Now the confusion moved to Andrew’s face. “But she said she’d bring Nellie to see you. . . .”
“Ay,” she answered, “in my surgery. Dinna you see? Tis what I do. I’m a veterinarian.”
Andrew was intrigued. This lively woman bore little resemblance to the burly middle-aged man who took care of the animals back at Derwenthwaite. “Do you take care of the horses and cows too?”
“Ay, an’ dogs an’ cattle, though my partner helps w’ the large animal work, on account of my bein’ sich a dwarf. Tho’ I do ken my way around a horse.”
Andrew was beginning to wonder what other interesting things he would find out about his fiery-haired companion.
They were still in lively conversation when they sat down on the grass to watch the proceedings.
Before Andrew was aware of it, the afternoon was nearly gone.
When the ceremony was over, they rejoined Ginny’s father. Unconsciously Andrew glanced down at his watch.
“It’s going on five o’clock,” he exclaimed in astonishment. “I’ve got to be on my way or I’ll be stuck in the middle of the Highlands tonight with no place to stay.”
“On yer way, laddie?” rejoined the laird. “What would ye be meanin’? Ye’re stayin’ wi’ us in the castle tonight. I thought Ginny’d already speired ye aboot it.”
“I haena had the chance yet, Papa,” said Ginny.
“Weel, laddie,” the laird went on, “then I’ll speir ye mysel.’ Oor hoose is open, an’ ye’d be weelcome. We’d be pleased t’ hae ye bide the night wi’ us.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say. That is very generous of you.”
“Besides, ye canna weel go noo,” Ginny added. “Ye see that great peat fire yonder—the men are already roastin’ the lamb, an’ there’ll be lots o’ food an’ drink. Ye maun stay wi’ us.”
How could he pass up such an invitation!
Nine
It took but a dropped word or two that evening among the Gordon family that he was vaguely traveling through Scotland to learn more about the country and its people for the mat of hospitality to be rolled out for Andrew in full measure.
Thinking he would resume his travels after breakfast the following morning, Andrew was in for more surprises when he came downstairs to discover that Ginny and her father already had his whole day planned. Thought of his leaving was out of the question now. If he had come north to learn of Scotland, then he must remain with them long enough to do so.
He found in Mrs. Gordon the combination of the laird and his feisty daughter. Ginny’s bright hair had obviously come from her mother’s orange mane, which was now fading to a soft golden shade. She was not so slight of build as Ginny, being of medium height and stockier. But occasional hints of Ginny’s smile could be seen when her lips parted in fun.
“You have been very kind to a stranger, Mrs. Gordon,” said Andrew as his hostess poured him another cup of tea. “Surely it cannot be the custom around here to take in every traveler who wanders into your village. I saw the laird arguing with another man yesterday who looked more out of place than me. He didn’t seem to be receiving such an invitation!” added Andrew, laughing.
“He didna need no hospitality frae my hand,” put in Ginny’s father a bit irritably. “I told ye, he was naethin’ but a Sassenach tryin’ t’ git his clutches on a wee parcel that’s been Gordon land longer than anyone alive noo kens.”
“Land . . . near here?”
“Way up t’ the north, in the Shetlands. I’ve ne’er seen it mysel.’ No worth muckle, the way I hear it. It’s jist come doon through the years t’ this strain o’ the Gordon line in Ballochallater, an’ it seems I’ve ootlived all the ither cousins an’ kin whas names were on some will or anither. I dinna ken a thing aboot it.”
“But it is valuable property?”
“Not so valuable. We jist get a wee check once a year from a solicitor whas got the papers.”
“And the fellow wants you to sell?”
“Ay. An’ what a dapper suit like that wants wi’ a worthless piece o’ island rock I canna weel think. I wadna mind sellin’ it, I suppose, but I jist dinna trust the man.”
“What does he want it for?” asked Andrew.
“I haena ony idea. But I’m certain in my own mind jist from luikin’ in his een that he’s hidin’ somethin,’ and I told him so.”
While Andrew was puzzling over the affair, Mrs. Gordon spoke up again.
