A Rope--In Case (15 page)

‘An' who'd be after tellin' you that, now?' he enquired, scuffing at the road with his fish scale spattered boots. His smile was complete now, showing all his teeth and the radiance of it filtered through his stubble like the sun through a gorse bush.

In England in similar circumstances I should have blamed the proverbial little bird but in Bruach the expression only aroused suspicions of my sanity.

‘That's what they're after savin',' I told him in the Bruach idiom. ‘Is it true?'

‘Aye well, I'm thinkin' about it right enough,' he admitted cautiously. ‘Though it'll not be for a whiley yet.'

‘When?' I persisted, seeing that he was anxious for me to press him.

‘I'm thinkin' maybe I'll get a week before the winter herrin' comes in,' he said. ‘The skipper's aimin' to take a wee holiday about then so I'd have nothin' else to do.'

‘That will be about September,' I said.

‘Aye, about then' he said with assumed carelessness. His manner became serious. ‘Me an' Mairi, we're plannin' to do things in style when we do get married,' he confided. ‘She's goin' to have a fancy white dress an' we'll be sure to see the hotel does things properly.' He paused to adjust the strings of fish, transferring them to other fingers. ‘Mairi's sister is cook at the hotel so there'll be good eats, that's for sure.'

‘I do hope you'll have a fine day for it,' I told him. ‘It makes such a difference if the weather's good, doesn't it?'

He seemed surprised that I should consider the weather important. ‘Aye,' he agreed, polite though perplexed.

‘Mairi will be praying for good a day if she's going to wear white,' I explained.

His face cleared. ‘I see what you mean,' he agreed. ‘Aye, right enough, Mairi will be wantin' the sun to shine but for the rest of us it's no matter. What I mean is, we'll be in the car or in the church or else in the hotel an' I'm seein' that there'll be a good drink in it for everybody so I don't believe the weather's goin' to matter much at all.'

Happily he raised the strings of fish in farewell and clumped hurriedly up the brae.

Although it was some time before Angus could think of taking time off to get married the conversation when I called at Janet's a few nights later dwelt frequently on the subject of the forthcoming wedding. The general opinion was that, at twenty-four, Angus was ‘gey young to be thinkin' of marryin',' but it was accepted that his earnings, legitimate and illegitimate, were good and that he could well afford the lavish entertainment he was promising.

‘There'll likely be a dance afterwards?' One of the teenage lassies spoke up, her eyes glowing with excitement.

‘Indeed there will so.' Janet was emphatic. ‘Angus was tellin' me he's after speakin' to the piper that's to play the “Grand March”, an' to a band that's to play for the dance afterwards.'

‘There'll be a good drink in it, anyway,' confirmed Erchy with a happy wink that embraced the whole company. ‘He was tellin' me he's reckonin' on a bottle of whisky for each man an a half bottle of sherry for each woman.'

‘That's goin' to cost him a penny,' said Morag.

‘Aye, an' that'll not be includin' the food we get besides,' added Erchy. ‘He's plannin' somethin' pretty good.'

‘Wis drinks like tsat, who'd be wantin' food besides?' put in Hector in his lispy Highland voice. ‘He can leave tse food out of it. Tsere's no sense in wastin' money, after all.'

‘It's time we had a good weddin' hereabouts,' said old Murdoch. ‘It's long enough since the last one.'

‘You should get married yourself if you're that keen on weddin's,' Johnny told him.

The old man's face crinkled in a sad smile. ‘Ach, the sun is too far in the west for those games now, I'm thinkin',' he said regretfully, and comforted himself by vigorously knocking out his pipe.

Bean Ian Beag (the wife of little Ian) stood up. ‘There's some folks finds it easy enough to make money,' she observed pettishly. ‘An' they find plenty things to waste it on when they have it.' She sniffed.

‘Ach, you'll no say that when you're enjoyin' yourself at the weddin',' old Murdoch soothed.

‘I'll not be goin' to any weddin'.' There was a bitter edge to her voice as she made the announcement.

‘Not goin'?' exclaimed the jovial Anna Vic. ‘Why ever not? It's a shame not to go if you're invited.' She centred her large backside more comfortably on the inadequate kitchen chair. ‘There's nothin' will keep me from goin',' she added firmly, and then, catching Morag's eyes, added uneasily, ‘Unless I break my neck first.'

