Louise was as wonderful as I’d heard she was, and Donald Angus was handsome, helpful and kind as his father had been. Father was really quite infirm; he couldn’t get on a horse without help and he was little use outside the house. Louise and Aunt Mairi’s houses were in a terrible way, both desperately needing new thatch or even better a tin roof. I’m ashamed to admit I was shocked that they still drew water from the well and used an outside privy. When I mentioned it I was told that with only Aunt Mairi, Louise and my parents there, and young Donald Angus between here and Laggan farm, for the laird it was a question of ‘out of sight, out of mind’. I wondered if the owner of the village, Miss Astley Nicholson, knew the state of their houses, and indeed that of the big field.
I had hoped to build some rapport with the laird during my stay. She was about my age so Mother and I rode over to the big house to make a representation about the condition of the houses. But we were intercepted by the factor. He told us he would see what he could do but reminded us that times were tough and that they received little in the way of rents and, what was more, war was coming. As if we didn’t know all of this already.
My parents’ house was in a much better state than those of the rest of the village. They had moved into John the Post’s when the post office was shut ten years before. It had cut stone outside walls, wood panelling, a wood floor and a tin roof, instead of the blackhouses with their fieldstone walls and leaky heather thatch. Electricity, inside toilets and even telephones were common now in almost all villages, but not with us.
Mother was very active helping my nephew at Laggan, aided by her two collies. When I was with her she went with Donald Angus to gather sheep and she had a full eight hours on the hill in that Highland drizzle which soaks you to the bone in minutes, yet she came back as cheerful as if she had just been to the shed to get some coal. Her wet clothes were draped all over the furniture to dry and were still soaked the next day. I worried that she would catch pneumonia.
Louise recounted the worst moment she’d had at Ardnish. About how Donald Angus had gone down to the sea when he was about four, to throw sticks for Daffie. Louise was doing the washing in the burn and not paying close attention. Suddenly she told me that the hair on the back of her neck went up and a shudder of fear went through her body. She raced down to the shore where she had last seen the boy and there was no sign of him. Then she spotted them fifty yards out, her child holding onto Daffie’s neck as the tide was carrying them out to sea.
She ran along the rocks, frantic, threw herself in and pulled Donald Angus out onto the shore. ‘Imagine if I’d lost my son as well as my husband, Sheena. I would have killed myself rather than go on.’ Daffie was something of a hero after that.
I saw something of Owen, whom I didn’t know. He was in his thirties, living in Tarbert in a bothy with another bachelor. Mother, Louise and I went up to see him with Donald Angus. I was horrified by the squalid conditions – bits of an engine he was working on all over the main room, dirty crockery and clothing, and empty bottles of whisky. He was earning his living fishing and helping people with their engines. A man of the sea, he was happy, with no ambition to better himself or find a woman and settle down.
Father said we should let him alone. He reminded him of the Bochan, who used to live at Sloch – a man who did what he liked and didn’t concern himself with what anyone else thought. I could tell Louise was a little ashamed of her brother and I couldn’t help but share her sentiments, but I reminded myself that I had borne a child out of wedlock, and held my hypocrisy in check.
Louise lamented sending her brother away from Ardnish, but Father reminded her that he would have had no work here – after all, nobody knew back then that the farm would be coming our way, and at least Owen could pick up plenty of work in Tarbert – fishing, blacksmithing and mending engines.
Mother and I planned to go to Edinburgh to see Father Angus at St Mary’s Cathedral. We would take the train to Glasgow, go across to Edinburgh and then back to Glasgow for my ship home. I had a farewell supper with Aunt Mairi and Donald Angus and my parents, and tried not to break down in tears.
As we set off at six the next morning, we turned from the top of the hill where we could see all before us. The big field with the curve of houses along the shore, the green of the machair contrasting with the white coral beach, then the sea sweeping across to the great house at Roshven and the mountains beyond that I knew so well. Eigg and Rum alight in the sunrise to the west. I froze the picture in my mind. I had no doubt that it would be the last time I set eyes on it.