“Perhaps we’re not quite so hospitable as t’ tak in everyone wha comes along, I’ll grant ye,” she went on again in the previous vein. “But when a man says he’s learnin’ aboot Scotland, that’s all my man needs t’ tak him under his wing.”
“Well, I am very appreciative. It is certainly more than I expected.”
The day went by more quickly than Andrew could have imagined, with conversations with each of the members of the family, walks about the castle and surrounding hillsides, and a midday visit to the local pub, the Heather and the Stout, with Ginny’s father. Her lanky twenty-four-year-old brother—whom they called Shorty in spite of the fact that he stood half a head taller than the laird and two taller than his sister, and whose given name Andrew never did learn—invited him into the hills and the next minute was shoving a rifle into his hands. By midafternoon, the parliamentary leader was traipsing through trees and heather on the highest peak overlooking the castle, with a young man he hadn’t even known twenty-four hours ago, in search of rabbit and pheasant and whatever other wild game might chance their way.
By the time they returned, not realizing how quickly it had passed, the day was drawing to a close.
“Whew, what an afternoon!” sighed Andrew, easing into a chair. He glanced around but saw no sign of Ginny. He supposed she was still busy at her surgery. “I’ll sleep well tonight. And I’ll need it, too, so I can be off in the morning.”
“Ah, ye canna rest yet, lad,” expostulated the laird. “There’ll be time for all that later. An’ we’ll hae no talk o’ yer leavin’ quite so soon. Noo ye maun git yersel’ cleaned up an’ dressed so we can hae oor supper an’ be off.”
“Be off!” laughed Andrew, remaining in the chair, unable to imagine what additional activity the evening could hold. “Off where?”
“The ceilidh.”2
“What’s that?” rejoined Andrew.
“Ye’ll see weel enouch. ’Tis jist a wee ceilidh t’ finish oor Games weekend.”
An hour and a half later, Andrew was again entering the Heather and the Stout in the company of the laird and his wife. The establishment was hardly recognizable from its lazy midday trade. It was nearly filled with men, women, and children and loud with festive atmosphere. Andrew was included in the round of greetings and handshakes as if he had been part of the community all his life.
Fifteen minutes later, Ginny walked in with a man Andrew recognized. They made quite a picture—the huge burly chap of at least six foot two and sixteen stone and the tiny red-haired lass of half the weight and a foot less in stature. Ginny introduced her companion to Andrew as Alastair Farquharson.
“My caber opponent,” laughed Andrew, remembering as he shook the gigantic hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to provide you more competition.”
“Fer a Lowlander,” replied Farquharson, “ye handled yersel’ right weel, Mr. Trent. Ye’re not exactly o’ the proper build t’ toss the caber, gien ye unnerstan’ my meaning.”
“I believe I do,” laughed Andrew.
The place continued to fill. Musicians arrived, and a few fiddles began to tune. An accordion came out, then another. The crisp shrill of a tin whistle sped through a warm-up octave or two. Gradually the diverse sounds began to adjust and blend with each other, drifting into an occasional harmony, until suddenly, as if unplanned, Andrew realized the small band had actually launched into a tune, accompanied now by the drummer who had completed arranging his drums and high hat during the tuning phase. He could identify no moment when the melody had actually begun. Rather it seeme
d to emerge gradually out of the scattered and random warm-up sounds of the instruments. Obviously these musicians knew one another well.
A few feet began to shuffle and move and tap the floor to the beat. Here and there a clap or two could be heard. Before long, music filled the room, and the floor in the middle began to clear.
Then came a great chord of finality. Everyone seemed to know what was coming, for a great scurrying ensued. Couples hurried onto the dance floor and took up positions in sets of eight.
Another chord, followed by graceful bows and curtsies . . . then suddenly band and dancers erupted into a frenzy of melody and motion to a Scottish reel.
Andrew watched spellbound and continued to sit through the first several dances at the table with the laird, thoroughly mesmerized by the intricate patterns of Scottish country dance, though without the vaguest idea what sort of complex foot patterns were involved. But he did his part to enter in with the rest of the spectators—clapping in time, whooping, cheering, and encouraging the dancers on.
