Daughter of the Tide

by Leah Fleming

  The harsh years had wizened her mother’s features and she looked more like a grandmother in widow weeds than a woman not much above forty. I will never look like you, Minn thought. I am going to be a lady one day.

  ‘What’s so wrong in playing the piano? There’s one in the church hall.’ Minn argued. Why was music so wrong, she puzzled?

  ‘It’s no for the likes of you to be dabbling your fingers on gentry’s finery, aping your betters. No good can come of it…’

  ‘Lady Rose says I have a good voice, so she does.’

  ‘There’s more to music than just a tune. It is the devil’s instrument of lust!’ said mother looking into the fire, rubbing her hands.

  ‘I don’t care. I can sing in English if I want to!’ Minn was brushing so hard on the carding boards trying not to argue. ‘Haven’t the English caused us enough grief? If you must open your mouth use your native tongue.’

  ‘Lady Rose says it’s a peasant’s noise… “No more peasant noise, Macfee. Time to speak properly!”’ Minn mimicked her lady so accurately that even Mother looked up with a half smile.

  ‘Remember who you are Mairi-Minna Macfee.’

  ‘I’m a Teuchtar, daughter of the tide, hewn from Phetray granite, Lady Rose says.’

  ‘Aye, highland daughter of Phetray…a’ Ghaidhealtachd. Never forget the soil that nourished you. Think of our forefathers, forced to wander over the earth with no land to call their own because of the English lords. It’s said to me only yesterday that this Mister Hitler is doing just such to other poor cottar folk over the water. It won’t be long before we’ll be getting a taste of his wickedness. I hope the good Lord calls me home before that day.’

  ‘Is there really going to be another war?’ said Minn eagerly, having missed all the excitement of the Great War.

  ‘We must pray that He will spare us from that hour. Phetray men are all for the sea and who knows how many of them will find some watery grave in the King’s service?’ Mother warned.

  ‘I shall be a soldier then and join up. I want to see the world one day, Mother.’

  ‘I don’t know where you get such notions. Come what may you’ll be staying here to see to your elders, to grow food for our sustenance. Who will tend our patch with me so crippled in the joints? One wanderer in the family will be sufficient. Uncle Niall will do his duty if called upon,’ Mother said.

  ‘Then I’ll be a nurse,’ Minn argued.

  ‘How will I be managing without your wage? No more words on the matter. Such a trial you are to me, sent on this earth to punish my wickedness. I thought here on Phetray you were safe from temptation but once already you have shamed us.’

  ‘What temptation is this then?’ Minn was curious.

  ‘You’ll know it when it comes along, mo ghaoil… You must be strong for you’re fair of face. Never turn your back on a man. That’s all I’ll be saying. Mind and don’t let me hear you blaspheming the Sabbath again!’

  ‘No, Mother.’ Minn bowed her head to hide her smile.

  *

  Over the next few months she often dreamt at her polishing, watching sunlight beaming down on the piano like a searchlight. Nothing of this servile time would be wasted. Its drudgery only spurred her forward towards a better life and learning the piano before it was too late. One day she would be a lady too.

  Lady Rose grew strange and wouldn’t eat. They took her away on the ferry to an institution and the house lay empty. There were only two of the staff left to clean up. The world was already changing for the threat of war brought builders to the island.

  Suddenly concrete hangars and control towers sprang up like trees, and water pipes snaked across the fields, roads widened and electricity brought its magic to the aerodrome.

  Then came the time to pack the Struthers’ porcelain in tea chests: all the little friends put to bed. Minn loved the dancers and shepherdesses. She had given them all names, English names: Pamela, Clarissa, Arabella, looking so delicate in their finery. Not one of them was broken for her fingers were fine tuned to caress them with care. One day, she vowed, as she was packing them all in tissues into special boxes, I’ll be having some of my very own. Then they took down all the portraits from the wall. The Royal Air Force was commandeering the Crannog as an officers’ billet for the duration and Minn’s services were no longer needed.

