Bello:
hidden talent rediscovered!
Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.
At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.
We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.
About Bello:
www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello
About the author:
www.panmacmillan.com/author/lillianbeckwith
Contents
Lillian Beckwith
Dedication
1 Arrival
2 Initiation
3 Of Fare and Fishing
4 The Funeral
5 The Cattle Sale
6 Patients and Patience
7 Seagull
8 A Ceilidh
9 The Dance
10 Mary’s Visit
11 Getting Ready for the Wedding
12 The Wedding
Glossary
Lillian Beckwith
The Hills is Lonely
Lillian Beckwith
Lillian Comber wrote fiction and non-fiction for both adults and children under the pseudonym Lillian Beckwith. She is best known for her series of comic novels based on her time living on a croft in the Scottish Hebrides.
Beckwith was born in Ellesmere Port, Cheshire, in 1916, where her father ran a grocery shop. The shop provided the background for her memoir About My Father’s Business, a child’s eye view of a 1920s family. She moved to the Isle of Skye with her husband in 1942, and began writing fiction after moving to the Isle of Man with her family twenty years later. She also completed a cookery book, Secrets from a Crofter’s Kitchen (Arrow, 1976).
Since her death, Beckwith’s novel A Shine of Rainbows has been made into a film starring Aidan Quinn and Connie Nielsen, which in 2009 won ‘Best Feature’ awards at the Heartland and Chicago Children’s Film Festivals.
Dedication
TO
Lachlan, the son of Peter
Johnny, the son of Alistair’s wife
Angus, son of the bagpipes, &
Morag, widow of Hamish
1 Arrival
If you have never experienced a stormy winter’s night in the Hebrides, you can have no idea of the sort of weather which I encountered when I arrived, travel-worn and weary, at the deserted little jetty where I was to await the boat which would carry me across to ‘Incredible Island’. It was a terrible night. A night to make one yearn for the fierce, bright heat of an ample fire; for carpet slippers and a crossword puzzle. Yet here I stood, alone in the alien, tempestuous blackness, sodden, cold and dejected, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. On three sides of me the sea roared and plunged frenziedly, and a strong wind, which shrieked and wailed with theatrical violence, tore and buffeted at my clothes and fought desperately to throw me off balance. The swift, relentless rain stung my eyes, my face and my legs; it trickled from my ruined hat to seep in cheeky rivulets down my neck; it found the ventilation holes in my waterproof and crept exploratively under my armpits.
Somewhere out on the turbulent water a light flashed briefly. Peering through screwed-up eyes, I watched with fascinated horror as it appeared and vanished again and again. With stiff fingers I switched on my torch; the battery was new and the bright beam pierced the blurring rain for a few yards. Quickly I switched it off. To a faint-hearted landlubber like myself the sound of the sea was sufficiently menacing; the sight of it was absolutely malevolent. Nostalgia overwhelmed me. Why, oh why, had I been so foolhardy—so headstrong? And this was supposed to be for the good of my health! Why was I not sitting with Mary in the cosy living-room of our town flat, dunking ginger-nuts into cups of steaming hot tea and following from my own armchair the exploits of my favourite detective? The second question was simple enough to answer. The first presented more difficulty.
An illness some months previously had led my doctor to order me away to the country for a long complete rest. A timely windfall in the shape of a small annuity had made it possible for me to give up a not very lucrative teaching post in a smoky North of England town, and look around for a suitable place where, within the limits of my purse, I might, in the doctor’s words, ‘rest without being too lazy, and laze without being too restive’.
