A Rope--In Case Page 16

  A Day in the Hills

  I was feeling very sorry for myself. For two days I had been in bed, sleeping, vomiting and sweating my way through a bout of influenza. By the afternoon of the third day, however, I felt rather better. The nurse, whose attentions had been confined mostly to brewing herself cups of tea which she drank sitting beside my bed while comforting me with stories of the high incidence of tuberculosis in the village and congratulating me on my good fortune in enjoying her devoted ministrations, withdrew the thermometer from my mouth and announced that I might sit up. She propped me up with pillows before she left and I listened for the sound of her retreating car before reaching for a dressing gown. The bedroom was beset by irrepressible draughts and chilly despite the hissing of the paraffin stove which though efficient enough when well pumped wilted and popped despairingly every couple of hours demanding renewed pumping or that its jet be pricked. Outside the wind hissed through the leafless rowan tree and rain and hailstones rapped aggressively at the roof and window. I thought of the cosiness of the kitchen and resolved to make my way downstairs.

  I was standing beside the bed, gathering strength, when I heard a shout from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Bella’s wantin’ to know do you need anytsin’?’ Bella and Morag had been attending to the chores while I had been in bed.

  ‘Bless you, Hector,’ I called back. ‘I’m getting up. If you wouldn’t mind seeing that my coal and peat pails are full I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘Right, I’ll tell her,’ came the reply and a moment later I heard the door bang.

  ‘Oh, Hector,’ I mused, ‘you lazy rascal. Couldn’t you have seen to that little job yourself?’ The door banged again and to my surprise there came two distinct thuds of full pails on the floor. For once I had misjudged Hector it seemed.

  I continued downstairs, appreciating the comfort there is in the sound of pails of fuel being thumped on the floor on a winter evening. The lighting of the lamp, the clatter of dishes, the stoking of the fire, all make the pattern of the evening, but it is this thump of deposited pails that separates like an emphatic punctuation mark the end of the day’s work and the beginning of the hours of relaxation.

  I was ready with words of thanks on my lips to greet Hector, but it was not Hector who was standing beside the pails. It was Erchy.

  ‘I could have sworn it was Hector calling upstairs to me,’ I said. ‘Really, I think my head must still be a bit muzzy.’

  ‘So it was Hector,’ Erchy told me. ‘I was here too an’ heard what you said.’ He pushed the pails well to the side of the fire. ‘I doubt Hector would get the peats for you supposin’ you’d been freezin’ to death.’

  I grinned. ‘I must say I was surprised when I thought he’d done it. But Hector does surprise me sometimes.’ I was about to go on when the door opened and Hector himself stood there, smiling ingenuously.

  ‘I tsought I might just as well fill your pails myself, save Bella doin’ it,’ he began. His glance lit, as if by accident, on the full pails and his eyes widened in well affected surprise. ‘Tsey’re full!’ he exclaimed and came forward to warm himself at the well-stoked fire. Erchy and I looked at each other.

  ‘Aye, the fairies filled them,’ said Erchy drily.

  Hector took three mugs down from the dresser. ‘I daresay you’re feelin’ like a cup of tea,’ he said, and lifted the kettle on to the fire. Seemingly exhausted by this effort he flopped into a chair.

  ‘There’s a lot of it about,’ Erchy remarked.

  ‘A lot of what?’

  ‘This cold an’ sickness they’re after callin’ ’flu,’ he replied. ‘Indeed I had it myself for a while. It was just as if I was like to faint every time I got up from a chair or out of my bed.’

  ‘What did you take for it?’ I asked.

  ‘Ach, a good dose of whisky. There’s nothin’ better.’

  ‘We should go back to makin’ our own whisky, if we had any sense,’ Hector said. ‘Tsere was never any colds nor ’flu tsat I heard of when everybody kept a firkin of whisky beside tse fire an’ just took a wee dram when tsey came away from the storms.’

  ‘I don’t know why tsey stopped us makin’ it,’ grumbled Erchy. ‘Nobody took any harm from it.’

  ‘Tsey had to stop us because tsey had to stop tse English from doin’ it,’ explained Hector.

  I looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘Aye well, some of tsese Englishmen, if tsey get at much whisky tsey go prancin’ after tse women like billygoats. Tsey go mad, just.’

  This explanation coming from Hector of all people almost caused me to laugh out loud.