  The piano stayed where it was. Sometimes she used to sneak back, open the shutters and climb through the window to practise in her spare time, to finger the keyboard and test out the chords and harmonies. The right blends came easily to her ears from some unknown source within, and with the music came a certainty that her life must change. She was not going to be chained by ignorance.

  Sometimes she walked around the little loch along a boggy path, watching the moorhens scuttling among the reeds, listening to the distant rattle of a corncrake. Working at the Crannog had opened the doors into other worlds where music and china and paintings mattered.

  She felt bereft of the porcelain, her dolls, her imaginary friends. They spoke of a world far away, full of other beautiful things, when she grasped them in her hands, feeling their cool textures, savouring their pastel colours, gold trimmings and their craftsmanship.

  She stood by the water edge vowing that one day there would be a cabinet full of china dolls, just for herself. The thought of such ambition was scary. It would set her apart but she didn’t care. Sometimes she felt like a lonely island set in a sea of busy people. No one cared for her wishes. She must make her own dreams come true.

  Three

  Kilphetrish Harbour, 1939

  It was a summer of blue skies and sunshine. The island shimmered in the sun, as if to compensate for the gathering gloom of events unfolding in Europe. Everyone was on the move, making preparations, talking of air raid precautions and camouflage, but the kittiwakes still dived into a turquoise sea and seals sunned themselves on the rocks as the Local Defence Volunteers paraded up and down Kilphetrish Bay with pitchforks and scythes for their weaponry.

  Nothing was going to stop the annual summer regatta when the islanders gathered in the harbour to watch the sailing boats racing, the dinghies and swimmers competing for the trophies and all the sideshows lined up on the grassy slopes with beach games and races for the children. It was time for the crofters and fishermen, tradesmen and kelpers to strip off their workaday clothes to row lobster faced and sweating for the honour of their township in time-honoured fashion; time to square old rivalries: Balenottar versus Kilphetrish, Ardnag against the clachan at Loch Beag.

  The day dawned glorious to behold and the Ladies’ Guild prepared the trestle tables with white linen cloths spun from the white bog cotton grass. The home baking was covered with voile shower cloths to keep the flies and thieving fingers of the toerags from the tray bakes, cakes, biscuits and lemonade in stone jars.

  Even the sick and elderly wanted an airing on such a beautiful day, sitting in makeshift carts with moist eyes, recalling their own youth and fitness. Everyone wanted the day to go well, for who knew when there would be another such regatta?

  Minn loved Phetray regatta. There was always this feeling that the whole island was gathering together, with crowds as far as the eye could see. She thought that this must be what it was like all the time on the mainland: hundreds of folk just milling around, thronging the streets of Oban in just such a bustle. How Minn yearned to board the SS Hebrides and sail away, but there was never any occasion to justify the expense.

  Yet this was a gap in her education that never would be filled until she saw the mainland for herself. She wanted to see how people walked and talked and dressed there, and envied the lucky crofters’ wives who went to visit relatives in Glasgow and Inverness, who came back full of boasting and fancy gadgets for their homes.

  Here she was stuck with just her mother and herself as usual and Uncle Niall was now back in the Merchant Navy so Mother would not hear of her venturing abroad.

  ‘Abroad’s no all it’s cracked up to be, believe m
e… I should know.’ Eilidh was briefly in service in Glasgow but returned homesick and terrified of city ways. She would never talk of that time and when she did the events were recalled in hushed tones as a time of abomination in her life. It was making Minn all the more determined to leave the island.

  ‘When I’m twenty-one I’ll save up and go and see for myself,’ she argued. ‘No one will stop me then!’

  Mother would purse her lips and knit furiously, ‘I’ll no be stopping you then. You’ll soon learn that they city streets are not paved with gold. You’ll no have far to find yer sorrows there, mo ghaoil!’

  Now that the Crannog was being cleared out waiting for military billeting orders, Minn foraged for jobs to fill the empty purse. The money that Uncle Niall sent home came in fits and starts and sometimes it seemed as if there was only the milk cow and egg money to keep them from starvation. Mother knitted rough wool boot stockings from sheep rovings and her share of the fleece, knitting up thick jerseys for the builders.