My advertisement in a well-known periodical had brought an avalanche of tempting offers. England, it appeared, was liberally dotted with miniature Paradises for anyone seeking recuperative solitude, and I had almost decided to remove myself temporarily to a Kentish farmhouse when the postman brought a letter which changed my plans completely. The envelope bore a Hebridean postmark; the handwriting, though straggly, was fairly legible, but the words themselves painted a picture as vivid and inviting as a railway poster. It ran thus:
Bruach,
Dear Madam,
Its just now I saw your advert when I got the book for the knitting pattern I wanted from my cousin Catriona. I am sorry I did not write sooner if you are fixed up if you are not in any way fixed up I have a good good house stone and tiles and my brother Ruari who will wash down with lime twice every year. Ruari is married and lives just by. She is not damp. I live by myself and you could have the room that is not a kitchen and bedroom reasonable. I was in the kitchen of the lairds house till lately when he was changed God rest his soul the poor old gentleman that he was. You would be very welcomed. I have a cow also for milk and eggs and the minister at the manse will be referee if you wish such.
Yours affectionately,
Morag McDugan.
PS. She is not thatched.
Mary, reading the letter over my shoulder, dissolved into laughter. We were still chuckling when we went to bed that night, I to dream of a minister in full clerical garb, tearing frantically around a football pitch, blowing a referee’s whistle, while two teams of lime-washed men played football with a cow’s egg—a thing resembling a Dutch cheese—and an old man changed furtively in the kitchen.
Deciding privately to postpone acceptance of the Kentish offer, I wrote next morning to Morag McDugan, excusing myself to Mary by saying that a further reply might provide more amusement. I had to admit to myself, however, that the ingenuousness of the letter had so delighted me that the idea of a possible visit had already taken my fancy. The reply from Morag (already we were using her Christian name) did not disappoint us. Her advice regarding travelling arrangements was clear; obviously she had been instructed by a seasoned traveller, but her answers to my questions about quietness and distance from the sea, etc., were Morag’s own.
Surely its that quiet here even the sheeps themselves on the hills is lonely and as to the sea its that near I use it myself every day for the refusals.
Mary’s eyelids flickered.
‘What does she have to say about the water supply?’
‘There’s a good well right by me and no beasts at it,’ I read.
Mary shuddered expressively.
‘I’m glad you’re not going there anyway, Becky,’ she said.
‘I believe I am though,’ I said suddenly, but I was thinking out loud, not really having made up my mind.
She stared at me, incredulous. ‘But you can’t.’ Becky!’ she expostulated. ‘Surely you can see that?’
‘Why not?’ I asked defensively. ‘I’m interested in meeting people and finding out how they live and I’ve never yet crossed the border into Scotland.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ argued Mary. ‘I admit the woman sounds fun, and so does the place; but it’s ridiculous to let yourself be carried away like that. It wouldn’t be in
the least funny to live under the conditions suggested by those letters.’
‘I’m sure it would be even funnier,’ I replied, with a flippancy I was far from actually feeling. ‘After all, there can’t be many dual-purpose cows in the world and it’s time someone did something to cheer up those poor lonely sheeps.’
Mary giggled. ‘Don’t be a fool!’ she reiterated.
Her words goaded me to a decision.
‘That’s just what I’m going to be,’ I replied.
Mary was not the only person to remonstrate with me on my decision to forgo the indisputable attractions of a Kentish farmhouse for the doubtful charms of a Hebridean croft. My doctor was equally incredulous when I told him of my plans.
‘I don’t think you’re very wise.’ he said seriously. ‘Friends of mine who’ve been up in the Hebrides tell me the inhabitants are only half civilised.’
‘Well,’ I replied gaily, ‘I’m going to find out for myself,’ and added: ‘Really, I’m quite determined.’
He stared at me for a few moments, then shrugged his shoulders and rose. ‘In that case,’ he warned me, ‘I think you should let me inoculate you against typhoid.’
Inoculated I was, and now, standing embittered and lonely on the pier, I was heartily amazed that I could ever willingly have embarked on such a venture, and heartily glad neither the doctor nor Mary could witness my plight.
