Love and Music Will Endure (24 page)

‘How your poor mother must have suffered again. Still, I suppose even the English would not be harsh enough to stop her visiting you.’

‘No, she never came to see me but that was my choice.’

Màiri looked perplexed.

‘I wanted to spare her further pain. So I persuaded my parents to join my sister in America. So my mother uprooted herself for a second time.’

‘Not as hard I hope as when she had to leave Ireland.’

‘No indeed,’ he replied with a harsh laugh, ‘In the old country she had to stand outside her house with three young children, and me a babe in arms, all her possessions at their feet, watching the roof of the house falling in as the thatch was set alight.’

Màiri nodded, her face bleak, ‘And the men who did it not caring if you lived or died.’

‘My mother used to tell me the story of how they teamed up with another emigrating family who let them travel on their cart.’ He chuckled, ‘All I can remember is the horse. He was a rascal or a true Irish patriot. He kept breaking his traces and bolting back the way we came. He didn’t want to go to England either.’

‘How did you keep your spirits up in prison through those long years?’

‘I told myself that although my poor body was imprisoned my mind was a bird flying through the high windows. I paced up and down in my cell planning my future. The other thing that helped me was finding a way to send letters out secretly. My mother was greatly amused to hear I had become a washerwoman.’

‘I was a washerwoman when first I arrived in Inverness. I was good at it too but I can’t imagine you were much use.’

‘I did manage to tangle the clothes and trample on them with my big boots.’

They both threw their heads back and laughed. The sound carried across the room to where John and Angus were talking to a much more serious group. ‘Well, Angus, do you still think Michael needs to be prised from her clutches?’ John muttered under his breath.

‘And are your parents still alive?’ Màiri was asking him.

‘Sadly my father died while I was in prison but both of them took pride in me.’

‘How grand it must be when your family applaud your actions. My children could never understand why I’ve worked so hard for the Land League. They wanted me to be a quiet, respectable widow, sitting in my doorway, knitting,’ Màiri’s voice dropped.

He reached out to touch her arm, ‘I’m sorry to hear that. It’s lonely in the world of politics, especially for a woman. Would you be my Scottish Godmother and slap my leg when I get too big for my boots?’ He smiled and took her arm, ‘Perhaps we’d better go and rescue John and Angus. They look as if they’ve been trapped by the brigade of bores over there.’

Màiri looked over at the two men with a stern face, as solemn as Queen Victoria herself.

It was evening on a calm September day as Màiri plodded alongside the town’s broad bay. Admittedly, it was a fine sight with the island of Kerrara standing guard at its entrance but was not to be compared to the view spilling out from Portree harbour. After all, the name ‘Oban’ only meant ‘small bay’. She felt tired and sank down on a wrought iron bench to brood over the events of the day. She had been looking forward to the first meeting of the Mòd, a chance for Gaels to compete for prizes in singing. The Clach had told her all about it,

‘Of course the Inverness folk were snooty. They said the name was not Gaelic enough because it sounded like the English word, “moot”. Their noses were put out of joint because the upstarts of Oban thought of the idea first.’

She had been determined to come as it was so long since she had sung in a big hall but the journey had exhausted her. Ten years ago she would have taken the travelling in her stride. The event itself had all started off in the familiar way with a full hall and scores of greetings as she made her way to sit at the front and listen to the men’s competition. Not an inspiring collection either, except for the young fellow who won; a Skyeman with some fire in him.

Then it was the turn of the women. She went up first, to murmurings of recognition. She knew most of the men on the platform of course and there was
Fionn
Whyte himself from the old Skye committee, sitting at the centre, his fair hair turned to dandelion down. So naturally she had shaken hands with them
all and walked over to speak with the judges sitting behind a desk to one side. They had looked startled for some reason and hustled her over to the singers’ stance. That was when she had suddenly realised that she was alone.