‘I don't see the sense of wastin' money on big swanky weddin's,' pursued Bean Ian Beag disapprovingly, but Erchy cut her short.

‘An' there's others don't see the sense in wastin' money on the sort of things you think is important,' he told her meaningly. Bean Ian Beag flushed. She opened the door. ‘Oidhche Mhath!' she called abruptly and pulling her cardigan close up to her throat she took her disapproval with her into the night.

‘She's vexed,' said Morag unnecessarily.

‘Let her be vexed,' said Erchy.

Bean Ian Beag's husband, Ian Beag, had died four years previously and it had since been the often expressed desire of his widow to provide for his grave a handsome tombstone such as she had seen in mainland burial grounds. It was a desire that received scant sympathy from the Bruachites, for Ian Beag had been only a humble crofter and the few ‘swanky' tombstones there were in the burial ground marked the graves of lairds and their ladies or of wealthy tradesmen and their families. These the crofters viewed with more indifference than envy and if, as happened infrequently, they felt compelled to mark the grave of a deceased relative they would keep their eyes open as they roamed the shore or the moors for a slab of stone of a suitable size that could be carried home easily in a creel. Should they be really determined they could take a pick-axe and excavate one from some rocky outcrop. There was stone enough in Bruach for all purposes, they reckoned, and you did not need to pay fancy prices for fancy shapes imported from the mainland. Once having found a slab of pleasing shape and size then you could chip out lettering if you felt it necessary and had the ability to do it. There were perhaps half a dozen such headstones in the burial ground, one or two of them quite skilfully executed, the rest crude. One verged on the comic. Old Neil had put it there in memory of his mother and whether having chipped out some of the lettering he had lacked further patience or opportunity no-one knew or would ever know for old Neil had himself passed on. But there the stone still stood proclaiming:

‘Here lies Kate Cameron
Wife of John Mclnnes
and mother of
1904.'

‘A tombstone's a fine thing for a widow woman to be wastin' her money on,' old Murdoch said. ‘An' anyway, supposin' she does get a swanky stone who's goin' to put it up for her? It's not easy work, they tell me, an' they charge a bit for doin' it.'

All eyes turned on Erchy who, being fairly young and strong and also being related to everyone in the village, had most experience of digging in the graveyard.

‘Not me,' he objected.

‘Did she ask you about it?' enquired Murdoch.

‘She spoke about it once,' Erchy admitted. ‘ “I will not then,” I told her. “Them swanky tombstones is damty heavy things an' if you're so set on gettin' one from the mainland you can get men from the mainland to come an' put it up for you while you're at it!”.'

‘That would take her back a bit, likely?' suggested Morag.

‘She was mad at me,' confirmed Erchy. ‘ “The dear knows, I'll never afford a stone an' pay men to come over an' set it up,” she said. “Then you're wastin' your time savin' up for it,” I told her. “You're not gettin' me to do it for you. Your man will lie no better or worse whether or not he has the weight of that on him”,' he finished triumphantly.

‘I doubt she'll no rest content till she gets one, all the same,' said old Murdoch, shaking his head.

‘I don't know why she doesn't forget Ian an' take Duncan Mor from Tornish for her man,' interposed Johnny.

‘Here, no,' remonstrated Morag, a flush rising on the wrinkled skin over her cheekbones.

‘He's keen enough to get her, anyway,' insisted Johnny.

‘Is that so?' asked Janet with a surprise that was assumed so as to elicit further information.

Everyone in Bruach knew of Duncan Mor's attendance on the widow. He was supposed to work on the roads but it was only the small stretch adjoining the widow's croft that was receiving much of his attention. He was always at hand to carry her bolls of meal from the steamer when it called; always available to scythe her hay when it was ready. He was there to ‘cut' her bull calves and to strip her peats and when he had been fishing the widow was invariably given the first choice of his catch. Duncan's attempted courtship was not much commented on in Bruach but it was certainly no secret.

‘He's been tryin' to talk her into marryin' him for the best part of two years now,' Johnny went on. ‘You mind he was always keen on her before ever she married Ian.'