  She helped out in the vegetable fields or gathering the kelp from the seashore to load on to carts for spreading over the crofters’ fields. Sometimes she helped in the village stores, minding the schoolmaster’s young children or running messages on a borrowed bicycle.

  She looked with disgust at her coarsened skin and rough hands, her weather-beaten face, how the sun had streaked and bleached her fair hair and mottled her arms with freckles. It was hard to keep up old standards and look respectable. How she yearned for her days in service when food was plentiful and bathing regularly had made her feel like a lady. Her life had taken a step backwards to the shore again.

  *

  Today she was going to forget all her woes and enjoy the atmosphere of the regatta. She watched all the coloured sails bobbing on the water, the bunting fluttering overhead round the harbour, the flags waving in the soft breeze, all the women in their printed frocks and hats like rows of bright flowers. Even the fierce westerlies had calmed for the day. Later there would be a bonfire on the beach and a ceilidh with singing and dancing and she was not going to miss that for anything.

  Yet she felt so dowdy in her faded blue Sunday frock. She loosened her braids, letting her white hair fall down her back, catching it up with the velvet blue Alice band found stuck behind the dressing table when she was clearing Lady Rose’s belongings from her room.

  *

  Everyone was gathering in groups; families of fishermen lugging creels stuffed with food, the crofters with land standing in their tweed jackets, their wives in linen two-piece suits bought from the catalogue stores on the mainland. The fishermen stood in shirtsleeves and cloth caps with bright neckerchiefs.

  The families of the minister, the doctor, the schoolteacher and the factor had the best view, sitting in deck chairs watching the sailing boats with binoculars and sunshades. The ladies were dressed in silk dresses with white hats and the men in linen jackets and Panama hats. Here and there were the uniforms of officers and ratings from the Navy and Merchant fleet. It was then that Minn spotted the tall figure of Ewan dubh standing next to his father, pointing out the competitors. The sight of him made her heart thud with a strange apprehension.

  ‘We’re short!’ yelled the skipper of the Balenottar boat pointing to the young naval officer. ‘Come on, Ewan! You can take an oar!’ There was a cheer as he tore off his jacket and shirt, rolled up his trousers, to his mother’s consternation, and raced down to join the boat, but Minn was pleased to see that the college boy was still a Phetray man at heart.

  He leapt aboard and grabbed an oar. The team rowed off unevenly, all the oars crashing and splattering, but after some practice and manoeuvres the crew began to row in unison, striking out with a rhythm to the starting line, where all the township boats were lining up.

  The Kilphetrish boat was always the favourite to win and Minn by rights should have been shouting for them, but as the gun went off and the race began her eyes could not leave the Balenottar crew and the muscular shape of the minister’s son, who strained on the oar.

  They began slowly far behind the Kilphetrish men. Then as they gathered their timing together they began to edge towards the leading boat as it thrashed its way towards the marker buoy just out of the harbour where the boats must turn and head back for the finishing line. The yelling was deafening as the Balenottar boat began to ease its way forward, making the Kilphetrish crew strain on their oars pulling to a faster beat. Ewan’s boat struck out in response even more strongly until they were neck and neck, red faced with the agony of the effort to take the lead. On either side of the harbour the crowds roared encouragement.

  ‘Come on, Ewan! You can win!’ Minn was jumping up and down.

  Her mother tugged at her skirt. ‘Whisht! It is shame you’re bringing on us making an exhibition of yerself. It’s not for you to be calling out for him… Miss Macallum is over there, quite capable of calling him in herself.’

  Minn stopped, suddenly aware that Johanna Macallum in her striped pinafore dress and straw boater was waving her handkerchief and shouting to Ewan’s boat, ‘You can do it! Come on Balenottar!’

  ‘It’s only a wee race, Mother. I can shout for who so ever I like. Come on, Ewan!’ she continued.

  It was going to be a close call, neck and neck to the finishing line, but somehow the Balenottar crew managed to summon enough effort to take the line by a whisker. The township rose as one to cheer their heroes up the quay. The crew sat back exhausted, exhilarated, clapping each other’s backs heartily while the Kilphetrish men sat slumped with bent heads, surprised by this unexpected defeat.

