It was not until we were picking our way along a muddy and refuse-strewn path that I realised from the subdued knot of people at its door that the ugly iron shed we were approaching was in fact the church.
‘Why on earth don’t they clean up the path?’ I said to Morag.
‘Aye, well, d’you see, the man who has this piece of land is of a different religion altogether and it just pleases him to make his dung heap in the path of them he calls the “unrighteous”.’
At the church door we were greeted by a scissor-shaped man in an old-fashioned black suit.
‘The precentor,’ Morag said as he took my hand. Having previously been under the impression that a precentor was some sort of miniature organ I was quite interested to shake hands with a flesh-and-blood one, even though the flesh and blood were limp and chilly. His whispered welcome was scarcely audible. Around and about us the other worshippers also whispered, the fierce sibilance rushing and eddying through the tin church like wind through the tree tops. My own words acknowledging the introductions fell into their midst like thunderbolts.
A young man came forward in response to a nod from Morag.
‘This is Lachy,’ my landlady introduced him in a whisper, adding, ‘the other half of the boat.’
I shook hands with a young man whose stocky, muscular figure was constrained by a tight navy-blue suit. His neck was disfigured by a large goitre which appeared to contend with an exceedingly tight collar for the privilege of choking him. Lachy, with punctilious politeness, and much to Morag’s surprise, escorted us to our seats; and, having seen us settled, promptly sat himself down on the form in front. A couple of minutes later a vile-smelling woman nodded familiarly at the two of us and took the seat beside me.
I stared around the interior of the church, which was as uninspiring as the exterior, being furnished with several backless wooden benches on which numerous people slouched in impious attitudes. The place was disgustingly dirty; toffee papers littered the concrete floor; cobwebs festooned the beams of the iron roof; the plain glass windows were obscured by dirt, and, as there was no heating arrangement of any sort, it was evident that the fervour of the worship was expected to overcome the frigidity of the atmosphere. A small drunken-looking table, carved all over with initials, stood at the far end of the room and on its dusty top reposed a mouldering Bible. An ordinary kitchen chair and two tarnished brass oil-lamps completed the furnishings of the most squalid little House of God it has ever been my misfortune to enter.
From outside there came the noise of a motor followed by the slam of a car door.
‘Here’s the missionary,’ whispered Morag.
‘Footsteps thudded up the muddy path and a few moments later an obese, pale-faced figure entered the church alone. He too was garbed in black, but more expensively so than the parishioners, and as he strode along the central aisle he had so much the air of a star performer appearing on the stage that I had to stifle a desire to applaud. Restrained hissings and obsequious flutterings echoed through the church but ceased abruptly as the missionary, reaching the table, turned to stare long and superciliously at the congregation. He spoke a few words which I could not understand, but as Morag prodded my waist and rose I stood up obediently.
The missionary, with legs widely straddled, one arm hidden behind his back and his eyes turned virtuously to the roof beams, began a prayer. Morag had intimated that it was to be a prayer, otherwise I should have thought it was the sermon, so long did it last. Colder and colder grew my feet, momently more agonising became the crick in my neck, and still the vehement supplication and exhortation continued. I became aware of the sound of rustling paper behind me, then to the right of me, to the left of me and also in front. Morag thrust a bag of peppermints under my nose, thus adding her own particular rustle to what had by this time become a general one. Soon the rustling was replaced by a steady sucking which resounded from every corner of the building. I was sure that the missionary must be deaf if he could not hear it. At last the long prayer finished and we were able to sit down, whereupon the vile-smelling woman seized my hand, thrust two damp, warm peppermints into my palm and instructed me in a hoarse whisper to pass one of them on to Morag. I nodded and obligingly passed on both sweets.
The precentor now stood and, there being no organ or other instrument in the church, began to intone the paraphrase in a shaky tenor voice while the congregation, still seated, joined in demurely, their lips barely moving, their eyes fixed vacantly in front of them. Impressive as were the prayer and the paraphrase, the sermon which followed was even more so.
It began with the missionary standing very still behind the little table and treating the congregation to a prolonged combative stare. His eyes bulged; his lips pouted. He continued to stare silently for a while and then without the slightest warning he raised his fleshy fist and brought it crashing down upon the frail little table. The congregation flinched perceptibly.
‘Someone has been here!’ the missionary bellowed accusingly, and thirty or forty pairs of eyes stared in awed consternation.
Again he raised his fist above his head and brought it crashing down. Some of the women present appeared to shudder in sympathy with the table.
‘Someone has been here!’ he repeated in even louder tones.
I accepted another peppermint from Morag’s proffered bag. For the third time table and fist met and now the voice rose to a thunderous roar:
‘Someone has been here!’
There followed a significant pause and the walls of the church seemed to echo his words with tinny accusation. Clutching the table with fat, white hands, one of which was now ringed with grey dust, he dropped his voice to a gentle, sorrowful whisper.
‘The Devil has been here,’ he lamented. ‘The Devil! The Devil, I say, has been here!’
The repetition was irritating and was hardly complimentary to the previous Sunday’s preacher. Furtively the missionary ran his tongue over thick lips; tears glistened in his eyes, and as he opened his mouth to speak again he almost lost the peppermint he was sucking.
