With a despairing shudder I pulled my waterproof closer about my shoulders and peered anxiously over the driver’s back, hoping fervently that he had stopped as near to the entrance gate as was possible. I was disappointed. On each side of the car the stone walls loomed up impenetrably, and I could see that it was not so much that the walls themselves were high, as that the road was a cutting, leaving an earth bank on either side thus forming a fairly inaccessible barrier of about six foot in height between the lane and the field.
‘I can’t see any entrance,’ I complained fretfully.
The driver paused in his attempt to lever my second case through the door of the car. ‘Oh no,’ he assured me with nimble complacency; ‘there’s no entrance at all here, but you’ll just climb over the wall, d’y’ see? The house is beyond there.’
I could not have been more astounded had he told me I must wait for the drawbridge to be lowered! I began to realise that acrobatics were a necessary accomplishment for visitors to Bruach.
‘I can’t climb walls!’ I protested, ‘and that one is a good sis feet high. Surely,’ I went on, ‘there must be some other entrance.’
‘Oh surely, madam,’ he replied in conciliatory tones, ‘but the tide’s in just now, and you’d be after swimming for it if you were going to use that tonight.’ He permitted himself a sardonic chuckle.
‘What a welcome!’ I muttered.
‘Ach, you’ll soon nip over the wall easy enough.’ the driver assured me blandly. ‘I’ll give you a leg up myself.’
Now while I do not wish to give the impression that my figure is in any way grotesque, I must disclaim that it is by any means the sort of figure which nips easily over six-foot walls. Agility is not, and never was, my strong point; my figure, though sturdy, being somewhat rotund for anything but a very moderate degree of athleticism. I viewed the prospect of climbing, even with a willing ‘leg up’ from the driver, with misgivings.
Despondently I climbed out of the car. The wind caught me off guard and almost succeeded in unbalancing me, and the rain recommenced its furious assault on my waterproof. From the darkness beyond and uncomfortably close came the pounding and sucking of breakers on the shore. To add to my dismay I perceived that a fast-flowing ditch coursed riotously along the base of the wall. I positively yearned for town pavements.
The driver nonchalantly stepped over the ditch (his legs were long) and pulled himself upwards. He was a tall man and the top of the wall was on a level with his nose. He turned an enquiring gaze on me.
‘They’ll be expectin’ you likely?’ he asked. I agreed that it was extremely likely, for I had sent Morag a wire announcing the probable time of my arrival.
Once again the driver turned to the wall, and gave a stentorian yell, the volume and unexpectedness of which outrivalled the storm and very nearly caused me to make a premature and undesirably close acquaintance with the ditch. Immediately a shaft of yellow light gleamed in the distance as a door was opened and a voice of equal power, though indisputably feminine, called out interrogatively. The driver answered and in spite of the violence of the weather a conversation was carried on, though as I could make out no word of it I concluded it to be in Gaelic.
The shaft of light was blotted out as the door was shut and then a lantern came swinging rhythmically towards us. A moment later a figure surmounted the wall and climbed quickly down to stand beside me. This then was Morag, my future landlady.
‘Well, well, Miss Peckwitt is it? And how are you?’ My hand was lifted in a firm grip and shaken vigorously and I only just managed to evade a full-lipped kiss.
‘My, my, but what a night to welcome a body. Surely you must be drookit,’ she lamented cheerfully. I thought that ‘drookit’ probably meant ‘dead’ and I agreed that I was—almost.
‘Almost? Sure you must be quite,’ she asserted, I decided that ‘drookit’ meant ‘drowned’.
‘Ach, but I have a nice fire waitin’ on you,’ continued Morag happily, ‘and you’ll be warrm and dry in no time at all.’ The softened consonants were very noticeable and to my Sassenach ears the rolled ‘r’s’ sounded as over-emphasised as those of some opera singers.
Morag held up the lantern so that for a moment we were able to study each other’s faces and I was surprised, in view of her agility, to see that hers was dry and wrinkled with age, while the wisps of hair escaping from the scarf she had wound round her head were snowy white. She dropped my hand and turned to the driver.