  What a change in Ewan Mackinnon! He was so dark, so confident, grown into a man in that world across the water. As he strolled up the quayside being slapped on the back and congratulated, he looked so changed. Why had she never noticed just how handsome he was, with his black hair flopping over his bronzed face? Her first instinct was to run down to congratulate him herself, fling her arms around him, but she held back and turned away shyly. They were no longer children. It would not be proper.

  Why should he recognize her in this crowd with all the other girls screaming and fussing over him? She was just another rough cottar girl in a shabby frock with nothing but their childhood friendship to recommend her. She would be only another tragic reminder of his lost sister, Agnes. Why should he acknowledge her presence with Johanna already standing by his side.

  Something was sparking inside her like a tinderbox set alight. Had she caught a look or a smile of instant recognition? She had the sudden overpowering feeling that she and Ewan were joined for ever by the drowning of his sister and of him saving her own life, bound together like buoys tied with a rope. In that spark burst such a flame of love for him. In that flash of insight she knew that Ewan must be hers alone.

  He must be mine… he’s always been mine. He saved my life. We were such friends before… Why should Agnes’s grave always stand between them? They were bound by suffering, but she could still feel that terrible despairing doubt. Who are you, Minn Macfee, to stake a claim on him? You’re just a field worker, a serving girl, a nobody. Suddenly she could feel again the chill like clouds overshadowing the harbour, darkening the skies as she wrestled with that strange sick feeling of yearning and jealousy, punching her hand with a gnarled fist. He’s mine, he’s mine but how can I make him notice me?

  *

  The dancing was held in the open air by the light of many flickering bonfires on the beach. The sand was still warm as bare feet stomped to the fiddle and the circling couples made patterns on the shore. The old piano from the Tulloch bar was dragged to the edge of the grass and a drummer made up the makeshift trio. Older couples sat on the benches and grass, children darted like horseflies in and out of the swirling dancers.

  It was coming to the end of a summer’s day when the sun had burnt Ewan’s forehead and shoulders and his limbs were aching from the races, while clegs feasted on sweaty arms and swollen ankles: a day to linger long in the Phetray memory. This might
be the last day of summer 1939, the last dance before the world might come to an end, he thought. Hearts were heavy now as he looked around old school friends assembled who soon would be posted off like him to God knows where! How many of us will be returning for the next regatta, he wondered?

  There was a lull in the dancing and Ewan’s group drifted towards the harbour benches while the musicians had retired to the bar. Someone was fingering the keyboard, picking out a tune, a few quiet chords and then a traditional waltz. One or two couples got up to spin around the sand smiling. Ewan was punch drunk with sun and the pleasure of being home. It was the end of a perfect day.

  ‘What’ll I do when you… are far away?’ Catching the mood of the moment the singer in the distance was crooning softly. Johanna stopped to listen to the song and crooned along with the music but a little out of tune. There was a ripple of applause, which gave the pianist the encouragement to keep on playing.

  ‘Who’s singing?’ he asked, curious. Johanna shrugged her shoulders.

  The clapping grew stronger and the impromptu entertainer stood for her finale, singing in Gaelic: a lament for a lost lover. It was a sad haunting tune calculated to bring a tear to any highlander’s eye. There was something about the singing of the ballad that got him on his feet.

  ‘Come and see the blonde piece, singing like a mermaid,’ yelled Lachie Munn, one of the boat crew. ‘You’ll never guess who it is down there,’ he laughed. ‘I’m away to get a dance frae her.’

  There was a stunned silence as she bowed and slid from the piano while the pianist patted her on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Minnie Macfee, you’re a wee siren. What a voice! Fit to make the angels in heaven weep. Why aren’t you singing in the musical festival at the Mod?’

  Ewan stood transfixed by the sight of her. Was it really Minn? How she had grown up, slender, taller, with white hair rippling down her back. For an instant he thought about his sister and how she would have looked now, but his eyes feasted on the girl in the blue dress.