Standing Stones

by Beth Camp

  “Yes, mum. I think so.”

  “Why would you leave a comfortable position in Inverness with certainly more of an income to return here?”

  “Mrs. Neill has been most kind, mum, but the school is a charity school. Those who can find other positions make way for the younger ones, those coming in. As you say, my family is here.”

  “I see. Tell me more about Mrs. Neill's Academy.”

  “Do you know Inverness? The Academy’s out Culduthel Road, atop the hill overlooking the city. The building’s not as grand as Westness House, mum, but bigger in a rambling kind of way, big enough for our hundred students. About half of the girls are day students. The rest live at the school. Classes meet in the central building with two wings extending around a walled garden. We teachers had our own rooms and served as monitors in the dormitories on each wing.”

  “And the curriculum?”

  “All had instruction in reading and writing, with some arithmetic. At first I helped with these classes; later, I taught them. When the girls become twelve or thirteen, they’re apprenticed or placed in service as soon as Mrs. Neill can find positions.”

  “It doesn’t sound like many were from wealthy families.”

  “Actually, very few came from wealthy families. Two doctors, Dr. Cummings and Dr. MacLeod, started a school for boys. They funded Mrs. Neill's Academy to help girls who were thrown out by the mills or sent to the workhouse.” Deidre wasn’t sure if she should continue. For all she knew, Lord Gordon owned mills.

  “I know of the conditions in the mills. My sisters and I helped a similar school in Edinburgh, though that included young women as well as girls.” said Alice.

  “We did have some older girls, but the children would break your heart, mum,” Deidre replied. “Some started at the mills when they were six and seven. They took their shilling and made their X on a paper that committed them to work until they were 21. They stood at their stations from five in the morning until eight at night, all day, with a little tin of oat cakes next to them. At night, they were locked up so they wouldn’t run away. Most of the children were very sick when they first came to the school.”

  “I haven’t seen anything like that here on Foulksay,” said Alice.

  “On the island? We have no factories. But the children work as soon as they can toddle, mum.”

  “Mrs. MacNaught speaks well of you,” said Alice. “And, of course, your father does as well. Is there any reason I should not hire you?”

  Deidre knew the moment had come, but she didn’t want to tell Lady Alice of her first year in Inverness or of her baby that had died, stillborn. The old gossip would fly over the island soon enough.

  “I can't think of anything, mum. Mrs. Neill was very kind to me. This job at the Grammar School seemed a good opportunity to come home.” Deidre watched as Alice rose and walked to the window, her back to Deidre, the letter of recommendation folded in her hand. She hoped Alice would give her a chance.

  "That was a difficult time in Inverness, so far from your family.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  Alice faced the young woman seated before her, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped in her lap. “Do you know Pastor McPherson?”

  “Yes, mum. He came the year before I left the island. Both my father and mother think highly of him.”

  “You will do well. The school is my special interest, especially the children. I would very much like you to teach at the Grammar School.” Alice put the letter down on a side table. “Please visit with Pastor McPherson about the facilities and the curriculum. I will arrange with Perkins for your salary to be paid quarterly, if that is satisfactory.”

  “Thank you, Lady Alice.”

  “Call me Alice, please. I think we shall be friends.”

  CHAPTER 10: END OF THE HARVEST

  The oat fields were nearly bare at the small farm outside Dunbeath. The workers lined up for their pay before they left to search for the next harvest. Moira fingered her scythe and the tin cup tied at her waist. “Let them go along,” she said to Susan. “It’s time to go home.”

  “Not a bad summer, right?” Susan replied, her dark hair pulled back tight behind her ears, her face brown from the sun.

  “We made some money. Tell you true, I loved every moment. But I miss the boys.”

  “Miss the boys? They were here last night.”

  “Not those boys. My boys at home.” Moira laughed as she thought of the young men from the field who had come to their tent last night. They’d brought a fiddle and sang songs until late. The music made her think of home and Dougal with his fiddle. The night air had hinted at cold.