After three reels and a strathspey, the band paused briefly. Another great scurrying throughout the room followed. Whatever was about to happen, as before, everybody else seemed to know. Suddenly Andrew was pulled to his feet. He turned to find himself being led onto the dance floor with Ginny’s mother firmly attached to his hand.
“Wait . . . stop,” laughed Andrew. “I don’t have a clue what’s going on!”
“Jist follow me, Mr. Trent,” she said, clamping down yet more firmly, if possible, on his palm.
“But I don’t know—”
“Jist watch the feet an’ follow along. ’Tis called the Gay Gordons—‘tis the simplest dance o’ all. Jist follow aroun’ the circle, wi’ a wee waltz thrown in atween. Come, here we go!”
The music began. Standing at his side, she took his two hands in hers, arm over arm, and led as they and the other couples began marching around in a great circle in time with the music. This he could do, Andrew thought—walk along with the music!
All at once came a change. A brief waltz maneuver . . . twirls and twists . . . then he felt his hands lifted high, Mrs. Gordon spun under them and released herself, and suddenly he found himself walking along in time again, hand over hand with someone else. How the change had happened or where the large woman had come from who was now at his side, he wasn’t quite sure.
Then just as before, suddenly the circular march came to an end. He felt himself turned and pulled into the huge-bosomed chest of his new partner. She must have been Alastair Farquharson’s sister. If there had been a women’s caber toss yesterday, this lady would certainly have walked away with the prize!
She clenched Andrew with both hands and pulled him toward her in a robust grip as the waltz phase began. Even had he known what to do at that point, he could have done nothing but follow the woman’s lead. He stumbled over her feet once, then again, but her powerful arms kept him upright.
He felt himself, as before, spun about through a brief series of twirls. Then his arms were hoisted up, she ducked her bulky frame under them and was suddenly gone. Now he found himself marching along with the woman who had been ahead of them in line. Knowing what was coming now as they walked, he tried to prepare himself for the waltz-step phase, which he now realized would lead to another change of partner.
Two more cycles went by. By degrees Andrew began to catch on to the pattern of the Gay Gordons enough to enjoy himself. Suddenly he saw a splash of bright red marching along with the man in front of him and realized its owner would be his next partner.
Again came the waltz step, the twirl, and suddenly the tiny woman who danced as lightly over the floor as Alastair’s sister had lumbered across it was smiling and offering her hands.
“Ye’re doin’ right weel, Mr. Trent,” said Ginny with a sprightly nod as their four hands joined and they began walking forward to the music.
“I have stumbled over every poor woman here!”
“Ye’re doin’ fine fer yer first time. All the young ladies are talkin’ aboot ye.”
Andrew laughed. “It’s no wonder,” he said. “My cloddish feet must be quite a sight.”
“’Tisn’t yer feet they’re luikin’ at, Mr. Trent. They’re sayin’ ye’re the handsomest Englishman they’ve ever seen.”
Before Andrew could think what to say, again came the brief waltz. Ginny slipped gently into Andrew’s arms. Miraculously the few bars of music were accomplished more gracefully than any of his previous interludes. Then came a twirl under his arm . . . she flashed him a smile . . . and as soon as the nymph had come, she was off to the man behind him, and he was greeting his next partner in line.
This was beginning to be fun!
When the dance was over, perspiring and laughing in triumph for having survived it, Andrew again joined the laird at his table, where new glasses of thick, frothy ale were poured as a new dance began.
“That was quite an experience,” he laughed.
“Ye’ll aye be a Scotsman afore we’re weel dune wi’ ye, Mr. Trent,” said the laird. “Maybe we’ll even make a Gordon o’ ye too.”
The words caught Andrew off guard. Though they represented exactly what he had come to Scotland seeking, his Gordon roots, he had almost forgotten that he was actually still an outsider.
While he was still pondering the laird’s words with a sip from the glass in front of him, their conversation was interrupted by the approach of a middle-aged Scottish gentleman, newly arrived at the pub, and just back after two days in Aberdeen.
“There—what think ye noo, Finlaggan Gordon?” said the man, slapping down a newspaper onto the table in front of them as he sat down, and paying the stranger no heed. “Didna I tell ye nae good’ll come o’ it e’en wi’ the Hamilton traitor gone.”
