by Millie Gray
Rita leapt on to the bandstand and ungraciously seized the two mint-new, crisp five-pound notes from the bandleader’s hand before turning and brandishing them in triumph.
“Well, that’s that,” whimpered Alice. “Guess I’ll be nearly twenty-five before I get my American fare together.”
Carrie was more philosophical and whispered, as she tucked her arm though Alice’s, “Look, I could get you a part-time job as usherette in the Palace Picture House. Just think how much you’d learn watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dance, not just once but seven times over – if you count the double programme on a Saturday.”
By the end of the night both Alice and Carrie had declined offers to be walked home and as they emerged on to the pavement in Constitution Street both of them looked for Sam who should have been ensuring that they were safely escorted across Leith Links. But Sam was nowhere to be seen. Only Chalky and Crystal had followed the girls out of the dance hall.
“Where’s Sam got to?” Carrie asked Chalky.
“You’d best go by yourselves,” advised Chalky.
“Why?”
“Because he’s going to walk that big red-heided trollop home,” snorted Crystal.
“You’re joking!”
“Naw, Carrie, she’s no,” retorted Chalky. “Making a right ass o himself he is. Tried to tell him to get a grip but he wouldn’t listen. Look, here they come.”
Out of the dance hall came Sam with Rita clinging to his arm like a leech.
“You seeing us up the road, Sam?” demanded Carrie.
“Naw. You and Alice go up with Chalky and Crystal. I’ll see ye later. I’ll no be that long.”
Carrie turned on her heel and strode off defiantly. However, Chalky grabbed Sam’s arm. “Look, pal I ken ye’ve been away for two years and that ye’re keen to get a click but pass this bag o trouble up and come hame with us. It’s for the best.”
Sam shook his head and pulled Rita closer to him.
“To hell with ye then! And dinnae ever say I didnae warn ye,” shouted Chalky, before trotting off after Sam’s sisters.
He had just caught up with the girls as they were turning into Charlotte Street when he grabbed Carrie’s arm and announced, “I just cannae let him be made a mug of. I’m away back.”
Chalky bounded back round the corner and when he saw Sam and Rita approaching St John’s East Church he began to sprint as fast as he could towards them. He had just reached Leith Police Station when Sam noticed him and became aware of the danger Chalky might pose to his beloved Rita. In an effort to protect her, Sam moved quickly in front – not fast enough though – for Chalky’s lunge knocked the wind out of Sam who fell against Rita. The poor maiden ended up sprawling on the pavement, legs akimbo, her Titian wig now lying five feet away and her once-perfect bosom producing loud, agonising squeals as it slowly deflated.
Sam sat up and, as he stared at Rita’s immaculate short back and sides, he slowly realised that he had been completely hoodwinked.
“What the hell?” he groaned as his sisters and Crystal came running towards him.
“I tried to tell ye the hale night lang and ye wouldnae listen,” explained Chalky. “This eejit here is my transvestite cousin, Roger, from the Dumbiedykes. He bet me, so he did, that he could fool you and everybody else at the dance.”
Sam rose painfully from the pavement but instead of throwing a punch at Roger he squared up to Chalky. “Ye mean this poof here is your cousin?”
“He’s no a poof. Naw, naw! He’s just a big Jessie,” muttered Chalky, preparing to fend off the blows he knew were about to rain down on him.
Fortunately for Chalky, it was just then that Police Sergeant Duff arrived on the scene, “Hello! Hello! What’s going on here then?”
“Nothing,” Carrie butted in.
The sergeant turned to Sam. “Heard ye were back, Sam. When are ye bound for your polis training at Whitburn?”
“Well,” said Sam, who was terrified that the sergeant would find out how he had been fooled. “I get demobbed Monday coming,” he continued. “And the week after that I join the force.”
