‘’Ow do! It be a grand day,’ he called.
‘Hello,’ I replied, trying not to show my surprise at the accent. It was Cornish! Now here must be an interesting tale. He didn’t give the impression of being a tourist, so what was a Cornishman doing in the north of Scotland?
He plonked himself down on the ground beside me. ‘’Ow be thee, then, maid?’ he asked chattily. We exchanged views on the weather, the castle, and the state of our little world, but I was consumed with curiosity. It must have shown.
‘You’m wondrin what a body like me be doin’ yer. Well, I’ll tell ’ee.’
And he did! He introduced himself as ‘Harry’—or ’Arry. He had been a soldier in the Second World War, and his company had been sent to the Faeroe Isles to provide a deterrent to enemy attempts to blow up supply ships taking the northern route and to thwart any attempts to invade Britain from the north.
Harry told me how the men were welcomed into the communities and, like so many of his compatriots, he began to get friendly with the young Faeroese girls. He became interested in one quiet country girl called Olga. The young folk fell in love, and after the war Harry returned to marry her and settle down on the Faeroes. But being unskilled, he found it difficult to get work, try as he might. Harry, a farmer’s son, had only ever worked on the farm until war drew him away.
While he was in the Faeroes, his father died and left him the farm in Cornwall. Olga took some persuading to move from the isles of her birth and from which she had, so far, never ventured, but Harry could really do nothing else, so they eventually moved the thousands of miles to the very southern tip of England.
‘Ahh, ’twere the only thing to do. But she weren’t ’appy. No. ’Er din’t say much, but I knew. Ah, I knew.’ Harry shook his head and a sad expression came over not only his face but seemed to spread to his whole body. ‘But she put up with it fer some years. She missed ’er family and the long summer days of the North. ’Er couldn’t get used to the warmer weather in Cornwall and she missed snow in winter.
‘I would have sent her back for an ’oliday now and again, but I couldn’t afford it. The farm ’ad been ’it with foot and mouth, and the cattle ’ad bin slaughtered. The compensation were pifflin’ and we was strugglin’. Olga were pinin fer ’ome and I din’t know which way to turn. ’Er were in some state!’
But evidently fate took a hand when a letter arrived from Olga’s brother in the Faeroes. He had been working on the oil rigs and had made a great deal of money, so he, Sven, had now fulfilled a long-held dream of leasing the small remote Hebridean island of Ardnacloich.
‘I know it,’ I said, thinking of Jaynie and Baby Janet. ‘It forms part of Duncan’s estates.’
‘That’s right. Clever man was Sven. Knew what ’ee was about all right.
‘Anyow, ’ee wanted me to go and work for ’im on this ’ere island. ’Twas about three miles long and two wide. No electric, but a wind generator, and no ferries or anythin’. Just you and your own boat. Well, Olga were ecstatic. ’Twas North again, y’see. Not Faeroes, no, but same sort of place and climate. And ’er brother were married to Sonya, ’oo ’ad bin ’er school friend. Ahh! ’Twere an opportunity at just the right time.’
Harry sold the Cornish farm, and he and Olga set up home on Ardnacloich. It seemed that the venture was a great success. The two couples got on well together and many fulfilling years went by. Although so far north, it was sheltered by the Outer Hebrides, so they grew just about all their own vegetables and even some fruit. They kept sheep, goats, and cows for food and to sell. Buyers had to travel to the island to purchase their chosen animals, Sven and Harry being unwilling to leave their beloved isle.
Harry’s enthusiasm faded a little as he said, ‘Olga was all right because ’er brother and Sonya were there, but I don’t think ’er ’eart were in it as much as the rest of us. ’Er ’ad to work some, but I did as much as I could to save ’er. To make sure ’er were as ’appy as possible . . .’
He sighed. ‘I’ve come to go up to see this ’ere Lordship. ’Ee never comes to the island. Says Sven looks after all the books and such like so well that ’ee’s ’appy to leave us be. But now . . .’
He sighed again. ‘You see, we’m goin to’ave to leave Ardnacloich dreckly. Sven and Sonya drowned a few weeks back. ’Twas a right tragedy, it were!’
I murmured my sympathy. I could see what was coming.