‘Will we just swing her up and over between us?’ she asked him.
‘Aye,’ agreed the driver shortly. I bridled and stepped back a pace but, ignoring me, they bent and together swung my two suitcases up and on to the wall. They were swiftly followed by Morag who lifted them down to the other side; then, lissom as a two-year-old, she leaped lightly down again. I gasped at the effortless ease with which she accomplished the feat but her performance did nothing to allay my own apprehension.
‘Is there no other way?’ I asked timidly.
‘No indeed,’ she replied, and pointed down the road; ‘the wee gate’s down there, but the watter’s up and all round it at this hour. It’s a pity you couldna’ have come when the tide was out.’ It occurred to me that tides were going to play a very important part in my new life. I smothered a sigh.
‘Ach, but you’ll find this way easy enough when you put your feets to it,’ Morag went on in an encouraging tone. ‘Now come.’ Cautiously I stepped across the ditch and put my ‘feets’ to it. ‘Now then,’ directed my landlady with heavy pleasantry, ‘one fine feet here … now another fine feet here … that’s lovely just … now another fine feet here .…’ Undoubtedly Morag believed her new guest to be a quadruped. The driver who was waiting on the other side of the wall to haul me over also clucked encouragement. I felt a firm grasp on my ankle. ‘Now just another feet here and you’ll be near done.’ instructed Morag. She was right! In the next instant one of my ‘fine feet’ slipped on the treacherous wet stone and I was left clinging desperately with my hands, my legs flaying the air, while the wind lifted my skirts above my head and the rain committed atrocities on those parts of my body which had not before been, directly exposed to such vengeance. The driver, seeing my predicament, came to the rescue and gripping both arms firmly hoisted me bodily over the wall. My feet landed on solid earth. Very wet earth admittedly, but I cared not so long as I had to do no more climbing. Instantly Morag was beside me. ‘You’re all right?’ she enquired anxiously; ‘you didna’ hurt yourself?’
I assured her that I was in no way hurt; though I knew that, even if I had not suffered, my stockings at least were irreparably damaged.
‘That’s all right, then. I’ll tell Ruari to see to your boxes directly.’
‘Oh yes—Ruari,’ I echoed, and had a fleeting vision of a freshly lime-washed Ruari braving this torrential rain, and began to feel better again. After all, I told myself, I had been roughly handled but then I had planned this as something of an adventure.
Opening my purse, I gave the driver his fare plus a moderate tip. He demurred at the latter but on my insistence thanked me courteously and pocketed it. ‘It is indeed,’ I thought, ‘like coming to a different world, where even the taxi-drivers refuse to be tipped.’
Guided by Morag’s lantern I followed her across the sodden grass, over cobblestones and into the tiny hall of the cottage where a candle burned lopsidedly in the draught from some hidden crevice. Taking off my dripping outdoor clothes I hung them on the antlers of a pathetic-looking stag’s head. Morag opened the door of a room on our left and ushered me inside. ‘The room that wasn’t a kitchen’ was a neat lamplit place with an immense fire burning brightly in the well-polished grate. Half on the fire, half on the hob, a kettle stood spouting steam and rattling its lid in ill-concealed impatience, promising a speedy brew of tea. A small table was spread with a white cloth and on it my supper was laid invitingly. After the appalling conditions outside the whole place gave a welcome so much greater than I had expected
that I exclaimed over it impulsively. I dropped into a chair and ignoring its formidable creakings watched while Morag, with a self-satisfied smile on her face, busied herself about the meal.
My landlady was a small woman with a broad back which, though not exactly bent, gave one the impression that it was accustomed to carrying many burdens. The rest of her figure was hardly discernible beneath the bulk of clothing she wore, but her movements were lively enough despite a gait which I can only describe as ‘running with one leg and walking with the other’. Her hair as I have said, was white, her face wizened and freckled. Her eyes, when they were not being soulfully blue, were as mischievous as a small boy’s, while her hands were horny as a man’s, the stubby fingers resembling calcified sausages. Her clothes, or what I could see of them, consisted of a thick tweed jacket over a homespun skirt, the front of which was partially concealed by a now sodden apron, for she had apparently added nothing to her attire when she left the house to come to my assistance. I judged, however, from the proportion of bulk in relation to size, that there were in all probability a great many insulating layers between her skin and her outer garments, which were no doubt as efficient under Island weather conditions as the more conventional waterproof.