“You couldn’t have timed it better, what with our outside-right breaking his leg,” the sergeant announced before turning his attention to Roger. “You again?” he snorted. “How often do I have to tell you to stay in the Dumbiedykes and let our A Division lads look after ye?” He now turned back to Sam. “You’ll remember him because every time he puts a foot in Leith he ends up with a proper doing-up. And us poor B Division lads end up no only taking him to hospital to be patched up but having to write out an assault report – an assault report,” he hissed, prodding Roger vigorously in the chest, “that never goes anywhere because he always drops the charges.” The sergeant hesitated then wheeled round to give Sam his full attention again. “Didn’t manage to pull the wool over your eyes, did he?”
“No,” replied Carrie. “It was me that was arguing with him.”
“About what?” the sergeant speered.
“About him cheating my wee sister.”
Sam winked at Carrie before joining in. “That’s right. He was trying to run off with something that wasn’t really his.”
Roger looked bewildered and then realised what Sam and Carrie wanted. Without further persuasion, he reached into his pink handbag and withdrew the two crisp five-pound notes – which he duly handed to a triumphant Alice.
2
A CHILD IS BORN
Rachel rested her head on the cow’s flank as she pulled on its teats. “Well,” she said to herself, “this is a lot different from pulling pints – for a start I’d be dressed up to the nines running my own bar in the Queen’s, not stuck here in a draughty old byre with leaking wellies and a flapping sou’-wester.” She sighed, thinking how her Hannah, although now married and already the mother of a fifteen-month toddler, was still such a dither and causing insurmountable problems with all her shilly-shallying. Oh aye, ten days holiday, with three of them unpaid at that, was all she’d managed to wangle out of the management at the Queen’s Hotel where she was manageress of the Dispense Bar. All this leave had been wangled so that she could give Hannah a hand with the new baby – she’d even arranged to have these precious holidays a week after Hannah’s due date. And here she was with only two days’ holiday left, a gale force nine forecast and her awkward Hannah still reluctant to give birth.
The cow suddenly fidgeted and slapped Rachel in the face with its tail, making her wince and knock against the bucket. Trying desperately to steady the pail and save the milk, she slipped off the three-legged stool and landed in the straw.
“You still have not quite got the hang of the milking then?” a drifting, lilting island voice called out.
Turning to discover Ishbel, Hannah’s husband’s aunt, Rachel beamed a smile to the ancient-looking lady, thinking how fierce and forbidding she had seemed the first time they met. Though just in her mid-seventies, Ishbel had looked to be a hundred at least. Rachel had never before seen such a lined and seemingly weary face but she now knew it was due to Ishbel having been a fishwife, who had followed the herring fleet from port to port ever since she’d been a young slip of a girl. And the finishing touches to Ishbel’s leathered skin came no doubt from the Hebridean climate where raging gales and driving rain were near daily occurrences. Rachel knew also that Ishbel’s austere appearance, accentuated by her steel-grey hair and sombre black dress, belied the fact that both she and her identical twin, Myrtle, were gentle, compassionate human beings. It had been a welcome surprise to Rachel when she realised the two sisters had taken Hannah to their hearts.
“You’re right about me not being a good milkmaid,” said Rachel, standing up and dusting the straw from her clothing before lifting the pail. “But we’ve enough milk for ourselves and Jamie can get on with the rest of the milking when he gets back.”
“No, no, no!” protested Ishbel. “Remember, I came out a good hour ago to tell you that a force nine gale was forecast for this afternoon.”<
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“So?” queried Rachel, who was still unused to the emphatic and precise speech of the islanders.
“Well, our fishing fleet, who will have heard the radio issue the same storm forecast, will by now have run for shelter in case the gale reaches force ten.” Ishbel crossed herself before continuing, “And our Jamie, God bless him, will now be safely in Mallaig eating the fish and chips.”
“Eating fish and chips in Mallaig?” Rachel gasped incredulously, wondering why he hadn’t simply made straight for home on this small isolated island of Herrig out in the Atlantic just west of Uist.
“Oh yes, indeed, the best fish and chips on the west coast are to be had from the chip shop on the pier at Mallaig.”
By now the two women had left the byre and were advancing towards the house. As Rachel looked over the island and peered beyond into the far Atlantic, she was amazed to see that the horizon was dominated by what seemed to be a massive wall of water approaching from the west.