  “Jane’s going south, down past Golspie or Cromarty, maybe to Inverness. She says you can find work in the mills there.”

  “Will you go?” asked Moira.

  “Me work in a factory? Not likely. I hear they keep the women locked up at night, and the noise from the machines yammers so you can’t hear. ‘Tis ready I am to go home.”

  They joined the line for their day’s pay, putting their coins away and tucking their purses into their bodices. Moira looked at the setting sun across the open fields and felt the slight edge in the evening air. She pulled her shawl tightly around her and linked arms with Susan. They walked back to their tent at the corner of the field to sleep.

  Early the next morning, the women gathered to eat porridge provided by the farmer. Moira bound an oat cake in her waist. She was ready. “If we leave now, we can maybe find a ride to Dunbeath today.”

  “Give me Da this, and tell him that I’m all right,” said Jane. She handed a small purse to Moira. “I’ll send more money when I can. I’ll find work in Inverness if I have to go that far or else somewhere along the way.”

  “I will,” said Moira, taking the purse. “You’re sure this is what you want to do? You can come back with us.”

  Jane settled her shawl around her shoulders and tied it tightly around her waist. “’Twas bad last year. Too many of us at home. Not enough to eat. 'Tis the right thing, though tell me Mum I’ll miss her and all of them. Say a prayer for me, girls.” She turned quickly away and walked along the road south, her head bent.

  “We could go with her,” said Susan. “We could stay with Jane, you know, and find work. We could send money back. I hate to see her go by herself.”

  “I promised Mac I would come home. That’s where I’m going.”

  Susan took a last look at Jane, nearly out of sight. “Let’s for Dunbeath then. I heard Market Day is the day after today.”

  Moira nodded. “It would be good to bring a little something home, something for my boys, something to remember the summer by.”

  The next week passed quickly as Moira and Susan made their way north to Land's End where they arranged their passage home to Kirkwall.

  On the appointed day, Moira sat in the center seat next to Susan, her feet propped against a wooden crate of chickens. The small open boat pitched up and down large waves as they crossed the Pentland Firth to Kirkwall. She knew why Mac and Dougal went out on the sea nearly every day, regardless of the weather. I love the sea. I could fly in this wind. The Firth looked wider than she remembered, and the mainland behind her small on the horizon.

  “Not to worry, lass. You’ll be in Kirkwall before you know it,” Old Jack shouted in her ear, as he scrambled past her, ducking under the boom.

  Moira nodded. She wanted to scream in the wind. Her heart seemed bigger than her chest. They were close enough now to see the Orkneys ahead of them, flat floating islands on the edge of the Northern Sea. Another hour or so to sail around the edge of Scapa Flow, depending on the wind, and they’d be in Kirkwall. They’d catch a ride to Foulksay or send word over to Mac to come and get them. They’d be home in another day at the latest.

  Two days back on Foulksay, and Moira felt as if she’d never been away, the familiar routine wrapped around her as if the island were her only home and the sea her only horizon. She untied her creel and stood admiring the beach. The tide w
as well out. Cockles scattered on the surface of the sand amid patches of seaweed, their shells gleaming pink and white in the early morning light.

  “Look at them, just laying on the top there, waiting for us.” Lenore set her creel down and hiked up her skirt.

  “It’s never enough,” said Moira. “We’ll still have to dig.” She untied her rake, a narrow wooden rake with thumb-sized digits. “Jamie, use your rake.”

  The two women walked barefoot out on the tidal flats as Jamie ran ahead.

  All along the cove, women, children of every age, and old men retired from the sea walked barefoot out on the tidal flats. The women hunched over and began to rake gently, digging just below the surface to feel the shell. With a twist, they pulled the cockles onto the surface of the sand and threw them into their creels, working steadily until their creels were full.

  “Watch the tide coming in,” said Lenore. “We don’t want to be cut off out here.”

  “You heard that Scott's won’t take barter anymore?”

  “Aye.” Lenore slung another cockle into her creel. “Sean tried to talk to Scott, but he won’t carry us on account.”