‘Don’t ask me how I know.’ His voice was rising again. ‘Don’t ask me how I know,’ he repeated. ‘But I know! I know! I know!’ The sentence culminated in an ecstatic shout and, letting go the table which rocked unsteadily, his hands flayed the air like those of a man who has suddenly had the support snatched from beneath his feet. I wondered if he was holding the Devil responsible for all those toffee papers.
His brow was moist with perspiration; the tears had started to trickle down his cheeks; both his hands were by now exceedingly dirty and I was much relieved to see him produce a clean handkerchief; but instead of using it as I expected he held it in front of his mouth, disgorged the remainder of his peppermint, and bundled it back into his pocket. The tears were allowed to flow unchecked.
‘Ahhhhhh,’ he breathed sadly. ‘It is easy to smell the Devil amongst you.’
I almost giggled as the melodramatic words ran through my head like a play title: The Devil smells of Peppermint.
‘Beware of the Devil in your hearts and in your homes,’ he adjured us. Beware of the Devil who calls you out on Friday nights to listen to his luring music.’
A man whom Morag had pointed out as being the gamekeeper and the village piping enthusiast looked suddenly startled and a guilty flush suffused his face and neck.
‘Beware of the Devil that teaches you to dance cheek to cheek, belly to belly, with strangers,’ continued the missionary.
There was an aromatic gasp from the congregation, and the missionary, enamoured of his theme, licked his lips appreciatively. (Morag explained to me afterwards that the denunciation was occasioned by the introduction of the fox-trot and the one-step to the Island dance hall.)
Dumbfounded, I fixed my gaze on the shoulders of ‘the other half of the boat’ and was astonished to see that they were heaving with mirth. I blinked rapidly but as my incredulous eyes travelled along the row of dark-clothed backs in front of me I perceived tha
t several pairs of shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. I looked at the women. They all appeared to be staring piously into their laps, their mouths exaggeratedly prim. Catching an oblique glance from my landlady I saw that her eyes were merry as a child’s. In fact the whole congregation, except for one obvious half-wit who sat tense and horror-stricken on the edge of a front pew, seemed to be nearly exploding with laughter. I stared steadily at the dirty floor.
At length the harangue ceased and the collection began. If the service had struck me as being crazy I was equally shaken by the manner of the collection. Two of the older members of the congregation produced little black velvet bags and made with what I thought to be irreverent haste towards the back seats, jostling and striving as one tried to outdo the other. Money dropped and rolled and was struggled for on the concrete floor, the collectors rising grey and dusty from between each row of seats. I dropped my contribution into the first bag thrust under my nose and received a savage glare from the bearer of the rival bag.
As soon as the collection was over the service was concluded and the worshippers shuffled out with dreadful solemnity. After the histrionic display we had just witnessed I felt that our exit could very appropriately have been accompanied by the slam of tip-up seats and a band playing the National Anthem. Outside the church chattering groups formed; they seemed to be waiting for something. They were.
The two collectors came outside and stood facing each other, their faces red and angry. Behind his back each held his full collection bag. Simultaneously each extended a hand towards the other and demanded: ‘Give me that bag!’
‘What on earth is the matter with them?’ I whispered.
‘Well, it’s the joint service that does it,’ said Morag. ‘They shouldn’t give permission for joint services, for they always lead to trouble.’
It appeared that there was only one church in Bruach which had to be shared by two rival denominations. Everything went smoothly except for the collections. ‘Last time they were after goin’ round the back of the church and fightin’ for it.’
‘But surely the missionary …’ I began.
‘Ach,’ said Morag, ‘he’ll not come out of the church till one of them goes back with the money.’
The combatants were becoming angrier, staring at each other defiantly. There seemed to be little prospect of ending the tension.
‘They ought to toss for it,’ I said flippantly.
Morag looked at me with admiration and then spoke out. ‘Miss Peckwitt says you’d best toss for it,’ she told them.
Miss Peckwitt wanted at that moment to become invisible; but I was surprised to find myself the centre of approbation.
‘That’s right! That’s what they should do,’ said the precentor, and everyone echoed his words, including the rival collectors. He extracted a penny from one of the bags.
‘It was Miss Peckwitt that suggested it and as she belongs to neither side I think she should toss it,’ he said. Meekly I took the penny.
‘Now call out,’ said the precentor. ‘Which side will you have, the head or the man with the hayfork?’
They called; I tossed.
‘Which side is it, Miss Peckwitt?’ demanded the precentor.
‘The man with the hayfork,’ I said tremulously.
The scene was over; the loser handed over his bag with good grace and the winner disappeared into the church. Gradually the worshippers dispersed.
The sky was becoming overcast as we hurried home.
‘What did you think of the service?’ asked my landlady.
‘That missionary of yours is just a witch doctor,’ I said.
‘Aye,’ she admitted, ‘but yon fellow’s always the one for a good laugh.’
‘Is that why people here go to church?’ I enquired ironically.
Morag chuckled guiltily. ‘Ach, no, it’s no like that at all really,’ she denied. ‘It’s just that man, the rest aren’t like that at all. They say he’s had too much religion. You know, one of these religious mannequins.’