  ‘It’s different here,’ he went on. ‘In tsese parts takin’ a good dram is for when a man wants a medicine or when he wants to enjoy himself. Not for when he’s obligin’ tse women.’

  There were times when remarks made by the Bruachites left me temporarily breathless. This was one of them, though I knew it was generally accepted among them that women were more strongly sexed than men and suffered more if their desire was unfulfilled.

  Hurriedly Erchy reverted to the subject of colds. ‘I mind my grandfather boastin’ he never took a cold in his life,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, but your grandfather knew where was tse whisky,’ Hector told him and turning round in his chair he gave me an expressive wink.

  I responded with a smile. Well within the memories of some of the older Bruachites whisky had been buried beneath the earth floors of the houses and byres to keep it safe from thieves and customs men. As a result, when the young folk had inherited the old houses and modernised them by putting in wood floors they had occasionally unearthed a secret store. Erchy’s grandfather was known to have been even more cautious. Having found a large cask of whisky washed ashore he had taken it by boat and hidden it in a secret cave known only to himself. Soon afterwards the old man had died quite suddenly and though with his last breath he had managed to gasp out his secret his instructions for finding the cave were so confused that his sons, despite exhaustive searching, had never succeeded in locating it. Now the cave and its treasure had become a perpetual lure for his grandson, Erchy, and his cronies and whenever they found themselves in the supposed vicinity of the hiding place they dedicated themselves to searching for the cave, reassessing its probable situation and making plans for what they would do with the whisky when they eventually found it. They dreamed of success in their search as other people dream of winning the football pools. They sought the cave as other men have sought El Dorado.

  ‘If my grandfather’s ghost came back that’s the only question I’d have for him,’ said Erchy. ‘ “Where did you hide that cask of whisky?” I’d say.’

  ‘What good would the whisky be after all these years?’ I asked. ‘Surely the cask would have disintegrated by now, anyway?’

  ‘I’ll not rest content until I know for sure,’ retorted Erchy. ‘After all, to lose a cask of whisky is almost like losin’ a relative.’

  ‘Only worse,’ said Hector gloomily.

  ‘Was it the whisky you were looking for the last time I came to the hills with you? You remember, the time I saw the nun?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Erchy. ‘You were as white as a sheet when you got back to the boat. I mind that fine.’

  ‘I’d had a very disturbing experience,’ I admitted.

  It had been a day of late September. A calm day of gentle sunshine that lit the moors with scotch-broth colours, and I should have liked to have sat with my paint-box and brushes and tried to capture the quality of it all. Instead I prepared myself for a four mile walk to a glen where I hoped I should be able to gather blackberries. Erchy and Hector, shepherding a party of climbers down to the boat, passed the cottage and seeing me called out asking if I wished to join them. Where they were going, they assured me, there were bushes heavy with ripe brambles, all easily accessible. They would help me pick, they said, if I would make them some jam. The prospect was irresistible. I grabbed some food, a pail and a basket and followed them
down to the shore.

  The brambles were indeed large and prolific. With Erchy and I picking seriously and Hector remembering occasionally to pop a berry into the pail instead of into his mouth we soon had both pail and basket brimming full.

  ‘We’ll take these back to the boat if you want a look round,’ Erchy offered. ‘So long as you’re back within the hour we’ll still be here.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘Ach, we’re away to look for somethin’,’ he said off-handedly.

  ‘All right, I’ll be back,’ I told them and taking my packet of food I scrambled over the rocks towards the sheep path that would take me by a not too demanding way up to the nearest corrie. There in the sheltered warmth I ate my lunch and dozed for a while. When I awoke I perceived high on a distant ridge the party of climbers we had brought with us in the boat. I lifted my binoculars and watched the attenuated line of tiny figures moving slowly towards a vast, bare-looking face of rock that stood sheer above the tumbled jagged floor of the glen. I focussed my glasses on the rock face, attempting to assess its hazards, and caught my breath. I found I was staring at a shape like a great crucifix that appeared to stand out from the rock. It was an enormous, primitive carving of a cross, the Christ heavy-limbed and crooked. It was strangely lit so that it seemed to shimmer against its background. I lowered the binoculars, rubbed my eyes and looked again but now it was only the face of the rock I could see with outlines of cracks and fissures which, I told myself, might in certain lights have caused the phenomenon. Trying to shake off the feeling that I had seen a vision, I leaped up and hurried back towards the boat, but before I had gone more than a hundred yards I was jolted back into uneasiness by coming face to face with the hurrying figure of a nun. To meet a black-habited nun roaming in such a wild and desolate place is startling enough; to meet a hurrying nun with black habit flying about her shook me so much I involuntarily drew back as she passed. Then I fled.

