By Eastern windows

by Gretta Curran Browne

  In his portmanteau he also had a list of addresses given to him by those soldiers who were unable to read or write, Scottish lads who knew that during his journey through Scotland to the Isle of Mull he would pass near their homes, and pleaded with him to call on their parents, to say they were well and doing fine.

  ‘Ma mither, sir,’ one lad had said, `ma mither will near swoon at havin' ma commanding officer call at the house – home from India. But she'll be reet pleased if ye do. Ma fayther too! Och, sir, I canne tell ye! It'll make them sleep happy for many a moon!’

  The Sir Edward Hughes, under a cloud of white sail, began to cruise out of the harbour of Bombay. A roar of farewells rose up from the dockside and hands waved frantically.

  George Jarvis waved back, but Lachlan stood without moving, just looking – looking back on the land where so many sons of Britannia had come in the past, where so many British men, and women too, had chosen to end their days.

  Looking back to the land where he had spent so many Indian summers; looking back at the happiest period of his whole life.

  Later, much later, when the sun had set and the moon had risen, India was gone from view… vanished into the darkness and distance.

  *

  Three months later Elizabeth Campbell came rushing into Mrs Macquarie's parlour waving a letter. ‘He's coming home! He's booked his passage on a ship that leaves Bombay on the 6th of January.’

  Mrs Macquarie, her heart palpitating, regarded Elizabeth in stunned silence ... then she reached out and clasped the girl's arm as if she was going to fall.

  ‘Sixth of January – what year?’

  ‘This year.’

  ‘But it's March now.’

  ‘Yes!’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘So he's already on the sea. In just a couple of months he will be in Scotland.’

  In the months that followed more letters came: from Cape Town, from St Helena, from Portsmouth, from London.

  ‘`No’ long now!’ Mrs Macquarie said excitedly, and like Elizabeth who was just as excited, the old lady was visualising in her mind the return of the same twenty-five-year old lieutenant who had walked away from her all those years ago.

  ‘There'll be no more letters,’ Mrs Macquarie said to Elizabeth as she poured the tea. ‘But ye'll still come and visit me, Elizabeth hennie, won't ye?’

  ‘I will,’ Elizabeth promised.

  They waited eagerly for the return of the wanderer, but by the close of summer – months after his arrival in England – there was still no sign of him.

  His letters explained the reason. His arrival in London in May had coincided with the breakdown of the Peace Treaty of Amiens. Britain was again at war with France. The War Office had cancelled all leave. He had been assigned immediately to the post of Adjutant-General on the staff of the London District, under the personal command of Lord Harrington.

  From then on his letters were all about the military world of London. The Commander-in-Chief of the Army, the Duke of York, had sent for him in order to discuss at length the state of the regiments in India.

  As his time in London moved into the autumn, and his letters still spoke of his longing to return to Mull as soon as it was possible to obtain leave, a social note crept into his letters. He had dined with Lord Harrington and the Prince of Wales. He had been given a week's leave in July, but as it was too short a time to travel to Scotland, he had instead escorted Maria Morley on a week's excursion to Cheltenham and Gloucester.

  Maria’s husband, James he explained, had died six months earlier. And under such circumstances, he found it impossible to refuse the grieving widow’s request to escort her to Cheltenham.

  ‘Maria Morley,’ said Mrs Macquarie to Elizabeth. ‘That's his dead wife's sister.’

  Elizabeth waited curiously to see if his letters contained any more references to this newly widowed Maria Morley.

  By Christmas, Mrs Macquarie had given up hope of her son ever returning to Mull. ‘He'll no’ be coming home in my lifetime,' she said quietly, blinking her eyes. ‘I lost him to the Army when he was a laddie of fifteen and they've had him ever since. And aye, that's the truth.’

  Once again Elizabeth looked at the grieving old lady with pity. ‘It's an uncommon mild day for December,' she said. ‘Shall we take a little stroll?’

  Mrs Macquarie cast a fond eye on Elizabeth Campbell. ‘You're as bonnie as a daughter to me at times, Elizabeth hennie. Aye, let's take a wee stroll.’

  *

  In January Elizabeth returned to her home at Airds on the mainland. Three months later, in April, she travelled over to Mull and spent another few days with Mrs Macquarie.

