Ardnish Was Home Page 19

  I continue to do not much while she works. The Lovat Scouts are back in Egypt, but they are being posted to Salonika. There is still a handful of Scouts at different hospitals, so I go around each of them and have a few words. I remember one in particular, a Sergeant McIvor from Fort William, who has had his leg amputated but is determined to walk again. He has a false leg yet strides about town as if it were his own. I am interested in his leg, as it is far better than the one my father has; it bends smoothly at the knee and seems to be much more comfortable against the stump of his thigh.

  Another scout, Ewan Morrison from Invergarry, was a stalker at Glen Quoich. He has terrible injuries up one side of his body from exploding munitions and a badly scarred face, one eye missing and no arm. Yet he is desperate to get back to the Highlands and go stalking again, though I doubt if his employer will take him back.

  What all the injured men have in common is their worry about how their wives or sweethearts will take their injuries. Will they be unable to cope, and leave them?

  ‘With the huge numbers getting killed, they’ll be desperate to keep you,’ I reassure them. It is the best I can come up with in the circumstances.

  *

  There is no doubt that Gallipoli has been a terrible campaign. No land gained and over a hundred thousand allies killed. The conditions were dreadful, the rain and cold, the flooding and the terrible lack of food. In Malta I see shell-shocked soldiers wandering the streets of the town in a daze; they sit and talk to themselves, sometimes shout. As I sit with them on the wall in the warm spring sun, or meet them in the wards, much of the talk is about the futility of it all. Some say they are glad they have been injured; they couldn’t have taken any more. An Australian sergeant says he will never be the same man again.

  The post comes, and once again I have a couple of letters. One is from my mother:

  Dear Donald Peter,

  I received your letter and immediately burst into tears. The last we had heard is that you were ‘missing – presumed dead’ delivered in an official brown envelope. Your father was on the hill, and as he came towards the village I ran leaping up and down, like my mad collie, waving your letter. Your father has lost ten years of age and goes everywhere with a huge smile once again. Of course your eyes are a worry but it’s so splendid to hear they are improving.

  We are excited to hear about Louise and the great escape you have had and are so glad you will be home with us soon.

  Everyone at Ardnish sends their very best and your father asks you to give his regards to Colonel Macdonald.

  Send a telegram when you have details so we can be there to meet you. Will Louise be with you?

  God bless and thank the Lord for your salvation.

  Love your mother

  I show the letter to Louise, and she puts her hand in mine. ‘I am so looking forward to meeting them,’ she says. ‘They sound lovely.’

  *

  The next day there is a huge storm. It’s Sunday. Louise and I are coming out of Mass and we can see the black clouds to the east.

  ‘Quick,’ she says, ‘let’s get home before it reaches us.’

  Almost as soon as we open the door to our room, it hits. Wild gusts of wind blow everything around as we rush to close the shutters. It is terrifying, but exciting; the rain is heavier than I’ve ever seen and hammers noisily against the windows.

  It is over as quickly as it arrived, though the street is ankle deep in water and there is a steady drip in the corner where a tile on the roof must be missing.

  We’re due to meet the others down at the café in the harbour so we dash down, avoiding the puddles everywhere. Everyone has a story about a big storm, and mine is about one that my father had a particular involvement with.

  HOME

  At home, there is a scrapbook full of old newspaper cuttings that my parents collected over the years, and the great storm of 1879 features in several from the Oban Times and the Scotsman.

  My father was a young teenager and was in the house we live in now when it happened. He said it was the most frightening thing in his life – even worse than the Boer War or the time when he capsized in his boat a mile offshore.

  The date was the twenty-eighth of December. He described the sudden blackening of the sky from the west. All the animals in the byre were agitated and making a lot of noise, and the dogs were brought into the house, when they would normally be outside. My grandfather shouted to my grandmother, ‘Get the children inside, shut all the doors and make sure the hens and sheds are all right. Warn the neighbours. I’m going down to tie up the boats a bit better. It’s going to be an evil one by the look of things.’

