The Big Music

by Kirsty Gunn

  Margaret coming to live in the House could only deepen this way of thinking for Elizabeth. It was Margaret, after all, who had called her son to come back here that first time when she’d been so ill, and then, after Callum’s death, when he started coming every summer and for longer and longer, it might have seemed to Elizabeth as though the young woman had been a kind of lovely charm. Besides, Elizabeth loved having the presence of another woman and her child in the House, loved the sense of them both there – another mother to hear calling out for her child to come to tea, have a bath, go to bed, another child’s laughter and shouting and talking lifting out of the hallways and rooms. It was like an echo of her own life come back to her, having Margaret and her daughter here. All through the years there was Margaret restoring order and with a sense of life and vigour, giving her back her rooms light and warm and aired as though they may give nothing but pleasure. And, as time went on, she was letting Margaret more and more be in charge of the arrangements in this way, all the domestic responsibilities of the House given over to her care – when there were guests or not – so that by the end she was doing not just the cooking and cleaning but organising everything to do with the House’s upkeep and Elizabeth just managing a little in the garden, sometimes, or tidying up a set of drawers here and there, to see if there was anything in them she might clear away. But for the most part lovely Margaret had taken over for her, was taking care, and so Elizabeth could just sit in her little armchair in the old Schoolroom … She could sit up there for hours if she wanted to and dream. All the time knowing that this other woman was somewhere below her in the House, preparing the supper in the kitchen or making up the fire, singing to her daughter who ran around the place with the same light footsteps John used to have, when he was that age, Elizabeth remembered, her little boy. Margaret like time given back to her that way, all time.

  Thus was the House and land organised, increasingly, with the old couple giving up more and more of the feeling of ownership, of right and with Iain looking after everything from the leasing of the land to dealing with the Forestry Commission and the council and the plans for the road end. Callum Sutherland loved Iain. He loved his quietness, his sense of duty. He loved the way, when they might be doing something together, Iain would feel no need to have to talk at all and yet they could both get on with the job and complete it. Sometimes, towards the end of Callum’s life, Iain might just come into the Music Room at night and help the old man from his chair to bed, and not a single word would need to be spoken but Callum could feel the strength of the young man’s arm.

  Is how, over the years, things were for them, the Sutherlands, with Margaret and Iain in place to take over all the duties that they could no longer manage. As if they had always been there, Callum and Elizabeth thought, Iain and Margaret and Helen like a family to them, that was what it was, having a husband, a wife and a child at home here. Their voices, movement around the House and grounds, giving them a feeling of life, a story they could be involved with, something ongoing.

  And so it went for Margaret and Iain, too, it seemed, in the same way – that Iain could oversee the stock and the water, those parts of the job he loved, getting around the hills to shepherd the lambs in season, keeping the river tidy so guests could take a few fish out of it if they wanted to … Is how he always wanted to work, Iain. To be outside and on his own, he’d always liked things that way – and it’s how his job was organised when he first came to work here, under old Mr Sutherland then, and he enjoyed it, working for the older man, the sense of freedom and ease he had with being left to get on with things in his own way, to organise the affairs of the place according to what he, Iain, thought best. They were good days, for Iain. They were good times.

