Ardnish Read online

  I promised I would try to persuade her though I knew it wouldn’t be difficult. Morag was a natural with her dog at the sheep. I confided in him my concerns about Angus and what he might do now he was finished school. Although my son was kind and generous, a powerful runner and the strongest young man I knew, none of that would feed a family.

  ‘I’d take him on at the distillery, you know I would, but I’m afraid we’re laying men off at the moment. But tell him we can always find a room for him with my mother at Invernevis if he wants to come and work in town for a while.’

  I nodded my gratitude and enquired after his mother.

  ‘Doughty,’ he replied after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Always busy . . .’ He drained his glass.

  I could see he was troubled but knew better than to press him on family issues. Seeking a more neutral topic, I changed tack. ‘And how are your distilleries faring? Your older brother Jack is in charge nowadays, is he not?’

  ‘Not well, I’m afraid,’ came the reply. ‘It’s not that he’s doing a bad job, it’s the whole industry that’s suffering.’

  ‘That’s a pity, what with Long John being the biggest employer in the area.’

  ‘Over two hundred and thirty men . . .’ the captain sighed, before changing the subject. ‘And how are things at Ardnish? Still working at Roshven House?’

  I could sense the deflection and answered his question. ‘Times are hard, as you can imagine. Money is tight. The Blackburns have been good employers since I left the Camerons, but the building works are finished and the work has dried up.’ I could feel my face reddening as I went on. ‘I’ve resorted to weaving baskets and making creels to bring in a bit of money.’

  He raised his eyebrows at that, clearly of the same opinion as Morag that this wasn’t a real man’s job.

  ‘It may be that we’ll have to go to Glasgow or emigrate to Nova Scotia. It seemed unthinkable to me until recently, but I worry constantly, about Donald Peter in particular. Some days we have only boiled nettle soup and oatcakes to eat.’

  Captain Willie cleared his throat and looked at me. ‘Goodness, man, that sounds grim. You know, I think I might be able help.’

  I was flustered. ‘No! Please, don’t worry. We’re fine. There are many more in a worse position than us. I really wasn’t asking for help. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  He smiled. ‘Luckily, I think I have a fine opportunity for the two of us. I had you in mind anyway and was planning to come and find you at Peanmeanach.’ He summoned the barman and, furnished with another dram, laid out the opportunity. ‘Lord Simon Lovat is raising a regiment to go and fight the Boer in South Africa,’ he said. ‘I’ve been asked to join as adjutant. I would like you to come, too, to look after me. We are to be the scouting regiment of the army, made up of ghillies and stalkers. We need to bring our ponies, and we’ll be paid well to bring them, plus extra money if we bring a telescope. A few of the lairds are donating them. I’m sure Astley-Nicholson will donate a couple if I ask him. The pay is not tremendous for a private, but we’ll get you made up to a corporal as soon as we can – if you behave yourself,’ he added with a wink.

  The pay he quoted certainly got my attention. The daily rate would take me a week to amass here, collecting whelks or working for the Astley-Nicholsons. It wasn’t just the money though. I suddenly realised I could do with getting away from the village and from Morag, who was without doubt growing increasingly disappointed in me. I craved adult male company, excitement and a challenge. The winter stretched long ahead of us, another four months of long nights, damp and cold. Africa sounded very tempting indeed.

  I didn’t mention these thoughts to the captain. ‘I’m forty-four now,’ I told him, ‘and hardly a horseman either. But I could certainly do with the money now that there’s no work around Ardnish. If you’ll have me, I’ll come.’

  He made me promise not to mention my age and told me to write on the paperwork that I was thirty-eight – forty was the maximum age for anyone to serve. We were to meet in Fort William, in Cameron Square, on the fourteenth of the month, at ten in the morning, dressed in tweeds and ready to go. A dozen men from Lochaber would also be there. Meanwhile, he would get me signed up. A letter confirming the details would follow, to which I needed to reply with the information they needed. When they received that, I was promised, my pay would start.

