Ardnish Read online

  I could see in the distance that Captain MacDonald had gathered the officers around him, and Cammy was there, too. The rest of us would be called in for a briefing shortly.

  ‘What is your wife like, may I ask? Linde said quietly.

  I looked away. I did not want to have this conversation.

  ‘Well . . .’ I faltered, ‘Morag is the hardest worker you ever met, the person who makes things happen in the village. She’s a tremendous mother, maybe the best shepherd – male or female – in the Highlands, and she loves plants and animals—’

  ‘And,’ Linde cut in, ‘is she a good wife?’

  I squirmed at her frankness. ‘We’ve been married for over twenty years, and while we have our differences we are doing just fine . . .’ I could tell she wanted to know more. ‘Put it this way, I was keen to come out here for a while.’

  I knew Linde could sense that this was as much as I was prepared to tell her. I already felt as though I’d betrayed Morag by not praising her highly enough, and alluding to our difficulties. ‘This is a little unfair. You know everything about my home and my life, so won’t you tell me something about yourself?’

  Linde looked away. ‘I’m not sure you are in a position to tell me what is fair and what is not,’ she said softly. ‘I am your prisoner.’

  I was chastened. ‘Oh, Linde, I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She smiled a little. ‘I think I pushed you to reveal something about your life, you did not want to, so I will tell you my story.’

  She checked on Anja, who was fast asleep in the cart, and shifted closer towards me. We were almost touching.

  ‘It is not a happy story,’ she began matter-of-factly.

  ‘I have no wish to upset you or force you to tell me things about yourself,’ I said.

  ‘I know that.’ She looked straight into my eyes and my heart skipped a beat. ‘I arrived from Heilbron, a hundred and fifty miles west of Bloemfontein, thirteen years ago. I worked for a farmer’s wife as a mother’s help, and there I met their neighbour, Johan Vanloos. We were married for eleven years and he was killed . . . six months ago . . . before you and your soldiers arrived.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I whispered.

  ‘Don’t be.’ I thought I could detect a harder edge to her voice. ‘Johan’s mother bossed me about. I was never good enough for her son. My place was to be in the house, to have his food ready, to make clothes, not to be heard. I was there to bear his children. She blamed me for not having more children, a son in particular. She said I was too precious to work hard. And as for Johan, well, he was never happy with anything. My cooking, my housework, how I dressed. I don’t think I ever loved him, really, but I was resigned to spending the rest of my life with him.’

  ‘For better or for worse,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘It could have been worse, though. He worked outside all day, every day, and he went to bed as early as he could. On Sundays we spent the whole day at the Reform Church. Anja is the best thing that came from him.’

  Linde glanced nervously at her daughter. She was sound asleep.

  ‘In the year before he died, he started drinking heavily. I don’t know why. I came to dread his footsteps in the night, the stumbling around and the cursing. He forced himself on me . . . It was awful . . . Then he would just roll over and fall asleep, snoring. I would lie there wide awake, lonely . . . violated.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘He would get up in the morning without a word, still in the same filthy clothes, and leave me there. Never a hint of apology.’

  I did not know what to say. I could barely look at her.

  ‘After Johan died,’ she went on after a pause, ‘his brother took over the farm. He provided for Anja and me, but it was very clear that I was not wanted there. They started dropping hints about how I might be better off moving away. You know, Donald John, in my darkest hours, I was terrified they might try to get rid of me and keep Anja. My daughter is my life. She is everything. Everything else is gone: all that remains is the two of us.’

  A long silence followed Linde’s words. We trudged on in the heat. No one was behind us; there were only a few soldiers talking among themselves ahead of us and a heavy screen of dust between them and us.

  There was a question I was burning to ask. I thought I knew the answer, but needed to hear it from Linde. ‘How did Johan die?’

  She was looking straight ahead and, try as I might, I couldn’t read her feelings. ‘He was on commando,’ she replied eventually. ‘They were attacking a convoy and he was shot – that’s all I know. Everyone else at the farm found out before me. My mother-in-law knew two days before she told me. She thought I wouldn’t care.