The light I had been watching drew unsteadily nearer and with sickening dread I realised that it belonged to the masthead of a tiny boat, and that its appearance and disappearance was due to the boat lifting and plunging on the huge seas. Slowly she lunged nearer, the dark outline of her bow leaping recklessly until it seemed impossible that she could come closer without being smashed to pieces on the stone jetty. But suddenly she was alongside and a figure clad in streaming oilskins and thigh-boots jumped ashore, a rope in his hands.
‘Are you off the train?’ he shouted as he hitched the rope around a tiny bollard.
The question was directed at me. ‘Yes,’ I yelled back. ‘Is this the ferry?’
‘Aye.’ He spat with all the dignity of a man presenting a visiting card and obviously considered it sufficient introduction. ‘Iss there anybody else for the ferry?’ Again the question was for me and I peered vaguely into the surrounding darkness.
‘I’ve no idea!’ I yelled.
The man grunted. ‘Wass there many on the train?’
Dimly I began to appreciate the degree of familiarity I must expect in my new surroundings.
‘There were quite a few people on the train,’ I replied, ‘but they’ve all disappeared.’ Impulsively I glanced behind and immediately regretted having done so, for the movement had deflected some of the rivulets along chilling new courses.
‘Have you been here long?’
I felt that the questions were becoming pointless and was tempted to grossly overstate the ten minutes proclaimed by my watch. But I replied truthfully. Again the man spat.
‘You’d best be gettin’ aboard, then, if you’re going the night,’ he growled.
This was undoubtedly an example of the dourness I had been warned to expect from the Hebrideans, but to me at this moment it seemed particularly uncalled for. Apprehensively I groped forward. There was a surging gulf of water between the boat and the jetty and I was terrified of stepping down into it.
‘Watch your step now!’ commanded another voice, brisk and imperious, from the darkness, as I hesitated, waiting for the deck to leap high enough for me to clamber aboard without having to perform something in the nature of a gymnastic feat.
‘I can’t see!’ I wailed. Almost before the words were out of my mouth I was seized by two strong arms and propelled unceremoniously over the gunwale and down into the well of the boat. The calves of my legs came up against something solid and I collapsed heavily. I managed to gasp out my thanks but need not have wasted my breath, for the men, having seen me and my belongings stowed safely aboard, went about their own business. Miserable with fright, cold and vexation, every muscle strained and taut, I clung grimly to the seat to prevent myself from being thrown overboard with each lurch of the boat. There were no other passengers. ‘No one else,’ I thought dully, ‘would be such a fool as to cross on a night like this.’ The thought galvanised me into action.
‘I’m coming off!’ I shouted. My voice shrilled with panic. ‘I’m not going to cross tonight. It’s too rough.’
‘Ach, sit you down,’ the answer came scornfully; ‘you canna’ go jumpin’ on and off boats for fun on a night like this.’
‘Fun!’ I retorted angrily, and was about to tell them the extent of my pleasure when a suffocating stream of spray filled my mouth and effectively choked the words. The boatman may have intended his sarcasm to be reassuring, but before I could attempt further argument there was a staccato command, the men leaped aboard and the slowly ticking engine pulsed into life. We were off, and I must face whatever might come.
That we had left the jetty and were moving I could guess from the sound of the engine, but from the terrific impact of the waves on the bow I considered it more than likely that we were being driven backwards. The boat seemed sometimes to rear supplicatingly on her stern, and then nose-dive so steeply that I was certain each time that her bow could never lift through the water again. My agonised thoughts compared the performance with that of Blackpool’s ‘Big Dipper’, a thrill which I had endured once and subsequently avoided. This, however, was a succession of ‘Big Dippers’ and my stomach tied itself into knots at each abysmal plunge. While the boat roiled and pitched dramatically the sea belched over each gunwale in turn. Icy water was already swirling and eddying around my ankles. ‘How much longer?’ I wondered wretchedly. Soon I was sobbing and, in an excess of cowardice, praying alternately for safety and a quick death. I felt terribly sick but fear kept my muscles too tense to permit me to vomit.