In the early days when she had stood up to sing in the rough, smoky Glasgow halls she had steadied herself by imagining that Bran, Finn MacCoul’s fierce and loyal dog was standing beside her, his warm flank leaning against her leg so that she could reach down to ruffle through the black tufts of his hair. He was afraid of nothing and the heat of his courage pulsed from her hand and coursed through her body. As time went on and cheering replaced heckling in the halls she allowed the hound to leave her side. As she stood up to begin singing she would imagine herself at the top of Fingal’s Seat, overlooking Portree, and repeat her own words silently,

In her mind’s eye she would send Bran loping down the hill to hunt deer on the
Mointeach Mòr
below. This morning though she had need of him again by her side but despite her desperate whistling he wouldn’t come back. She felt her throat tightening as she began to sing, releasing a squeaky, bleating voice,

A mist of swirling doubt engulfed her and there was no sign of Bran. She had thought that a light-hearted song would be right
for the competition. Everyone would expect her to sing one of her own compositions. As most of them were well-known already she had gone back to a poem from her early days as a bard, a ditty joking about the Union Jack tartan. Now she wondered if she should have chosen something more serious. Well, there was nothing for it, she would have to keep going,

If only I had the second sight I would have known that this verse contained a prophecy, she thought, ruefully. She pressed on regardless,

Her voice had rallied as she soldiered on through all the twenty-two verses, gaining strength as she described the heroes who had worn the tartan, starting with William Wallace and Rob Roy MacGregor and leading up to the Highland Brigade in the Crimea. As she ended, she felt, too late, Bran’s trembling flank rub against her side. The applause was loud enough but it wasn’t like in the past when she had waited, a still moon in a clear sky, feeling the waves of sound drawn towards her. So it was no surprise to hear that she had not won first or even second
prize but a blow to the pride none the less. How she wished that she could talk to Mairead. She could say what no-one else would dare to, giving her a good dousing of cold water from the well. Why did she have to go away to Australia, so far away that the two of them would never meet again in this life?

‘I’m old and a widow, Màiri, there’s nothing to hold me here. I want to return while I still have the strength for the journey. Surely you, of all people can understand that?’

So what would Mairead say about the competition?

‘You’ve overcome much worse in your life. It’s only your vanity that’s been dented. How much applause does one
cailleach
need in a lifetime? Isn’t it time to stand aside for the younger folk?’

All true enough my old friend, Màiri thought, but not what I want to hear. She shifted her weight on the hard bench as she brought her thoughts back to the present. Looking about her she noticed a thickset man of her own age strolling by. He had sun bleached sandy hair and neat features that looked marooned in his fleshy face. She caught his eye and greeted him in Gaelic.

He looked startled and stuttered a reply. ‘I’m very rusty, I’m afraid. I’ve lived in Australia most of my life. So Gaelic sounds like the calling of gulls to my ears now.’ He looked hot and flustered in his good tweed suit.

‘Why don’t you rest your legs for a moment?’

‘Thank you, Madam. The name’s MacLeod. I’m over from Australia. I took a fancy to see my homeland one more time.’

‘Màiri MacPherson. My good friend has gone back there, she’s near Sydney. Maybe you know her?’

He rumbled with laughter, ‘I stay hundreds of miles from there. People in Scotland have no idea of how enormous Australia is. The horizon goes on for ever. It’s dry too of course. You need plenty of land to keep the stock going in droughts.’

‘If only Highlanders had plenty of land, and less rain.’

‘That’s why so many left, wasn’t it? For the empty space. Mind you we had to clear the natives out first. They thought they could wander where they liked. Naked savages with no idea about farming. In the early days I always carried a rifle in case of trouble.’

‘So what happened to them?’

‘A few work for the settlers but most of them are idle fellows who want to lie in the sun with a bottle for company.’

‘Outsiders used to call us Highlanders ignorant savages too,’ she said frowning.

‘That’s quite different, you’re Christian souls. Have you come for the Mòd?’

‘Aye. I’m a bard. I’ve sung plenty about the Gaels being driven from the land and exiled abroad. I believe the wheel will turn again and their children will return.’

‘Never! Emigrating was hard but if you put your back into it in Australia you can get rich. It’s shocked me coming back and seeing how poor people are. Wee hovels and raggedy clothes – no better than when I left.’

‘Where did your family live?’

‘On Skye’.

‘Well, that’s where I’m from, from Skeabost. Maybe we met in our youth.’

‘No, impossible. We lived down in the south, in Sleat, before we were evicted.’ He clamped his lips together, his bluster deflated.

‘That’s no shame on you but on the landlord who forced you out. Do you farm now?

‘I started out on a sheep station and worked my way up to overseer. But I longed to work with horses although I’d never owned one myself. So I put my savings into a teamstering business, carrying goods between the sheep stations and the town.’

Màiri saw how his eyes shone. She looked at his thick fingers, flexed together in his lap and remembered supple hands plaited through a horse’s springy mane. ‘What did you say your Christian name was?’