  ‘I have been reluctant to tell you that my own father also fought in the war against the British. I just think you need to know.’

  I nodded, unsurprised, but was touched that she wanted to tell me.

  ‘He was a wonderful father to me, kind and caring. I can barely remember my mother; she died when I was a small child. Later, my father brought up my brother’s son all alone. I was proud of him.’

  ‘And when did he pass on?’

  ‘He was killed last year, too. He hadn’t wanted to fight. He loved my mother but she was long gone, and he adored the farm, and couldn’t see why the war was necessary. He was too old, really, but he was forced to join up by his neighbours so he planned to do his bit as quickly as possible and then head home.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He and my brother’s son were in the Heilbron Commando, at a place called Spioenkop. They were holding a hill to stop the British using it to shell our men.’

  ‘My God, Spioenkop! Everyone has heard of that place. It was a disaster – well, it was a disaster for the British anyhow.’

  ‘It may seem odd to you, but father and grandson had the same name: Wynand Sarel Roelofse.’

  ‘Oh, I’m used to families where everyone has the same name. There’s always a Donald Gillies in our family. I’m known throughout Ardnish as Donald Auch. Auch means “field” in Gaelic, because we have the big field behind our house. There’s a Donald Gillies in Morar called Donald the Fish, because he’s a well-known salmon poacher.’

  She smiled. ‘My brother was a Wynand, too, but he died many years ago, along with his wife. They tipped over in their wagon going across the Waterval River and drowned. That’s why my nephew was bought up by my father. He was known as “Old W.S.”. My cousin Christiaan was at Spioenkop with them. I have heard the story of the battle many times from him. Do you know it?’

  ‘A little, but tell me about it if you like. As long as it does not upset you too much.’

  ‘It is good to talk about it all. It helps me to remember them. It was January. The British were under siege at Ladysmith, and your army had come to break the siege. Christiaan’s people had been watching the British gathering down by the river and knew that an attack would come; they had seen guns being dragged up Mount Alice across the valley. General Botha was supposed to be on his way with reinforcements, but Christiaan’s men had good positions, with stone walls in front. They’d been waiting a whole week, watching a distant fight on the black mountains. There were only about ninety men, all expecting an attack.

  ‘My father was seventy-two then, his grandson only fourteen. The two of them had begged to join the same Commando unit together. They were incredibly close because they had been together for a long time, just the two of them. Anyway, there they were at night, asleep behind the wall, in the rain and the dark. They were caught unawares by the British soldiers. Christiaan saw Young WS leap up, grab his grandfather’s arm and run off the hill, only just ahead of the enemy.

  ‘General Botha was arriving at the base of the kopje by then, bringing men he had gathered together in the dawn. They were able to climb up the hill in such a way that those on the top couldn’t see over the edge, and, suddenly, they were on the summit. Bullets were flying everywhere!

  ‘WS and the others knew the e
nemy were close. They could see shells exploding just over the ridge and could hear the British soldiers screaming. My father and the others quickly gathered rocks and built defences out of sight of the British.

  ‘Old WS was a fantastic rifle shot. Christiaan told me he had positioned himself off to the side, behind an acacia bush, with his grandson alongside him. Then the British suddenly came into view, and Christiaan’s men felt very exposed. But the English men were silhouetted against the morning sun.

  ‘WS killed many British, Donald John. He was firing as quickly as he could reload and he had the best vantage point.’

  I did my best to maintain my composure though I was struggling with conflicting feelings of discomfort and sadness. ‘Keep going,’ I murmured.

  ‘It’s got a horrible ending, I’m afraid,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Well, the battle kept going all day, back and forth, back and forth, with men falling all around as they got shot, the wounded trying to crawl back . . .’ She paused to take a deep breath. ‘It wasn’t until the next morning that Christiaan set out to find his two Roelofse kinfolk. He found my father first, with a bullet wound in his head. He was calling out for his grandson. Young WS was found close by, but he was dead. They carried the body across to my father, and with the boy in his arms, my father died.’