‘Olga and me, well us couldn’t manage by ourselves. With all the animals and the land. I couldn’t expect Olga to do too much, but I’ad wondered if we coulda got a coupla lads to ’elp but ’er din’t want to carry on. Sven ’ad left the lease and the money to ’er so we could’ve afforded to do that, but no, ’er ’ad ’ad enough and it’s ’ers now so . . .’ He sighed.
I offered him a lift to the castle, and he clambered in.
‘So what are you going to do?’ I prompted him.
‘Well, us made friends wi’ some folk from ’ere, who come to Ardnacloich to buy some goats . . .’
‘Goats?’ I interrupted.
‘Ahh.’
‘There is only one croft on Papavray that has goats. So it must have been Fergie.’
‘Right. And another fellow. Archie were ’is name. Cousin or something.’
‘Well! I am surprised. I remember the goats coming, but I didn’t know where they came from. They are very handsome animals.’
‘Ahh. The best! Us only breeds the best.’
‘So, what are you going to do?’ I repeated.
‘Well, this ’ere Fergie said as ’ow I should come and see ’is Lordship and see if us could get an ’ouse and work ’ere.’ He seemed less than enthusiastic.
‘ ’Tis more convenient yer. You got some shops and ’tis better fer getting to the mainland and so on. Olga would like that.’
‘Where is Olga just now, by the way?’
‘I left ’er in Dalhavaig and come on round meself. ’Er ’ave to see some solicitor ’bout the money Sven left her. Do you know ’im? Angus Mac-something? Is ’ee all right, because I ’opes ’ee’s straight with ’er?’
Angus was the only solicitor on Papavray. ‘Yes, I know him. He will be straight with her.’ What I felt I did not need to say in these circumstances was that if there was ever something very private, local folk went to a solicitor on the mainland. Angus could be talkative.
But I was beginning to see that this likeable little man had spent most of his adult life trying to make sure that Olga was ‘all right’ and ‘ ’appy’. I was also forming a picture in my mind of a small, rather clinging little woman with blonde, Scandinavian-type colouring, who needed a lot of care for some reason. Maybe her health was delicate? She had not wanted to leave the Faeroes with him, had not been ‘ ’appy’ in Cornwall and now was looking forward to leaving Ardnacloich. I had heard nothing of what Harry wanted. Did they have to give up the lease? Surely they could obtain help, because men were always looking for work and there was precious little around.
We pulled the old-fashioned bell and the big heavy door was soon opened by Chrissie, who now worked for the laird.
‘Chrissie! This is Harry, who has come to see Duncan.’
‘Hello, Harry. The laird is expecting you.’
Just at that moment, Duncan exploded into the room in his usual boisterous manner.
‘How do you do, Harry?’
‘Well. Thank ’ee, sir.’ Harry was ill at ease. Duncan, although friendly, could be a little overpowering.
‘Come through, Harry. We’ll go into the study. I have a few ideas that might interest you: a possible future for your island.’
‘Thank’ee, sir, but ’tis Olga’s island really, because it’s her lease now, ain’t it?’ Harry was hurrying after the laird. But Duncan suddenly stopped and looked round at Harry.
‘No, no. The lease was in the name of Sven Polson. Now that he is sadly no longer with us, it reverts to me, to reassign as I see fit, as part of my estates.’
And off he strode, with
Harry almost having to run to keep up. I just heard his receding voice saying, ‘Well! I weren’t aware o’ that, sir. I thought . . .’ And they were gone.
Chrissie beckoned me, and I followed her into the vast warm kitchen, where a kettle was singing on the Aga.
‘Tea?’
‘Please, Chrissie. How is young Johnny? And what is happening now?’
Chrissie was busying herself with tea, and dumpling, of course.
‘He’s gone back to Gran and Gramps, as he calls them, for now, to finish school. He’s very clever and might be a vet one day. He goes to see Biddy, but . . .’ Her face clouded. ‘It upsets him, but he still goes. Indeed, he’s a good boy. When he comes to see her, he stays with us for a whiley, so we are getting to know him.’
She beamed, and we settled down to drink tea and gossip: a very agreeable pastime! I had said that I would drive Harry to Dalhavaig to join Olga.
After a while, an unusually quiet Duncan came looking for me, followed by a very subdued Harry. I didn’t understand the changed atmosphere but rose to take Harry on his way.