Father rode to see us off at Lochailort and the three of us had breakfast together at the inn. I hugged him tight. Both of us knew it was our final goodbye. I cried for an hour on the train.
It was great to see Father Angus. He was fit and active and looked a decade younger than his fifty-three years. He was a monsignor now and worked directly for Archbishop MacDonald. We had tea with the archbishop, who was keen to hear of my father. Then he and my brother bemoaned falling church attendances, meagre Sunday collections and, painfully for me, children born out of wedlock. I remember my mother shaking her head with what things had come to.
They talked about Canon John MacNeil, originally from Eriskay but who had served Morar for some twenty years now. He had also been a Cameron Highlander padre with Father Angus at Passchendaele in the Great War, and famously went over the top with the men, bandaging the wounded and bringing many back to safety. His best friend, Charlie Lyon, found him badly injured from a shell in the mud several days after an engagement and carried him to safety. Canon John received a Military Cross and bar in the war. Charlie, on the other hand, was both highly decorated and court-martialled more than once for insubordination.
The next day was one I had been dreading. Waving goodbye from the railing on the liner as she pulled away from the quay, tears poured down my face as I held my handkerchief aloft. I watched from the deck until my mother was a dot.
As we passed Arran, dusk was falling and the evening chill got the better of me. I gave a final wave to my family, to Ardnish, and to the Highlands, and retired to my cabin. Disregarding the others I shared it with, I buried my face in the pillow and wept. How could I not have told them about Morag? How could I?
Chapter 15
The next morning Andrew, Morag and I were sitting on the porch drinking coffee as Sheena approached, carrying a small travel bag and her violin case. She frowned at first, peering at us all, then ran up the steps and threw herself into my arms. ‘Oh, Donald Angus, Donald Angus,’ she murmured as she stroked my hair.
She rushed out a couple of sentences in the old tongue, before I said, ‘Andrew doesn’t have the Gaelic,’ and Morag interjected, ‘And mine isn’t as good as it should be either!’
Morag told her mother that her secret was out, though Sheena clearly knew already. I watched them look at one another, their radiant, smiling faces, saw the strong family resemblance, and wished dearly that the rest of the family could have been there.
Sheena’s relief in revealing Morag’s existence was immense. That evening, as the four of us sat talking after supper, Sheena suddenly dissolved into floods of tears as years of suppressed guilt and tension came to the surface. She had convinced herself that the knowledge of an illegitimate child would shock her parents and that she would be forever ostracised.
‘I was already so far away from them,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t bear to lose their love and support as well. When I was left the money in Mrs MacEachern’s will, I wanted to come over to tell them. But I just couldn’t . . . I couldn’t. I can’t forgive myself, and now Father is dead, and he never knew.’
Sheena’s sobbing intensified, though it was, in truth, half in misery and half in joy. Morag was composed, even a little amused at her mother’s tears. ‘You think this is bad? When she arrived home five years ago after her visit to Scotland she cried for a week. If she hadn’t made me swear I wouldn’t, I would’ve written to Grandmother myself!’
&nbs
p; Andrew was listening to all this with some bemusement.
Later, after Sheena had composed herself, she and I talked about Grandfather, and how sad we were that we hadn’t been able to go to his funeral.
‘But I’m so thankful I was able to go and to see them just before the war,’ she said. She turned to Andrew and said kindly, ‘I read about your father’s funeral in the Oban Times when I was on Ardnish, Andrew. It sounded like he received a grand send-off.’
The next morning, we wanted to go to Mull River, but first Andrew asked to telephone the adjutant to see if the ship was sailing as planned. Morag accompanied him to show him the way to the post office and a short time later they returned wreathed in smiles.
‘You’ll never guess,’ Andrew said. ‘Two of the men have been stricken with scarlet fever and the whole regiment has been quarantined. No one’s going anywhere for at least two weeks. In fact, we’re forbidden to return to camp.’
What a stroke of luck! Now we could really make the most of being in Cape Breton. We began to make plans.
Morag arranged for her daughter to stay with her friend for another couple of days and Sheena suggested we all borrow a wagon and go up the Mull River the next day.
