His trailer load of lambs was headed for a mainland sheep sale. Halasay’s winding single track road skirted the furthest fields of Ach na Mara and with Eachan at the controls of a wheezing Land Rover, Eilidh and I squeezed alongside him until we reached the pier in Castleton. The ship lay stern in, roll-on-roll-off fashion. A trickle of exhaust at her red funnel, the radar scanner turning above her bridge, it all seemed modern, strangely out of touch.
A sheep float awaited, ramp down and ready. Eachen backed the trailer into position with skill. I gave a hand, grabbing lambs which attempted to escape. Much bleating and scrabbling feet forced lambs onto a mainland float and the lorry rolled aboard the ferry. It was not the parting I’d expected. Sheep and business kept emotion at bay.
Eilidh stood at the gangplank in conversation with the youngish chap who’d spoken the evening of my arrival. I walked up, not very clean. He smiled at me, “You’re still here.” I thought I heard pride in Eilidh’s voice. “Neil, this is Hector.” We shook hands and he grinned, “You’ve caught the island infection,” and with, “See you up by,” he went off to attend the ship’s ropes.
“That’s a cousin, far out, so I suppose he’s related to you somehow, even further out,” her eyes glowed with merriment, “if you’re not careful you’ll get him ‘up by’ after the ferry’s away.” I guessed that ‘up by’, meant the Castleton bar.
How could I be down cast? All the activity, practical hands on work, satisfying and with a purpose. Yet looking at Eilidh, beautiful to more eyes than mine, I knew emptiness would come, a constant missing, wondering; a longing fraught with uncertainty and the pangs of jealousy.
She stared at me, the eyes of our first contact. I felt their meaning and she leant and kissed me lightly on the cheek, “Don’t fret, Hector, I’ll come back. Our minds are together. When you’re thinking of me, I’ll know. I won’t sleep until you speak.” She ran up the gangway and turned with a wave.
I stood and the ship’s propellers churned. The missing of Eilidh had begun.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hard work and a Good Woman
Eachan came to my elbow, “Come away boy, we’ll go up for a ‘wee toot’. I don’t go over to the mainland with the lambs any more.” The bar was crowded and possibly because I smelt of sheep and my hands were dirty, nobody seemed curious. I didn’t feel out of place and the barman was already giving two glasses a double press below the optics as we came through the swing door. They were set on the counter before us as he and Eachan greeted each other in Gaelic. I made to pay the round but the man held up his hand, “It’s on the house, MacKenzie. Welcome to Halasay, and don’t worry,” he laughed, nodding at Eachan, “you’re in good company.” I got his drift.
Another round appeared from down the counter. Neil from the pier raised a glass. Several rounds later I ventured to say quietly to Eachan, “Who’s the barman?” “Oh, he’s the chap who owns the place, Angus MacLeod,” and looking at his glass, “I think I’m right, he’s related to Ella,” and looking at me, “generations back.” Shaking my head, I emptied my glass, nothing by way of relations surprised me now but curious, I asked, “How did he know I’m a MacKenzie?” Eachan laughed, not unkindly, “See that old photo that hangs over the fireplace, well a’ bhalaich, take a look in the mirror.”
Conviviality gathered pace around us, locals congregated, elbow to elbow, crofters, fishermen, blue boiler suits, yellow oilskins and much wisecrack. Not all of it registered. Eilidh didn’t leave my thoughts. I realised neither she nor I had asked how we each earned our living. It hadn’t mattered then, nor now; nothing could take away from the happiness of touching minds.
Perhaps Eachan noted my dullness. In a moments lull, he remarked casually, “Eilidh will be on the mainland shortly. I wonder she goes away, she’s so fond of the place but there’s nothing for her here on Halasay; the crofting life is finished,” adding, with a long look at me, “for most folk these days, unless they’re dropouts from the south.”
I paid attention, “She said London to me.” Wondering momentarily if she went to join a friend down there, possibly a relationship, again neither of us had asked nor given any indication that we might have a partner. Our feelings towards each other had been so immediate and sacrosanct that with a touch of shame I pushed it out of my thoughts.