  Linde brushed away tears. ‘I am sorry, I am embarrassed. I haven’t talked about it all to anyone for such a long time.’

  I could feel tears pricking my own eyes. ‘Don’t be sorry, Linde. My God, what a sad story.’

  ‘So, it’s just me and Anja now. I cannot bear to call my husband’s family kin and I am so lonely, Donald John.’

  At this I put down the cart, walked over to her, put my arms around her, and hugged her tightly. As I stroked her hair she wept and clung tightly to me. Perhaps she saw me as something of a father figure, but to me, the embrace felt different. I wanted the moment to last far longer.

  We resumed our journey. Linde’s spirits gradually lifted and she regained the spring in her step. For a while I began to feel young again. The hours passed like minutes and the cart felt light. But later, as we grew tired, heavy rain came, and as we huddled under a cape, I thought of Morag and tried to banish all thoughts of Linde and that moment of intimacy from my mind. I was married: Linde would never be mine. Moreover, I was marching her towards a prison, and if the dreadful rumours were true, it was quite possible she and Anja would die there. I shuddered at the thought and knew I would do everything in my power to prevent their coming to harm.

  Chapter 23

  Donald John, Ardnish, 1944

  ‘Look who I have here,’ Angus announces, throwing open the door and grinning broadly.

  Morag bustles in, then rushes around the room kissing everyone and replying to the stream of questions. ‘Yes, I’m glad I went . . . Yes, I saw lots of my family I hadn’t seen in ages . . . But wait, we’d better get organised. There’s someone else coming here. I saw a man on the skyline.’

  At last, she comes over to hug me. My heart swells with joy as she squeezes me tight. ‘How did you get here so quickly?’ I ask.

  ‘There was an army officer on the train I got chatting to and he offered to take me up the loch in a boat. I was so relieved! Otherwise I would’ve been stuck at the Lochailort Inn until the thaw came!’

  Mairi has gone outside to see who this stranger could be and returns a few moments later, a tall figure following her.

  I’m astonished. I can scarcely believe what I am seeing, given that it has been just moments since I was thinking about his family. It is Archbishop Andrew himself.

  Morag and Louise leap to their feet, but he motions them to sit down. ‘Please! Stay where you are,’ he insists. ‘Canon MacNeil has a funeral on, and I thought I’d come myself.’ He peels off his snow-covered coat, hat and scarf.

  He turns to me. ‘And how are doing, my old friend?’ He takes my hand and shakes it firmly. We exchange a few pleasantries until a bout of coughing interrupts.

  ‘Your Grace, some tea?’ Morag asks.

  ‘We’ll not be having any Your Graces here, please,’ he admonishes her. ‘We’re old friends.’

  Morag swings into action immediately, resuming control of the household. She fusses around making the tea and putting drop scones on the griddle.

  ‘How was your journey, Archbishop?’ I ask. ‘You must have got the early train. Morag has just arrived herself and – typical Morag! – persuaded a soldier to get a boat to bring her along.’

  ‘I had a good walk over from Lochailort Station. I was surprised how deep the snow was, but it’s crisp and bright outside, and I know the path well enough. There’s deer everywhere. I saw a lovely stag right at the top, a royal at least. And an otter in the wee loch by the train line. The fresh air did me good.’ He beams and sips his tea.

  ‘You must be exhausted,’ I say.

  ‘Not a bit of it! Although I confess I haven’t taken so much exercise in a long time. There were some mighty drifts I had to clamber through. I nearly headed down to Sloch at one point but I could see Roshven Hill to the south and remembered to keep left. I had a good tumble coming down that steep bank towards the big field!’

  I smile. It is so typical of the Archbishop to make light of his trek.

  ‘Canon MacNeil and I had a good natter with Iain Bec the train driver,’ he continues. ‘He dropped me off right at the bridge to save me the walk. It pays off, having a fellow Papist on the engine.’ He chuckles. ‘Anyway, Iain sends his best regards to you all and said he’d leave a sack of coal below the footbridge next time he comes through. Even if you can’t retrieve it until the summer!’