‘I hope they’re all there,’ she said. ‘Joe and his sister Anna Mae are trying to buy a hotel on the Margaree, near Chéticamp. Since Joe’s wife Mary Belle died eighteen months ago, their children have been dispersed amongst several families.’
‘Really?’ Andrew gasped. ‘How could they do such a thing?’
‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ Sheena agreed. ‘But they have no mother, money is tight, and there are so many children. I can’t believe I didn’t take a couple of them in myself; I feel terrible. If the hotel project doesn’t work out in reuniting them, then I’ll offer. Maybe I should marry Joe, he’s a decent man.’
Morag was shocked. ‘Mother!’ she exclaimed. ‘You can’t say things like that!’
‘It would solve so many problems,’ said Sheena with a smile. ‘Though he hasn’t given me a second look.’
That evening we dined like kings on the lobster that was plentiful in the area, so much so that the fishermen couldn’t give them away. To cap it all, Sheena produced a bottle of the Dew of Ben Nevis that she had tucked away ‘for a very special occasion’.
Andrew looked as proud as punch when he saw the bottle. ‘I wish the business hadn’t been sold when my father died,’ he lamented. ‘This is truly special stuff.’
I asked Morag to tell us about her husband. ‘He’s a Skye man,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Calum Beaton from Uig. He was a miner here in Mabou, but recently the mine has been flooding and he hated it anyway. As soon as the war came along he signed up with the North Nova Scotia Highlanders. He’s a sergeant now.’ There was no mistaking the pride in her voice. ‘I haven’t seen much of him over the last five years; he’s in France now. He hardly knows Mairi, and she tells me she can barely picture his face. I say the rosary for him every day. They’ve had a bad war, but he’s been a lucky man . . . so far.’ She crossed herself, and so did my aunt.
‘He loves the army a bit too much, though. The routine as well as the adrenaline. When he came home on leave a year ago, he was terribly fidgety, couldn’t relax. I got the feeling he couldn’t wait to leave. I remember dropping a pan on the kitchen floor, and it was as if a bomb had gone off. I’m dying to have him home, but a little anxious, to be honest.’
I tried to reassure her. ‘I’m afraid that’s the way of it, Morag. He’ll be on edge, he’ll have nightmares. Remember, he’ll have seen some of his best friends die in front of him. Only time will heal. All you can do is support him as best you can.’
The next day we set off with a horse and wagon, a couple of boxes of food and some moonshine. Sheena told us there were only three or four cars in Mabou; the roads were terrible and there wasn’t much money around.
As we lurched down the rough track, rutted in the slush of the thaw, Sheena asked me why I was so keen to go to Chéticamp.
I pondered for a few moments. ‘Well, it’s a sad story and probably all top secret, mind, so you have to promise not to say a word.’
Sheena laughed. ‘We’re family, Angus! Of course I won’t say a word.’
I smiled. ‘Well, one of the agents I met was a girl from there.’
‘I knew it would be a girl!’ Sheena exclaimed with delight.
I could feel myself blushing. ‘It wasn’t like that. She called herself Françoise, but her real name is Sophie Lacroix. Her mission was to assassinate a senior German officer, which she did, but she was injured and captured. That was a year ago now, almost exactly. No one, not even the Red Cross, has heard a word about what happened to her. It’s likely she was executed. I want to see her parents and tell them what a heroine she was.’
Morag, who was listening, was looking at me intensely. ‘It’s clear you have feelings for her, Donald Angus.’
I shook my head vigorously while Andrew said, ‘Yes, he most certainly does.’
Sheena put her hand on my knee. ‘You don’t know anything for sure, do you? Maybe she’ll be all right. We can only hope.’
It was a two-hour journey inland to the sawmill. When we arrived we found ourselves in the midst of a hive of industry. Beside a dam full of logs, two men were attaching a chain around a log, then attaching the end to a draft horse which then hauled it up the slippery wet incline, where it was levered onto rollers and into the saw.
