By Eastern windows (32 page)

Inside the garden Lachlan sat down on a small wooden bench, while at the arched entrance George Jarvis sat in a cross-legged lotus position and waited in silence. He waited for hours, keeping watch like a young guardian angel, just as he had done in Macao.

But in Macao, George recalled, Lachlan had been paralysed in mind and soul with a dark and terrible grief, a blindness that saw no tomorrow. And there had been a thousand sad and lonely tomorrows in the long years since then, before the dawning of acceptance.

Now, as George silently watched Lachlan's face, he saw a man lost in tranquil thought and nostalgic dreams.

Now, George thought, now he has learned that what is written is written. Now he has learned the wisdom of the East.

A little gust of soft wind blew through the warm silence of the garden, carrying with it a vapour of salt air from the sea. Lachlan looked up and saw that the sun was preparing to dip towards the horizon.

It was time to go.

He made no move, not until the reflected glow of the sunset had turned the white walls around the garden into a muted pink. And even then, he waited until the glow faded, and the birds in the kikar tree stopped their flutterings and singing and settled down to rest.

*

In Bombay harbour, on the morning of 6th January, the
Sir Edward Hughes
, a coppered and fast-sailing Indiaman, complete with round-house and a balcony over her stern, prepared to set sail.

Bappoo, who was now employed in the household of John Forbes, wept profusely as he hugged George Jarvis tightly, and said farewell.

‘
Khudaa hafiz
,’ Bappoo sobbed. God protect you.

George straightened and took a deep breath. ‘
Khudaa hafiz
, Bappoo,’ he said quietly, defying tears, then abruptly turned towards the small-boat.

The crowds on the dockside watched the stream of boats carrying their passengers out to the ship from where, only a minute after they had boarded, Bappoo saw the figure of young George Jarvis waving to him excitedly.

Bappoo sighed, and wiped a big hand over his wet face, knowing that for George Jarvis this journey to
Belait
was not a sad departure, but a glorious adventure.

Lachlan was also waving to the distant crowd. All his friends, British and Indian, had come to wave him farewell. Many had given him letters for their families at home.

In his portmanteau he also had a list of addresses given to him by those soldiers who were unable to read or write, Scottish lads who knew that during his journey through Scotland to the Isle of Mull he would pass near their homes, and pleaded with him to call on their parents, to say they were well and doing fine.

‘Ma mither, sir,’ one lad had said, `ma mither will near swoon at havin' ma commanding officer call at the house – home from India. But she'll be reet pleased if ye do. Ma fayther too!
 
Och, sir, I canne tell ye! It'll make them sleep happy for many a moon!’

The
Sir Edward Hughes,
under a cloud of white sail, began to cruise out of the harbour of Bombay. A roar of farewells rose up from the dockside and hands waved frantically.

George Jarvis waved back, but Lachlan stood without moving, just looking – looking back on the land where so many sons of Britannia had come in the past, where so many British men, and women too, had chosen to end their days.

Looking back to the land where he had spent so many Indian summers; looking back at the happiest period of his whole life.

Later, much later, when the sun had set and the moon had risen, India was gone from view… vanished into the darkness and distance.

*

Three months later Elizabeth Campbell came rushing into Mrs Macquarie's parlour waving a letter. ‘He's coming home! He's booked his passage on a ship that leaves Bombay on the 6th of January.’

Mrs Macquarie, her heart palpitating, regarded Elizabeth in stunned silence ... then she reached out and clasped the girl's arm as if she was going to fall.

‘Sixth of January – what year?’

‘This year.’

‘But it's March now.’

‘Yes!’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘So he's already on the sea. In just a couple of months he will be in Scotland.’

In the months that followed more letters came: from Cape Town, from St Helena, from Portsmouth, from London.

‘`No’ long now!’ Mrs Macquarie said excitedly, and like Elizabeth who was just as excited, the old lady was visualising in her mind the return of the same twenty-five-year old lieutenant who had walked away from her all those years ago.

‘There'll be no more letters,’ Mrs Macquarie said to Elizabeth as she poured the tea. ‘But ye'll still come and visit me, Elizabeth hennie, won't ye?’

‘I will,’ Elizabeth promised.

They waited eagerly for the return of the wanderer, but by the close of summer – months after his arrival in England – there was still no sign of him.

His letters explained the reason. His arrival in London in May had coincided with the breakdown of the Peace Treaty of Amiens. Britain was again at war with France. The War Office had cancelled all leave. He had been assigned immediately to the post of Adjutant-General on the staff of the London District, under the personal command of Lord Harrington.

From then on his letters were all about the military world of London. The Commander-in-Chief of the Army, the Duke of York, had sent for him in order to discuss at length the state of the regiments in India.
 

