by Fiona Kidman
‘I have to get away from her,’ she said to her mother.
‘Away? Where would you go?’ Lately Mrs Ramsey had been enjoying a great deal of bad health. Isabella thought savagely as she plumped yet more pillows that her mother was almost in competition for her attention with Mary McLeod.
‘I could go to London,’ said Isabella, suddenly desperate to be away. ‘I could stay with Louise.’
‘Louise has plenty to do without looking after her unmarried sister-in-law,’ said Mrs Ramsey.
‘I could help Louise. You know I could. Besides, perhaps I could meet a husband of my own this time.’ Isabella hoped that her mother would not recognise her low cunning for what it was.
‘Oh dear, I think it may be too late for that,’ Mrs Ramsey tutted. ‘And besides, who would look after me? No, it is out of the question. And,’ as if reading Isabella’s mind, ‘I shall tell your father so, so please do not speak of it to him.’
Mrs Ramsey was playing a hand which Isabella found unbeatable. It was clear that her father would not entertain the thought of her leaving him on his own with his wife if she was not well disposed to the idea.
Sitting in the McLeod’s small front room that faced the sea, Dr Ross sipped his tea, his finger crooked, and between each sip he smiled delicately at Mary, oozing kindly concern as if she were about to be struck by illness.
‘Mr McLeod, I have a proposition for you.’
‘Oh aye, Dr Ross?’ McLeod tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and waited.
‘You might show a little interest.’
‘It is you that is putting the proposition, Dr Ross.’
‘You’re a prickly fellow to be sure. What does one do with him Mrs McLeod?’ Receiving no support from this quarter, he hurried on. ‘Mr McLeod, you have stirred up quite a following in the district. I know your heart’s very much in it, you’re a man of principle, sir, and I would not like to be seen to complain of such a man.’
‘Yet you do.’
‘I must confess it is not an easy position you place me in. But look, problems are there to be solved. It is part of your duty as a schoolmaster to attend my sermons. But I’m not strictly convinced that that is necessary on every occasion. Let us say, if you were to attend mine but once a month, put in an appearance if you like, then I think we could consider the matter settled. What do you say?’
‘I say that if you were more strict in the discipline of those whose interests you claim to represent, then this situation might never have arisen in the first place. But that is the crux of the matter is it not, the scab that infests the whole Church of Scotland?’
‘You refuse my request then?’
‘Sir, if you have finished your tea you must excuse us, we have our devotions to attend to and the evening grows late.’
Vexed beyond endurance, Dr Ross cut the schoolmaster’s salary.
When the McLeods finally set out for Loch Carron with their child in the spring they were already penniless. Before they left McLeod had stocked up with fish, smoked and dried, and flour, brought to him by his followers; outside was a huge pile of firewood, gathered off the moor. At least when they returned they would be comfortable, he told Mary, while he dealt with the problem of Dr Ross. Instead, they found a summons nailed to the door, issued in the name of Dr Ross, for the theft of the firewood from parish property.
‘They will starve to death,’ said Mrs Ramsey with what could only be construed as a note of satisfaction. She had been gravely embarrassed by the behaviour of her former protégé; entertaining Dr Ross to tea, she could not escape the thought that he might hold her responsible for introducing such an audacious and troublesome element into the parish.
‘He did not steal the firewood, mother,’ said Isabella hotly.
‘Indeed, and whose side are you on? Although that should be obvious, the amount of time you spend with that rather sad little wife of his.’
‘It’s not a matter of sides, it’s unjust, everyone knows it is. If you ask me, Dr Ross has done more to enhance Mr McLeod’s reputation than to damage it.’
‘But he has no job now, and he has to go to court in Dingwall. What will he do about that? And I hear he is very much in debt.’
‘Let the magistrate decide what will happen to Mr McLeod. It is none of our business.’
‘Well, I would have thought it was yours,’ said her mother with a keener look than usual. She was sitting at the window, in her old place, as if the excitement of conflict had restored her spirits.
‘At least that foolish fellow from the hills seems to have given up hanging around here. I suppose that is something to be thankful for.’ She snapped her thread with pleasure. ‘You know the one I mean?’
‘I know,’ said Isabella.
‘Yes, I thought you’d remember. What was his name?’ Her needle was poised over a cross-stitch.
‘It is neither here nor there.’
‘But you said you remembered him.’
‘MacQuarrie, mother, his name was MacQuarrie.’
‘Ah yes, Duncan was it not? Yes, Duncan MacQuarrie.’ she smiled, pleased with herself.
After the court case in Dingwall, when McLeod had been cleared of the charge against him, Isabella helped Mary to pack what was left of their belongings into two small trunks. Holding Donald, the new baby, as they waited for the carriage that was to take the McLeods away, Mary said, ‘I cannot believe I will ever be so happy again, as I have been here on Shore Street.’
‘So you have been happy?’
‘But of course. Did you think I was not?’
‘I’m sure you’ll find things even better in Wick.’
‘Oh you think so? With Norman away on the fishing boats again? It’s not much of a life, you know.’
‘He says he’ll pay off the debts, Mary. I’m sure it will be better for you and the children than not knowing where the money is coming from.’
‘It was my dream, this place.’ She looked around the bare rooms.
‘There will be other houses.’
‘But where will they be? What’s going to become of us? Perhaps I’ll never see you again.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Isabella felt a small knot of fascination inside her as she wondered whether it would prove to be so; and if it did not, what the rest of her life would be like: if she were never to see McLeod again.
‘Isabella. He speaks of emigrating.’ Mary gripped her friend’s arm and her eyes were frightened.
But there was not time to discuss this matter for the carriage had come. McLeod appeared, ready to lift the trunks aboard, then mounted the carriage steps without looking behind him.
‘You have not said goodbye to Isabella,’ cried Mary.
He turned, looking as if his neck was stiff, and bowed slightly towards her. Of late, he had taken to wearing spectacles, and now, behind them, his eyes appeared to be without reflection.
‘Goodbye, Miss Ramsey.’
Mary craned her head back, straining to catch a last glimpse of the young woman who had befriended her. She saw her standing in the doorway of what had been her house and might have been forgiven for thinking that Isabella looked forlorn, though she supposed it must be an illusion. She had never seen Isabella looking really downcast; today, as ever, her hair was drawn back and nicely arranged, shining in the pale sunlight, and her large exceptional eyes were fixed towards the distant space that she and McLeod were now entering. Isabella did not raise her hand as they rounded the last corner, the carriage bearing them up the hill and away towards the east.
When they had gone, Isabella thought, it is as well, I am pleased that they have departed. I have had enough of them. One way or another, they would have taken over my life, until there was nothing left of myself. Thank God, it is over.
But the truth was, that she felt very empty.
As she turned to pull the door shut, the shadow of Duncan MacQuarrie fell across the path in front of her.
four
The days after Isabella’s marriage
to Duncan MacQuarrie had passed in a strange haze of decisions and quarrels and partings. It happened so quickly, and her parents swore on the still and sunny morning of its occurrence that they would never speak to her again, and upbraided her for her unnaturalness.
When she set off across the moors with her new husband striding along silently at her side, she half wondered if they were right, and if, in fact, there was something strange about her. It had seemed that her life was without purpose, and that no ordinary man would ever satisfy the hunger within her. At night the suffering face of Duncan haunted her, mixed up and confused with that of McLeod. In the mornings she would wake dazed and heavy, as if she hadn’t slept at all, and wander around the town feeling aimless and lost.
The first time that Duncan had reappeared after the McLeod’s departure she had been disposed to be briefly kind to him; too late, she had seen hope flare in his eyes. At once she became brisk and dismissive.
‘I have work to do, Mr MacQuarrie.’
‘What work is that?’
‘It is just some things I have to do.’
‘You’ll have rather less to do, now that the McLeods are gone.’
‘Well, maybe that is so. But still, I’m busy.’ When he continued to stand there, she cried out, ‘Oh, it’s none of your business, Mr MacQuarrie, now will you leave me alone?’
For a while he had, and when next she saw him he did not accost her, even looked past her as if indifferent. The days passed and she found herself wondering if she would ever see him again. Months went by without her daring to ask anyone if he was alive and well for fear they might misread her intentions.
When she had not seen him for six months, he came back to town. They almost collided outside The Arch, as she carried bannock cakes in a basket to Miss Ruby Quaid who was sick with the pleurisy. Grains of sugar gleamed on top of the cakes in a small bright rime. Duncan looked at them. His clothes were more threadbare than ever. She reached into the basket and handed him two cakes.
‘Thank you, I will keep them until later,’ he said, holding them awkwardly.
‘I will marry you, if that is still what you wish,’ said Isabella. It seemed like an astonishing thing to say, but she knew she had been rehearsing it for a long time.
He nodded, as if he were not greatly surprised. Taking her hand he drew it through the crook of his arm so that this way they walked to the water’s edge, letting it be known for the sake of onlookers that they were united. When they reached the pier, she said, ‘Well, you should eat now, shouldn’t you?’
Gratefully, he ate her bannock cakes.
In spite of the bitter words that passed between Isabella and her parents when the marriage first took place, the couple did return to Ullapool after they had been north to announce the marriage to Duncan’s family. Adam Ramsey had, at last, grudgingly offered his new son-in-law work with the Company, although he let it be known around the village that he had taken on a cripple out of charity, for the sake of his foolish daughter. Still, the wage he paid allowed the couple to live in what had been the schoolmaster’s house.
In the months that followed, Isabella began to be glad that she had married Duncan and no one else. She had been a little afraid to move into the house vacated by McLeod and Mary, yet once in charge of it she had seemed to exorcise McLeod. She scrubbed and polished every board with relentless care the first week that she was there, and afterwards filled the house with flowers and the smell of her own baking. It was as if she had always lived there. At night when Duncan came home, it was him she saw and not McLeod. She felt alive, and beloved.
But as Mary had before, in this house, she dreamed that this was how her life might always be.