Danny and Joe were there, Andrew’s cousins, along with some of Danny’s boys. Andrew and the Mull River cousins were all so pleased to see each other, saying it had been over a hundred years since the families had met up. However, the river was swollen with snowmelt, and the brothers were keen to make the most of it. There were only two or three months of the year when the river’s flow was strong enough to power the saw. Work couldn’t stop until the evening, so we rolled up our sleeves and helped roll logs and stack planks, while Sheena and Morag went to join the women.
The brothers were big, strong men like all the descendants from the Cranachans. They wore identical denim overalls, topped with sweat-stained fedora hats. They were both over fifty years old yet could easily take an end each of a huge log and turn it to a better place for the saw.
That evening, Andrew and I could hardly move we were so stiff and sore whereas the brothers, twice our age, acted as if they’d had the day off.
The next day was Sunday, and we were relieved to hear there would be no work.
Nine of us went off to the Big Mackinnon’s bar for some Bull beer. The landlady, Big Belle, renowned on the island, was six feet tall, and poured forty-five-cent pitchers of her home brew in her parlour while her numerous children ran around the house.
When we got back to the house, there wasn’t room to swing a cat. All the men were in high spirits and the long-suffering women ladled out deer stew and potatoes to soak up the alcohol we had taken. Sheena and Morag seemed to fit in like part of the family – which they almost were.
After the meal Sheena took her fiddle out, the room was cleared of furniture, and the dancing started. These huge men had the nimblest of feet as they demonstrated square dancing to us. Andrew and I copied clumsily despite the best efforts of Morag and of Maggie, Danny’s wife.
‘Tell everyone about the Cranachans,’ encouraged Sheena. ‘The children won’t know, nor will Angus.’ Andrew relished the subject, which had entered folklore.
‘These MacDonald brothers, six of them, grew up at a farm in Glen Roy called Cranachan. They were legendary for their strength, fleetness of foot and courage. In 1849 two of them went to London and Colin won the top prizes for running and throwing the hammer. The Times said of him that he was “like a stag from his native hills”.’
Maggie then addressed the girls. ‘There is a great female Cranachan, too,’ she said, ‘an Australian cousin named Mother Mary Mackillop, who set up an order of nuns to teach Aborigines. She’s still revered in Australia. Just imagine what courage that must h
ave taken.
You’re members of this same family, children – all remarkable people. Be proud of that.’
That night I went to sleep happier than I had been for a long time.
*
Andrew decided to stay a few days longer with his cousins to help while the river was high and Sheena, Morag and I headed back. Andrew and I agreed to meet in ten days’ time at my aunt’s unless I sent a telegram advising a change.
The next day we returned to Sheena’s house where she insisted on cleaning and ironing my uniform, waving away my protests. ‘I’m proud to be doing so,’ she declared, ‘and that’s all there is to it.’
I was going to take the train to Inverness and from there, the man with the wagon at the general store had arranged for me to rent a horse for a few days. It was to be a three-day ride at the most.
I enjoyed the trip and was in no hurry. Crystal-clear skies, the snow had melted, and I cheerfully returned the smiles and waves I received from people as I trotted past. I was in my Scouts uniform; people had said the black-and-white checked Tam o’Shanter was not unlike that of the North Nova Scotia Highlanders.
I stayed the first night in Margaree overlooking the mouth of the river where Françoise had told me about the monster salmon she had caught. As I lay in my bed at the inn the next morning, I tried to prepare myself for the meeting with her parents. I would go into town and ask for the doctor’s house. There would be tears, and an hour or two later I would be on my way. Perhaps I would return to this inn and try some fishing nearby. It would help me settle down after such an emotional visit.
I shaved and tidied myself. I wanted to look my best.
Chapter 16
Sophie
I boarded the ferry to Port Hawkesbury, then climbed into the grimy passenger carriage which was attached to the slow, empty coal train heading to Inverness.
The steam made a huge cloud as the train clickety-clacked its way through deep snow along the shoreline. At each station, there would be a long, mournful whistle as we pulled in. I enjoyed watching the comings and goings of staff and passengers and felt as excited as I had years before when we first moved to the island.
We Fought for Ardnish Page 18