  The sight of Erchy and Hector standing nonchalantly beside the boat awaiting my arrival was immensely reassuring. Hector came forward and gallantly helped me over the seaweed-covered rocks, and I found myself glad to hold tight to the muscular arm I could feel beneath his jacket sleeve. Erchy went up to untie the rope in preparation for casting off. I could feel his curiosity. He came back to the boat without untying her.

  ‘Ach I’m thinkin’ we’ll make a cup of tea before we go. There’s plenty time,’ he said, and shot me a puzzled look. ‘You look cold,’ he went on, ‘though God knows why you’d be cold on a day like this.’

  Not until he spoke did I realise I was in fact trembling. I wondered whether to tell them what I had seen and if I did whether they would suspect I was suffering from hallucinations.

  Back in Bruach it was a great relief to see my nun sitting in the sunshine outside Janet’s house drinking tea and eating scones. There was nothing hallucinatory about her appetite.

  ‘I met that nun up in the hills just a wee while back,’ I confided to Erchy. He nodded affirmatively.

  ‘Aye, no doubt you would. She hired Johnny’s boat to take her all by herself. She said she just wanted the half hour there an’ then he was to bring her back again. They were back just about an hour before ourselves.’

  So was the mystery of the nun’s appearance resolved but the strange phenomenon of the crucifix, though I had explained it satisfactorily to myself, still left me vaguely disturbed. In my mind I associated the vision with the party of climbers and could not rid myself of a recurring fear that I had been given warning of some fatal accident. Unable to sleep that night for wondering if they had all reached their destination safely, I listened avidly to the news the following morning in case there should be word of climbing fatalities. I questioned anyone who was likely to have heard of any accidents. My fears vanished when I heard of a message which came for Erchy requesting him to pick up the same party, intact, and return them to the mainland. The gift of prognostication was not, it seemed, to be one of my attributes. I felt no regret.

  The ‘Sheehan’

  We finished the pot of tea and the two men were relaxed and comfortable, smoking cigarettes and indulging in desultory argument about boats and cattle with rarely an acknowledgment of my presence. Erchy smoked half of his third cigarette and then with an exclamation threw the rest of it into the fire. Hector gave him a questioning glance.

  ‘Ach, they’re after makin’ my throat dry. This cold’s taken a hold of me, I’m after thinkin’.’

  ‘Let’s make another pot of tea if your throat’s dry,’ I suggested.

  ‘It seems as if I cannot take anythin’ hot,’ Erchy replied. ‘What I’ll take is a drink of water.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘I’ve just the very thing. Morag was making butter for me today and there’s a bowl of buttermilk in the cupboard at the back of the house. That will help soothe your throat.’

  Erchy stayed in his chair.

  ‘Where is tse buttermilk? I could do wiss a drink myself,’ Hector said.

  ‘In the cupboard at the back of the house,’ I repeated. He wandered outside and returned with the full bowl cupped tenderly between his large hands. He put it on the table.

  ‘Help yourself, Erchy,’ I invited. Hector emptied the remains of tea from his mug and dipped it into the buttermilk.

  ‘Come on, Erchy,’ I insisted. ‘You’re always saying how much you like buttermilk.’

  Erchy did not move. ‘No thanks,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I would never take a drink of buttermilk from a woman unless she was a relative.’

  I looked at him in amazement. ‘Why ever not?’ I demanded.

  ‘Well, I would not, then. An’ nor would any man that belongs to my family.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with accepting buttermilk. Is there some superstition about it?’

  ‘It’s no superstition,’ returned Erchy warmly. ‘It’s somethin’ that happened an’ it happened to my grandfather an’ his brother. Since then there’s not one of us would take a drink of buttermilk from a stranger.’

  ‘I’m hardly a stranger, Erchy,’ I pointed out, a little disgruntled.

  But he would not be persuaded, and I noticed that though Hector had filled his mug he had not yet raised it to his lips.