  The captain’s brother, Jack, had offered to host a big send-off ceilidh at the Invernevis distillery the night before, and all our families were invited to come along. I was certain that Morag wouldn’t come, but Sheena almost certainly would. In any event, the prospect of fine food and endless whisky would ensure a packed room.

  As I rode my pony the thirty miles back home, I had plenty of time to consider things. Morag would be furious. I was too old. I’d get killed or injured, and what use would I be to her then? But on the other hand, we had no money and ‘taking the King’s shilling’ was a long tradition in the West Highlands when families were hungry.

  Perhaps deep down she wouldn’t mind, I tried to persuade myself. I suspected, with a heavy heart, that she needed a break from me, too. I recalled how when we were first married she had coped well when I was on duty abroad. But now the village community was more fragile; with the emigrations there were fewer young folk around and more to do. And she had the children to worry about. What lay in store for them?

  Donald Peter was waiting for me when I got home that evening, smiling as always. ‘I’ve been playing the pipes, Father,’ he said. ‘I’ve nearly got “The Braes Of Castle Grant” off by heart.’

  I patted him on the back. ‘Go out and find Sandy,’ I said gently. ‘I need to have a word with your mother.’

  ‘How is old Donald’s arm?’ Morag asked straight away. ‘Will they be able to mend it at his age?’ We both knew it mattered desperately, for if the doctor couldn’t fix it, then digging in the fields or picking whelks would be impossible and then what would he and his older sister live on? Others in the village would give them food but they were proud people.

  ‘It will be fine,’ I reassured her. ‘He needs to stay in the Fort for a couple of weeks. But that’s not why I sent DP off to play.’ I paused. ‘Morag, I’m off to fight in South Africa.’

  Morag regarded me in silence. I ploughed on. ‘I met Captain Willie MacDonald in the High Street and he told me Lord Lovat’s raising a new regiment.’

  Morag had a high opinion of the Long John MacDonalds, and Lord Lovat owned an estate in Morar, so I hoped the familiarity would appease her a bit. ‘I’ll be paid a shilling a day. I leave in a fortnight.’

  ‘Well, you can’t go, Donald John! You just can’t! What about your family? You’re needed here. We need you to plant the seed in the spring, help with the boats, help raise Angus and Donald Peter – you know they’re at a sensitive stage in their lives.’ She sank into the chair by the stove and gave in to tears.

  I laid my hand on her shoulder and tried to comfort her as best I could under the onslaught of sobbing. ‘But, Morag,’ I pleaded, ‘you know how desperately we need the money. It’s either I go to Africa for maybe a year and make enough to keep us for five – which means DP can stay at the school here – or we move to Glasgow and I try to get a job in the shipyards.’

  She knew it would break my heart to leave Peanmeanach for ever. We’d had this discussion many times over the last couple of years. We both wanted Donald Peter to continue attending the school at Feorlindhu. He was doing so well, and it had given such a great education to Angus and Sheena.

  ‘And what about me?’ she cried. ‘You can’t just walk out on me! I need you. I may as well be widowed if you go to Africa. You might not come home, Donald John. What if you never come back?’

  I was taken aback by this. It hadn’t seemed that she had needed me at all over the last few years. I had often felt little more than a nuisance to her. But I held my tongue.

  ‘You’re just a selfish man, selfish!’ she shouted, before storming out of the house an
d slamming the door behind her.

  I knew I wouldn’t see her for hours. She’d head out into the hills with her sheepdog and not return until well after dark. Perhaps she would check on the sheep, or visit Mairi next door to rage about me, or just sit by the shore staring out to sea. I knew better than to go after her.

