, thrawn and fierce, wrapping itself about its magnificent landscape and impelling us to strive to match our small lives to its grandeur, in anger as well as in love. Maybe the sheer scale of the landscape dwarfs human emotions to such an extent that the voices of its inhabitants become more pointed, brave, magnanimous, generous, cruel or unkind in an effort to make themselves understood. It is a beautiful world of stubborn pride, hatred of difference and fear of change. In many ways, it remains feudal, with its own unique honour system that is quick to take offence and slow to pardon. Forgiveness is a quality that is as hard to disinter as the rocks in the soil.
Until this moment this woman and I have skirted our differences, sharing easy thoughts on walks, or waiting for the ferry. When you are outside, sharing that fresh air together, it is as if there is more room to breathe. I never believed I knew her more than superficially, as is often the way when very different folk are flung together. Like the sea, a friendship’s smooth surface can lull you into thinking those are calm waters glittering offshore, without considering invisible currents or rip tides. Now I realise I do not know her at all.
It seems I am being punished for staying on at the croft alone. During my time on the island, I have seen how rarely women step up to farming the land solo, unless their ‘menfolk’ die. In such unfortunate situations, they are treated kindly and supported by other males in their extended families, or in other alliances, and have their unconditional help and support. No other woman on the island runs a croft or farm alone by choice. I think I understand why. I have no family or alliances here, and superficial friendships are structures like fences or gates: they can be closed as well as opened. When those gates close I am left to fend for myself. Beyond my own walls, I must learn to protect myself from the wolves and darkness. Your instinct alerts you to this, like some ancient script still wired from older times.
Throughout history, in any traditional society, family or extended kinships are the main refuge from conflict. There is safety in numbers and they provide a better chance of survival, through a shared interest in each other’s flourishing. But when things go wrong, it is the patriarchal shepherd who stays. This island’s culture is rooted in a landscape where soil dominance and ownership are paramount. In common with so many ancient tribal cultures, its gender division evolved with shifting agricultural practices. In ancient times, men were first hunters, then herdsmen, while women were the goddesses, totems and cultivators of the soil’s fertility and crops. It is only in relatively recent history that men took over the plough, and with it dominion of the soil, while women were subjugated to the house, to domestic chores, management of the family and lesser employment. At a stroke, societies flipped from matriarchal to patriarchal. This division of labour was swiftly naturalised, perpetuated and enforced, and is still apparent in rural communities around the world.
On our small island, this social norm remains widely accepted and unchallenged. Matriarchy is family, children, handicrafts and baking. Patriarchy is its husband: territory, graft, progeny and succession of grazing and land. There is a Gaelic saying that the childless woman is helpless. Without children, she is valued on a sliding scale of decreasing worth. As a lone woman working sheep, without kinship or connection, I am one of a rare breed of its own kind. My working the croft and tending its soil singlehandedly is a guardianship that is increasingly seen as a
challenge, a threat and a risk.
As I walk away, I pass one of the sheep fanks, where a cluster of farmers are gathered about, drinking after a day at the tup sales. They fall silent as I go by. The tension vibrates in the air. I ignore the voices that start up again at my back and walk faster. As brave as I want to feel, I don’t want trouble here. It is a shock to any small community when traditional bonds are broken. Tradition is a wearisome, coercive thing. It is woven over generations, its threads pulled tight to lend cohesion and structure and design. Unhappiness is no justification for pulling apart the fabric or snapping the yarn. Threads that stray, tear or break are an anomaly in the pattern, giving rise to fear, rancour, bitterness. It threatens the stability of other threads. It might cause them to unravel – or to seek to unstitch themselves. I have no children. I have no husband. I no longer fit the design.
Walking up to collect your post once a day from the box at the end of the track is not a big task, but sometimes it can feel overwhelming. Just opening and stepping out of the door can be surprisingly difficult when you live alone. The invisible border with the outside world becomes harder to cross if you let it. I force myself to get up and out. Each day I hold to the sky, watch the clouds passing and the light smirring. Small pleasures like this can help. They remind you of a bigger, gentler, braver universe. I value small interactions, exchanges, kind words, or just a smile or a greeting. Words can be a vital source of nourishment, and going out and seeing one other person might be your only human contact all day. Kindness can make or break it.
I Am an Island Page 12