  “We’ll still eat.” Moira prodded a cockle with her rake. “Have you cooked these?”

  “Aye. They’re a little tough to chew, but they make a good soup.”

  Their creels full, the two women walked back up the shore, letting their skirts down as they came to dry sand.

  “Let’s work here, by the shed.” Moira put her creel in the shade to keep the cockles alive as long as possible. “Jamie,” she called. “Bring Sean’s line over here.” She sank down on the ground, pulled out Mac’s fishing line already set with hooks, and began to bait the line.

  Moira picked up one of the heart-shaped cockles and inserted her knife into its narrowest part, twisting sharply to open the shell. She threaded a hook through the meat of the cockle, tossing the shell behind her and dropping the baited line neatly into a creel for Mac to use in the morning. When she lifted her head to stretch, she could see a fast tide coming in. Jamie was bent over, his rake busy, his back to the sea.

  “Enough, Jamie. Come help us.”

  “I don’t like the color of the sky or the sea,” said Lenore, pointing with her knife.

  “Neither do they,” said Moira. A few women had come down to the shore and stood watching the sea. The sky had lightened, but a strange brown color held to the horizon, and the sea was a sickly green. The women stood, wrapped in their shawls as the wind picked up from the east, and the sky darkened.

  “They're late,” said Moira. She brushed the sand from her hands. She walked down to the water’s edge and stood with the women until the first boats could be seen. The women began to talk loudly; each returned to her lines and her baiting. Moira remained at the waterline, ready to help pull their boat to shore.

  Mac and Dougal grinned and shouted at Colin as he let the sails down by himself.

  It must have been a good catch, she thought. Mayhap it would be good enough.

  CHAPTER 11: MOIRA

  The peat fire on the hearth had died to embers. Moira savored the last warmth as she turned the knitting in her lap and started another row. This made the third cap she could take down to Scott’s. She listened to Colin and Jamie rustling above in the loft. Home again with my brothers. At least the night is mine, and tonight the moon is full. Let them yell at me about the dangers of the summer night. Oh, sure, in this wild country, someone could kidnap me or carry me off to India.

  Moira peeked out the open door at the rolling grasslands and the path that led to the cliffs overlooking the sea. Not a soul in sight. Their stone cottage held the only bit of light as far as she could see. She heard a slight movement from the loft above.

  “Jamie, Colin,” she called up. “Are you done with your talking?”

  “Colin’s asleep,” Jamie whispered back.

  “And you’ll be sleeping in the morning when it’s time to go.”

  Moira wrapped her shawl tight and slipped out the front door to walk down along the moonlit path. She picked her way first through the moors, the heather undulating in the wind like the sea, then along the rim trail above rocky cliffs that led to the cove below and the beach. Moira felt close to the sea in a way she felt her brothers would never understand, even though Mac and Dougal had spent their lives fishing.

  Moira watched the waves in their insistent rhythm. The rare clear night, the stars wheeling above, the smell and sound of the sea, all brought a sense of peace. Then, just as the stars were at their brightest, Moira turned toward home, hearing again the words Miss Deidre had read from Lord Byron’s book of poems at the Grammar School: “So we’ll go no more a-roving so late into the night . . .”

  Later, she lay in bed, eyes closed, yet remembering the stars. She was just slipping off to sleep when Mac and Dougal came in, their voices filling the cottage until the walls seemed too small to hold them.

  The next morning, Moira awoke to a quiet cottage, for her brothers had left well before dawn. Already her memories of the summer were fading, as if she had never followed the harvest and brought money home. She hoped the harvest on Foulksay would be a good one. They could trade fish for potatoes through the winter, if all went well. That and eggs, a little milk from their two cows, and more fish meant they wouldn’t go hungry. She added an onion, stirred the fish soup, and set it on the edge of the hearth.

  Moira looked out the window again, checking the weather. Clouds had gathered, but the Star wasn't due back for another hour or more. Moira began to pack her straw basket with eggs, layering them with grass to protect them.