A dark shape loomed up beside me, and quite suddenly I knew that disaster was upon us; that this man had come to tell me to save myself as best I could; that the boat was sinking. I smothered a scream and, wrenching the torch from my pocket, looked wildly around for lifebelts. I could see none. The man continued to stand, still and silent, and I guessed that he too was gripped by a fear as strong as my own. I was shaking from head to foot.
‘What is it?’ I asked weakly.
‘Tenpence.’ His voice was crisply matter-of-fact.
‘Tenpence?’ My own voice burst from my throat, in an incredulous squeak and relief flooded through my quaking body like a nip of hot brandy. I could almost have laughed. Foolishly I loosed my hold of the seat and a sudden lurch of the boat threw me heavily against him.
‘Steady,’ he reproved me.
‘Tell that to the boat,’ I replied pertly. With a feeling akin to elation I fumbled for my purse and handed the man a shilling. Gravely he sought the twopence change and handed it to me along with the ticket. The latter I promptly lost; but the two pennies I clutched like a talisman. It seemed fantastic. Twopence change on a night like this! Twopence change when I had been prepared to abandon my all! I began to feel quite exuberant.
The man disappeared and again I was left alone, but now I could at times glimpse the island jetty with its single light and what looked like a pair of car headlamps piercing the darkness beyond. Though I still had to cling to my seat as the boat performed acrobatics more suited to an aeroplane; though I was not one whit less cold and wet than I had been a few minutes previously, the purchase of a tenpenny ticket had given me new confidence; for had I not heard enough about the character of the Scot to be certain that the tenpence stood a good chance of reaching its destination safely? Otherwise I felt sure the weight of the money would have been left with my body, not added to heavy oilskins and sea-boots.
Like a steeplechaser that had scented its stable that boat romped alongside the jetty and I was promptly hauled out with as little ceremony as I had been stowed in. The headlights which I had noticed earlier had vanished temporarily,
but now they flashed on again, spotlighting my woebegone appearance. The slam of a car door was followed by a rich masculine voice.
“Would it be yourself for McDugan’s, madam?’ it asked.
‘It would,’ I replied thankfully, almost ready to fall upon the speaker’s neck.
‘Come this way if you please,’ the voice invited politely. ‘I have the taxi you were wanting.’
A large overcoated figure picked up my two cases, shepherded me towards the headlamps and, with a flourish worthy of a Rolls, opened the door of an ancient roadster. It offered indifferent shelter, but I climbed in gratefully, and from somewhere in the rear the driver thoughtfully produced a rug which, though coarse and hairy and reeking horribly of mildew, was welcome if only to muffle the knocking of my knees. As we drove away from the pier the wind rushed and volleyed both inside and outside the car; silvery rain sluiced down the windscreen and visibility was restricted to the semi-circle of road lit by the headlamps. The driver, who chatted amiably the whole time, kindly informed me that the road followed the coastline most of the way, and I had to accept his assurance that it was a ‘ghrand fiew in fine weather’.
For some miles the car ploughed noisily on, then it turned off abruptly into a ridiculously narrow lane, bounded on either side by high stone walls, vaulted a couple of hump-backed bridges in quick succession and drew slowly to a stop. I wondered if we had run out of petrol, for there were no lights or houses visible; nothing but road and walls and the rain.
‘This is what you were wanting,’ announced the driver, pushing open the door and slithering out from his seat. He could not have made a more erroneous statement. This was certainly not what I was wanting, but it looked, unfortunately, as though this was what I was getting.
Pulling his cap well down on the side of his face exposed to the wind and exaggeratedly drawing up his coat collar, he uttered a mild curse and flung open the rear door of the car, where he commenced to wrestle with my luggage. In the glare of the headlights the rain still swooped vengefully down as though each drop bore some personal animosity to each and every particle of the gritty lane. In all my life I had never seen such full-blooded rain!
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