Eachan’s powers of deduction didn’t fail him. By his next comment I felt he’d read me. “Yes, she’s got some fancy job down there. She’s a scientist of course, graduated in Cambridge some years ago but I think she’s not long back from doing research work in Siberia. Anyway, part of her work involves informing the government on some aspect of climate change. I’ts important work but I heard her say she’s dealing with fools. They’re not her type of folk and Hector boy it’s a long way from the crofting style over here. Who knows, maybe there’ll be a connection to bring her back.” Over his glass he winked. My colour rose; by now I knew Eachan’s quiet way of letting his meaning lie between the words. I smiled, “Who knows?”
He went on, “You see, she was born and reared on a croft on the north end of Halasay. The crofting life is in her but her folks are dead, quite a while back. Her brother has the croft. That’s him over by the piano. Iain to name and a good hand at the cattle, a hardy chap I tell you.”
Later, quite a little later, Eilidh’s brother lifted down an accordion which sat, perhaps for reasons of safety, on the lid of a beer circled upright piano. Despite fingers which looked anything but those of the delicate handed musician, he put a lift in his playing I found irresistible, “O.K. if I try out the piano?” “Aye, give it the works,” and with a straight look, “You’ll be Eilidh’s friend,” his grip doubled my fingers together. “Good to meet you.” I was taken aback at the speed of the island’s information network but more than pleased to admit the friendship.
Iain struck an A chord; we were off, into a pipe tune. I hammered out harmony with the syncopation of a jazz band. We zipped through marches, jigs, stately Gaelic waltzes, music runs like a river in spate through Highland blood; following his playing was no problem. Old tunes, fast ones, slow ones, feet tapped, fingers drummed tables, “Give us, Donald MacLean’s Farewell to Oban,” or someone would call, “What about Headlands, or Crossing the Minch?” It appeared Iain could play to order. Drams arrived, bouncing on the piano lid. It seemed the barman could pour to order just as smartly. The crowd gathered round us. A little more encouragement from the bar; an impromptu ceilidh was building.
“Give us a song Eachan.” The bar fell silent. I stopped playing. Somebody spoke to him in the Gaelic. I saw him nod, emptying his glass before standing. Quietly, with muted notes Iain accompanied him. The subtlety of its minor notes, the inflection in the old man’s voice, I listened quite stunned, a truly beautiful tune. The last verse and Iain played through the tune slowly, bringing out all its exquisite charm. As clapping died away, I asked for the tune’s name. At once Iain said its Gaelic name, ‘Nighean Donn a’Chuainein Riomhaich.’ “What does it mean?” He thought a moment and breaking into a smile which brought the look of his sister Eilidh into his eyes, he replied, “In the English it means, the lassie with golden hair.” I looked down at the piano keys and thought of the woman I missed.
We played on. Musicians at full toot are hard to stop. Eventually Iain put down the accordion, “There you go Hector, we’ll make a band yet. Take a look over sometime, Eachan knows the way alright.” “You’re on, Iain.” We shook goodnight. The feeling of affinity, instinctive and reassuring, we shared the same race and back many generations, came of the same stock.
Leaving his stance behind the bar Angus MacLeod came to the door with us, detaining me with a nod. Eachan walked out of earshot and the hotelier spoke privately, “Hector, there was a man on the phone the other day, asking for you, I’m sure it would be yourself. You know I could be wrong but he said to me, ‘Has a Hector MacKenzie arrived on your island recently?’
MacLeod laughed gently, “Now, I didn’t just go with his tone, so I said,
oh there’s several here already. This is a busy place you know, they come and go. Which one will you be wanting? “
Having cut away completely from any previous life, I wanted no connections. Cursing inwardly at the message, I thanked him, “Don’t be afraid to keep it vague, that’s the way I like it” Shaking my hand as we parted, he assured me, “Vagueness, you’re talking to an expert and I’ll tell you what, the old piano hasn’t sweated like it in years. Come in anytime.”
“You’ve made it,” Ella put bowls of soup on the table along with thick slices of home baking. It needed no enquiry as to the whereabouts of our venue, “Was The Castleton busy?” “Busy enough to please your cousin,” replied Eachan, hoping that would halt the subject.