  ‘That’s kind of him,’ I say softly. We both know full well we are talking about something I shall not live to see.

  ‘The train was full of youngsters, up doing training with the SOE at Arisaig House. Not just men, but women, too, I noticed.’

  ‘Did you really come all the way from Roybridge just to see me?’ I ask.

  ‘I wanted to,’ he replies straight away. ‘Have we not known each other almost all our lives? In any case, Canon MacNeil has the big funeral at Polnish to attend to, so it suited everyone just fine.’

  I feel my heart swell. He didn’t have to do that. There can’t be many people who have an Archbishop to hear their confession.

  They all chat about this and that, and once we’ve establish that he will stay the night, everyone relaxes.

  Mairi is keen to hear about Morag’s trip. She never misses a good funeral herself, she’d be the first to admit.

  ‘Well, it’s certainly not how we’d do it here,’ Morag says, inevitably. ‘It was held at St Anthony’s in Govan, where I used to go with my parents. I didn’t know any of the hymns or the congregation other than my family. Maureen must have had lots of friends, though, as the place was packed, and we even went to a public bar afterwards.’ She adds with mock surprise, ‘Would you believe the place was full at four o’clock in the afternoon!’

  Mairi shakes her head in disapproval though I see the Archbishop is smiling to himself.

  ‘The priest was Irish,’ Morag goes on, ‘and I know for certain that he had three whiskies before I even finished my first. Father Declan, he was called. Do you know him, Archbishop?’

  The Archbishop shakes his head. ‘No, but I’ll look out for him. There are quite a few Irish clergy in Glasgow who enjoy a dram.’

  ‘How was the train?’ Angus asks.

  Morag smiles. ‘The journey back was so beautiful. Coming through the old pine forest north of Tyndrum I saw two stags in the snow, right alongside the line on Rannoch Moor. And two red squirrels at Ardlui station! I knew you’d all be jealous when I told you that – we never see them up here. And the train guard pointed out a spot where there’s an eagles’ nest on the cliffs above Loch Treig.’

  I look at my wife, holding the audience with her amusing tales of Glasgow and the wildlife she loves so much. As she talks, her hand
fondles Broch’s ears. The dog looks adoringly up at her. He’s missed her, too. I do so love this woman, I think to myself. I need to tell her. It’s years since I’ve uttered the words and I’d like her to know. My arms want to reach out and draw her towards me. I’ve missed her this past week and I was scared of dying before I could tell her what a fine wife and mother she’s been. I need to say a proper farewell.

  Chapter 24

  Donald John, South Africa, 1901

  Linde, Anja and I walked mile after mile of flat and characterless land, with only the occasional gazelle to be seen. There was precious little wildlife. The ground was the light brown of winter, in contrast to the waist-high bright green grass we had seen a few months ago. Now and again we would pass burnt-out farmsteads.

  The number of British Army troops in the area was astounding, and we encountered many patrols marching or riding past every hour or so. We could see a long supply convoy in the distance and hear shelling from some distant engagement. There were around half a million men from all over the Empire in South Africa now. How could the Boer elude so many soldiers?

  They were still creating quite a sting. Every day we came across torched army wagons, dead horses and scattered debris. You could smell the stench of the carcasses before you got close. Sometimes the Boer attacked at night, when the sentries were jittery, anticipating the enemy creeping into the camp in the pitch-black to slit their throats. Every whinny from a horse or shifting of stones beyond the camp perimeter resulted in a nervous call to ‘Stand to!’ and our precious sleep would be broken by an inevitable false alarm.

  I was exhausted each night from pulling the cart and was always glad to turn in. As I lay wrapped up in my blanket, I would often pull out the letters from Morag, which I kept tucked in my tunic pocket. Her latest followed the usual script:

  My dear DJ,

  I was pleased to receive your letters – three arrived on the same day. I’m glad that you are likely to come home soon. Maybe it will be in time to help with the potato and turnip harvest. The children are being very helpful . . .