Island of Wings (5 page)

‘It was a beautiful little boy,' he answered, his face turned away. ‘He lived long enough to hear the sacraments and be baptised into the Christian faith. But he was too small to see the world; he never opened his eyes,' he added weakly.

They held each other quietly but without being able to share much comfort, destitute even of each other, until she realised what she had forgotten to ask: ‘What name did you give to our son?'

‘I called him Nathaniel, as he was a gift of God,' her husband answered, and she repeated the name once or twice to herself. He looked at her and cleared his throat. ‘Our little boy was not allowed to stay with us. He is with God and we must be happy for him.' His minister's voice sounded impersonal as if he was not talking about his own child, but then he added, almost inaudibly, ‘Although it is hard to accept that we let him slip away.'

She cried then, and for the first time since setting foot on the island she allowed self-pity to overcome her. She cried for the boy Nathaniel, who had slipped out of her and whom she had never seen, she cried for the ache in her swelling breasts and empty womb and she cried for her impossible loneliness.

It was almost dawn when Neil MacKenzie left his wife asleep in their bed and went into his study. He sat down at his desk and looked out the window at the bay which was barely distinguishable between the night and the day. He was trying to understand the events of the previous afternoon. Had God wanted to punish him? For what – for Will's death? Had he not tried to redeem himself by giving his life to the Church, by coming to this place where no one else was willing to go to preach the Gospel? He sighed and pulled out a leather-bound notebook from one of the desk drawers. In the ashy morning he dipped his pen in the well of Perth ink and drew a horizontal line. Below this he continued to draw two vertical lines next to the margin. He paused before making his first entry of birth and death into the parish book of St Kilda: ‘
1830
,' he put next to the margin, and just below, at the top of the first column, ‘
July 18
,' and in the next column, ‘
Nathaniel of N. MacKenzie, missionary. Infant
.'

2

MAY 1831 – A VISIT

The wind was in from the west, and life in Village Bay was still on the lee side. A group of children were playing on the thin strip of sandy beach exposed by the ebb tide. Their cries and laughter glittered in the clear spring morning. An eider sailed past the rocks in the shallows, proud of her clever chicks which were towed after her in an erratic, downy line. Further out in Village Bay gannets were dropping into the sea, their necks stretched like feathered arrows as they pierced the surface of the waves.

The adult men and mongrel dogs had all gone off fowling on the sheer cliffs on the north-east side of the island. Their new minister, who had been on the island for barely a year, had accompanied them on the expedition as he took a keen interest in watching the cragsmen catching the fulmar. May was the most important season of the year to the fowler as the fulmar and many other manners of seabirds were hatching all over the grassy ledges on the sea cliffs of Hirta.

In the manse the minister's young wife was busy with the spring cleaning. Every now and again she would sit down to rest between a bucket and a broom. Although the new baby was not due until the end of the summer, she was a lot heavier than during her pregnancy the previous spring.

After the premature birth and death of the boy Nathaniel, Mr and Mrs MacKenzie had not talked of him again. The memories of the child who had been too small to live were hidden in the shadowy corners of the manse, buried amongst the futile daily chores of its inhabitants. During the black months when the island had been unyielding and desolate, when all the birds were gone and the natives had retreated into their burrows, the MacKenzies, who were convinced that their separate griefs were insignificant, had pretended to each other that they had almost forgotten the death of their child. They had talked about practical matters and of their friends and family on the mainland, but for much of the time they had been quiet, smiling vaguely at each other in the dusty light from the fire. Winter followed autumn almost unnoticed, in the same way that dusk was merely a darkening of each gloomy day. The island was thus empty of life, and the fierce Atlantic gales that swept across the crags and glens week after week, month after month, increased the isolation of the couple in the manse. When their need for closeness and their longing to be loved was too great they would sneak around each other like cats around a plate of hot milk, snatching at tenderness. Their shared misery, which was too great to convey, made them shy and kept them apart until, at last, they were united again by truth and silence. It must have been around this time that their new child was conceived.

Just before Christmas, after a period of paralysis and dark moods, the minister had thrown himself into his work. He organised Bible classes at least once a week and often gave two or more sermons on the Sabbath. In addition, he started a day school for the children in order to teach them reading, writing and arithmetic. He would regularly visit their dwellings in the
clachan
to test the natives on the shorter catechism, and many of them had practised it at home throughout the winter. Hibernating half underground, the St Kildan men and women spun, weaved and made clothes from the wool of the Soay sheep. In the twilight, disguised by the smoke that escaped from the hearth and clung to the low ceiling, the reciting of the catechism was intermingled with the singing of the old songs.

