He turned, fixing me with his piercing blue eyes, and grinned. ‘Aye, it’s deceptive,’ he said. ‘We’ll not be there for about five hours. It’s that big it looks near but there’s forty miles of open sea to deal with first. You’re welcome to stay up here and keep me company.’
We rolled on gently through the night until at last the Conochbar was anchored in Village Bay: we’d arrived at St Kilda.
David Livesey was a large man in every sense, over six-foot-tall with a booming laugh, powerful presence and impressive appetite. He and my father had been friends for years but now, the viscount and judge paced the deck like caged lions: they’d been confined on board for long enough. Everyone was on the deck impatiently studying the bay in the clear morning light. The bright green turf and little houses looked enticing and I remembered Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner: it was true; you could ‘smell land’. Odours of damp earth, sphagnum moss and sheep wafted across the still water.
‘Now then,’ began Cubby, from his commanding position on top of the wheelhouse. ‘Just a wee word before you go ashore.’ Pausing for maximum effect, he bent down to unleash the tender, a large grey Zodiac. ‘It’s the forty-ninth time I’ve been here and I’m not trusting the place just yet: it’s wild and I don’t miss a forecast out here. You’re to keep your ears open and if you hear the horn you’re to come back to the quay. No messing around. I’ll be needing you all on board. Fast! No going near cliff edges. No wandering off, and you’ll be needing to make your peace with the warden first.’
Kate stuck her head out of the galley window and called along the deck to us, ‘Will ye be taking a piece in a poke?’
‘Yes please, that would be lovely, thank you,’ responded Dickie at once. I wondered what was going on now and why every comment seemed laced with double entendres. Paper bags appeared stuffed with sandwiches – a piece in a poke, another thing learnt.
Like razorbills along a ledge, we sat on the tubes of the Zodiac while Cubby drove us across the bay towards the small stone quay. The steps disappeared into the depths, easily visible in clear water. Seaweed swooshed up and down, back and forth in the slight swell, the fronds of the deep brown bladderwrack waved like trees in a gale. Gingerly we helped each other up the slippery steps. My legs didn’t really feel under control; I had already acquired ‘sea legs’ from the hours on board and I wobbled up onto the quay top, gazing round in awe, silenced by the massive encircling sweep of the bay. Wafts of sheep shit, stronger now and tinged with beer, brushed aside any sense of romance. Kittiwakes shrieked from the cliffs and puffins bobbed around the Zodiac like self-important waiters hoping for a tip.
The peace was shattered by Veronica’s cut-glass tones. ‘Damn, I’m stuck. Darling! Do help! Don’t just stand there gawping! Come here!’ One of her high heels was wedged between the stones of the quay. Caught in a crack, she was rooted to the spot and unable to move. A man clad in regulation Nature Conservancy green bounded down the slope towards us, staring incredulously at the figure, resplendent in black leopard-print jeans, stilettoes and the ever-present Hermes scarf, stuck at the top of the quay.
He stopped in amazement as Vernon spread out his mac like Walter Raleigh. He knelt down, easing her heel out of the crack while Veronica swayed, standing on the mac on one foot, precariously close to the quay edge.
Nick was the keen-as-mustard warden, in his second summer working for the nature conservancy on Hirta, the main island of the St Kilda archipelago. He had obviously been primed as to who was coming and the purpose behind our visit. He pulled off his bobble hat, stretching out a hand. ‘Hello! So glad you’ve made it! Where’s the vissscount?’ he asked courteously. ‘Is he still on the Conochbar?’
‘No, I’m here, thank you,’ David replied, holding out his hand.
‘I do hope the crossing wasn’t too rough, sir. The weather’s been great here the last few days and the forecast’s good too, so you should be able to have some great walks, right out to the far end of Hirta if you want to, sir,’ he enthused. ‘But please keep away from the cliff edges. I don’t want you slipping over, sir. There’s no one out here to rescue you, you know. And you must watch out if you’re up on the top for the skuas. They’re nesting at the moment and they’re pretty aggressive, sir. It’s best to wear a hat up there cos they’ll dive-bomb you if you get close to a nest. They can make a nasty gash in your head.’ I wondered if St Kilda had inspired Daphne du Maurier.