It was dusk before we had finished our meal, so while my landlady rushed off to milk the cows I prepared the food for the hens.
‘Don’t forget the cockerel,’ she reminded me as she disappeared with her milk pail.
I knew I should never forget the cockerel.
3 Of Fare and Fishing
My stay in Bruach lengthened from weeks to months and looked as though it might continue indefinitely, for the attractions of the Hebrides are indisputable and compelling; there were times when I felt I could not wish to forsake them for whatever England might offer in recompense. I soon surprised myself by becoming interested in agriculture generally and surprised my neighbours by my zeal in learning to milk, to plant and hoe potatoes, to make hay and even to scythe and to cut and carry peats.
The transition from town to croft life was accomplished without too much difficulty, though it was certainly not without its humorous side. Despite Morag’s expert instruction, my early efforts were amateurish in the extreme: my haycocks, however painstakingly built, were wont to collapse; my corn-stooks curtsied; potatoes habitually impaled themselves on the tines of my fork; my scything was erratic to the point of danger—(‘You’ll be hoppin’ around on one feet if you thrust yourself about like that,’ Morag continually warned.) However, perseverance brought some measure of skill and in time my offers of voluntary labour came to be accepted by the villagers with something akin to eagerness instead of sly mirth.
My own unfamiliarity with country folk and their habits was, if anything, outrivalled by the Bruachites’ ignorance of English people, for Bruach was extremely isolated and, apart from a meagre sprinkling of tourists who came and went during the summer months, it was only the indefatigable researchers into crofting conditions who ever succeeded in negotiating the steadily worsening roads and penetrating the quiet seclusion.
The general impression seemed to be that ‘the Englishman is a fool but his money is good,’ and during the whole of my Hebridean sojourn I doubt if I gave the Islanders cause to alter that opinion. I must admit that at first it comes as a shock to the egotism to realise how far one is discounted merely because of being English, though one eventually grows accustomed to it: so that I was not more than ordinarily surprised when Morag, after telling me that a certain woman had been married twice, replied, in answer to my observation that I had heard the woman had been married three times: ‘Aye, my dear, so she has rightly, but the first one was an Englishman.’
The phenomenon of an Englishwoman actually resident among them—and an uninquisitive Englishwoman at that—was enough to arouse the curiosity of the crofters to fever pitch, and my movements were followed by the populace as eagerly as the movements of Royalty are followed by the Press. Trifling incidents which befell me during my walks were already known to Morag before I returned home, and inevitably her greeting would be some comment on the day’s adventures, such as; ‘I’m hearing you met so-and-so by such and such a place today,’ or: ‘They’re after tellin’ me that you near got caught by the tide and had to paddle.’
This constant prying on my activities was naturally a little irksome, but I assured myself that the interest was only temporary and soon I should be able to enjoy my leisure without feeling myself to be the cynosure of all eyes. As I have said, I knew practically nothing about country folk!
Some of the stories concerning my initiation into Island life are still told in Bruach today, and will, I am sure, continue to be told for years to come. The story for instance of how, after volunteering to collect a broody hen for my landlady, I struggled the whole length of the village, one hand clutching one leg of a vociferously outraged bird which flapped wildly above my head, the other hand shielding my eyes from I knew not what. Morag, striving to compose her features, met me outside the house.
‘What fool gave you that?’ she asked.
I explained with some irritation that the lady of the house had been out and that the ancient grandfather and myself had chosen this h
en because it happened to be the only one sitting down at the time.
‘Why, a broody hen should sit under your arm as quiet as a lamb,’ she told me, ‘but that rascal you have there will no sit on an egg supposin’ you set a haystack on top of her.’
My spirits sank on learning that my errand had been in vain. ‘What shall I do with her then?’ I demanded, for the hen’s struggling and clamouring showed no signs of decreasing.
‘Let go of her leg,’ counselled Morag, adding optimistically, ‘she’ll likely find her own way home.’ I let go the leg and the hen, still squawking, flew heavily towards the sea.
‘That’s no a broody hen at all,’ said my landlady. ‘You can always tell a broody hen by her clockin’.’
A few days after this episode, I was passing a neighbour’s garden when I happened to notice a sulky, bedraggled-looking hen which was being cold-shouldered by its companions. It looked distressingly familiar. I was sure in this case that Morag’s optimism had not been justified and that it was up to me to do something about it, so sidling over the wall, in a manner that was fast becoming second nature, I cautiously approached the bird.
‘Chuck, chuck,’ I called seductively.
The hen appeared to have recognised me and, with a frenzied squawk which immediately stirred the rest of the hens into a screaming cacophony of terror, she took wing, scattering stray feathers as she flew, and disappeared behind a distant byre. I never saw her again. I doubt if her owner did either.
They tell too the story of the pet sheep.
It happened that I had taken a picnic lunch and had spent a long day exploring the moors. Evening was coming on by the time I started on the homeward road and I had not gone far when I heard a forlorn ‘baa’ and looking round saw a lone sheep hurrying towards me.
The Hills is Lonely Page 4