“What in the name of heaven is that?” she asked, setting down the pail and pointing.
“That!” cried Ishbel in horror, “That is… oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, help us in our hour of need,” she fervently cried out while crossing herself.
“Help us?”
“Oh aye, we will surely need Our Lady’s help, right enough! That monster out there will grow and grow and as it gathers momentum it will destroy all that lies in its path when it runs ashore.”
“So you’ve seen this before?”
“Not often. In fact, just the three times. Once was back in 1900. Now what was the date? Aye, I mind now. It was December the fifteenth in that year, when there was another such great tidal wave. My father and I prayed for help just where we are standing now and the Good Lord steered it away to the north.” She paused before adding, “Aye, but it ran ashore on Flannan Isle and the three poor lighthouse keepers there were swallowed up and never seen again.”
“So when it reaches here it will be a force ten then?”
“No.”
Rachel swallowed hard. “So it will be staying at force nine?”
“Maybe aye; maybe no,” responded Ishbel. “That could have been what might have happened right enough. But see yonder, how the new moon looks as if it is lying on its back and how the wind is being challenged by our opposing tide.”
“Yes, I see. But what does that mean?”
Ishbel pursed her lips and shook her head before answering, “That means the wave is heading straight for us and we can look forward to at least a force eleven chasing it.”
“A hurricane!” shrieked Rachel.
“Aye, it’s hurrying, right enough. See how it’s galloping towards us.”
As Rachel watched the momentous wave hurtle towards them she found it difficult to stem her increasing sense of panic. “Is that what you came to the byre to tell me?”
“No,” replied Ishbel, “I didn’t see the danger until right now. I came to tell you that I think …” Ishbel hesitated before going on, “I could be wrong – but I think that Hannah has now commenced her labour.”
“Begun her labour!” yelled Rachel. “But didn’t you tell me the District Nurse had gone over to South Uist this morning?”
“Aye,” said Ishbel gravely. “And there is no way she’ll allow herself to be blown back here tonight by that monster.”
“You mean the two of us might have to deliver the baby by ourselves?”
“Of course. And that will not be a problem. It will just be like assisting the ewes with the lambing.”
Rachel shook her head in despair. Would there be any point, she wondered, in reminding Ishbel that she only knew how to cook a lamb – not deliver one?
She went and lifted the pail again and, trudging towards the croft house, she could foresee how badly it could all end up.
“Right,” she told herself. “Pull yourself together, Rachel, my girl. What problems could there be? Well, no running water in the house is the first of these. There’s a water pipe, but that’s at the bottom of the hill and out of reach until the blasted gale dies down. Some things are essential,” she argued. “Now what are they? Tilley lamps, for a start; and the Aga stove – we’ve got both these things – and a chemical toilet. But that’s down in the byre. Finally, and most importantly, we’ve no doctor or nurse – so what do we do? Easy! It was Hannah who decided not to go into labour on her due date, so Hannah must just decide to put it off a little longer – like till tomorrow when help and water will be at hand.”
By the time she reached the living room, Rachel was feeling almost optimistic; but the sight of Hannah hanging on to the back of a chair and moaning loudly roused all her anxieties again.
“Oh, Mum,” groaned Hannah, “whatever are we going to do?”
Rachel swallowed hard. This was a situation she had never envisaged for Hannah. She’d always been convinced that Hannah, the first-born and brightest of her five children, would be a rising star and would end up Head Matron at the Royal Infirmary. But the instant Hannah had passed her final nursing exams and emerged as a fully qualified Staff Nurse, she had shocked everyone be declaring how she’d met a fisherman, and was going to marry him. Then the two of them would live romantically on a remote island in the Outer Hebrides. Rachel could still feel the rage that had engulfed her when she thought of all that wasted education – education that seemed to be of no use in this island culture where Hannah was thought at first to be plain stupid and then accepted as simply ill-prepared for real life. Jamie’s aunts just couldn’t believe that this highly intelligent young woman couldn’t milk a cow, cut peat, gather seaweed, gut fish or plant potatoes – not to mention being unable to help ewes with their lambing or round up ponies. And now here they were today, marooned on this small island of Herrig, with Hannah apparently deciding it was the proper time to give birth.