  At that time of the year it was dark by four, anyway. They sat in the front room with the weather getting worse and worse outside. The door rattled and creaked; they could feel a wind in the house so strong it was if there were no windows. The house was soon leaking like a sieve; everything was soaked.

  My grandfather went out the back door about six to see if the animals were fine and to check up on the older people in the village.

  He came back drenched, as if he had just been for a swim, with a look of panic. ‘It’s chaos,’ he reported. ‘Archie Macdonald’s house has lost its roof so he and Kirsty have gone to the MacEachans. The hen house is nowhere to be seen, and one of the boats is up across the front of the byre. It’s so heavy I couldn’t move it an inch myself. Blown uphill from the beach for two hundred yards! Just shows what a gale we are having. I was blown clean off my feet, landed about six feet away. The heather thatch on our roof has come off completely; it’s just the wood that’s screwed on that’s holding.’

  My father told me that his parents talked about what to do if the roof came off and where they might be safest. They agreed on the woodshed. Its entrance faced away from the wind, and it had stone slabs on the roof.

  Grandfather pulled out his missal and read to the family. They genuinely felt that the end of the world was upon them.

  After three or four hours, the storm stopped suddenly. The wind dropped, and my grandfather and father went outside with an oil lamp to survey the damage. Everyone in Peanmeanach took shelter in the driest house and came out to see the chaos at dawn. The boats were matchsticks; all the houses had lost their thatch; the schoolhouse was without its slate roof, with tiles found on the hill five hundred yards away. The hill cattle had taken shelter behind a bank, but one of them had been blown over and broken its back. The men slaughtered and butchered it that day.

  The Oban Times articles were full of stories about the Corpach pier being destroyed in the worst hurricane in living memory and trees down in their tens of thousands across the west coast. All the fishing boats were destroyed – a catastrophe for the men in the area as they were the main source of living. Apparently, Jemima Blackburn replaced them, using the profits from her paintings.

  It was the night of the Tay Bridge disaster, when the longest bridge in the world blew down with a train full of people on it.

  WAR

  In the evenings, Louise and I wander the streets. Malta is known as ‘the Nurse of the Mediterranean’ because so many of the injured are brought here. There are always lots of people bustling around the docks and the streets of the town, enjoying the evening sun. Locals, too, but mostly soldiers – Anzacs, with their ready smiles and powerful physiques. Indian and African soldiers, every colour and shape and almost all with bandages or crutches.

  We share a glass of wine with the nurses and my friends on the wall and return, contented, to our room. Louise says she has never been happier in her life: she’s with the man she loves, expecting his baby, in a place of our own, in a beautiful part of the world and with so much to look forward to. My parents will be hoeing the recently planted oats and potatoes, no doubt struggling with the hard work. The thought of it pains me. I am desperate to get back to help with the harvest and enjoy the summer – the best time of the year in the west.

  *

  It is Louise who sees the packet in a
shop window. The label reads: ‘Dr Sheridan’s Remedy. A Sure Cure for Dysentery’. Horrified, she buys one and brings it home to show me. We decide that the best course of action is for her to see Colonel Thomas at the Queen Alexandra HQ and tell her of our suspicions. But first, she decides to go around the island and see how widely available it is.

  She discovers that it is readily available: most shops are stocking it and it is selling well, according to the shopkeepers. She asks them what Dr Sheridan looks like.

  ‘Tall, dark hair, academic-looking, wears a smart white coat,’ they report. ‘Always introduces himself as a doctor.’

  ‘Sounds like our man,’ we agree.

  She and Prissie go to the hospital and wait for an hour to see Colonel Thomas. She is one of the most senior officers in the entire corps and will surely be able to help. They tell her about their encounter with Dr Sheridan on the way out from England, his complete lack of knowledge and incompetence at the hospital, and of the time that Matron had to conduct an operation while he was out of the room.

  Colonel Thomas takes the packet, opens it and sniffs the contents.

  ‘We were sure he was a fraud – everyone was,’ Prissie says.