  Sometimes Iain would tell himself that, when he was on his own, up on the hill, or sitting at the kitchen table with a whisky. How they were good times. And how it was like a perfectly formed story for him, it was, that when he’d come for his interview, there was Margaret already here, doing what she had always done since she’d come to work here as a young girl. It was as though she had been waiting for him – is how Iain liked to think of it. As though she might have just opened the door to expect to see him there. She was housekeeping then, back in those early days, for the various guests who still came for the winter piobaireachd classes or anyone who was staying who had simply come here to play and to listen. She was organising the bookings and the schedule of each party’s visit, just as Elizabeth Sutherland used to do when she was younger, Margaret catering for the dinners in the evenings, and, twice a year, the competitions and festival of piobaireachd and canntaireachd43 that Callum Sutherland had established as a regular event in the House. Details of these are to follow, in the doubling of this section, with background information and some stories of how the House was during this period, earlier than Margaret’s time now, this is – when people from the radio came up from Edinburgh and Glasgow, sometimes, to record the nights that went on there, with recitals and so on and the kinds of music that were played. By the time Margaret arrived at the House this part of its life was starting to diminish, though still active enough and with plenty for her to do, but still nothing like on the scale it used to be when these events were established and competitors were coming from as far away as America, New Zealand and Canada. That was how it had been, for a long time. Old Mr Sutherland used to tell Iain. Back in the day. ‘And I can manage a bit of it now’ he used to tell Iain, ‘because of your strength, young man.’ Remember that: young man. Is how Callum Sutherland often addressed Iain. Iain remembers the feeling that address gave him, spoken with kindness and respect. He holds to himself the knowledge that he and the old man shared, that when the latter declined and became too frail to sit up for long, he was still able to offer some music sessions to young pipers – because of having the support of Iain and his family. The pupils could still arrive here at The Grey House and stay, and go on to win prizes at the Northern Meeting and at Oban and Braemar because Iain and Margaret had made sure that everything was secure here. That Callum, you see, could live as he always had here, with Iain to help. That he would lose no pride.

  When he finally died then, with Iain and Margaret well settled, even with her son not around, Elizabeth knew the House could still run smoothly. And by now it was a big enough house, remember. The extensions Callum had put on in the early years of their marriage – building onto the south side of the back elevation the big dining room and the drawing room – had seen plenty of use, plenty. It gave the House a great feeling of depth and security, having the extra wing put onto it in this way so there could be more bedrooms upstairs, more space there as well. Not since the middle of the nineteenth century, when what had been an ordinary dwelling was given substantial additions in the Victorian style, was the character of the original House so changed by these developments. The building work through the 1930s proclaimed a home that was, if not grand, certainly most handsome in the Highland style, with a substantial façade and rooms that led graciously from the main hall through to the back where it opened up.44

  So Callum Sutherland may have died, then, in the same room where his father had died but the House itself was a different kind of house by the time his son would inherit it. And so there was always plenty for Margaret and Iain to do, to keep everything running and well organised – for a house of that size, with that kind of spread of land to it, needed to be so organised and practically set out – though now came a period of change, after the old man’s death, and certainly the times for the Music Room seemed to be in the past by then, and the festivals and competitions and the School. Still, the livestock were bred and sold every year, the forestry people continued their arrangements with the renting of some part of the land and the felling of certain areas of trees. So, too, the river could still be rented out, at certain times of the year, with Iain getting something there, from the summer fishing and the odd bit of stalking in the autumn that was paid for, handsomely, by some of the big international compa
nies. It was a business, after all, being here in this part of the world. That’s what Callum Sutherland had always said to Iain – and that was why, because they were all so organised here, with Iain and Margaret working for him and Mrs Sutherland, he had always been able to rely on that business being safe. ‘Because of you’ he had always said to Iain. ‘Young man. This place is in your hands.’ It was why, because of Iain, John Sutherland could continue to keep on the House as he did. Though he lived far away, he could bring friends up here with him, if he wanted, from London, and there’d be parties … It was all because of his father, and what his father had established with Iain. Young man. The fishing, and some shooting. The big dinners in the lovely dining room that went on into the night.

  But the calls for Iain then, on Iain’s time, were different calls, commands – with the son arriving fresh out of the car in his London suit. It was as though he was energised by his father’s death. As though he could come back now to fully claim the place he’d left so far behind and talk to Iain any way he wanted.

  ‘Bring the car down to the end of the road this afternoon, will you, Iain?’

  Talking back at him over his shoulder as he walked away.

  ‘Have the guns ready for us tomorrow.’

  ‘There are a few people coming up on the train would like to get a salmon if they can. So bear that in mind, won’t you, Iain? You can fit that in?’