A deep intake of breath from her daughter quickly reminded Rachel that, apart from everything else, Hannah’s husband was stuck in Mallaig eating fish and chips and that she, Rachel Campbell, was all that stood between Hannah and disaster.
“Well,” Rachel at length replied, turning to face Ishbel and Myrtle who were both seated quite calmly by the peat fire and were engaged in nursing young Morag between them. “How long do you think this storm will last?”
“Ah, to be truthful, you never can tell. But listen – it is quite fierce right now, so it could well blow itself out in three or four hours,” replied Myrtle.
Rachel looked at the ceiling as she listened to the howling and shrieking of the wind. So ferocious was it that she began to wonder if the house, perched on the island’s little hilltop, would still be standing in the next ten minutes. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she accepted that there was no way anyone from the house could go out to seek for help. They would just have to manage. Then she thought of her own birth labours and how they had always been prolonged and hard – but that surely was the answer! Quickly, she turned to Hannah. “Look, girl. All you have to do is to drag your labour out. What I mean is, hold on for… for at least another five hours. Then we’ll be able get you all the help you need.”
Hannah looked aghast. “Hang on, Mum? Don’t you realise it’s a baby I’m having – not a tooth extracted!” Rachel was about to argue when there was a loud gurgling sound and Hannah screamed, “It’s my waters – they’ve broken.”
“So I see,” remarked Rachel coolly, wondering what else she could possibly say. Then she saw that Hannah was trying to push. “Look Hannah,” she instructed. “Take deep breaths. Cross your legs tightly. Pull in your stomach. Do anything but… please don’t push.”
“But I just have to! Oh, Mum. Come on, help me upstairs to bed.”
That was indeed all that Rachel could do. Reluctantly, she accepted that the ferocity of the storm had beaten her and that midwifery was a skill she would just have to learn fast.
Hannah’s labour was short, much too short for Rachel’s liking, but even though it had all been very embarrassing and diff
icult for Rachel, who was always ultra-modest, it really had been remarkably trouble-free. And thanks to both mother and daughter laying aside their mutual self-consciousness, a big baby boy had been safely born.
Now, with the morning sunshine pouring in through the window and the wind having abated to a gentle breeze, Hannah was sitting up in bed coaxing the little boy to suckle while dainty little Morag lay tucked in beside her mother. Without looking directly at Rachel, Hannah said, “Thank you, Mum. I just don’t know how I’d have managed to deliver him without your help.”
“Aye well, believe me, it was more than the wind that wanted to howl last night.”
Hannah now turned to face her mother. “You were scared?”
“Positively terrified!”
“Well, I never would have believed that. In fact, once you got into your stride I felt I was a little girl again. Sure, there were some problems, but I was blessed with a mother who could sort them all out.”
Rachel stopped gathering up the washing and gazed pensively around the impoverished room before speaking. “Aye, but most of the time the only problems we had were the kind that a fiver could have put right. And know something, Hannah? If all you ever have to worry you in this world is finding a fiver, then count yourself lucky.”
There was a lengthy pause before Hannah said quietly, “I know life here on Herrig wouldn’t be for you, Mum. But I’ve grown to love it dearly. True, we’ve no modern facilities like electricity and water from the tap – but they’re coming.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.” Hannah paused before blurting out: “Mrs Cummings at the foot of the hill was telling me, only last week, that the electricity could be here as soon as 1959.” Hannah could plainly see that Rachel was unimpressed by the news about the island’s electricity coming in five years’ time. Rubbing her hand gently over her son’s cheek to encourage him to suck, she went on, “But that’s all by the by. What’s important is the quality of life I find here. The pace suits me – the contentment, and the comfort of my faith. I’m so very grateful for all of that. But most off all I love my husband and my wonderful children; and I’d rather give them a better quality of life here on this beautiful island without running water than live in a cold palace with a flushing lavatory.”