‘Why then I must be a liar,’ admitted Murdoch equably. ‘But fancy me been suckin’ at an empty bottle these three or four times. It just shows how poorly I’ve been.’
‘Empty bottle!’ exploded the doctor with feigned wrath. ‘You old bodach, you’ve never sucked at an empty bottle in your life. I’ll guarantee that any bottle you’ve sucked was more than half full; but, you devil, you’d sooner take your medicine from the barman than from the doctor.’
Murdoch chuckled appreciatively. ‘I’d take the medicine all right if you’d dose me with the right stuff,’ he retaliated.
The doctor grunted non-committally. ‘If you’re quite comfortable I’ll be on my way,’ he said.
‘Comfortable!’ echoed Murdoch. ‘I’m comfortable enough except for my feets.’
‘What’s wrong with your feet?’
‘Indeed my feets and my legs is as red as the dove’s with the cold,’ the old man said plaintively. ‘I canna’ seem to keep the warmth in them.’
‘You must be dyin’ from the feet upwards then,’ retorted the doctor callously.
‘That wouldn’t be true now would it?’ pleaded the old man.
‘And why not?’ asked the doctor, indifferent to Murdoch’s sudden woebegone expression. ‘It’s well over seventy you are, isn’t it?’
‘Just a year or two over,’ muttered the patient with a sidelong glance at me.
‘Ah well, maybe a hot-water bottle will save you this time,’ said the doctor with a laugh. I laughed too, but more with the desire to comfort, and Murdoch, taking courage, joined in wholeheartedly.
After seeing the doctor to the door and collecting the tray from the kitchen, I returned to the invalid to find him eyeing the bottle of medicine distastefully. ‘I wonder what’s in that?’ he asked me.
‘You’ll soon find out,’ I told him.
He removed the cork, sniffed once or twice and then, carefully replacing the cork, offered the bottle to me, in case I should catch the influenzy and be in need of a dose. Upon my refusal he respectfully bade me to throw the bottle in the sea on my way home.
‘But you should take it,’ I argued, ‘it will do you good, otherwise the doctor wouldn’t give it to you.’
‘Ach, that joker!’ Murdoch said scornfully. ‘It was for my sisters I had to send for him rightly; they was that bad with the influenzy; and if they’d gone and died on me, and me not after havin’ the doctor to them, they’d have been grumbling at me for the rest of their lives.’
He reached for his pipe. ‘Whisky’s the stuff for me.’ he resumed. I’d be dead many times over if it wasn’t for the wee dram I take every night of my life.’
I did as much as I could for Murdoch and his household and was on my way home when Morag’s voice hailed me from a neighbouring cottage.
‘Can you give me a hand in here?’ she beseeched. ‘There’s all of them sick and not a body to do a hand’s turn.’
I followed her into the cottage and into the one and only bedroom where ‘all of them’—father, mother, nine children and the daughter-in-law—were compressed into three beds. The father and mother along with two of the younger children occupied one of the double beds; the other was shared by three girls and three boys, head to tail, while the married son and his pregnant wife looked almost comfortable in the comparative spaciousness of a single bed. All the beds were littered with paper-back novelettes and tattered comics, which some of the occupants had been reading avidly as we entered, despite the fact that there was little light filtering through the deep, yellow, lace-screened window. The room was sickeningly hot for it was impossible to open the window and Morag had a big peat fire blazing in the grate. By the time we had tidied the beds and I had collected several bruises from the iron bedsteads I was feeling that I should soon be in need of attention myself.
‘Why d’ you cramp yourselves like this?’ asked Morag. ‘Why are you no usin’ the recess bed in the kitchen?’
‘But it’s more fun when we’re all together,’ the mother replied evenly. ‘It’s kind of lonely for those in the kitchen.’
‘Fun’ seemed a strange description of their plight but those who were not too ill to appreciate it were obviously quite content.
I was glad when Morag suggested that I should make some tea, and escaped thankfully to the relative coolness of the kitchen, where, as I buttered scones already baked by Morag and waited for the kettle to boil, I marvelled at the crofter’s ability to endure discomfort, which is as often due to choice as circumstance.