  With the house to myself, I sat and brooded at the fire-place, listlessly prodding the peat embers with the poker. Although sorry to have upset Morag, I knew that I was frustrated and bored. I had been offered a real lifeline. There wasn’t much left of my life when I would be strong and fit enough to do something significant, and this seemed to me to be my last chance. Yes, I was being selfish, but the opportunity was just too good to miss. I’d hopefully be back in a year, there would be money, those beautiful Orkney chairs would still be here, and perhaps our marriage would be rekindled – all the stronger for my temporary absence. My leaving would also give Angus a bit more responsibility on the peninsula. He would flourish, of that I was certain. Young Angus was very handy to have around the place, but because we were clashing more and more often, there was often an uncomfortable atmosphere. I think we knew that either he or I would have to go away for a while. My absence would give him space to decide on his future. Sheena wouldn’t be affected so much; if she wasn’t at work, she was over at Smirisary with her man, Colin Angus, these days. He would row over to pick her up in his wee boat, a good four hours there and back. I had fewer fears for her future.

  I had been in bed a while when Morag finally came back in. ‘Are you awake?’ she said softly. ‘We need to talk more about this.’

  She had obviously been doing a lot of thinking and she laid out her objections in a level voice with only occasional bursts of anger and tears. There was more about the jobs that needed doing around the place, more about the children and how could I do this to them, more about the uncertainty of my return. I remonstrated weakly and gently, knowing the battle was won. We both knew I was off.

  Lying in our small bed, Morag and I talked on, late into the night. ‘Men love the excitement and camaraderie of soldiering,’ she said sadly. ‘Men, always men, in the cities think nothing of sending other people’s children off to die in vain. Then, after countless thousands of casualties a truce is called and some soldiers eventually make it home – but they’re different, broken men from when they left. The whole thing is absurd! And it’s us, the families, who bear the cost!’

  The next evening, the children were all at home and I broke the news to them. Morag held her tongue but they knew her views on the matter. After they got over the shock there was even some excitement, and a discussion about the animals I would see: lions and elephants, maybe? Angus, predictably, doubted how much use I would be in battle. However, by the end of the evening the children seemed to have fully accepted my departure, which was a relief for me and, I think, for Morag, too. I suggested that I might take our pony with me but the outcry that greeted this meant I quickly backed down. I knew I would make more money by bringing one with me, and so Morag eventually said that Mairi would sell me one of hers, but it would be at a high price.

  Sheena and Angus were both heading over to Glenuig the next day, but they promised they would be back to see me off. The two of them had recently moved into Alistair Ruadh’s house at the end of the row; he and his wife had emigrated to Cape Breton in the autumn, following their son who had gone out two years before and now sent money for their passage. Before they went, they had said that our two older ones could look after their house in Peanmeanach in case things didn’t work out in Canada. Sheena and Angus had jumped at the chance.

  When I woke the next morning, I could see the weak winter sun touching the top of Roshven Hill through the window. My hand reached out for Morag’s as it always did, but today she rolled over, away from me. Her collie came out from under the bed to greet me instead.

  It was not until the tea was made and porridge on the table that Morag finally spoke. ‘You are not considering us, Donald John. You are off for a thrill, to get away from the winter. You know fine all your chores will become mine. I’ll be slaving away here in your beloved Ardnish looking after your people, waiting for a man who might not come back. You do know men die at war, don’t you?’

  I couldn’t muster a word in my defence. Instead, I reached out once more for her hand, but she pulled it away. I had always seen Morag as a strong, pragmatic woman and was surprised she was taking my departure so badly. But at the same time, I felt some pleasure that she seemed to care so much.

  ‘Mo ghràidh,’ I said after a time, ‘when I get back, so many of our troubles will have gone. With all the money I’ll get, buying kerosene for the lamps or paint for the windows and the boat won’t be a worry any more! And I’m nearing fifty, I need one last adventure. Please, Morag, can’t you understand?’

  ‘Angus is itching to be away,’ she said simply, as if she hadn’t heard a word I’d said.

  ‘I’ll have a word with him – tell him he’s the man of the house now.’

  The next day the two of us sat awkwardly at the table, sipping our tea. I felt wretched. I wished she would just take my hands, tell me that she loved me, urge me to hurry back to her, tell me that she would be waiting, that she would write often. That she understood. But there was only bitter silence.

  Her chair scraped back as she headed out to milk the cow, her collie, as always, trotting at her heel. ‘Bring the peat in. The drier fads are behind the byre,’ she added unnecessarily as the door slammed behind her.