  They tell her about Mr Bustin, the engineer on the ship on their outward journey, who had been going to write to two Harley Street doctors he knew and ask them to check if Sheridan was qualified, and to let the head of the army medical team in Turkey know.

  The Colonel writes everything down, and says she’ll look into it and that they have done the right thing coming to her.

  The girls leave, feeling confident that Dr Sheridan will at last be revealed as a fraudster and that justice will be served.

  ‘I’ll bet he puts the same rotten stuff in packets saying it’s a cure for the common cold as well as the plague,’ sniffs Prissie. ‘I wonder if he’s here on the island. Maybe we’ll meet him and he’ll know it was us who reported him! Frankly, I don’t care.’

  *

  We learn the next day that places have been found for Louise and me on the Gloucester Castle. We’ll be heading back next week. A sheer coincidence that this is the same ship that Louise and Prissie had worked on when docked off Suvla Bay. Louise is now four months’ pregnant and keen to sail before she gets too big and uncomfortable. As we will be on a hospital ship, we can be fairly sure of a safe passage.

  Colonel Willie is heading across to Egypt soon, to rejoin the Scouts, so only Prissie will remain in Malta. She insists she’s very happy about it, though. There are a lot worse places she could be, with the summer coming and all these handsome officers around to entertain her.

  Louise and I discuss our plans for home. After handing in our papers, we’ll go to see Louise’s mother, who Louise hasn’t seen since she qualified – more than eight months ago. And Owen, too; Louise is excited to see how he’s faring. We then plan to leave the Valleys and head directly to Scotland – to my beloved Ardnish.

  *

  During our last week in Malta, I have plenty of time to read my letters again.

  I love the two from Angus. He had signed up to join the Lovat Scouts, but they didn’t a need a padre, so a year ago he was assigned to the Cameron Highlanders, who were based at Fort George, Blair Atholl, and then Aberfeldy in Perthshire. They were training to go to France and were camped in the grounds of Castle Menzies. He was billeted with a farming family, the MacDiarmids, who live nearby. They are great pipers and spent many happy hours introducing each other to new tunes and learning an especially difficult pibroch together. To think, there might be only two people, apart from our father, who can play it now! Father has always been keen for me to learn it; it is important that we keep it going, and now my brother has learned it before me!

  After rifle drill and fitness training, they would practise river crossings over the Tay, which inevitably would end up with some swimming. Those days were glorious, he reported, with plenty of opportunity to fish on one of the great rivers of Scotland. He had considerable success and seldom returned without a fish or two to supplement their rations.

  From there, he had gone to Struan and then by train to Glasgow. He had caught up with Aunt Aggy and had seen some of the priests he’d taken his vows with. They spent a week there, waiting for a ship which took them down to Le Havre in France to join the 2nd battalion. From there, it was on to Salonika, arriving just before Christmas; when Louise, Prissie and I had been making our way through Turkey near Kesan.

  *

  Sadly, Louise has no letters from her mother. Her mother had never learned to read or write, although Louise had written to her several times since we had arrived in Malta, hoping that a friend would read them to her. She had decided not to reveal anything to her mother in writing, other than she has a man in her life. She wants our news to be a treat.

  *

  ‘They’ve arrested Dr Sheridan!’ Prissie cries, ‘just this morning! I saw him coming out of St Andrew’s Hospital and I ran and told the Queen Alexandra Superintendent. They called the Military Police and he’s been locked up!’

  She takes my hands and jumps up and down with excitement. ‘I have to go and tell Louise!’ And with that, she’s off.

  That evening, the three of us get together and celebrate. It had been eight months since they first identified him as a charlatan, and there had been times when we thought he would get away scot free. We raise our glasses and toast his downfall, glad that we are still here. If it had happened even a few days later, we might never have heard.

  I feel very proud of the girls’ actions.

  *

  Prissie and Colonel Willie come to the quayside to see us off.

  Louise is close to tears and hugs her friend for a long time. ‘You have to come and see us as soon as you get leave. We want you to be Godmother.’

