The Hills is Lonely (28 page)

‘Of course the fellow knows that fine, that's just what he was after. He wasn't tired of his wife at all and it was just a put-up job between the two of them. At the end of another six months he goes again to the manse and says he's wantin' a horse; a bit later on he's needin' a good ram, and so on. The Lord himself knows what he might have got with time, but the poor old minister went and died on him. I wouldn't be surprised if it was worry that killed him,' finished Lachy complacently.

Naturally I doubted the truth of the story but strangely enough everyone was well acquainted with the couple concerned and their admiration for the husband's astuteness was patent.

‘How long ago did all this happen?' I asked.

‘Ach, not more than twenty or twenty-five years back,' replied Lachy, ‘and that man's a rich man now, Miss Peckwitt.' I was not surprised.

The Bruach wedding, though not scheduled to take place until some weeks after I had first heard of it, managed to interfere with my own plans, for I had decided to pay a prolonged visit to Mary and I was expecting to stay in England until after the New Year. But this wedding promised to be too interesting to miss and consequently I announced my intention of cutting short my holiday so as to be present. Straightway I was deluged with commissions to purchase innumerable articles from the English shops, for, notwithstanding their contempt for the English as a race, the Bruachites were firmly convinced of the superiority of English merchandise. The requests were made diffidently but with a pathetic optimism that made refusal impossible, and my shopping list grew longer with each day that passed. The bride-to-be wanted a pair of white silk stockings, a lacy handkerchief and, blushingly, a pair of pink frilly garters. She had, she told me, already procured her dress, veil and shoes from one of the mail order firms which, to the best of my belief, specialise in supplying outlying places with outmoded fashions at outrageous prices. Giggle and Sniggle, who were to be bridesmaids, wanted head-dresses—blue ones.

‘Very nice,' I complimented them, for they both had pretty blue eyes. ‘And are your dresses blue too?' But they didn't yet know. The dresses were being purchased second-hand from a shop in Glasgow, ‘seein' as they'll only be needed the once', and the colour would depend on what the store could provide. My suggestion that they wait until the dresses arrived before deciding on the colour for the accessories was received with an indulgent smile. ‘Any colour suits blue,' they told me loftily, and, with a resigned sigh, I entered the blue head-dresses on my list.

Morag wanted gloves—black ones.

‘For the wedding?' I murmured.

‘They'll do me for church and funerals too,' she replied.

Lachy, still hankering after an English wife, pressed me to bring one back for him.

‘Blonde or brunette,' I asked jocularly with my pencil poised ready.

‘Ach, I'm no carin' one bit,' he said. ‘I'm willing' to take whatever you bring for I think by now you know my tastes pretty well. Just be sure she's no wearin' one of them weeks.' It took me a moment of puzzled thought before I could translate ‘weeks' into ‘wigs'.

Kirsty, the gaunt and wrinkled spinster, peeped shyly in through the door one evening shortly before my departure. She clutched a paper in one hand.

‘I can never get a hat that will suit me,' she mourned as we settled down to a strupak, and anyone who had ever seen Kirsty's homely features could well believe her complaint. ‘See, will you get me a hat like this one,' she continued nervously unfolding the paper and pointing to an advertisement which depicted several hats of alluring designs. Her dry, knobbly finger came to rest on one of them. ‘A peek-a-bo style', ran the caption, ‘a debutante's dream'. I studied it carefully, trying hard to visualise it surmounting Kirsty's tired face from which all trace of the debutante had vanished a quarter of a century ago.

‘I think I will suit it, don't you?' she enquired timidly.

‘What colour were you wanting?' I asked evasively.

‘My coat is brown and I was thinkin' blue would go awful nice with it.' Her tones became apologetically firm and as any attempt at argument would have been construed as unwillingness to make the purchase for entirely different reasons, I merely nodded and ventured only an apathetic suggestion that green might look better.

‘But my eyes are blue, and they say blue-eyed people always suit blue,' she replied with childlike candour. Her pale eyes met mine briefly and slid away again and, not for the first time, I cursed the authors of the ‘twopenny loves' with their inevitable blue-eyed heroines, wearing the equally inevitable ‘little blue dress' which ‘deepened the colour of her forget-me-not blue eyes'. Fatalistically I folded the paper and tucked it inside my shopping list which by this time had grown to considerable length.