  The following week passed at a snail’s pace. I worked as hard as I could to make things easier for Morag, bringing down a couple of tons of peat from the area called the moss for our house and for a couple of the older people in the village. I fixed the leak in the roof that had been a problem for months and I put shoes on Mairi’s pony. She’d never been shod before so that was a palaver. The evenings were fine while the youngsters were around; Morag wasn’t hostile to me, just indifferent. I felt more like a cousin than her husband.

  As the day of my leaving drew closer I was keen to hug her, kiss her, make love to her. I wanted us to part with a shared intimacy which we could both remember. On the eve of my departure the opportunity finally arose. There was no one around and the rain was teeming down outside. ‘Darling,’ I ventured. I was sitting on the chair, both hands outstretched towards her. ‘Please?’ I was beseeching her to come to me. Her eyes locked onto mine for a moment, and then she rose to her feet. She gathered up her tweed coat and turned toward the door. ‘I need to go over to Laggan,’ she said. ‘Don’t wait up. You’ll need your strength for your travels in the morning.’

  When I finally rode off the next morning, I was desperate to go. I went around the houses and shook hands with everyone as they wished me good luck and a safe return. I held Morag in my arms as she cried, but she couldn’t bring herself to embrace me.

  Donald Peter ran alongside my pony until we got to the hill above the big field overlooking the bay. He clung to my leg. ‘Come back, Father! We’ll die if you don’t!’ he pleaded. I shooed him off home so he wouldn’t see me blubbing like a bairn.

  I could see the peat smoke billowing from the houses that were still inhabited, the thatch falling in upon those that were not, the white waves crashing onto the sandy beach that glinted in the winter sun, and Roshven Hill and An Stac deep in snow at their summits. I drank it all in to store in my memory. Then, I turned the pony towards the village one last time and saw my family and friends waving handkerchiefs, still shouting their goodbyes.

  But all I could hear was the wind.

  Chapter 5

  When I reached Fort William, the recruits were lined up in Cameron Square. Seventeen of us were from the Lochaber Contingent; all were mounted. Sergeant Cameron tutted as he tried to make us look like soldiers rather than scruffy estate stalkers all set for a day on the hill. There was a multitude of tweeds: Achnacarry, Meoble, Inverlochy Castle, Mamore and myself wearing the distinctive Arisaig orange tweed wov
en by Mairi. I played the pipes, worrying all the while that my pony would move off. There was a throng of well-wishers clustered around us and a party atmosphere as we clattered down the road towards Inverness and then on to Beauly.

  As we proceeded, we were joined by other recruits. Two Macdonald Knoydart men, then a Loch Quoich stalker with Mr Ellice, the Grant twins from Loch Hourn and more from Glenelg way all joined at Invergarry. By the time we arrived in Beauly there were over forty of us.

  At Beauly we were billeted for a month in the stables, the officers in Beaufort Castle. It was incredibly cold, with a foot of snow on the ground. At least half the men had served in the army before; all could shoot and use telescopes but many had no idea how to ride. Our commanding officer, Major Murray of the Cameron Highlanders, was at his wits’ end trying to instil discipline. He and Lord Lovat had serious concerns about how the generals would view us against the smart cavalry and guards’ regiments. Even Captain MacDonald was given a dressing down for calling me Donald John rather than Gillies. But just before we departed, our uniforms arrived and we finally resembled a fighting unit.

  After our month’s training, to the tune of ‘Morair Sim’, six of us pipers proudly led the battalion down Beauly High Street. The street was packed with people waving Union Jacks and press photographers jostling for the best positions. Our Highland ponies were small and shaggy with long manes which reached below their necks, and some of the taller men’s feet were almost trailing on the ground. One of the companies was mounted, the other infantry, although by the time we arrived in Cape Town we were all given horses. We were the main story in every paper in the Highlands, including the Inverness Courier, with my face proudly leading the pipers as we bade our leave in Inverness. The accompanying article was stirring: