Love and Music Will Endure (5 page)

‘That was a near escape.’ said Murdo later on.

Màiri smiled. ‘You all got safely away then? That tall young man, I’ve never seen him before. Is he from round here?’

‘Ah, you mean Anndra’.

‘That’s an unusual name.’

‘Aye. He’s from the south of the island. His family were thrown off their land.’

‘And where does he stay now?’

Murdo grinned, ‘So many questions. Why do all young women want to know about him? He’s in Portree at the moment, living on a poor bit of land and doing some fishing.’

Her thoughts were already flying far off like migrating swallows. It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t have any money or land. He could live here, on their croft. They would manage, even if they had a nest full of children. That would be a small price to pay for having him in her bed, warming her body inside and out.

Murdo laughed, ‘You should see your face’.

‘How do you mean?’ She frowned.

‘Standing there licking your lips and your eyes all dreamy like a dog having its belly rubbed. I’m in your debt, so I’ll see what more I can find out. But I imagine he’s got a sweetheart already.’

She bristled at the edge of pity in his voice, ‘I was just curious.’

A few nights later she heard a thud outside, followed by muttered swearing. She hurried out to find her brother, who had
tripped over in the dark. He was swaying on his feet and she hustled him away from the house towards the well.

‘We can’t have Mamma seeing you in that state,’ she hissed. ‘Walk up and down while I get you some water to drink.’ She lowered the bucket.

‘We’ve had a wee dram or two to celebrate. I’m not going back to Glasgow. I’m going to Fort Augustus.’

‘I’m not surprised. It’s what you’ve always wanted. The army’s better than emigrating, but Mamma will take it hard.’

‘Aye. That reminds me…’ He put his hand to his mouth, grimacing.

‘Reminds you of what?’

‘N… nothing.’

She shook his collar, ‘What won’t you tell me?’

He sighed. ‘Anndra’s going too.’

‘As a soldier?’ She could feel her heart sinking, but still he would come back one day.

He wouldn’t meet her gaze. ‘No.’

‘What’s he doing then? Spit it out.’ Her fingers clenched on the handle of the bucket.

‘Australia. He’s emigrating.’

Murdo lurched to one side but he was too slow to avoid the swing of the bucket. He howled as the cold water struck him. She hurled the bucket down, tears glinting in her eyes and overflowing down her cheeks. ‘That’ll sober you up,’ she screamed.

The rainbow had vanished in the instant she had glimpsed it. Everyone’s life seemed to be changing, except hers. Anndra gone for ever. Murdo in the army. All the young women of her age away working in the Lowlands. If not working they were married, with several youngsters around their skirts and another in the belly. As Màiri grew into her twenties Mamma became more tight-lipped about her refusal to consider the few offers of marriage that came her way.

‘You should be more modest, not making up verses. That’s not fitting for a woman wishing to marry. Mind you, I’ve heard that George Beaton is looking for a wife. He’s a godly man and a hard worker. You could do worse.’

Màiri had been horrified. George Beaton indeed! He was at least twice her age and bandy legged. She had caught him gobbling her up with his greedy, parched eyes. She knew well enough that she was no beauty, her features were too strong, her body too broad and tall. Even her feet didn’t fit a ladylike pattern; they were so large that only men’s brogues would fit them.

‘How come that men, no matter how ill-favoured they might be, imagine that they could be a suitable match for a young woman?’

‘A woman needs to marry and she can’t always be too choosy. When God told Noah to build the Ark He commanded him to bring aboard a male and female of every creature. A woman on her own is against nature.’

The anxious creases on her mother’s face made her hold back an angry retort. Instead she paused before laughing and saying, ‘You’d marry me off to that grubby old bachelor, Donald MacKinnon?’

‘No, indeed, there are limits even to my matchmaking.’

At least I made her smile, Màiri thought, and that happens all too rarely these days. But despite her joking she felt uncertain about her future. She was determined to stay a spinster rather than settle for an old man. There were plenty of songs that warned about sad young girls betrothed to greybeards. The thought of a wizened
bodach
sniffing around her, then thrashing and gasping on top of her in bed, like a fish caught on a hook, it was unbearable. Imagine being expected to kiss a putrid mouth full of blackened stumps of teeth. No, she would rather endure the neighbours’ pity for her unwed state. If only Anndra had not gone away.

What was the answer? Her parents hadn’t pressed her to go down to the Lowlands to work and she was grateful for that. She knew that her help on the croft made life easier for both of them. She knew too that Mamma was terrified of her last child sickening and dying in a damp, grimy tenement.

One summer evening she went outside where her father was watching the sun’s lifeblood staining the sky. Seeing him there, unaware of her presence, made her heart jolt. His back was bowed and he leant heavily on a stick. Was this her Pappa who used to rail against injustice and was so fearless of authority?

‘Mamma thinks I’m not docile enough to find a husband. Do you think I frighten men away with my opinions and my verses?’

He threw his head back and laughed his old confident rumble. He was silent for a time before replying.

‘Do you remember the story about the MacCrimmond piper and the Fairy Bridge?’

She nodded. It was one of her favourites.

‘Well, when the piper found his way to the Fairies’ underground kingdom through the cave at Harlosh he met a beautiful woman there. Some say she was the Queen of the Fairies herself. He was enchanted by her and stayed there for what he thought was a short time. But as you know Fairy time is different from ours and in truth he was away from his people for many days. When he was ready to leave she offered him a present of his own choosing. He wanted a silver chanter. She gave him a magic one that made his fingers move like quicksilver when he played it. He stirred the hearts of everyone who heard the music he made on it. She told him, “When you dance everyone will dance with you and when you play a lament the whole island will lament with you.”

‘But, as always, when we have dealings with the Fairies there’s a reckoning to be made. She told him the day and the time when
he would have to return through the cave to her and never leave her again. That time was some years ahead and MacCrimmond, being young, believed that the day would never dawn. So he agreed to her terms, returned home and became the most famous piper of his day. His sons and grandsons followed him as pipers for MacLeod of MacLeod, although it’s said that none of them had fingers as nimble as his own.

‘Eventually the day arrived that had been marked for his return. He bade his wife and children a last farewell and with a few companions walked back to the cave. Then he turned his back on all human kind and, playing his chanter, walked alone into the darkness without a backward glance. His wee dog, though, trotted in to follow his master. Everyone else waited silently at the cave’s mouth and strained their ears to catch his playing. They could hear both the chanter and the dog’s barks rising up from below the earth. At a spot near the Fairy Bridge the chanter fell silent but they could still hear barking. Suddenly the dog shot out from the cave with his hair all black and singed.’

Màiri waited but he said no more. ‘I always enjoy the old tales but why have you told me this one now?’

He smiled, ‘Like me, you’re impatient to change the world. We both protest like the wee dog. As you know barking at the minister got me singed in my youth. I was nearly exiled across the seas and had to pay a penance of living in Glasgow. I lost a good croft and had to settle for poorer land when we came back.’

‘So you’re advising me to do what’s expected and become a dutiful wife, even if it makes my heart shrivel within me?’

‘No. At least, not yet. You’re the Benjamin of my old age. I don’t want to lose you and Heaven forbid I’m no minister to preach to you about your duty. Maybe you’re MacCrimmond in the story, rather than the wee dog.’

‘How so?’

He drew on his clay pipe while he considered his answer, ‘No doubt the minister would disagree but I believe the Fairies are the spirits of the old folk who lived in the hills before our people came here. You can’t refuse a gift from the Fairies or they will turn against you. MacCrimmond had to take the silver chanter, whatever the cost to him. Now you’ve the gift of poetry. You have to use it. You shouldn’t become as pious as those miserable folk who’ve been converted and stop singing. That would be spurning their gift.’

He laughed and tapped her arm. ‘Anyway, we’d better go inside or your mother will believe we are plotting something.’

At first Màiri was heartened by her father’s words but the seasons marched on. Now well into her twenties, she felt as if she were standing drilling on the same spot, like those days long ago when she had tried to join in her brother’s soldier games. It was harder than ever to eke out a living on the family croft. They grew few oats now and no barley at all. The soil was exhausted, even with all the seaweed dragged up from the shore to improve it. Without a horse it was draining work using the breast plough. So, like their neighbours, they turned to the bountiful potato and bought their overpriced oatmeal from the factor with money from selling the cattle.

Her mother had finally struggled ashore from the shipwreck of grief after Seonag’s death. Her sadness had become a shawl draped around her shoulders rather than a backbreaking load. Now it was her father’s spirit that seemed to drain away, leaving him morose, gazing into a clear sky and expecting storms. As a child Màiri had seen him as unchanging as the landscape, an upright pillar like the Old Man of Storr. But rock could crumble, gnawed silently away by wind and rain. The tide was running against him and she must tackle him again about the future.

They had finished planting the potatoes and were sitting with their backs against the wall of the house, enjoying some spring sunshine.

‘Let’s hope for a good harvest,’ she said.

‘Aye. But I heard a fellow say that the tatties failed in some places on the mainland last year. First the stored ones turned into a reeking mush and then the ones still in the ground went bad.’

‘They’ve always done well for us though, haven’t they?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what will happen to us Gaels. So many have left already. How can we cling on?’

She held back a sigh. ‘Surely the worst is over now. Those who have stayed have good big families to follow them.’

‘That’s part of the problem. There’s not enough land so they slice it up to give everyone a piece. Then no-one has enough to live on.’

She took a deep breath, ‘Well that needn’t happen here. I can take over. If a widow can be a tenant why not a daughter?’

Pappa’s troubled blue eyes had looked distant but now he turned to face her.

‘But Murdo will leave the army one day. I must hold this land in trust for him and any son he might have. I will not divide it.’

He saw the look of flayed hurt in her eyes and dropped his gaze. She stood, looking down at him.

‘So what life would I have if I stayed, except as a poor relative in someone else’s house?’

He shaded his eyes to look up at her, ‘You’re still young. You could marry and have your own home. That would be for the best.’

‘Well, I shall have to think about what I must do.’ She turned on her heel and strode off before her father could see the tears scalding down her face, but she knew that the jagged splinters of her voice had pierced him.

In the following days Màiri carried out her tasks with a savage energy. She stormed up the hills, forcing the bemused cattle to canter ahead of her. Bad enough to live the tough life of a crofter but for a woman, she thought, it seemed doubly harsh to be a beast of burden and a bearer of numberless children. Only a loving husband could make that bearable. She would only agree to marry if there was love, or at least kindness, between them. She would never accept the stale leavings of more favoured
women even if she faced disapproval for being too fussy. But if she refused the only offers that had come her way from ugly and selfish old men she would have no land or independence. Perhaps she could brace herself to marry an old man who would die soon and then she could take over his tenancy? But the idea of being caressed by gnarled old hands, roughened like tree bark, brought bitter bile to her throat. There was only one answer. She must leave Skye and earn her own living. Like an otter caught in a trap she would have to gnaw off a limb so that she could escape. And maybe one day she would have enough money to return and live in style. That would show everyone. She had heard the whispers:

‘She’s a strong lass but it’s a pity she’s so big and plain.’

‘And brazen too. But her father’s always been full of himself.’

She ran headlong all the way to the shore, heart hammering in her ears and hair streaming behind her. She tossed her thoughts from hand to hand and then skimmed them out to sea. Bending down, she chose a stone, one with a streaked pattern waving across it, blew away the sand clinging to it and traced its sea smoothed surface. But there was no answer from the world around her except the one she didn’t want to hear.

She would have to leave. But where would she go? She didn’t want to go to Glasgow as so many islanders had done. Pappa had told her often enough of the city bleached of live colours, the horses kept in dark stables and slipping on slimy cobblestones, never seeing a blade of grass. Even the mighty Clyde was sick and smelt of decay. The city had sucked out the life of her sister. No, she couldn’t go there.

What about Inverness, smaller and nearer? She broached the idea with Mamma. Màiri had expected a protest but instead her mother considered the question calmly.

‘The air would be fresher right enough but how would you get there? There’s no regular steamer boat and it wouldn’t be right
for a young woman to travel all that way alone by cart. And what about the expense of it all?’

Màiri though had made up her mind to go and set about finding a way. She spoke to the minister’s wife who listened, hiding her surprise. She couldn’t remember any of that proud family ever asking for help. A few weeks later she called Màiri over after morning service.

‘I’ve the very thing for you. Reverend Carmichael in Carbost has a wife who is awaiting the birth of her first child. She wants to travel to her family home near Inverness. You could accompany her.’

So it was settled. Her father insisted on walking the
twenty-five
miles with her to the manse.

‘I’m not in my grave yet and I can have a rest before I go back. I can even take a wheelbarrow to push you if you get tired,’ he joked.

She was surprised how he seemed to have recovered his spirits. So they trudged to Sligachan, hugging the coast as the Cuillin loomed ever closer. Then they turned towards Carbost and found the neat, square house overlooking Loch Harport. They were given a grave welcome by the minister, a sharp featured, earnest man and his placid wife. Pappa was anxious to return home and made the return journey after two nights’ rest. It was the first time she had ever travelled so far from her home. Part of her looked back over her shoulder, missing her familiar surroundings, like a puppy sent to a new family.

During the day the minister was either out visiting his flock or writing sermons in the small front parlour. A scrawny wee girl came in to do the rough work while the minister’s wife sat sewing baby clothes. Màiri had her own small room up in the eaves. She enjoyed the novelty of climbing stairs and feeling so high up that she could look the hills in the eye. She had to duck
to climb into her small bed but once she was in it that first night she felt a fluttering excitement too, an eagle chick flexing and flapping its wings, lurching on the edge of the nest, looking at the long leap below.