‘Thank’ee again, sir, all the same. ’Tis good of ’ee and I be sorry ’bout this. I am not ungrateful, sir. No, I ain’t.’
‘Well, well. Just talk it over with, er, um . . . Olga, and I’ll hold everything in case . . . Ah, yes. Yes,’ Duncan humphed and his voice trailed off. ‘Yes, yes, Harry. Talk to er, um . . . Olga, and come back to see me if you feel that you can go ahead.’
‘Thank’ee, sir. I’ll do that.’
Farewells were made, and Harry and I departed.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘That there lordship be very kind, very generous, but I don’t think Olga’ll go fer it. No, ’er ’eart’s set on ’ere or more likely the mainland. ’Er’s lost interest sin ’er brother died.’ He paused for a while, chewing his lip. Then, with a sigh that came from the bottom of his boots, he continued, ‘I sometimes wonder if ’er woulda stayed there wi’ me at all if it weren’t fer ’im.’
I let him ramble on. It seemed that Duncan and the factor had come up with an innovative idea for the future of the island and, with it, a future for Harry and Olga. It could be run, said Duncan, as a sort of ‘summer school’ or ‘outdoor-pursuit centre’. Young people could learn animal husbandry and crop management. Added to this could be facilities for naturalists and even for painting holidays. Harry would teach animal husbandry and would be in overall charge.
In his usual endearing but blundering way, Duncan had forged ahead with these ideas with ever-increasing enthusiasm, and for a while Harry was swept along with growing excitement. This was just what would suit him and a wonderful way to ensure the future of the island that he had come to love so much. But gradually he became quieter. He didn’t think Olga would be ‘ ’appy’ doing this. She was nearly 50 and didn’t want to work any more. She had Sven’s money and didn’t feel she needed to. Again, I wondered if what Harry wanted had entered the equation at all. He, too, was only about 50 and not ready for pipe and slippers.
It was a very dejected Harry whom I drove into Dalhavaig to join Olga. He looked around.
‘She’ll be at the quay. Ah. There she be, in that there café.’1
We pulled up outside the damp and dreary harbour café. Harry waved and out came Olga. At least, I assumed it must be Olga, but where was my mental picture of the delicate little woman with Scandinavian colouring?
Standing there, with arms akimbo, was a tall, hugely overweight, dark-haired virago of a woman, who immediately began to berate Harry in a loud, hectoring voice.
For a moment, I was in shock. So much for preconceived ideas! This was the woman whose happiness had dictated Harry’s every move for his entire adult life. He tried to introduce us, but Olga pointedly ignored me.
Diffidently, Harry began to tell Olga about Duncan’s idea. As I turned away—obviously she did not want me there—I caught sight of Archie, Mary, and Fergie standing nearby, watching the scene. Fergie unobtrusively lifted his arm and beckoned me. What now, I wondered?
‘Come you here, Mary-J,’ said Archie, and drew me a little way off—out of earshot of Harry’s pleading tones and Olga’s grating, accusatory voice.
‘Yon woman! You know Fergie and I went to their island back last year to get his goats. Well, we both took to Harry—a nice wee mannie—but yon woman was not around, so we didn’t see her at all. From the way Harry talked, we thought she would be as nice as he was.’ He shook his head. ‘Fergie heard that Harry was comin’ to see the laird about the island now that Sven Polson is dead,’ he continued.
Fergie took up the tale. ‘We thought we might bump into him, so we were waitin here by the quay for him and we saw him bring her here. He just landed her and went off again, but it was obvious who she was. We couldn’t believe it! Great big, bad-tempered-lookin’ lump of a woman she was.’
‘Yes,’ I said, wondering where all this was going. ‘She had to come to see Angus about the money that Sven has left her.’
‘Aye, we know,’ said Mary. (Of course they knew!) ‘Angus came out after she had gone, and he was mutterin’ and moppin’ his head. We all went for a dram, and Angus told us all about it. Angus said that she stamped and swore at him. Aye, she swore at him when he told her that Sven had left the money jointly to Harry and her, not just to her as she had thought. And she had thought she had the lease now. To sell! Stupid woman! Everybody knows that it re . . . rev . . . goes back to the laird.’