  “Halloo,” cried a voice. “Are you home, Moira?”

  Moira looked up to see Peter MacTavish walking into their yard. He carried a burlap bag over his shoulder. She had forgotten how tall he was.

  “Brought you some potatoes,” he said, handing her the bag.

  “Thank you.” Moira felt self-conscious. “I was just going down to Lenore's.”

  “I'll walk you down then.”

  Moira felt a rush of exasperation. “I'd rather go down by meself.”

  “All right.” He leaned back on the cottage wall, watching her, his eyebrows pulled in a perpetual scowl.

  Moira put the potatoes in a box, checked her soup, and closed the cottage door. “Here's your bag back. We all thank you.”

  “I want more than thanks, you know. I'd like us to marry. I'm willing to wait until Lammas. But I need a wife.”

  “Take the bag, then.” Moira looked straight at his bristled face.

  “I'd rather have an answer.”

  “All I'm offering is the bag. If you want your potatoes back, I'll get them.”

  Peter MacTavish towered over her. “I'm willing to wait. There's no so many who are asking. I have my own holding. You know my girls.”

  “I'm not ready. For all that, I may never be ready. Tell Ellie and the rest I think of them.”

  “Don't be so quick to say no. Think it over.” Peter slung the burlap bag on his back and slowly walked down the path to Selkirk.

  Moira watched him go. How could he just ask her, as if she were another cow for his farm he was thinking of buying? And to live with him, day past day and night past night. It didn't bear thinking of. She felt as if a dark shadow had passed over her.

  Moira clambered over the rocks that led down to the beach and walked in front of the row of two-room stone houses at the north end of town. Several old men sat in a group around a shed, their beards damp with morning fog, their gnarled fingers mending nets. At the very end of the row of houses, closest to the water, Moira saw Lenore hanging laundry on a line strung next to her house; the diapers caught in the wind like tethered white sails.

  “Moira. I wondered if you’d come today. Thanks for the eggs.”

  “They’re from my summer chickens. And you’re pregnant again.”

  Lenore laughed, and the two friends hugged.

  “Come sit for a minute.” Lenore settled on the porch
, taking Mary on her lap. “Sean works so hard, but with the new baby coming, he's worried.” She shrugged. “When the fish are running, we have a grand life.” Lenore wiped Mary’s face with her hand. “And when are you going to marry, my dear?”

  “Probably not at all. Definitely not the MacTavish,” Moira replied. “He came up the hill this morning.”

  “He didn't. Did he tell you he’s the new constable?”

  “No, he didn’t. Since when do we need a constable?”

  “I don’t know. But he's older than Mac, at least. And all those children.” Lenore looked at Moira speculatively. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

  “No. I'm not thinking about it.” Moira shivered again at the thought of sleeping with Peter MacTavish, no matter how many bags of potatoes he brought, no matter how sweet his girls were. “I don’t know if I do want to marry.” Perhaps she should have gone south with Jane. But then she wouldn't have come home. This island, her brothers, this is what she had dreamed of all summer. Now she was home, and all she could think of was getting away.

  “I heard they’re hiring up at Westness.”

  “I heard,” Moira replied. “Dougal's girl, Catriona, works up there sometimes.”

  “Working at Westness would be better than marrying the MacTavish.” Lenore lifted Mary up into the air. “Such a pretty one, you are. Maybe we’ll have a brother to take care of you.”

  “They’re coming in.” Moira jumped up and ran down to the beach. She hiked her skirts up and waded out to wait for their boat.

  “How did it go?” she called.

  “Good enough,” Mac said, throwing her the tie line from the front of the boat.

  CHAPTER 12: THE MCDONNELL COTTAGE

  Mac shoved a bit of stone with his foot. “He’s going to raise the rents. I know it.”

  “All the more reason for me to work. We need the money.” Moira sat on a stubby stool and leaned against the outside wall of their cottage, a fishing line coiled in her lap. Dougal pulled another stool out and settled beside her. Together they straightened the knotted lines.