The tea brewed, Morag departed, having first assured herself that she could at the moment do nothing further for me beyond promising to stir Ruari into bringing my cases indoors. Accordingly, soon after she had gone I heard the front door bang, and even while I sat sipping my third cup of tea there was a rumble of voices followed by a thudding on the stairs which indicated that my bags were being carried up to my bedroom. I repressed a desire to peep. A few minutes later there was a knock on my door and Morag entered.
‘I’m just sayin’ I didna’ bring Ruari and Lachy in to see you tonight, seeing you’ll be awful tired,’ she began. I protested feebly. ‘You see,’ she went on apologetically, ‘Ruari’s that deaf his shoutin’ near splits the ears off you, and I’m after tellin’ him to keep his mouth shut on the stairs for sure he grunts like a bull.’
‘But who is Lachy?’ I asked, stifling a yawn.
‘Ach, he’s the other half of the boat with Ruari,’ explained Morag obscurely.
‘And what time will you be for takin’ your breakfast?’ she asked.
I suggested about eight-thirty.
‘Half past eight,’ she agreed; ‘and if the Lord spares me I’ll have your fire lit by eight then.’ I glanced at her enquiringly.
‘Aren’t you feeling well then?’ I asked.
‘I’m feelin’ fine,’ she answered with some surprise; ‘why, d’ you think I’m lookin’ poorly?’
‘Not at all,’ I rejoined hurriedly, ‘but when you said “if the Lord spares me”, I thought perhaps you were not feeling quite well.’
‘I’m feeling quite well tonight,’ replied Morag piously; ‘but who can tell if the Lord may call any one of us before the morn comes; and if He chooses to call me in the night then I canna’ light your fire in the mornin’, can I?’
‘I rather take that for granted,’ I said with a smile.
‘Ah indeed, it’s no wise to take anythin’ for granted with the Lord,’ she rebuked me, and then added determinedly: ‘But I’ll have your fire lit for eight certain if I’m spared,’ and as though to underline the words she closed the door firmly behind her.
After the long journey, the fright, the bitter cold and now the warmth and food, I became unconquerably sleepy. Wearily I climbed the narrow linoleum-covered stairs to the bedroom which Morag had already pointed out to me. In the room a lamp had been lighted and burned dimly, but more than that everything appeared to be clean and comfortable I could not have told that night. Unpacking the minimum of necessities, I undressed and tumbled into bed, where I lay for a time listening to the storm outside. Conscious of a queer little thrill, I turned out the lamp. It was the first time in my life that I had actually used an oil-lamp and I was not at all sure whether to blow or keep turning the knob until the flame was completely extinguished. I managed a successful compromise, and as I dropped back on to the pillows and drifted into sleep I was aware of the rain spattering against the window and drumming with dogged persistence on the tiled roof.
2 Initiation
I awoke after what seemed a very short time to the realisation that the rain had ceased and that chill, grey daylight was filtering through the lace curtains of my window. My head still echoed the rhythmic jogging of the train, for I am one of those unfortunates who, if they travel five hundred miles in actuality, travel at least another thousand during sleep.
The bed was cosy enough to make the prospect of leaving it seem unattractive and I lay sleepily surveying my room and listening with drowsy intentness to the sounds of the morning. There was a clanking of cans, which I assumed to be milk-pails; the impatient clucking and questioning of hens, interspersed with loud flutterings of wings; a strange intermittent wailing noise which I was quite unable to identify; doors opening and closing and dishes clattering: sounds which seemed to indicate that the Lord had seen fit to spare my landlady for another day’s work, and also that the poultry still awaited their morning feed.
The hands of my watch were pointing to half past eight when there were footsteps on the stairs followed by a knock at my bedroom door.
‘I’ve brought you watter and she’s fine and hot,’ Morag’s voice announced.