  ‘I don’t know this story about buttermilk and your grandfather,’ I confessed. ‘But if you’re not going to accept my offer you ought at least to explain why.’

  Erchy settled himself back in his chair, ‘Well, you know the Sheehan?’ he asked.

  I nodded. I had heard of the ‘Sheehan’ (Fairy Hill) and discovered it quite by accident one day when searching for a heronry which the locals knew existed but which was not, so far as I could discover, marked on any of the bird maps. I had floundered through bogs, waded streams, climbed in and out of corries and had at last, to my great delight, come upon indisputable evidence of a heronry. Returning via a corrie I had never previously explored I could not help noticing a raised area of greenness, roughly rectangular in shape, set amidst the sedge brown moor. In the centre of the greenness rose a small heathery knoll, about eight foot in diameter and not much higher than myself. Strewn haphazardly around the knoll were several large white stones. I was tired and the knoll amidst the greenness looked inviting, so I sat down and leaned back against the springy heather. Almost immediately I became aware that the ground was warm beneath my bottom. I sat up and patted the knoll. There was no doubt of its warmth. I got up and walked round it, assessing its situation and pondering upon the explanation, scientific or factual, for its being able to absorb, retain and exude more warmth than other knolls, for it was not the first time that day I had rested and at no time had I found the ground anything but damp and chill. Eventually I decided it must be something to do with all the rabbit burrows around the base of the knoll; possibly it enclosed such a large colony that enough heat was generated to penetrate the covering of soil and heather roots. I sat down again, letting my imagination play with a children’s story that began with a warm knoll
in a strange green place with white stones. But it was no such tale for children that Erchy related to me now.

  ‘It was one time when my grandfather an’ his brother took the cattle to the spring sale. It was fifteen miles they had to walk them, so when they got there they enjoyed themselves with a bitty of the money they made. You know, takin’ a good dram. Then they bought the few things they were needin’ an’ a couple of bolls of meal that they took on their backs an ‘started the journey home. It was about four o’clock in the evenin’ an’ pretty warm, an’ when they were about a third the way they began wishin’ they hadn’t taken so much whisky and complainin’ their mouths were dry.

  ‘ “What wouldn’t I give for a good drink of buttermilk to cool my whisky down,” says my grandfather’s brother, Finlay was his name.

  ‘ “Aye,” says my grandfather. “But there’s no chance of a drink of any sort till we get to the next croft an’ that’s another four miles yet.”

  ‘Just then they see a woman comin’ towards them, carryin’ a pail an’ a bowl. She’s a fine lookin’ woman—not young, not old, an’ she has her hair in two long pleats.

  ‘ “Well, boys,” she greets them. “Am I not hearin’ you sayin’ you have a fancy for a drink of buttermilk? Here then. I just finished makin’ butter myself. Take a drink an’ ease your thirst.” She pours out milk from the pail into the bowl an’ holds it out to them. My grandfather gets suspicious an’ refuses, an’ he wasn’t pleased to see Finlay take the bowl an’ drink up the buttermilk. Then the woman says, “My house is just in the glen there, will you not come an’ rest yourselves for a wee whiley?” Now my grandfather knows that this woman is no ordinary woman because he went this way many times an’ he never saw a house of any sort in the glen. But Finlay seems to suspect nothin’. “Come on,” he urges, an’ follows the woman. My grandfather knows he must follow his brother an’ try to save him from the fairies before they have complete power over him, so he follows too an’ they come to this green place with the heathery cnoc in the middle. In this cnoc there’s a dark passage leadin’ to a thick heavy door and from beyond comes the sounds of music an’ laughter an’ dancin’. Finlay’s all excited but my grandfather knows it’s a trap and tries to persuade him to turn away. But the door opens an’ Finlay follows the woman in. My grandfather thinks he’s gone for good but then he remembers that after the sale he bought a packet of iron nails that he has in his pocket, so pretendin’ he’s tired with carryin’ his boll of meal he stumbles against the door an’ drives a nail into it so the fairies won’t see it. Without that nail, he knew he would never be able to go out through that door again. Inside they’re invited to dance an’ Finlay, still with his boll of meal on his back, joins in. My! but how they dance, those folk, swingin’ Finlay round from one to the other an’ all the time to strange wild music that made my grandfather so feared he pulled moss to stop his ears from hearin’ it.