‘Aye, right enough, he was,' agreed Janet.

‘She didn't fancy him then an' I'm thinkin' she'll no take him now,' said Morag.

‘An' why wouldn't she?' enquired Erchy. ‘He's good enough for her, isn't he?'

‘He's a good worker when he has a mind,' conceded Janet ‘I'm sayin' nothin' against the man himself,' argued Morag indignantly.

‘Then why are you after sayin' she'll no take him?' Erchy persisted. ‘Is he no “guaranteed all correct”?' There was general laughter. The phrase ‘guaranteed all correct' was used at the cattle sales when a bull was put into the ring.

‘He's that all right,' said Johnny. ‘He gave that girl Fraser a fine son when he was workin' over on the mainland a year or two back.'

Morag looked discomfited. In explanation of her own solitary state she once confided to me that Bruach ‘misliked a widow to take a second man'. I suspected now that she was voicing the aversion of her generation to second marriages rather than intending in any way to denigrate Duncan Mor's character or capabilities.

‘Ach!' Morag tossed her head and the tone and the gesture were intended to dismiss the subject, but she was urged on. They were hoping no doubt that she would astonish them by disclosing some hitherto unrevealed tit-bit of scandal about Duncan.

‘I told you I have nothin' against the man,' she repeated. ‘But look at his face.'

‘Aye, his face,' murmured Janet.

‘It looks for all the world as though somebody's been walkin' over it with their tackety boots on,' Morag burst out.

‘I don't see his face matters so long as he has a pound or two in his pocket,' said Erchy.

‘I'm just sayin' I don't believe she'll ever take him,' replied Morag firmly.

But she was wrong.

One night several weeks later I had drunk my nightcap of hot milk, closed the book on my nightly ration of reading and turned the lamp flame low in preparation for carrying it upstairs. The hot water bottle was already between the sheets and I was indulging in my third or fourth yawn when the sneck of the door lifted and it was pushed open.

‘Here,' I called.

Janet came in out of a drizzle of fine rain that shimmered on her rough tweed coat.

‘Here, here,' she exclaimed, seeing my preparations for bed. ‘You're surely not thinkin' of going to your bed an' missin' the party?' Janet sounded excited.

‘What party?' I asked.

‘Why, the new bride and bridegroom,' she elucidated.

I put down the lamp. ‘What bride and bridegroom?' I demanded. ‘I hadn't heard of any wedding.'

‘Why, Duncan Mor's an' the widow's. Did you no hear they'd gone off to the mainland first thing this momin' to get themselves married?'

‘No, really!' I said, feeling my excitement rise.

‘Aye, an' now they're back an' they've sent word round to everybody to come an' have a wee bit celebration with them. You'll surely not be missin' that?'

I turned up the lamp while I found a pair of shoes. I looked at Janet's feet and saw that she was wearing her usual gumboots. ‘Is it very wet?' I asked her, doubtfully.

‘Ach, it's no bad but if we're goin' to cut across the crofts you'll need boots anyway, mo ghaoil. It's what everybody will be wearin'.'

‘Are they going for a honeymoon?' I asked as we set off.

‘I believe they've had it,' she said. ‘They went to the pictures.'

I chuckled. ‘They're easily satisfied.'

‘Aye, well, d'you see they'd have to be back to feed the hens anyway,' said Janet.

It was a happy enough party that had assembled at the widow's house and at four o'clock in the morning when I left they had not come to the end of the whisky and the singers were still in good voice.

As the day progressed the drizzle cleared and released a warm calm sunlight. I was full of yawns and there being no task pressingly urgent I had an early lunch, took out a waterproof and rug and stretched out luxuriously in the sun beside the stone dyke. I thought I was only allowing sensations of sleep to drift over me but I awoke to the sound of hard-breathed grunts that could have been made by old men or old horses. It was neither. Johnny and Erchy appeared round a corner of the house carrying between them a long heavy plank of wood which they had found on the shore. They dropped the plank abruptly on to the stone dyke and rubbed at their shoulders.

‘My God, but there's some weight in that,' grumbled Erchy. They disdained a space on the rug and sat down on the damp grass, their backs resting against the dyke.