‘Maybe I didn’t. It’s Andrew … well, Anndra really but I stopped calling myself that years ago.’

‘Why on Earth would you deny your birth name?’

He grunted, ‘Because I got tired of defending it with my fists. “Sounds like a girl’s name” was what I heard all the time.’

She watched him while she sang softly,

He looked wary, ‘I’m sure my old home’s ruined but you never saw it’.

‘True, but I meant it to stand for all the exiled people and their ruined houses. Do you remember being at the Fairy Bridge with the other lads who untethered the horses and raced them?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t remember. That was years ago.’ His expression was as empty and forlorn as an abandoned house, ‘I must be on my way.’ He tipped his hat and scuttled off quickly for such a large man.

Màiri sat motionless, thinking of that laughing young man, beautiful as a water horse. She had expected to see grains of sand and tiny glistening shells in his hair, signs of the creature’s treacherous disguise. She would have led another life if she had come to know him and followed him to Australia. Her songs would never have been born. How relieved she felt that her desire to know him had not come true. It would have been like the granting of a Fairy wish, one that turned into a poisoned chalice.
Anyway, he had become so ugly and bloated now that she had barely recognised him. “And do you imagine the years have been any kinder to you?” It was Mairead’s mocking tones again. Màiri shook her head to dislodge them.

‘There she is!’ The shrill voice of Professor Blackie pierced the air. He trotted away from his companions and stood in front of her, waving his gnarled stick, ‘Where’ve you been hiding, Màiri? We’ve been hunting high and low for you. You must come and partake of a little refreshment with us before the cèilidh tonight.’

Like a tired but willing old hound summoned for a walk she struggled awkwardly to her feet, taking his arm as he pranced around her.

The Clach sat nursing his malt, swirling it around the glass with a sigh. He always felt a prickle of envy when he sat in the restrained and expensive décor of Charles’ house. He looked up and spoke to his host, ‘It’s a great pity John didn’t attend tonight. It left a gap in the ranks of us old stalwarts. I’m surprised he didn’t take the train up. Is he in good health? I always think of him as the immortal
Murchadh na Fèilidh
, forever striding through the heather.’

‘I believe he’s well although he’s older than he seems – well into his seventies now – still active, of course and campaigning for working men in Glasgow. One of them described him as a man “as sturdy in frame as in opinions.” I think that sums him up exactly,’ Charles replied with a smile.

‘He did say that he would come to the meeting, didn’t he? Then he declined at the last minute. It’s not like him to be so changeable. Anyway, I miss the old fellow, even though he can never quite lose his earnestness, like a minister on holiday.’

Charles cocked his head as he heard the thud of the heavy knocker on the front door. There were quick footsteps, a mumble of voices and a minute later the maid was introducing John himself.

‘Well, talk of the Devil! We were just saying how we missed your company tonight,’ exclaimed The Clach, while Charles offered him refreshment.

‘No, I’m not hungry, thank you, just a little tired.’ John sat down, smoothing his kilt and stretching his legs before continuing,
‘I’m sorry to be so discourteous in arriving late. I had said that I wouldn’t attend but today a restlessness overcame me and I found myself hastening to the railway station. Of course once I boarded the train I realised that it would not be right to arrive unannounced at the Assembly. So I whiled away some time eating dinner in the town.’

The Clach’s eyes were sparkling pebbles in the doughy folds of his face, ‘Now John, if you weren’t a total abstainer I would say that your story has a suspicious whiff about it.’

‘Well now,’ John replied with a weary smile, ‘That’s an old joke of yours but I do believe that my abstention from strong drink will outlive your jesting about it.’

‘You’ll want to hear about Charles’ speech tonight. It was superb. His theme of course was about the Society reaching its majority. It’s hard to believe back then, here in Inverness, how little interest there was in the Highlands. At that time the Lowland cities seemed much more fertile ground for a Gaelic renaissance.’

John nodded but didn’t speak.

‘Of course it’s a real boon for the Society now that Charles has more time to devote to it. Parliament’s loss is our gain. Still it’s a great pity that Charles lost his seat. It was down to the disloyalty of the Portree clique. I find it impossible to comprehend how they treated him so shabbily after his magnificent record of service to the Highlands. Why did …’

Charles raised a hand to cut him off, ‘All that’s done with now and maybe it’s for the best. I had thought earlier on about retiring from politics and there was some discussion about you taking over the seat if …’

The Clach’s torrent of words swept on, ‘Some Skyeman had even approached Michael Davitt to stand as their Member. I mean no disrespect to the man, he’s a talented orator and
politician, but an Irishman to represent Scots? And what about our new sitting member, the fine Dr MacGregor who has spent his whole career in London?’