As winter drew near, the work on the boats became dangerous. Ice began to coat the decks and the men were required to work faster to complete their tally before the season was over.
She saw Duncan was quieter, and that strain was developing in his expression. His hands were red and raw; at times he seemed to move with effort.
Mrs Ramsey, visiting her married daughter and enjoying a third snack before lunch, looked around the room. ‘You do very well, all things considered, my dear.’
‘Considering what things, mother?’
‘Well. What has he done in the way of firewood for the winter, for instance?’
‘It’ll be done. He doesn’t get much spare time at the moment, mother, as you know perfectly well.’
‘Hmm. But he’s not a great provider, is he, dear?’
‘You know, too, how hard he works.’
‘Oh. Oh, really? Well, if you say so, Isabella.’
‘Mother, is father saying that he doesn’t?’
‘My dear. I know nothing of these matters. Still, he did say that your husband let a whole netful of fish go over the side yesterday. Well, these things can’t be helped, I suppose. A matter of looking where one puts one’s feet, I imagine.’
That evening Isabella asked Duncan, ‘Has father been treating you unkindly?’
He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. She saw that his gait was awkward. Something she had not observed before and supposed now that she must have overlooked, was that his limp was more pronounced. He was arranging his wet clothes across the fire.
‘He has right on his side,’ he said. ‘I do what I can.’ He turned back to her. ‘It is not always enough.’
‘D’you want to leave here?’ she asked.
He knelt beside her, placing his face in her lap. She sat very still. In the years she had observed the marriages of other people — even her brother and his wife in London, who still behaved with decorum and great politeness towards each other while in the midst of their affection. She had never been given cause to imagine what it would be like to have a man kneel in front of her like this. She placed her hands around his face, so that he was forced to look up at her. ‘I love you, Duncan MacQuarrie,’ she said.
In the flickering shadows that lit the room she thought she saw a figure. She blinked and it was gone, but she knew that McLeod was back.
She wanted to call out and tell him to leave, that he could not touch her, but already he was gone. He will come again, she thought grimly.
In the morning when Duncan was preparing to leave for the boats, she said, ‘Don’t go today, Duncan. Let’s pack our things and leave here.’
He looked at her. ‘Are you sure that is what you want?’
‘I am sure I do not want to stay. In the summer I’ll help you with the kelp. If other women can do it, why not I?’
‘What of the winter that is coming?’
‘I have a little money, as you know.’
‘Sooner or later, you’ll be hungry. You’ve never been hungry before. And cold. D’you know what it is like to be really cold?’
‘Well, we shall have each other.’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s so.’ Already he was looking around the house, estimating how quickly he could gather up their belongings and be on their way.
In the company of Duncan’s family that winter, Isabella found comfort and friendship with Willina McRae. The small amount of money the MacQuarries had brought helped all of them. The two women eked it out between them, so that although the winter had its difficulties, it was not all total despair. Armed with needle and thread, Isabella refashioned the children’s scant clothes; as she fitted them against their thin bodies in front of the fire, she began to feel the stirrings of a need for children herself. I am a real wife, she thought, I will be a mother.
But then she wondered, what will we do with them if they come? Along with this new yearning there was mingled relief as the months passed and there was no sign of a child. And yet her body felt animated: she was sure that when it was ready, it would let her know. She was sometimes shy in the crowded conditions in which they lived, that Willina and Rory might detect the pleasure she took from lying beside their brother, behind the screen at the end of the room. But if they did, they said nothing.
In the spring they had to move. Th
e food and money had run out and Willina was delivered of another child, crying and screaming a great deal, and nearly dying during the ordeal. Isabella thought privately that there must be some way to avoid such difficulty at that age of one’s life. The only course, she supposed, would be to refuse certain acts, and she could not see how that was possible.
The McRaes said they must stay, that somehow they would all manage, but having made the decision before they had come north to become independent and work the kelp, and clear in the knowledge that they would starve if they did stay, Duncan and Isabella pressed on with their plan to go to the beaches. Duncan built a shelter amongst the congregation of people who were coming together once more for the kelp season.
Isabella’s feet were cut to ribbons the first day she entered the sea. Her wounds stung in the salt water, becoming worse as the days passed. She had nothing with which to bind them and soon they became infected, swollen and oozing.
Each day Duncan would suggest that she stay home, and each day she would return. This is what I chose, she said to herself, I knew, I knew.
But I did not know it would be like this. I did not know it would be so bad.
In the night she cried until towards morning, when she slept fitfully. The acrid smell of burning kelp filled the air and a continual pall of smoke hung over the camp. Eyes and noses ran constantly and the features of some of the kelp pickers became so swollen that they were virtually unrecognisable as the people who had arrived in the spring. Touching her own face, Isabella suspected that she was one of them.
‘I am no sort of wife for you, Duncan,’ she whispered one night when he had brought thin fish head gruel to her. ‘Let me go back to my parents.’
‘Do you want to go? I would understand if you did.’
‘Of course I don’t want to go. But what use am I here?’