Andrew glanced down at that morning’s copy of the Express.
The glass nearly fell from his hand as his eyes shot open in stunned surprise. There on the front page was a four-inch picture of his own face!
Beside it, the black caption read, “Liberal leader Andrew Trentham stalling on home rule, says SNP’s Dugald MacKinnon.” The article, at which Andrew managed to sneak quick glimpses over the next few minutes, alleged that he had deliberately waffled on the Scottish issue through the spring with the motive of attempting to sway Prime Minister Barraclough to exclude the Scottish Nationalist Party from his coalition when Parliament resumed in the fall.
In the ensuing moments, as he attempted to swallow his astonishment and keep from flushing red, Andrew did his best to give attention to the conversation which followed. Once the newcomer had a full glass in his own hand and introductions had been made, the discussion focused for several minutes more on the implications of the erroneous information in the article.
Andrew did not speak until he had recovered his composure.
“I take it, then,” he said, trying to sound casual, “that the two of you are in favor of Scottish independence?” he asked.
“Ay, laddie—spekin’ for mysel,’ I support it wi’ every drap o’ blood in my Highland veins,” said the newcomer, Angus MacLeod.
“And you, laird?” asked Andrew, turning to Ginny’s father.
“Ay, I cast my vote wi’ Angus. Scotland’s been ruled too long, gien ye’ll pardon me sayin’ it, by yer English frien’s in Lonnon. They pay nae heed t’ us in the north even wi’ this new business they call devolution. They dinna care aboot Scots an’ what we’re thinkin’ nor wantin.’”
“Do you think that’s true with all the MPs in Commons?” Andrew asked carefully.
“Ay, ’tis true, laddie,” interrupted MacLeod, who obviously felt passionately about the subject. “—What’d ye say was yer name, laddie?”
“Uh . . . Andy,” stumbled Andrew. “—Andy, uh . . . Trent.”
“Weel, I’ll tell ye, young Trent. They dinna care, an’ they dinna care that they dinna care! The Parliament’s a’ fer England, ’cept fer a few o’ oor ain lads down there, but the rest pay nae heed t’ them. An�
�� fer this new Parliament up here in Auld Reekie, I canna weel say yet, but seems likely t’ me ’tis jist a plot o’ the Sassenach t’ quiet us doon wi’ oor talk o’ independence.”
“Auld Reekie?” repeated Andrew.
“Edinburgh, man—that’s Edinburgh!”
The conversation continued on amid the music and dancing, though eventually, to Andrew’s relief, a few others joined them around the large table.
“What do ye think, Angus,” commented one, “—that Scotland can stand alane wi’oot England a’ t’gither?”
“An’ why not?” rejoined Angus feistily. “We didna need its help fer centuries.”
“That was before industry,” replied the other. “Scotland’s still a mite small land t’ support itself wi’oot—”
“Ye’r spekin’ blasphemy agin yer ain land!” interrupted Angus.
“I’m spekin’ common sense, man. We’re not enouch people for it t’ be itherwise. The land’s not guid for much farmin.’”
“Geordie’s in the right, Angus,” now put in another. “We got oor Glasgow an’ Reekie, t’ be sure, an’ the fishin’ an’ the oil in Aberdeen. But it still isna enouch fer five million folks t’ keep up wi’ the rest o’ the world. We split off frae England, an’ we’ll be headin’ doonhill faster’n Alastair can run doon the ben.”
“I canna weel believe what I’m hearin’ oot o’ the mouths o’ two Scotsmen!” exclaimed Angus. “There’s plenty o’ oil fer us all, lads. We’d be a wealthy nation gien we cud keep the oil fer oorsel’s.”
“I tell ye, the same year we get oor independence,” insisted Geordie, “is the year oor taxes go up. Wouldna be no ither way Scotland could support itself.”
“Ach!” exclaimed Angus in frustration. “’Tis oor freedom that’s wanted, man. Disna matter a’ that ye say gien we be not a free an’ independent nation. What’s become o’ Scotland these last three hunnert years! She’s disappeared frae the face o’ the earth, and I say ’tis time we bring her back.”
An Ancient Strife Page 21