The very evening before my departure I was doing some last-minute ironing when there came a timid knock on my door and in response to my invitation there entered Euan the half-wit. I was very surprised to see him, for though he sat sometimes in Morag's kitchen he had not so far invaded the precincts of my own room. His presence was by no means welcome, but having by this time resided long enough in the Hebrides to have acquired a little of the Gaelic courtesy, I suggested half-heartedly that he should take a seat. In reply Euan swallowed twice, grinned widely, but remained standing awkwardly beside the door. Deeming it wiser to ignore him until he chose to speak, I carried on with my ironing.

‘You go England?' His voice jerked into my thoughts as I slid the iron carefully between the intricate frills of a blouse.

‘Yes, I am,' I agreed.

Euan blinked rapidly in acknowledgement, but said nothing more.

‘Are you wanting me to get you something?' I asked banteringly, being well aware that he had no money of his own.

‘Yes!' The word burst from him with startling vehemence and was followed by a number of convulsive swallows.

‘Well, tell me what it is and I'll do my best for you,' I encouraged, and overwhelmed with pity for his feeblemindedness resolved that if it was at all practicable I would get what he wanted.

‘Bring me …' he stuttered pleadingly, his eyes starting so far out of his head that I expected them to drop on to the floor at any moment.

‘Yes, bring you what?' I coaxed.

‘Donkey!'

I stared at Euan so long that the iron scorched an ineradicable angle on my blouse.

‘A donkey!' I exploded. ‘What sort of a donkey?'

‘With legs,' he replied timorously.

‘Do you mean a real donkey?'

He nodded and blinked vigorously, but words failed him. They nearly failed me.

‘Goodness gracious! I couldn't possibly bring you a real donkey.' I told him. ‘How on earth do you think I could manage with a donkey on the train?'

His expression changed abruptly from eager anticipation to utter dejection. Slowly, and without another word, he turned and, closing the door quietly behind him, crossed the passage to Morag's room. It was not until some minutes later that I heard her sending him home. When the outer door had closed after him Morag herself entered my room. The first thing I asked was whether Euan had told her of his request that I should bring him a donkey.

‘So he did,' she replied, ‘and I was askin' him if he'd ever seen a donkey to be pesterin' you to bring him one.'

‘And has he?' I enquired.

‘He was sayin' no he hadna' rightly but he thinks a donkey looks like a squashed horse. He doesna' think you've seen one either.'

‘Me?' I echoed. ‘Why not?'

‘Well, he was sayin' if you'd ever seen a donkey it's fine you'd be after knowin' it wouldna' need to go on the train. He says you'd know that it has its own legs and can walk.'

‘I wonder what he expects me to do with it?' I asked drily. ‘Ride on it, walk beside it, or hitch it on to the back of the train?'

Morag laughed. ‘Ach, but Euan doesna' know but what England's any further away than Shuna,' she excused him. Her eyes came to rest on my open, neatly packed bags on the sofa. ‘So it's all ready for off you are,' she observed.

‘Yes,' I told her. ‘But I shall leave my cases open and pack the crushables at the last moment.'

She nodded, briefly confirmed the rest of the arrangements for the morning, and said good night.

After a broken night during which my sleep was continually interrupted by dreams that the clock had stopped or had failed to ring; that my luggage had mysteriously disappeared; or that I had mislaid my purse and was unable to pay for my ticket, the strident burr of the alarm startled me into wakefulness. I lit a candle, slid reluctantly out of bed and threw a dressing-gown around my shoulders. As I poked my feet into bedroom slippers I became hazily aware of the sounds of most unusual activity downstairs. There was the noise of windows being thrown open, doors flung back on their hinges and a muffled roaring, coupled with the acrid smell of smoke,

‘Come quick, Miss Peckwitt! My house is on fire!' I doubt if there is another sentence in the English language which can galvanise a person into activity as quickly as that which my landlady had just uttered. Frantically I tore downstairs and bursting into my room was confronted with the sight of a tremendous fire which raged in and around the grate, while a deluge of glowing soot cascaded from the chimney on to the floor and smouldered fiercely on the linoleum.