As she swept the floor on this May morning Lizzie stirred up whiffs of grief and unexpressed emotion, of silent love and words not spoken. She swept them out of the open door into the spring air, into the smell of new life and secret decay which was blended into the sunlit space between the stunted lilac and the sea-struck hawthorn which grew on either side of the porch.

The unfortunate puppy had grown into an anxious young dog eager for Lizzie's love and friendship. It had no purpose and it still had no proper name. The letter which Lizzie had started to her sister had never been sent. She was still in bed – due to her injured leg and low spirits, it was generally agreed – when the taxman called a month later to collect the last of the rents. No ship had been sighted since.

Now, at the end of May, the supplies of flour, sugar, tea and tobacco were running low and the St Kildans craved news from the world outside their own. Over the winter months Lizzie had begun to think that the name
Dog
suited her animal just fine. Her own language, which she had taken for granted, had become precious and rare to her. As no one on the island, except for her husband, understood anything she said it was almost as if she spoke a secret language.
Dog
was therefore a highly appropriate name for the only other creature on the island that seemed to understand English.

Dog had been greatly alarmed by the return of the seabirds in early spring which so delighted his braver cousins. He had cowered under the desk in the study with his preposterous paws folded on top of his nose. For two days on end he stayed there, failing in his genetically ordained purpose, as the noise of the gathering birds grew stronger and stronger. Perhaps somewhere in his poor mind lingered a memory of the two great skuas he had roused the previous summer. Lizzie, on the other hand, had been pleased to see the birds returning. Although she had found the seabirds hateful and frightening when she first arrived on the island, the silent winter had been equally unbearable. But spring was different – suddenly everything was alive again – man, bird and beast were so closely linked with the elements in this place that the very seasons seemed to depend on their fusion.

Spring also brought a dangerous glimmer of expectation. As the birds busied themselves making their nests and hatching amongst the forbidding rocks Lizzie refused to allow herself to hope for the birth of the child she knew by heart; the child inside her who was nearly the same age as the boy Nathaniel had been when he was brought forth to light and death – when she had let him slip away. She withdrew from this new mystery; she did not stroke her growing stomach, she did not whisper to it at night and she did not talk to it during the day, but she knew that the little heart which was beating stronger as spring progressed was communicating with her own.

Through the open door Lizzie heard excited cries from the children playing on the beach. She looked out to find them pointing towards the sea. She stepped on to the porch and turned to scan the horizon and there, far out on the waves, she could see a small sailing vessel tacking against the westerly. It looked almost comic, like a dimple in the great flesh of the Atlantic. The commotion on the beach was increasing as the children debated how to handle the situation. In the end the younger ones rushed up towards the cluster of houses to break the news to the women while a couple of the older boys set off towards the passage beyond the small glen to tell the cragsmen on the other side of the hill. The boat was making slow progress – it would be a good hour before it reached the wind shadow of Village Bay.

Lizzie could feel a new excitement rise in her as she watched the small vessel tossing on the waves. She wondered who it might be and prayed silently that whoever it was would speak her language. To hear English spoken would surely break her sense of seclusion. She went back inside, removed her apron and put the broom down behind the door.

She washed her hands and face in the bucket she had drawn from the spring and went into the bedroom to look in the mirror. Her complexion was fresh, her cheeks pink from the morning's activities and her eyes were swift and dark, but her hair was as unruly as ever. She lifted her arms to unfasten the coil at the nape of her neck and brushed the hair slowly until it shone, illuminated by the faceted light which was breaking in the salt crystals on the window panes. Then she arranged it again in the fashion that young ladies had worn in Paisley before she left the mainland. She put a thin lace shawl over the shoulders of her plain dress of navy cotton and fastened it with the silver and amethyst brooch which her husband had given her when he was courting her. She looked in her box of ribbons for a silk one to tie around the waist of her dress, choosing a broad purple one to go with the amethysts. She returned to the mirror, and this time she was not too displeased with her appearance in the dull glass.

Lizzie was still lingering there, dreamy with her own reflection and memories of other times when she had dressed up, for balls and dances, when the minister entered the manse a moment later, flushed from his walk across the hill. ‘It looks like we will be getting visitors!' he called cheerfully. Looking at his wife from the doorway he realised that he may be bringing old news. He smiled at her and added quickly, ‘And they are sure to be much impressed by the beauty of the minister's wife!' She blushed, feeling blood and life returning to her face as he kissed her briefly but softly on the forehead.