Ignoring that comment and addressing me, Ella countered with, “Eilidh phoned a little ago to say she was across in Oban, the ferry made good time. She wondered if you two had made as quick a journey back from The Castleton? What could I say?”
Eachan took on a vague manner. A mix of innocence, evasion and excuse which passed for an apology, “You see, Ella, we got a little involved. Your brother, Iain started playing the accordion, you know what the man’s like, there’s no stopping him, one tune leads to another,”
Eachan neatly deflected the blame and kept my name in the clear.
Ella put on a mock scold, “Each MacKenzie, I know too well who’s the last to stop.” Eachan let that pass. I concentrated on the soup, “And, Hector,” she continued, “that man of mine would have you off the straight and narrow quicker than a blind horse would have you in the ditch.”
I looked up, “Did Eilidh say she would phone back?” “No, she’s away to her bed.” The pleasure of the hours spent in The Castleton turned sour. Bitterness, sharp and painful. I should have realised she would phone. I had let her down and it hurt, badly. As women will, Ella noticed, “I told her I was sending you to Sandray,” and nodding at Eachan, “to be out of harm’s way. She said tell him to use my boat. I think she sounded a wee bit upset, tell him to take care whatever.”
Eachan and I sat long after Ella bid us ‘Goodnight’. After missing the phone call, it seemed a night to talk. We settled down with mugs of tea. I wanted to work round to asking about the practicalities of living on Sandray. I knew from Ella their daughters had all left Halasay; two were married in Australia, another nursing in New Zealand and the youngest married to a business man in Vancouver; grandchildren but no son, no pair of hands to take over the land. Eachan seemed in reflective mood. I hesitated to break into his thoughts but after a while I asked,
“What went wrong for crofting life? I’ve heard you say a few times it’s finished.” He gave no immediate reply. Somewhere, down on the shore, migrating redshank were whistling. Syllables, wild and sharp, until each call became fainter and fainter and just the sea remained.
“After they cut the Panama Canal, the ship loads of guano arrived. Centuries of sea bird droppings, solid stuff, they cut it off the cliffs of Chile and shipped it into Glasgow. That was the beginning of the nitrogen era, natural stuff the guano, but next came the Sulphate of Ammonia, a powder, but powerful, would grow grass, high as your knee, then after the war, they got to producing oil based nitrogen fertilizer. The clever lads in the Agricultural Colleges praised its use to high heaven and farmers couldn’t see the advisors were really on the side of the public. Blinkered by the myth of increasing efficiency, farmers sent their sons to college; they came home stuffed with ideas that raped the land. They’d lost their love of the soil; it was the beginning of the end for a belief in natural fertility.”
Our tea grew cold. That didn’t matter, Eachan’s ability to reduce an issue to its salient point was minimalist art in words. Frequently uncompromising, gleaned by age and observation, often spiced with a taste of an underlying philosophy, I could only describe it as a holistic view of life.
“Farmers grabbed the new systems of producing food. Hunted for higher profits, egged on by the degree brigade and commercial interests. Bigger farms, fewer people on the land, extractive chemical methods, intensive mono-cultural units; the old cycle of soil fertility, clover, livestock and dung was laughed out. Pesticides dealt with the soil bacteria and the wildlife and adulterated the food the public ate; no word of today’s cancer epidemic Except in terms of the cost of environmental damage, which was discounted, food became cheap. No longer the item which swallowed the workers wages packet and it put the skids under the economics of crofting.”
Though he spoke quietly, the force of words and cogency of argument was dramatic,
“The advent of this artificially cheap food allowed an expanding population to engage in superfluous activity; a world of consumer delights, build fancy houses, bigger and faster cars, time to play at tourism, fly to the beach. The gap between a natural world and what passes for civilisation widened to the degree that food has become a byproduct of the citizens’ global playground with the wildlife driven into a corner.”
There was no stopping him, “So the old systems were priced out, crofting included. But wait you, Hector boy, unbridle a horse and he’ll canter about the field till the barbed wire cuts him. Hedonism comes at a price and that price is the killing of the environment upon which we depend. I took my pleasure from a turning furrow and the gulls at my heel but that’s old hat. The new pleasures are on an escalator, a joy ride, so far without bound but the barbed wire’s in sight. Shed off the responsibility of producing food, abandon any caring for all the other companions in life which share this planet with us, I tell you boy, it will end in the tears of destruction. Capitalism will kill the planet.”