‘Shut the door and the window!' I commanded, recollecting the instructions I had once seen on a cigarette-card. Obediently Morag leaped to the window and shut it down with such a bang that the two lower panes of glass shattered. The next few minutes were utter confusion. Morag sensibly grabbed a brush and swept the red-hot soot towards the hearth and immediately the odour of singeing bristles mingled with the choking smoke. I grabbed pails and raced down to the sea but, as luck would have it, the tide was out and it was quite impossible to fill the pails unless one waded until one was almost knee-deep—no enviable task on a dark, cold and frosty morning. With two full pails and a torch it is difficult to race and I should have known better than to try to leap up three steps at a time. I fell heavily and the chill water flowed round and under me before I could arise. Back to the sea again to refill my pails, one of which now leaked shockingly, and with as much speed as could be combined with caution I hurried back to the house. Morag was still sweeping for all she was worth, that is if pushing soot about with a bald and smouldering broomhead can be called sweeping. The room was so full of smoke that it was well nigh impossible to see. I sluiced the water over the floor, but during my absence the tablecloth had caught fire and the wallpaper above the fireplace was rapidly browning with the heat.

‘Run for Ruari!' sobbed Morag. ‘Run for him quick.'

Seizing the tablecloth I flung it outside to burn away harmlessly on the grass, and then ran for Ruari. There is no doubt that there are times when deafness seems to be the worst affliction anyone can suffer. Certainly I thought so as I pounded at the door of Ruari's house and flung handfuls of pebbles at the window, but though I had the assistance of the dog, who from his kennel contributed to the uproar to the full extent of his capacious lungs, there was no acknowledgement from within. Discovering that the door was only latched I went inside, continuing to yell unceasingly for Ruari. The only reply was a duet of serene, undisturbed snores from above. I climbed half-way up the stairs, still calling; I gained the landing; I went into the bedroom from which the snores were coming and grasping Ruari's flannel-clad shoulder shook it vigorously. With my mouth close to his ear I entreated him to wake up and come and help. At last aroused, he shot upright with such suddenness that his head bumped my teeth.

‘Wuff, wuff, wuff!' he spluttered as might a bulldog that has been compelled to take a cold plunge.

Quickly I explained what had happened, insisting that the house was in imminent danger. With surprising speed one of Ruari's legs appeared from under the bedclothes but, recollecting himself, he hastily tucked it in again.

‘I canna' get dressed with a woman watchin' me,' he said reprovingly.

‘Sorry,' I said, and retreating from the room started downstairs.

‘Hi! where are you goin' with that torch?' came a shout. ‘I canna' see what shape I am and where is my clothes without a light, can I?'

Returning to the bedroom I found Ruari, still a little dazed, sitting on the edge of the bed in his nightshirt. At the sight of me with the torch he immediately scrambled back beneath the clothes, pulling them right up to his chin.

‘Woman, woman!' he chided me. ‘Let me get into my breekis in private will you!'

‘But I can't see my way down again without a light,' I retorted. ‘I don't know my way about your house in daylight, never mind in the dark.'

We effected a compromise by my holding the torch round the edge of the door into the bedroom while the rest of my body stayed outside.

‘Is your eyes shut?' demanded Ruari.

‘Of course!' I snapped back.

Muttering and breathing heavily, he attired himself in clothes which were, I suspected, both in quantity and quality, more suitable for an expedition to the North Pole than for wrestling with a fire in a neighbouring house. Having accomplished this much he decided to wake Bella who had slept profoundly throughout the disturbance.

‘Come and get watter to quench Morag's fire,' he bade her shortly. As we hurried downstairs Bella's querulous voice pursued us, demanding to know how she was going to see to dress herself without a light. I affected not to hear: it was no concern of mine that Ruari and Bella made a habit of staying in bed until daylight.

‘Wait now while I get my boots on,' said Ruari as I made for the door and, while I seethed with impatience, he retrieved his boots from under a chair and sat down leisurely to put them on. As soon as he had tied the second bootlace I bounded outside and bolted back to Morag's, leaving him to be guided by the glow of the fire, which could now plainly be seen through the windowless window. Once again I recalled the instructions on the cigarette-card.