We strolled, stretching our cramped legs, towards what had once been the village. The tight, short turf was bouncy and spattered everywhere with gobbets of sheep shit and tufts of chocolate brown wool. Tiny cottages, stretched out like a string of white pearls echoing the curve of the bay, all faced out to sea, turning their window-less backs to the bleak slopes of the island’s peaks. Some of the diminutive stone buildings had ropes crossing over the top with stones tied on the ends to prevent the turf roof being blown away by the wind, but most were simply open to the sky. Each had once been a family’s home and each had a slate propped up by the door, nestling amongst the nettles, with the family’s name. One or two had been reroofed and were used by the National Trust for their volunteers who came each summer to do archaeological work. One had been turned into a simple museum and one by one we ducked through the low stone doorway into the dim cool interior. Black-and-white photographs hung round the tiny room with its sturdy stone walls. Swarthy, warmly clad women sat solidly amongst mounds of seabird feathers, while the men, dressed in Sunday suits, posed, hands clutching bunches of dead sea birds, gazing steadily at the camera. The extraordinary life of the islanders, in all its isolation and harshness, came echoing out of the photos.
The following days were filled with exploring. We picnicked on the dense turf close to the cliff edges, watched whales and marvelled at the squabbling black guillemots and razorbills packed onto the ledges of the sheer cliffs. None of us paid much attention to Cubby’s pronouncements about how lucky we were, how the weather was not usually so settled and how rarely his passengers were free to come and go across the bay. About thirty people lived on Hirta during the summer – the National Trust volunteers and a Signals Regiment detachment. They whiled away the long light evenings playing pub games at the Puff-Inn enlivened by the double measures and offshore prices. It was breathtakingly magical but through it all ran a thread of anxiety. Digby. I kept wondering how he was but there was no means of finding out as communications out here were only for emergencies.
After four glorious days the anchor chain came clanking on board. Now as we studied the village, it seemed different, lonely and desolate. Kate leant over the side pointing to where the chain emerged from the clear water while Cubby steered in the direction she pointed. No need to wash off any mud, the bottom of Village Bay was sandy and clean. Conochbar turned her stern to the sweep of the bay and started nosing out into the open sea. The deck began to lift gently in the slight swell and already the village and pub were slipping away astern. Turning to starboard, we headed south-west, out around the rocky crags of Dun to weave a course through the huge stacs of the outer fringes of the archipelago. The afternoon sun was warm and even Veronica, feet clad in Vernon’s socks, was out on deck with her binoculars and camera. Cubby had threatened to hurl her high heels over the side if they appeared again on deck.
The grandeur was overpowering; the cliffs and walls of rock rose hundreds of feet straight up out of the sea so that it was difficult to grasp a sense of scale. Scattered across the steep slopes of the next island, Boreray, were tiny brown dots. One moved: a sheep. Dwarfed by the vastness of the cliffs, they grazed unconcerned by the sheer drop below. What looked like an explosion of feathers drifting in the wind turned out to be gannets flying to and fro from the packed and smelly colonies on the tooth-like stacs of Lee and An Armin. I looked back at the island of Hirta where we had strolled and picnicked in the sun. I thought of the harsh life the villagers had led; with no trees their boat had been made of driftwood and was too precious to use for fishing. They had surv
ived on dried sea birds and eggs collected from the cliffs and had paid their rent to the Lord of the Isles in feathers and sea bird oil.
The Conochbar dipped and rolled her way back east towards the Outer Hebrides, across the open Atlantic, but the night passed quickly. I kept Cubby company in the tiny wheelhouse, and early the next morning we were at the entrance to the Sound of Harris. Again, it was fun to do what I now regarded as ‘my’ job, ticking off the buoys marking the channel as we carried on south-east. This time there was no leg-stretching on North Uist, and the following afternoon as the sun dropped towards the horizon behind us we reached Canna, one of the Small Isles. Protected by Rum, Eigg and Muck, Canna, Cubby told me, was the most luxuriant: a volcanic island, anchored in the middle of the prawn-rich fishing grounds of the Minch and for him a regular stop. Its only farm produced the best Golden Wonder potatoes in the world, he insisted, and he never missed an opportunity to stock up. After the barren bones of the treeless Hebrides, the little pockets of dense woodland and tiny meadows welcomed us, and we could hear birdsong and a cow mooing. It seemed like a garden.
David Livesey’s friend Sir John Lorne Campbell, who owned the island, had invited us to dinner.
‘So you’re off to the big house?’ Cubby remarked, pointing to a neat granite building which peered out over bright fuchsia hedges as our boat settled to swing gently at anchor in the sheltered harbour. I was longing to meet this man who had planted trees and changed the island so much, but perhaps even more, to meet his wife. David had said she had been present at the evacuation of St Kilda, when the villagers had finally chosen to leave their homes and island life in 1930. With most of their menfolk killed in the Great War, life on Hirta had become barely tenable and they had asked to be evacuated. Little had they known how insensitively the evacuation would be handled. They had been made to kill their own dogs and cats: no pets were allowed to go with them; families were split up and the men, most of whom had never seen a tree in their lives, were sent to work for the Forestry Commission. Lady Campbell must have quite a story to tell.
Cubby nosed the Zodiac onto the sand with his cargo of scrubbed up passengers – my mother in regulation tweed skirt, the men wearing ties and Veronica, high heels in hand, was resplendent in black velvet trousers whilst I was in a summery dress. It was blissfully warm after the chilly winds of the sea and we strolled slowly up the little drive, the air thick with the heady scent of meadowsweet. Purple spotted orchids poked up through the short grass and bees buzzed amongst the sprays of dog roses. Inside, the house was cool with the chill typical of a thick-walled northern house in summer. It was warmer out than in. I shivered as I followed my mother into the drawing room. Through the open window I could see Cubby, like a water boatman beetle, rowing slowly back to the Conochbar: he hated the noise of the outboard motor and rowing was good exercise.
Dinner was encouragingly hot and completely delicious: roast venison with, of course, those Golden Wonder potatoes, followed by wild raspberries and thick cream. Not a hint of a banana yoghurt. Nor was there a phone. I was longing to ring John’s mother and hear how the boys were, but Cubby’s VHF blethering about potatoes and fish had already established that the island’s only telephone, a call box tucked into the wall by the little kirk, was out of action.
When Sir John had bought the island there was not a tree anywhere, but he had a keen interest in Hebridean butterflies and had planted copses and woodlands with purely indigenous species: the butterflies and moths had arrived. His collection rested in a Victorian butterfly cabinet and after dinner he pulled out drawer after slim drawer from the tall mahogany cabinet, each of the specimens was meticulously displayed and labelled. Butterflies and moths glowed, gold and yellow, frail wings and dainty curled antennae; each was impaled by a thick pin straight through its tiny furry body.
Disappointingly, his frail wife seemed to remember little of the evacuation and was unwilling to talk about it, in spite of Veronica’s journalistic prompting, but she was an ardent collector of the Gaelic folksongs peculiar to the Hebrides. After dinner, sitting silhouetted against the silver waters of bay, she sang in a soft, lilting voice, crooning Gaelic love songs to the reedy accompaniment of a harpsichord. Quietly, I eased myself away from the party. In the hall the damp cool air of the big stone house closed round me as I tiptoed carefully to the front door. Turning the smooth brass doorknob, I slipped out into the soft twilight. No one had noticed me go.
Outside in the garden it was warm and welcoming, fragrant with cut grass and roses. I shook off the oppressive musty gloom, the haunting songs and visions of the impaled bodies of butterflies, and made my way across the soft lawn towards the gate in the fuchsia hedge.
‘It’s yourself!’ I jumped as Cubby detached himself from the deep shadows of the hedge: his arm snaked round my waist and he brushed the lightest kiss at the side of my lips. We strolled down the drive, deep in shadow from the summer leaves to the harbour and sat on the wall, still warm from the afternoon sun, to wait for the others.
Three
It was an idyllic introduction but it was thanks to John that our series of family voyages began. I had ‘sprung’ Diggers from Great Ormond Street Hospital. He had clung on to me like a limpet, grinning from ear to ear. The hospital gurus, unable to work out what was wrong, were consistently insensitive and seemed to think he was both deaf and stupid. He loathed being talked ‘about’ and after three weeks of what he felt was prison, I had to get him home, out of the hot rooms that drained him and back to food that suited his confused digestion. He still couldn’t walk, but he could sing in an angelic, pure choirboy’s voice. He was also charmingly wicked and the two boys worked as a team, swapping price tags in supermarkets and moving things around on the shelves. He loved animals, had a pet rabbit and would be angry with John when he went shooting. He could ride a horse, and chatted ceaselessly, full of jokes and fun. But no one knew why he was so frail, why he regularly caught pneumonia, or why he couldn’t walk, why he overheated and why his skin would rub off like a massive burn. It was clear he was in pain much of the time and at night was rarely peaceful or asleep. Making his life manageable absorbed me day and night. I thought of little else, expending most of my energy devising strategies to help him, to entertain and divert him. But in amongst the horrors and frights of daily life, he was fantastic fun. Hugo, fit, strong and three years older, adored him. The brothers were simply inseparable.
As I carried him down the hospital steps, there they were, John and Hugo, waiting for us together with Conker, our unruly springer spaniel. Finally, we were on our way home, to a proper supper. Sitting in the kitchen, tea was celebratory fish fingers and frozen peas with pools of ketchup, Diggers’ choice. John looked round the table.
‘Diggers, are you feeling like an adventure? Dickie and I have booked a boat for us all to have a holiday at sea. What do you think, you two? Would you like that?’ I stared at John in amazement. Over the past years, since we had first gone to St Kilda with my father’s party, I had been up to crew for Kate and Cubby on several occasions. The boys knew all about the boat, Digby had even written a poem about it and of course he knew Dickie who had delivered him, but it had always been a ‘grown-ups’ thing.’
Four months after our initial St Kilda trip, my involvement as crew had started with the phone insistently trilling across the lawn where the boys rolled about inside a tepee of bamboo sticks and drying-up cloths. I ran into the kitchen.
‘Hello?’ Silence. ‘Hello!’ I bellowed, annoyed at being interrupted. Click, loud breathing.
‘Is it yourself?’
Cubby. No one else had that rich sexy voice.
‘Hello – what a surprise! Shall I ring you back?’
There were rattling noises as money was pushed into the payphone box. ‘Aye, if you don’t mind.’ He gave me the number: Glasgow. Whatever could he be doing there?
‘It’s so good to hear you. How are you? Are you in Glasgow?’ Until he gave me the number I had visualised him leanin
g against the side of a lone phone box in a little white village tucked into the shore of a distant sea loch, miles away in the Highlands, wind-buffeted and lit with sparkling reflections off the waves.
‘Aye, well, we’re away down south, on the Clyde.’ This was really unexpected; I’d never imagined him being anywhere so industrial. ‘The boat’s been up the slip and she’s just about finished now. She’ll be back in the water in a couple of days, then it’ll be round the Mull wi’ the tide and back to Oban. Would you fancy coming up for the ride?’
Thus began the first of my trips on board the Conochbar as crew. John had been supportive, recognising that I needed breaks from the continuous strain of keeping Digby alive, and Sarah, our wonderful helper, together with a stalwart pair of grannies, had managed during the times I had been away.
I could not have been more nervous at the start. I had never flown anywhere by myself, or done much on my own at all. I had met John when I was sixteen and we’d got married when I was nineteen. He’d been my first and only boyfriend, so venturing off by myself had seemed both grown-up and daunting.
The descending plane swooped over a wide river and I peered out of the window: this must be the Clyde. Red and green marks stretched along the water, which I supposed must be buoys marking the shipping channel. A white bridge curved smoothly over the river while matchbox-sized cars whizzed across it and toy boats slid underneath.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the European City of Culture.’ There was a collective gasp of surprise. The air hostess continued smoothly, ‘The time in Glasgow is 14.35 and this year, Glasgow is the European City of Culture!’
Already it felt ‘foreign’ and far more exciting than arriving by train as I had earlier that summer with my parents.
Not wanting to arrive at the boat empty-handed, I bagged a carton of wine, a flashy-looking box of chocolates and a couple of magazines as I left the airport and leapt into the first available taxi. I hoped Cubby’s rather vague directions would make sense to the driver.
Mistress and Commander Page 3