His face became old as the photo above the fireplace. He crossed to the dresser, “One for you and me, Hector,” and handing me a glass, he said quite simply, “I heard the redshank calling out there tonight. It’s a pity. The innocents will go down with the guilty.”
Fired by the strength of Eachan’s words, I spoke bluntly, “Do you think it’s possible to live on Sandray, make it a home?”
He studied his glass, as I had seen him do before, “Yes, it’s a kindly place, the water’s pure, its fields lie to the sun and,” his voice fell away to a sigh, perhaps a yearning for something lost in the sadness of knowing, “the old home has peace and freedom.”
He drained his glass and brightened, “Forget the planners, damn regulations. Throw your mobile phone in the Sound. Yes, Hector boy, hard work and a good woman will make it a home.”
Eilidh- I reached out to her, bridging the distance between us in thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Pay Off
The spacious dinning room of Glasgow’s most expensive west end hotel was busy. Kilted gentlemen, portly and white kneed, sported a wide variety of tartans. Every clan, shade and hue seemed present from the heather dye of the Hunting MacSporran to the latest tartan off the drawing board, the mustard and purple Dress Walkers Shortbread. Subdued lighting picked out the silver buttons of Bonnie Prince Charlie jackets, bottle green and tight. Immaculate shirts, cuffs an inch below the sleeve and extra chins snuggled under lacy silk ruffs. Equally formal were the ladies. Long skirts clung expensive and shape revealing, tartan sashes sought to constrain the contents of tastefully matching blouses. No less than the great and the good, in some cases the not so good, were assembled for Scotland’s premier Highland Ball. From the Lord Provost to the pick of the Nation’s legal profession, not to mention baillies, bankers and just a sprinkling of lesser quality, every person of standing in the City was present.
Elaborately coiffured for such an occasion, the ladies when aided by the guile of soft lights, revealed hitherto unsuspected depths of glamour. The City’s sun beds had been booked solid for weeks, not a cleavage but it hinted of topless abandon in the Seychelles. An attractive prospect for the taller men and in some cases a surprise to hubbies. All in all, a colourful spectacle awaiting the skirl of the pipes to march them, couple by couple, behind the Provost and his Lady from dining table to dance floor. One sharp squeeze of his
bag and the piper roused the concourse with, ‘A Man’s a Man for a’ That’. No fair hand to be seen without the sparkle of diamonds held high in genteel style as the handsome couples circled the dance floor in the Grand Parade, the termination of which tended to be the bar.
On a small dais a Scottish Dance Band twiddled with microphones, spaced out drum kit and speakers. Last minute pints were stashed discretely behind chairs. The fiddler asked for an A, the drummer rattled a drum or two, the leader tapped his mike, “Testing, one two, one two.” All systems were live, “Lord Provost, ladies and gentlemen, take your partners please for the first waltz of the evening.” The lead accordionist nodded round the musicians and struck C major. They launched into the placid notes of ‘Annie Laurie’.
Dancers sallied onto the floor, a night of formal Highland reeling became a kaleidoscope of colour. Swirling kilts and elaborate steps circled the ballroom, elegant and decorous. The display inflicted upon proud tartans by the revolving balls of chequered light which shone down on the gracious couples was equally wondrous. Bold kilts oscillated between bright red and muddy brown, yellow tartans changed in rapid sequence from pea green to an outrageous purple. Even bald heads could be seen alternating red, blue and a ghastly grey. Many guests were affronted.
But the band had seen it all before, they’d played The Dashing White Sergeant when he was just a corporal. They knew full well by eleven, thanks to certain of the guests, best described as the coarser end of Glasgow society, dancers would be hollering for a rock-an-roll. Men of standing would have taken to lying down, jackets off; the ladies, their costly hair styles sadly bedraggled would be spotted hitching up long skirts and to appease the shouting the musicians would be forced to break into, ‘Come on let’s twist again’. It was nothing new to the band, nor did they doubt by mid-night and six deep at the bar, many bottoms would have been surreptitiously felt and twenty pound notes still showering the till like confetti at a toff’s wedding.
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