  Prissie bursts into tears, too. Colonel Willie, who is sailing in the next day or two, clasps my hand. ‘Good luck, DP, and give my best to your father. Remember to keep at the piping. I’m looking forward to hearing you play at the Scouts’ lunch in Fort William.’

  *

  We arrive in Southampton on a grey damp day at the end of April. The passengers line the deck as the ship steams past the Isle of Wight; we watch sailing boats coming out to escort us in and enjoy the din of the ferries and bigger boats sounding their horns in welcome. Louise has to go straight to London to hand in her uniform, and I have to sign on for my disability pension. It wouldn’t be enough to have a great life, but we certainly wouldn’t starve. Louise will have to work, too, that’s for sure. I kiss her goodbye at the station and return to barracks in Southampton where I am billeted for a few days. I see an army doctor about my eyes and enjoy the weather.

  When Louise returns from London, she is rather downcast.

  ‘I was so sad to hand in my uniform, DP. I was really proud of it. Coming from the Valleys, it was the first time I earned real respect. When people saw me in my scarlet and white, I could see they thought, here’s someone with knowledge, with gravitas. I’ll miss that.’

  I squeeze her tightly and reassure her that she still has knowledge and gravitas – as well as beauty.

  We take the train to Abergavenny to surprise Louise’s mum, and wait outside the hospital for her to come out. There are squeals of delight at first, until I am introduced. I see the woman’s face fall. What sort of success was this, bringing home a half-blind and emaciated ex-soldier?

  The feeling is mutual. I see a prematurely aged woman with greasy hair, puckered lips, a permanent frown and a life that has been shaped by disappointment. How can she be my beautiful Louise’s mother?

  She isn’t impressed to see that Louise is pregnant, either. ‘You didn’t bide your time there, girl,’ she says coldly. She is reluctant to take us to her home, but Louise isn’t going anywhere else. As soon as we cross the threshold we see why. The dirty dishes are piled high in the sink, and the place hasn’t been cleaned in months.

  I meet Daffie, the dog I’d heard so much about. Louise makes a real
fuss of him. He’s too fat and needs exercise. All the furniture is chewed. I tell Louise that it’s no good for a collie to be shut in like this.

  Louise’s mother has a new man in her life – David – who we don’t take to at all. He is a wee man, dirty and shifty. He had dodged conscription, pleading sickness, and is unemployed. He stays with us for half an hour before announcing he has to go to the pub to meet ‘the boys’.

  Louise has a ferocious row with her mother about him. ‘You can do better than him, Mam. You’d be better off without him. And what about Owen? How is all this good for him?’

  ‘You can hardly talk, young lady,’ she snaps. ‘The first man you meet and you’re in his bed and pregnant!’

  Both women are in tears, barely able to look at each other. I decide to find somewhere for us to stay that night. There is little to choose from, but eventually I find a boarding house. It is noisy, dirty and overpriced. The food is inedible, just watery brown soup and stale bread.

  ‘This doesn’t compare well with Malta, does it, DP?’ Louise says mournfully. ‘Wine, fish, salad, sunshine and friends all around us.’

  We lie in silence, legs intertwined on the narrow bed, and try not to think about what a disappointment our return home is proving to be.

  ‘Mam knows perfectly well that David’s not a good sort,’ says Louise. ‘She loved Dad, even at the end when he was so horrible to her. She’s the sort who needs someone around, and David is that someone.’

  I can’t help thinking her mum is no great catch, either.

  ‘Let’s take Owen with us,’ I suggest. ‘And the dog. Let’s go straight to Ardnish! It doesn’t cost much to live there, we can get an empty house from the estate, and my war pension will do us for a while. You can make some money like my mother does. Owen will grow up with the sea, the lochs, the hills. There’s fresh air and a good education up there. He’ll be like a brother to our baby. My family would welcome him in.’

  Louise contemplates this and asks lots of questions. Would he get to go to school? What work would he do when he was older? I try to be as honest as I can.