I was in the act of setting the teapot to warm when a shout took me back to the bedroom. One of the younger invalids wanted to vomit and while Morag held the child away from the bed I was requested to seek the necessary receptacle. Going down on my knees I drew from under the bed what I imagined was the chamber, only to discover it to be a tightly packed bowl of salt herring—part of the family’s winter supply. A burst of hysterical laughter greeted its appearance and, pushing back the bowl, I tried again. Gingerly I slid out another bowl of a slightly different shape. This was the cause for further merriment.
‘That’s the milk settin’ for the cream,’ shrieked the lady of the house joyously. ‘Annie promised she’d come and make butter for us tomorrow.’
I replaced the bowl of milk and again poked warily under the bed; my explorations being accompanied by gusts of unrestrained laughter from the beds. My fingers touched a bundle of clothes, a small barrel, some wood, a pile of books and then, thank heaven! earthenware. This proved to be the utensil I was seeking and drawing it forth with a flourish I thrust it towards Morag. But the pantomime of my attempts to find it had reduced the small invalid to such a state of helpless mirth that all thoughts of being sick had been banished.
‘My, that was as good as a tonic,’ gasped the patients feebly as they wiped away tears of laughter with the edges of blankets.
An hour or two later, after we had made our happy family as comfortable as we could, Morag and I set about for the home of ‘Padruig the daftie’. The word ‘daftie’ in the islands covered a multitude of mentalities. It was applied to the repulsive, misshapen imbeciles who were capable of nothing but vice, but also included the innocuous souls like Padruig who, if his income had been five thousand pounds a year instead of five thousand pence, might have been classed as merely eccentric. My acquaintance with Padruig was slight, for, though I had at various times noticed him shambling in and out of the houses of the neighbours, he was very shy and reserved and had seen to it that we never came within speaking distance. I knew, of course, that he lived in a tiny two-roomed cottage which he shared with his halfwit brother Euan. I knew that until three months previously they had been looked after by their very attractive sister but, on her marriage, she had left them to fend for themselves. Padruig was reputed to be immensely strong and to do those jobs which he was capable of doing remarkably well. Despite his simplicity he was well behaved and was, except in moments of excitement, an upright and devout Christian.
His brother Euan was a different character altogether, for, on the death of his parents, he had had the misfortune to be sent to live with a reprobate old uncle who had taught the boy nothing except a comprehensive vocabulary of vulgar abuse and profanity. The uncle had possessed such a violent temper that no one had felt inclined to interfere, and thus it was that Euan acquired a language peculiarly his own. For instance be referred to a man quite inoffensively as a ‘he-bugger’, a woman as a ‘she-bugger’, a dog as a ‘hairy-bugger’, and a bird as a ‘feathery-bugger’, and so on. After the death of his uncle Euan returned home and Padruig, whose vocabulary was extensive enough when occasion demanded, set himself the task of thrashing the evil out of his poor brother. So effective was his punishment that Euan, instead of refraining from the use of oaths, found it easier to refrain from speaking. This he did whenever possible, substituting a rapid blinking of the eyes for the words he did not utter.
Morag nudged my arm as we stumbled along the tortuous little path that led to P
adruig’s cottage. ‘He talks awful wild sometimes,’ she warned, ‘but don’t be laughin’ at him to his face or you’ll upset him.’
I promised not to laugh.
‘And don’t talk to Euan at all if you can help it’ continued Morag. ‘If he was to swear in front of you, the Lord knows what Padruig would do to him.’
Reaching the cottage my companion pushed open the door and entered. I was about to follow, ducking my head to save banging it against the low roof, but recoiled as a dreadful stench assailed my nostrils.
‘Padruid, Padruig,’ Morag chided the unseen occupants. ‘You and your ferrets! The smell of them is near knockin’ Miss Peckwitt over backwards.’
Cautiously I started forward again, circumnavigating the large wooden chests which impeded the entrance both of people and of light. Morag motioned towards the chests, ‘Ferrets,’ she explained in a whisper, but I had already discovered four of the little horrors for myself.
‘And you’re feelin’ better today, are you, Padruig my boy?’ asked my landlady brightly as she crossed the kitchen. The room was incredibly dark and smoky and at first I could make out nothing but the dim glow of a fire, though there was still ample daylight outside.