‘Who do you think they are?' she asked, unable to hide the high-pitched excitement in her voice.

‘I do not know,' he answered thoughtfully. ‘The boys who brought the message thought it was the taxman, but John Gilles, who returned with me from the rocks, tells me the vessel is too small to belong to the laird's representative – our visitors seem to be independent travellers.'

‘Surely we will need to host them in the manse,' she said pleadingly, almost desperately. ‘We cannot let them stay in the hamlet amongst the filth of the natives!'

The minister looked slightly put off by this remark. ‘Our friends in the
clachan
may seem primitive to you, but they are most hospitable; they have been putting up strangers for thousands of years,' he said sharply, but added, ‘but of course it is my duty as minister to invite any gentleman visitors to stay with us.'

Lizzie ignored his rebuke and looked anxiously around the room, which was fresh and pleasant after the spring cleaning. ‘I will prepare a luncheon – we will have to roast a few of the puffins which the old widow gave you a couple of days ago,' she exclaimed agitatedly. ‘What else can we offer these strangers?' she asked herself anxiously. ‘Our supplies are so low there is hardly any fresh fare, except for the birds that the men caught this morning, and it would be too inhuman to serve them the
gibean
!'

‘If the
gibean
is good enough for us it will be good enough for our guests,' said Mr MacKenzie sternly.

Lizzie gave no answer.
Gibean
was the most common meal on St Kilda and, to her, the least palatable – being comprised of the fat extracted from boiled fulmar mixed with that of the young gannet. This grey matter was eaten with rye bread and porridge and considered greatly nutritious by the natives. They were much attached to their concoction, and one of them who had taken ill while visiting Harris claimed that it was due to the absence of
gibean
.

How hateful to be the mistress of a manse where she could not serve a proper meal, Lizzie thought bitterly. The manses on the mainland could serve both food and wine in abundance and they were filled with beautiful furniture, rich textiles and valuable books. She made a mental note to order a larger supply on the taxman's next visit and went out to search the outhouses for some of last year's apples or potatoes.

When she returned, the small ship was drawing up towards Dùn and the crew started to take down the canvas and put out the oars. She could make out five people on board the open vessel. Two tall men in hats were standing idly by the bulwarks, looking towards the island.

‘There seem to be two passengers,' said Mr MacKenzie importantly, needlessly confirming her own observation. ‘Indeed I believe them to be gentlemen!' Lizzie could sense that her husband's excitement at the prospect of meeting the strangers was as great as her own, although in contrast to her he had made several friends amongst the natives. He was especially attached to Donald MacKinnon, who was the headman of the St Kildans. MacKinnon was still a young man, but he had earned the respect of his kinsmen and they had recently elected him to represent them in dealings with the taxman and to settle disputes. MacKenzie was also very fond of John Ferguson, who was unusually intelligent and who could read and write a little and helped out with the religious education. But even so Lizzie knew that her husband missed the company of learned and civilised men. She had done her best to engage him in what she thought would be intellectual conversations, secretly reading old copies of the
Edinburgh Review
, trying to memorise some of the arguments presented by the authors, and then reproducing them in conversation. At such times the wish to please her husband was greater than the humiliation at her weakness being exposed. She knew that he craved the company of these gentlemen as much as she did, and she suddenly felt a hot surge of jealousy. As a man he could easily befriend the guests, but she would not have the opportunity to enjoy their company in the same way. Oh how unfair! Had she not suffered the isolation more than he had? Lizzie had never contemplated her home before coming here. The house of her parents had been a place to live: no more, no less. But it was not the place itself she missed. She longed for the familiar smells, tastes and sounds that had made her belong in that place which she could no longer clearly remember. Would she be able to feel at home in this place and yet be forever alien? She could already feel the strangers putting a wedge between her and her husband. Suddenly she dreaded their arrival. She could have cried for her own weakness – she was too desperate to see their faces and hear their voices.

By now, Mr MacKenzie had changed into his black coat and white cravat and looked every bit the Glasgow gentleman that he had once, if briefly, been. He was talking to her while he moved agitatedly about the house, telling her to draw the best chairs close to the fire and look in the storeroom at the back for the bottle of claret they had kept for a special occasion. Lizzie was not concentrating; through the window she could see the natives gathering on the landing rocks to greet the visitors. Men, women and children were milling around in a turmoil. Lizzie had never seen them so excitable and emotional. She had often watched them from the windows of the manse as they went about their business around the hamlet and she had been struck by their leisurely movements; the men especially seemed to be characterised by extreme laziness.