  As though, Iain came to think, he were someone different about the place from who he had always been, no longer someone who had once been in charge. It was as though he’d become someone to be talked to that way, treated that way. And he came to feel it as something physical in his stomach, Iain did, to have to have the other man here with his big smile and his fancy suit. To have him physically present in the House, walking on the hills. A man not that much older than himself – but look at him, the way he was, and the way he was with Margaret …

  And then, over time, spending more and more of the summers here. Coming back to the House, returning.

  As the years went on.

  Coming back more often, staying longer.

  Even though, by then, there were fewer parties. Less fishing, shooting. Fewer days out on the water, or up on the hills, and the guests no longer coming in the same numbers and then one year there were no guests at all. It was then, when John Sutherland was here on his own one year, that Iain had to acknowledge that whatever it was between him and Margaret … That he’d known was always there … That thing he’d seen between them, between John Sutherland and his wife, when that other had returned home for his father’s funeral … The way he was with Margaret then and the look that passed between the two of them … Had never gone away. The kind of man Sutherland was, Iain saw then, and it made him feel sick, Iain, sick deep, deep in.

  doubling on first variation/the House and land: recent history

  ‘The Winter School at The Grey House’ started as a series of lessons that took place at the House in the latter part of the nineteenth century – when certain tunes written by members of the Sutherland family were taught by way of parsing the principles of piobaireachd before going on to study the more well-known and established set of pieces composed by the MacCrimmons and others.

  These tunes became exercises in the way certain Latin texts became rubrics for Classics study in some traditional schools in the last century – for it was believed by John Callum MacKay (‘Old John’), who introduced the practice of ‘play through close study’, that the discussion of certain passages and the ‘deconstruction’ of various lines and embellishments would lend knowledge and expertise when it came to tackling the Big Music of Skye.

  As it developed over the years, and John’s son Roderick who became known by his third name, as Callum, took leadership over the classes, the ‘Winter School’ became more formalised: that is, it became a series of workshops and tutorials that ran in a timetabled fashion from October to December at The Grey House every year, offering billeted accommodation to a range of pupils – from schoolboys who were studying the pipes as part of their musical education for examination purposes, to those who had an interest in and facility for bagpipe-playing – either professionally (as enrolled in the Piping School of the British Army) or as amateurs with a love for the instrument and its music. The classes ran for two- to three-week sessions at a time – usually culminating with a recital that was open to the public and visited by local aficionados from as far away as Wick and Tongue, and, on occasion, Inverness.

  The reputation of the School increased dramatically from 1927 onwards, and by the 1950s was world-famous – bringing pipers and pupils from as far away as America and Canada and New Zealand. Various radio programmes and, later, a television documentary record the texture and content of these classes. They show interviews with past pupils and Callum Sutherland ‘Himself’ is heard playing sections of his own tunes and those exercises created by his father, as well as older tunes composed by his forebears, from John Roderick MacKay onwards.

  An interview and transcript of the interview with a past pupil of one of the Winter School classes is available in archive and the transcript reproduced in later pages of the Crunluath movement of ‘The Big Music’. This gives a sense of the atmosphere of The Grey House at this time when it was at the high point, one may say, of its musical history.

  When Iain Cowie came to work here, in the mid-1960s, the great period of musical instruction and endeavour was on the wane. Classes at the House were taught sporadically and then, as old Callum Sutherland became weaker and more infirm, eventually ceased altogether.

  Nevertheless, both Iain Cowie and his wife Margaret MacKay have fond memories of being employed by the Sutherlands at a time when their home was an international centre for Highland music – it was listed that way on certain maps. Though Iain is a man for the hills and the outdoors, he appreciated the way old Mr Sutherland conducted himself, back in the days when so many knew of him and wanted to come here and meet him. In all that time, Iain thought, it was strange that that man’s own son would not want to come and see his father at all. But then Iain met him, John Sutherland, the son, when he came back for his father’s funeral. And nothing like his father, Iain thought, when he saw who he was, the kind of man he was. The kind of man he was with Margaret, looking at her, talking privately with her …

  When he thought that Iain could not see.

  second variation/the House and land: recent history, John Sutherland

  So it’s been written of the others: Iain, what it was like for him to be here. And Margaret, how her life was lived. And John Sutherland, with his father dead. We have seen how it was for him, coming back here again, like a window opening and he could escape out of it into the endless hills. Because although, at first, yes, it was just to come back for the funeral was all he’d intended, by the following summer even that had changed and later that same year he was here with a party, and then the next. Coming home at first to see his mother, but coming back again. And with each visit spending longer. At first arriving with friends, it’s true, as though he didn’t want to be alone, but then, gradually, over time he’d be arriving earlier and earlier in the year so he would end up by having most of the summer here – Callum’s school holidays became the length of time he would stay, all of August he was up here, the best part of July.

  And by then, we know, he’d found himself wanting the time alone, needing it. Not thinking for a moment of the other family who lived here, though he saw Margaret, of course, he would always want to feel her nearby, somewhere close to him in the House. But more and more, generally for him, the thinking when he was here was – why bother with anyone else? Those people from London he used to invite? Those things he used to do? Because by now he’d got out his chanter again, that he’d left behind here with his father all those years ago. He’d found it amongst his father’s things and all his old exercises, his music. Though he’d said he’d never be back for all of that. Never! Remember? That he’d had enough of his father and his f
ather’s damn music? Even so. Just as in London, those long years away he had always been able to hear the ghost of the old tunes, and not just in dreams, but driving somewhere, in the middle of the day. Or coming out from a building in the City, out onto the street, he’d hear the thread of some part of the old music then, one of his father’s tunes, or something he himself used to play … So he found the manuscripts in time that gave him the notes for those tunes, that he now needed – you could say it was just a matter of time. Looking out the sheets of handwritten music, and the folios of printed tunes. All there in the bookshelves above his father’s desk in the Music Room. First one tune, something easy to start with. ‘Flowers of the Forest’, say. ‘Return from Boreraig’. Then other tunes, more difficult, more interesting. He’d read through the music, sing it. There were some later compositions of his father’s also, that he’d never heard before … He played them. Those tunes as well, and more tunes … He went through everything in his father’s Music Room until he’d arrived at a place in his mind where he’d think: What need to see anyone else at all? Talk to anyone? When he was going through that music, getting out his father’s pipes and his old practice chanter and playing his father’s big music, the Big Music, again, and playing it again and again. Why bother by then, you might say, about anything else? What need for anyone? Any conversation, any thought for another? When there was this, in his life, at the centre of it, music. There need be nothing else. No friends. No wife. No child.

  Is how the years had passed for John Sutherland, a routine in place for him by the time he reached middle age about how he might live – with Elizabeth long gone and Callum’s headstone down in Brora green with lichen – so once again the Music Room became the focus of the House, the sound of the pipes playing again like his own father had always wanted. And by then he had brought out all Callum Sutherland’s music in one body of work, all the manuscripts, all his books and notes – a process that has been recorded in a special interview that was run in The New Piping Times, that describes all the sense of the son coming upon the inheritance of the father, the understanding for John Sutherland that the teaching he had received as a boy had been at a master’s hand.45 Thereafter he’d spent his time, increasingly, going through each of his father’s papers, one by one, checking each version of notes in one tune by another, going on to read and play them in their variations and those passages his father had marked up with his own doublings and embellishments. He was working in his own particular fashion, intent and serious but nevertheless in pencil – to keep vivid and present his own father’s work that way and not overscore it – making copies off the original Angus MacKay editions46 that his father had inherited from his father, putting in the accidentals in a miniature stave and key signature, right above the manuscripted notes. John couldn’t believe the detail of the work when he went through it. How the pages of the original nineteenth-century folio his father had worked from47 were thin and yellowed and threatened to come away from the spine, and yet still his father had kept the book in such beautiful condition that he had sewed certain pages in with silk thread, or had Elizabeth do it, so to read through it when he came upon it years later … The music looked lovely still, could be secure in its original condition, and so these books were lovely things to hold.