A man’s voice answered hoarse and low; ‘I’m better now. I’m for gettin’ myself up tomorrow.’
‘You are not!’ contradicted Morag flatly.
‘I am so,’ maintained the voice firmly. ‘I got to sweep the chimbly.’ Morag accepted the announcement with a sigh.
‘Here, I’ve brought Miss Peckwitt to see you,’ she said, adroitly changing the subject.
With difficulty I groped my way across the kitchen; past a wooden bench on which I was just able to discern the figure of Euan sitting motionless as a statue; past a large barrel on top of which stood a water-pail, and as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom I managed to make out the shape of a recess bed in the corner where Padruig himself reclined. His horny hand grasped mine and shook it lengthily.
‘I’m goin’ to light the lamp,’ said Morag in a business-like tone and turning to Euan she commanded him to blow up the fire so that she could make a wee oatcake or two for their tea. Euan jumped up instantly, but instead of taking a pair of bellows, as I expected him to, he dropped down on his knees, puffed out his cheeks and commenced to blow on the fire with-such prodigious gusts that his eyes threatened to start out of his head at any moment. The dim glow showered sparks and blossomed gradually into a flickering flame which in contrast to Euan’s madder-hued cheeks looked positively anaemic.
‘It’s that dark in here I canna’ see if you’re well or dyin’,’ grumbled Morag as she put a spill to the wick of a miniature oil-lamp. ‘Sure if you don’t throw them ferrets in the sea soon, they’ll be takin’ the bed from under you,’ she admonished Padruig.
I smiled at Padruig and his gentle brown eyes smiled back at me shyly.
‘Are you hearin’ from Lexy?’ Morag enquired as she set the lamp on the mantelpiece and, taking a basin from the meagrely equipped dresser, scooped up some oatmeal from the barrel.
Padruig nodded.
‘Did you get someone to read it for you?’ asked Morag.
Again Padruig nodded and, pointing to the mantelpiece, asked Morag to hand him an envelope which was hiding demurely behind a glass net float. Holding the envelope in his hand he pointed eagerly to the stamp.
‘All the waitresses in Glasgow has them little caps on their heads,’ he told me, indicating the tiara worn by the Queen.
‘Do they?’ I asked stoically.
‘Turn up that lamp a bitty, Euan,’ Morag’s voice interrupted, ‘I canna’ see whether it’s my hands or my feets I’m stirrin’ with.’ Euan did as he was told and then returned to his seat on the bench.
Padruig spoke again. ‘It’s darker than this in Buck-ram Palace,’ he said.
‘In Buckingham Palace? Is it really?’ I asked in astonishment.
‘Yes,’ he asserted, nodding his dark bullet head emphatically. I nodded wonderingly in return.
‘I been to England once,’ Padruig continued, watching my face intently.
‘You did?’ I asked, giving him nod for nod as well as I was able. ‘How nice that must have been. Did you enjoy yourself?’
‘Yes, yes.’ His own nodding was becoming extraordinarily vigorous. I doubted if I could keep pace.
‘I went to Buckram Palace to see the Queen.’
Helplessly I glanced at Morag, but she was busily occupied in pouring melted fat into the bowl of oatmeal.
‘You did? You were very lucky,’ I said faintly.
‘Yes, up lots and lots of steps I been.’ Padruig was still staring at me with concentrated attention and I risked a sober nod.
‘Ever so many steps,’ he continued. ‘Up, up, up,’ He demonstrated on the blanket with two of his stubby fingers how he had laboured up the steps of ‘Buckram Palace’, pausing every now and then to ensure by an anxious glance that I understood him.
‘Just give me a hand with this,’ Morag broke peremptorily into a brief but awed silence. Thankfully I moved over to the table. She put a finger to her lips and frowned expressively: and, guessing that she was again imploring me not to laugh, I shook my head reassuringly, for I was not so much amused as amazed by the tale. On the bed, Padruig was still engrossed in climbing the innumerable steps of ‘Buckram Palace’, while from the bench the almost toothless Euan watched him with wide, fascinated eyes.
‘We get to top,’ Padruig waved an expressive arm above his head, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Euan ogle the rafters.