Fergie now continued. ‘When she finally calmed down, she demanded her half of the money there and then. Thousands! He rang the bank and off she went, stampin’ away to get it. We saw her.’
These three had been busy!
‘I’m not knowing what Harry is plannin’ with the laird, but, whatever it is, she’ll not be a part of it.’
‘What do you mean, Fergie? “She’ll not be a part of it”?’
‘Y’see, we had a wee bit shoppin’ to do, so we sort of followed her up the road. Guess where she went!’
‘Where?’
‘Back here to the Steamship Offices!’
I was stunned. A dreadful suspicion was beginning to form in my mind and in the next breath Fergie confirmed it.
‘I followed her in, pretended to be lookin’ at some brochures. You know what? She booked a one-way ticket, single, to the Faeroes. She’s leavin’ him!’
I looked across at Harry and Olga. They were quieter now. She was standing in a triumphant posture, Harry just standing. Shocked? Distressed? Or . . . what? Unsurprised, perhaps?
As we watched, she strode off towards the hotel without a backward glance. Harry stood looking at his boots for quite some time. I believe I thought that he would watch her go or call out to her, even run after her. He did none of these things, just stood looking at his boots with a deep frown on his face. After quite a few minutes, he raised his head, took a deep breath, braced his shoulders, and began to walk towards us. In that moment, he seemed to have grown in stature, determination, and confidence.
Nodding to Fergie, Archie, and Mary, he addressed me. ‘Nurse . . . will you take me back to that there Lordship, please? I b’lieve we can do business after all!’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Old folks’ secrets
One December morning, I was telling Mary about our plans for a visit to London as she sat beside me in the car.
‘Aye. ’Twill be good indeed,’ she replied. ‘And will you be going to all yon big shops, like Harrods and Belfridges?’
‘Selfridges? Yes. Harrods? No, too expensive!’
‘Aye,’ Mary pondered. ‘I’m thinkin’ I’d not like London at all. Too expensive and too many red buses. I’ve seen them on the television. And they have the Underground too! Why do they need buses and Underground? Can they no make up their mind?’
‘There are so many people in London, Mary, that they need both methods of transport to get them all to work and then home again.’
‘So why do they no live nearer to their work? I’m not understandin’ the
se London people at all.’
‘Houses are too dear in London, so most people commute.’
‘What is that?’
‘They travel in and out of the city.’
‘Mmmm.’ Mary was obviously not convinced. After a silence of a few minutes, she returned to more familiar topics. Local ones.
‘You’ll be goin to see old Sara, no doubt?’
‘Yes. She is getting so odd and forgetful that I’m afraid we’ll have to send her away for her own good eventually, but she has lived in that house all her life, I’m told.’
‘Aye, but she’s getting that weird. It’s the coal now, I’m hearin’,’ rejoined Mary cryptically.
‘The coal?’
‘Aye. She’s polishin’ the coal now.’
‘Oh my!’
Old Sara, now at 85, was very odd indeed. She had always been inclined towards excessive cleanliness. She used to wash the cows’ faces, brush the sheep, and attempt to comb the chickens’ feathers when she ran her parents’ croft. Now we often saw her polishing the windows with furniture polish and sweeping the grass by the door. Inside, everything shone, either with furniture polish or Brasso, and the old-fashioned range was black-leaded daily. Her clothes all had a bleached look from so much washing in harsh soaps and chemicals. More recently, she was becoming a danger to herself. I had found her walking in the snow in bare feet one day because she did not want to get her shoes dirty. On another occasion, I treated some infected scratches that she had sustained from the sharp claws of her badtempered old tomcat when she had decided to plunge him into a tin bath full of soapy water. When I remonstrated, she said, ‘But he was dirty!’ Now, it seemed, she was polishing the coal!
I knocked on Sara’s shining door. Receiving no reply, I peeped inside. A waft of furniture polish greeted me.
Sara was crouching before the fire in the old range, piling peat and coal onto some crackling sticks. She glanced up as I approached. ‘Ah, Nurse! ’Tis you. I’m just gettin’ a good blaze here.’
She was! The well-polished coal, with several lumps of polish still adhering to it, was spluttering and sparking, and, as she claimed, a ‘good blaze’ was roaring up the chimney.
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