Charles sighed, ‘Times change. The Crofter Members are no longer free agents as we used to be, we’re expected to follow the beat of the Liberal drum. So my refusal to support Irish Home Rule put me beyond the pale, if you’ll pardon an Irish idiom. The Skye men interpreted this as hostility towards their Celtic friends.’

‘But not all of them were so misguided, I’m pleased to say. A Mr MacDonald, from Garafad, resigned in protest as the President of his local Land League branch when Charles wasn’t re-selected.’

Charles chuckled, ‘Ah, yes, the good Mr MacDonald wrote that he disagreed with my opinions on matters not directly impinging on the Highlands but he considered my past and present services to be considerable. He took strong exception to having an unknown candidate foisted on him and said that this highhandedness was what would have been expected of an Eastern potentate. Now that’s a fine example of an independent minded Highlander – a Gaelic Voltaire. Didn’t Voltaire declare that even if he detested another man’s opinions he would defend to the death his opponent’s right to hold them?’ He shrugged, ‘If you enter politics you can’t expect universal admiration. Anyway, I shan’t be idle in my retirement. I’ll continue my research on the Clan Mackintosh and write antiquarian articles for The Clach’s newspaper.’

Both men turned to look at John, disconcerted by his unusual silence. He sat forward in his chair and shook off enough of his lethargy to reply, ‘You’ve worked tirelessly for the crofters, Charles, but now it’s time to leave the stricken ship before it finally sinks. I fear that the best days of the Land League are over. I heard from
Màiri that a mass meeting organised on Skye by the League had – can you guess how many people attending? Several thousand you say? Too high. Can you hazard an estimate, Charles? Five hundred? A tenth of that would be nearer the mark.’

‘Talking of Màiri, how is the old termagent?’ asked The Clach, grinning, ‘I’ve heard she spends her time gallivanting around the island, inviting herself into people’s homes and hectoring them about how they should do their own spinning and weaving in the old way as if folk didn’t have shops now.’

‘She’s still in robust health,’ John replied with an expression of reproof, ‘I dare say that she’s feeling a little at a loss now that all the excitement over the publication of her book has died down. She’s been put out to grass like the rest of us.’

‘She always enjoyed the limelight. I can’t imagine her sinking back graciously into retirement,’ chuckled The Clach.

John suddenly banged his fist on the arm of his chair and spoke loudly, ‘She’s right to be disappointed. So am I. She always believed that the wheel would turn back to the better days before the Clearances but the turning back has only been a notch or two. Little’s been achieved. True, the crofters have secure tenure and fair rents but they haven’t gained any more land and the cottars still have nothing. Meanwhile the Gaelic societies, like the one here, have stayed as complacent as ever, filled with
well-meaning
exiles, cramming their thickening figures into Highland dress. They talk fervently about Gaelic rather than speaking it and listen to Gaelic songs they can barely follow. That’s why I couldn’t face the celebration tonight.’

Seeing the stiff expressions of the other two he lowered his voice, ‘Of course the historical research is valuable, but Gaelic is being treated like a mummified language. Forgive me for speaking bluntly. I don’t want to sound like an embittered old man.’

John stayed silent, looking down at his hands, clenched on his lap. Charles finally broke the silence, ‘Well, old friends, we’ve been fortunate to live through momentous times and played our part in making history. We’ve stayed together despite our different opinions. I’m heartily glad, John, that you boarded the train and joined us. By the way, I think you would have agreed with a suggestion I made in my speech tonight about promoting Gaelic among the propertied classes. We hear much nowadays about competitive examinations, for entering the Civil Service for instance. Now, I suggested that when a Scottish mother was seeking to employ a nursemaid she should look for good health and character but also require her to pass creditably in the singing of Gaelic airs. Think of the effect on the rising generation. What we learn in the cradle is fixed in our hearts for life. At the very least such a measure would improve greatly the repertoire of songs heard at Gaelic Society concerts.’

He smiled and The Clach nodded. John stretched his reluctant mouth into a smile but his downcast eyes reflected a mute desperation.