  ‘No sign of the wanderer yet?’ Elizabeth asked.

  Mrs Macquarie shook her head gloomily. ‘His last letter is there. Murdoch brought it over and read it to me.’ She pointed to the dresser. ‘Do you want to read it?’

  Elizabeth did. She scanned through the pages that told only of his military life in London at the War Office.

  The two women moved outdoors to the warm spring sunshine. ‘He'll be home soon, I'm sure,’ Elizabeth said as they strolled down to the seashore opposite Ulva.

  Mrs Macquarie shook her head again. ‘The Duke of York is the villain. Won't give any officer leave of absence at all. Every day they're expecting an attack from across the Channel.’

  They had reached the land's edge, and stood to gaze across the water to Ulva's shore where a number of boatmen were hauling in nets of seaweed to be dried and burned into kelp, which would then be taken to the mainland for the manufacture of soap and glass.

  Mrs Macquarie blinked her eyes. ‘D`ye know, Elizabeth, that it takes twenty tons of seaweed to make one ton of kelp.’

  Elizabeth nodded.

  ‘And all that carrying and drying and cutting and burning first.’ Mrs Macquarie sighed. ‘It's a hard way to make a living.’

  Elizabeth stood gazing across at the green and basalt landscape of Ulva, an island of tranquil splendour and rare beauty where red deer sat under the shade of pine trees, lazily watching seals from the Atlantic playing near Ulva's shore.

  In the three days that followed, the two women took ambling strolls together down to the shore to stare across at the Ulvan kelpers at their labour.

  On the fourth day Elizabeth was surprised to find a small rowing boat moored on Mull's side of the shore, and looked around for the owner ... not a soul in sight!

  She waved and called across the water to the Ulvan kelpers, but they misunderstood her, and merely waved back in greeting.

  Mrs Macquarie was too stunned to protest when Elizabeth bundled her into the boat, whipped off the rope, then got in herself and swiftly and expertly inserted the oars inside their catches.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Mrs Macquarie finally screamed when Elizabeth applied her strength to the oars and the boat began to move.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Mrs Macquarie cried again. ‘What are ye doing! A gentle-bred lady like ye handling a boat! I've never been across this water except when taken by a man!’

  Elizabeth laughed as gleefully as a schoolgirl. ‘And if you were drowning, would you take my hand in rescue – or wait for a man?’

  ‘This is no time for riddles!’ Mrs Macquarie replied, and then began to relax slightly as the boat skimmed swiftly and smoothly across the water towards Ulva. Elizabeth was clearly an expert at this.

  When the boat reached Ulva, the staring kelpers let out sighs of relief, which turned into a loud cheer when Elizabeth stepped ashore.

  Elizabeth turned to Mrs Macquarie and unleashed an excited girlish smile. ‘Now then, shall we go adventuring?’

  Mrs Macquarie had to smile back, in bewilderment. Elizabeth was treating her as if they were both schoolgirls.

  ‘Is it up to the Laird of Ulva's house you want to go, Elizabeth?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘No,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but it has occurred to me these last few days while we were gazing across at Ulva, that you might like to visit Kilvechewan.’

  ‘Kilvechewan?�
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  Mrs Macquarie stared at Elizabeth, seeing her with new eyes. ‘Fancy you thinking of Kilvechewan,' she said, then smiled at the girl from Airds with deep fondness. ‘Aye, Elizabeth, a visit to Kilvechewan would be a real treat.’

  Elizabeth harboured no regret at her suggestion, even though the walk up to Kilvechewan took four hours. Both women were Highlanders and took the journey in their stride, engrossed in the wildlife of the small woods and moorlands, pausing here and there to talk with crofters when Mrs Macquarie enjoyed a succession of short rests and caught up on all the gossip.

  And then, finally, at Kilvechewan, the old woman stood gazing thoughtfully at her husband's grave, which now also contained Donald.

  ‘My husband was a good man,’ Mrs Macquarie said quietly. ‘The Macleans of Torloisk might be the lords of Mull, but I didna marry a pauper when I married a Macquarie, I married a gentleman. Aye, I did.’

  She looked at the girl. ‘Did ye know, Elizabeth, that the first people to settle on Ulva were Nordic Vikings?’

  Elizabeth nodded.

  Mrs Macquarie suddenly chuckled. ‘I remember my man telling me that when the first Vikings arrived in their longboats at Ulva, they sent a scout ashore to see who was here, and how the land lay. The scout wandered over the island which was completely deserted of all human habitation, then returned to the shore, shouting, "Ullamh dha!" That's Viking for "Nobody home."’

  The walk back seemed twice as long, and so tiring that poor Mrs Macquarie let out a sigh of ecstatic relief when she reached the lonely little rowing boat. It had been morning when they rowed across from Mull, and now it was sunset. All the kelpers had gone to their homes, the shore deserted.

  Mrs Macquarie yawned tiredly as Elizabeth lifted an oar and pushed the boat away from the rocks, too tired and too full of gratitude to make any objection when the girl from Airds delayed the homeward journey even longer, by pausing halfway across the Sound to rest on her oars ... gazing dreamily at the sunset.

  From the western horizon the sun's purple and orange rays glinted like coloured glass on the sheen of the water. Only the seagulls flapping and screaming overhead disturbed the warm still evening.

  Mrs Macquarie watched Elizabeth's face and smiled to herself, knowing now that her first instinct about the girl had been right. Underneath all that sensibleness and no-nonsense practicality, Elizabeth had a heart of gold.

  And moments later, when Elizabeth dipped the oars and continued rowing gently, Mrs Macquarie heaved a sigh of inward satisfaction. There were so many frauds in this world, so many people who took you in with their falseness and insincerity; so it was a good feeling to know that her own sense and judgement was not completely gone, and her first instinct about Elizabeth Campbell had proved to be a sound one.

  The following day Elizabeth decided that although Mrs Macquarie's house was as clean as a new pin, it was foolish for it to be bereft of the charm and colour of fresh flowers when the hills and banks were smothered in wild spring blooms.

  As they ambled back from the shore to the house, she paused here and there to collect handfuls of wild blue hyacinths, mixing in a few sprigs of golden gorse.

  Back in the house, without waiting to remove her hat and while Mrs Macquarie made tea, Elizabeth divided the colourful array of flowers into two bowls, placing one on the table and the other on the window ledge.

  And it was then, as she sat on the window-seat arranging the flowers, Elizabeth saw a carriage on the crest of the eastern hill, slowly winding its way down the narrow road ... She peered curiously ... was the carriage coming here? Or passing on to the McLean's farm at Lagganulva?

  ‘Mrs Macquarie dear,’ she said hesitantly, ‘there seems to be a carriage coming this way.’

  ‘A carriage? Now who may that be? Would it be Murdoch coming from Lochbuy do ye think?’

  ‘I doubt it,' Elizabeth replied. ‘He usually prefers to take the short cut by horse through the hills from Lochbuy to Rossall.’

  Mrs Macquarie joined Elizabeth at the window, peering until the carriage came to a halt on the road down by the wall that marked the farm's boundary.

  The carriage door opened and the occupant stepped out, and the two women at the window simply gaped when they saw him … a beautifully handsome and tall young man of about eighteen years, dressed exquisitely in a suit of royal blue with pure white silk at his neck. His skin was light brown, his hair short and as black as coal. He walked up to the driver and spoke a few words to him, and every move of his body was as graceful as his clothes.

  Elizabeth gasped – he was stunning – a prince straight out of the Arabian Tales.

  Mrs Macquarie blinked at the strangest sight she had ever seen in this primitive region – a brown-skinned young man. ‘My God!’ she cried. ‘It's an Indian prince in English dress! He musta come looking for Lachlan! And he no' here!’

  She got all in a fluster and began to shake, running to the door, then running back again ‘Will he speak English do ye think, Elizabeth? Will he want to speak to me, Elizabeth?’

  Elizabeth rose from the window-seat and said helpfully: ‘Shall I go out to greet him?’

  ‘Aye, hennie, aye!’ Mrs Macquarie was running towards the stairs to her bedroom. ‘Ye go out and keep him talking, Elizabeth, while I go up and put on my best shawl and bonnet!’

  When Elizabeth stepped out of the house and walked down to the wall with a confident air, George Jarvis turned his head, surprised at the sight of her.

  George had been expecting an old woman who lived alone, not this tall and attractive young lady with a long-legged stride. She wore a dark-green riding habit with yellow lace at the cuffs and throat. On her head she wore a three cornered green hat which crowned a sheen of bronze curling hair which fell around her shoulders.

  Elizabeth smiled, about to hold out her hand in greeting – then stopped dead when a second occupant stepped out of the carriage, still hastily jotting down something in what appeared to be a small journal or diary, which he then closed, shoved inside an inner breast pocket of his jacket, and looked round.

  Elizabeth stood mute as Lachlan's eyes met hers, lingered quizzically on her for a moment, as if wondering who she was – then at the sound of a woman's incoherent cry, looked beyond her to the house where an old woman stood at the door staring in disbelief.

  George Jarvis exchanged a fixed look with Elizabeth, and she immediately understood what he was silently asking of her.

  They both remained standing by the carriage as Lachlan Macquarie walked towards his mother.

  Like a startled victim of the ague, Mrs Macquarie stared at her son with a tremor of shaking and blinking eyes, barely recognising him as he walked the gravel path round the sheep field.

  This new Lachlan Macquarie was a strikingly elegant man, older than the son she remembered, wearing a blue cloak flaring back from his shoulders to reveal a perfectly tailored jacket of expensive navy broadcloth. And his skin – oh, she had not expected his skin to be that colour – as brown as a man who had spent too long in the sun.

  She stared at the man coming towards her. Was it he? Her eyes, old and moist and blue, blinked as if she feared that either her sight or her imagination might be playing wishful tricks on her.

  He was standing before her now, looking into her startled eyes and smiling. He said softly, ‘Hello, Mother.’

  And her poor old heart nearly burst.

  She collapsed into his arms and clung to him, overcome by the excess of her emotions as tears of joy coursed down her face. Aye, it was he … her youngest son … Lachlan … home to her at last.

  NINETEEN

  ‘Ye’ll note,’ said the builder, pointing to various points around the spacious parlour, ‘that we’ve done all the repairs ye asked for, sir. I hope they’re to your satisfaction.’

  Lachlan made a quick inspection, and then looked at his mother. ‘I’m satisfied, are you?’

  ‘Me?’ She could say no more, confused by her emotions, so she simply nodded her head a few t
imes before shooting a quick glance at Elizabeth’s expressionless face. She had begged the girl to stay with her and keep her company while these strange workmen were in and around her home, taking no comfort from Lachlan’s assurances that all were from Mull, and all could be trusted.

  ‘And the rest of the alterations?’ the builder asked. ‘How soon do ye want us to start on them?’

  Again Lachlan looked at his mother, who simply gazed glumly at Elizabeth, seeking her help.

  ‘As soon and as quickly as possible.’ Elizabeth smiled at Mrs Macquarie. ‘These things need to be done, and while the air outside is fresh and warm we can take some nice long walks and get away from the noise.’

  Mrs Macquarie looked as if her best friend had just cruelly betrayed her, but again she simply nodded and said meekly, ‘Aye, that’s a grand suggestion, Elizabeth, a grand suggestion.’

  In the stress of her mind, Elizabeth felt divided between pangs of great sympathy for Mrs Macquarie, as well as feeling a practical support for her son who was finally attending to all the repairs and alterations to the house that should have been done years ago.

  Yet she could not help feeling sorry for the old lady whose quiet life was now being so disturbed. At first Mrs Macquarie had been braced and fortified by the unexpected joy of her son’s arrival, but now the strain was beginning to show. She had not been prepared, and neither had Elizabeth, for the staggering energy that Lachlan had brought with him to Scotland, and which showed no signs of abating.

  Later, when Lachlan and the workman went outside, Elizabeth followed them out. She said clumsily, ‘Mr Macquarie … although I, personally, am very happy to see the work being done at last, is it necessary for everything to be done this summer?’

  He paused, gazed at her in thought, and shrugged. ‘Yes, haste is necessary, because I have only a few months leave at the most, and that’s only if I am not recalled tomorrow or next week or next month.’ He nodded upwards. ‘And that roof won’t last another winter.’

  Elizabeth turned and looked up at the roof, and saw that it was indeed in a very bad state. ‘Oh goodness, yes, a heavy rainfall and your mother would be drowned in her bed.’