‘And what did you find then?’ I asked him, feeling rather like the inquisitor of the pussy cat who went to London.
‘Chairs!’ burst out Padruig. ‘Chairs!’ he repeated, ‘hundreds and hundreds of little red armchairs all in rows. As true as I’m here.’ He leaned earnestly towards me as though doubting my credulity.
‘Really?’ I murmured politely. ‘And the Queen? Where did you see the Queen?’
‘The Queen’, echoed Padruig rapturously. ‘My, my, beautiful she was. Beautiful just.’ He sighed lingeringly, ‘But it was so dark in Buckram Palace,’ he went on, ‘that the Queen herself had to run in front of every body with a little torch, and show people which was their seats.
‘Really!’ I quavered.
‘And what did you take for your breakfast, Padruig, my boy?’ My landlady’s voice broke opportunely into the recital and, giving Padruig no chance to reply, she pushed a cup of tea and two or three hot buttered oatcakes into his hand.
I subsided on to the bench beside Euan, refusing the tea Morag had proffered, which I was quite sure would be ferret flavoured. Suddenly Euan uttered an exclamation and jumping to his feet he charged recklessly through the outer door, muttering under his breath words which sounded suspiciously maledictory. I wondered what I had done and looked questioningly at Morag.
‘It’s his ducks,’ she told me. ‘He has one duck and one drake and he thinks the world of them just. But they plague the life out of him, always gettin’ into the wee bit garden Padruig takes so much care of, and if Padruig catches them there he’ll be for killin’ them. Is that not right, Padruig?’
Padruig, his mouth crammed to capacity with oatcake, grumbled confirmation.
‘Sure,’ continued Morag, ‘Euan spends most of his time chasin’ them ducks away from Padruig’s garden, and when he’s chased them far enough he has to go and seek for them for fear they’ll run away on him.’
As Morag was speaking she was rinsing soiled dishes in the remainder of the hot water from the kettle and, taking a cloth which was grey with age, I dried them and put them back on the dresser. Morag then started to tidy up but as the room was so austerely furnished the amount of actual tidying needed was negligible. The house may, as Morag claimed, have been spotlessly clean —if one excepted the ferrets—but there was so little illumination, either natural or artificial, that it was impossible for the casual observer like myself to tell whether it was clean or f
ilthy.
Before we went I pointed to an extremely handsome bird-cage which was suspended from the ceiling on the far side of the room. It was a beautiful cage, shining and clean, its ornate brassy decorations gleaming like gold, but to me the thought of a creature so sun- and freedom-loving as a bird incarcerated in such gloom was distressing.
‘Your bird is very quiet,’ I observed.
Morag prodded me hastily. ‘He has no bird,’ she told me, hurrying me out of the house.
Outside there was still enough daylight for us to see Euan returning to the byre, shepherding in front of him two plump, waddling, quacking ducks. He stood and smiled at us vacuously.
‘Fine ducks,’ I commented.
‘Bloody fine ducks.’ Euan agreed blissfully.
‘Euan!’ interposed Morag in tones that shrivelled the half-wit into abjectness.
‘What do you feed them on?’ I enquired.
‘Duck eggs. Missed.’ the reply came with prompt servility. (Euan had never made up his mind whether to address me as ‘Miss’ or ‘Mistress’, but his compromise of ‘Missed’ was, I suppose, as apt a designation as any other for a middle-aged spinster.)
‘Duck eggs?’ I echoed foolishly. ‘Where do you get them?’
Euan bestowed on Morag a look that was eloquent with pity. ‘The ducks lays eggs,’ he elucidated. ‘Best Bl—— Best food for ducks, Missed.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I agreed wanly, faced with the eternal problem of which came first.
We were well out of range of the house before I asked Morag why she had nudged me at the mention of the bird-cage. She told me that Padruig had seen the cage at an auction sale some years ago and had fallen so much in love with it that he had insisted on buying it.
‘There’s nothin’ in the whole of the village that gets a quarter of the care that cage gets; if he isna’ painting it he’s polishin’ it, and if he’s no polishin’ it he’s tattin’ with it some way or another.’
The Hills is Lonely Page 12