‘Take her away!’ I entreated with an involuntary shudder. ‘I shall wash downstairs where it’s warmer.’
Morag began speaking again, but her words were drowned by an acrimonious bellow which reverberated up and down the stairs and almost dislodged me from my bed.
‘Sorry,’ I apologised when there was a moment’s lull, ‘but I didn’t catch what you were saying.’
‘That’s just Ruari,” explained Morag with patient resignation, ‘and I’m just sayin’ he’s fine and warm already for I have him blazin’ up the chimney with a dose of paraffin.’
Her footsteps retreated down the stairs. After a moment of confused horror I succeeded in disentangling this rather surprising piece of information; though had I supposed my landlady to be capable of such villainy the strength of Ruari’s bellow would undoubtedly have lent credence to her statement.
As I reached the bottom stair Morag came out of her kitchen bearing a steaming bowl of mash.
‘Sure I hope you slept well after your long journey,’ she greeted me. I agreed that I had.
‘Something smells awfully good,’ I observed.
‘It’s just the meal I’m after scaldin’ for the hens,’ said Morag; ‘though it smells that good many’s the time I’m takin’ a lump of it for my own breakfast. Indeed it fairly makes my teeths watter.’
Although the later part of her reply was patently untrue—over her shoulder I could see her ‘teeths’ adorning the dresser and they looked positively arid—I could not doubt the temptation of the smell, and had the bowl been a little cleaner I might perhaps have sampled it for myself.
Among the chorus of noises outside I again noticed the strange wailing call I had heard earlier.
‘What sort of an animal makes that queer noise?’ I asked.
The ghost of a smile curved Morag’s lips. ‘Why, that’s my cockerel,’ she explained.
‘Really?’ I said, then, seeing her smile broaden at my ignorance, added lamely: ‘I thought cockerels always said cock-a-doodle-doo, but that one sounds as though he’s been crossed with a circular saw.’
‘Ach, he’s just young yet,’ she excused him; ‘another six months and he’ll be cock-a-doodle-dooin’ as well as you can yourself.’
It became plain that my landlady was prepared for a long conversation but I could not, as she did, ignore the greedy clamour of the hens who, in their eagerness for food, had thronged the tiny hall and were endeavouring to reach perching positions on the edge of the mash-bowl. Out of consideration for the hens as well as concern for the state of the floor I decided to withdraw and hurried into my room.
&
nbsp; Now, without the mellowness of lamplight and the contrast of the storm outside, it struck me as repulsively ugly. The floor covering was shabby; the two easy chairs were grey with age and, on closer examination, I discovered that their ability to support the human frame was due solely to the circumstance that a famous brand of margarine was packed in wooden boxes. A yellow-grained sideboard took up nearly the whole of one wall of the room; a dreadful monstrosity of a thing, which looked for all the world as though it had been set upon by someone suffering from a fit of delirium tremens, using as a weapon a paint brush dipped alternately in yellow ochre and black treacle.
The table was glaringly home-made and, though a cloth covered its major crudities, I was soon to learn that none of its four legs matched in shape or length and that the only way to keep it steady while eating was to balance it on my knees. The wallpaper, which last night had seemed self-effacing, now intruded its garish pattern of vermilion buttercups with a frieze of neglected false teeth, though the latter were no doubt meant to be autumn-tinted leaves.
Had I embarked on my venture with the full approval of my friends I might have permitted myself some doubts as to the probability of my remaining long with Morag. As it was I determined to look only on the more comforting side and, after reassuring myself that the curtains, the cushions and the tablecloth were fresh and clean, turned to admire the old-fashioned grate with its deep fire of glowing peat, the gleaming brass fire-irons and the clock which had already ticked its way through a century of time.
A knock on the door heralded Morag’s appearance with my breakfast tray, the sight of which effectively dispersed any misgivings for the time being, and soon I was settling down to do full justice to the excellent meal she had provided. There was porridge—my first experience of porridge made with fresh-ground oatmeal—there was cream, thick, smooth and rich; there was sugar, though my landlady shook her head disapprovingly as I spooned the latter on to my plate.
The Hills is Lonely Page 2