As his time in London moved into the autumn, and his letters still spoke of his longing to return to Mull as soon as it was possible to obtain leave, a social note crept into his letters.
 
He had dined with Lord Harrington and the Prince of Wales. He had been given a week's leave in July, but as it was too short a time to travel to Scotland, he had instead escorted Maria Morley on a week's excursion to Cheltenham and Gloucester.

Maria’s husband, James he explained, had died six months earlier. And under such circumstances, he found it impossible to refuse the grieving widow’s request to escort her to Cheltenham.
    

‘Maria Morley,’ said Mrs Macquarie to Elizabeth. ‘That's his dead wife's sister.’

Elizabeth waited curiously to see if his letters contained any more references to this newly widowed Maria Morley.

By Christmas, Mrs Macquarie had given up hope of her son ever returning to Mull. ‘He'll no’ be coming home in my lifetime,' she said quietly, blinking her eyes. ‘I lost him to the Army when he was a laddie of fifteen and they've had him ever since. And aye, that's the truth.’

Once again Elizabeth looked at the grieving old lady with pity. ‘It's an uncommon mild day for December,' she said. ‘Shall we take a little stroll?’

Mrs Macquarie cast a fond eye on Elizabeth Campbell. ‘You're as bonnie as a daughter to me at times, Elizabeth hennie. Aye, let's take a wee stroll.’

*

In January Elizabeth returned to her home at Airds on the mainland. Three months later, in April, she travelled over to Mull and spent another few days with Mrs Macquarie.

‘No sign of the wanderer yet?’ Elizabeth asked.

Mrs Macquarie shook her head gloomily. ‘His last letter is there. Murdoch brought it over and read it to me.’
 
She pointed to the dresser. ‘Do you want to read it?’

Elizabeth did. She scanned through the pages that told only of his military life in London at the War Office.

The two women moved outdoors to the warm spring sunshine. ‘He'll be home soon, I'm sure,’ Elizabeth said as they strolled down to the seashore opposite Ulva.

Mrs Macquarie shook her head again. ‘The Duke of York is the villain. Won't give any officer leave of absence at all. Every day they're expecting an attack from across the Channel.’

They had reached the land's edge, and stood to gaze across the water to Ulva's shore where a number of boatmen were hauling in nets of seaweed to be dried and burned into kelp, which would then be taken to the mainland for the manufacture of soap and glass.

Mrs Macquarie blinked her eyes. ‘D`ye know, Elizabeth, that it takes twenty tons of seaweed to make one ton of kelp.’

Elizabeth nodded.

‘And all that carrying and drying and cutting and burning first.’ Mrs Macquarie sighed. ‘It's a hard way to make a living.’

Elizabeth stood gazing across at the green and basalt landscape of Ulva, an island of tranquil splendour and rare beauty where red deer sat under the shade of pine trees, lazily watching seals from the Atlantic playing near Ulva's shore.

In the three days that followed, the two women took ambling strolls together down to the shore to stare across at the Ulvan kelpers at their labour.

On the fourth day Elizabeth was surprised to find a small rowing boat moored on Mull's side of the shore, and looked around for the owner ... not a soul in sight!

She waved and called across the water to the Ulvan kelpers, but they misunderstood her, and merely waved back in greeting.

Mrs Macquarie was too stunned to protest when Elizabeth bundled her into the boat, whipped off the rope, then got in herself and swiftly and expertly inserted the oars inside their catches.
 

‘
Elizabeth!
’ Mrs Macquarie finally screamed when Elizabeth applied her strength to the oars and the boat began to move.

‘
Elizabeth!
’ Mrs Macquarie cried again. ‘What are ye doing! A gentle-bred lady like ye handling a boat! I've never been across this water except when taken by a man!’

Elizabeth laughed as gleefully as a schoolgirl. ‘And if you were drowning, would you take my hand in rescue – or wait for a man?’

‘This is no time for riddles!’ Mrs Macquarie replied, and then began to relax slightly as the boat skimmed swiftly and smoothly across the water towards Ulva. Elizabeth was clearly an expert at this.

When the boat reached Ulva, the staring kelpers let out sighs of relief, which turned into a loud cheer when Elizabeth stepped ashore.

Elizabeth turned to Mrs Macquarie and unleashed an excited girlish smile. ‘Now then, shall we go adventuring?’

Mrs Macquarie had to smile back, in bewilderment. Elizabeth was treating her as if they were both schoolgirls.

‘Is it up to the Laird of Ulva's house you want to go, Elizabeth?’ she asked uncertainly.

‘No,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but it has occurred to me these last few days while we were gazing across at Ulva, that
you
might like to visit Kilvechewan.’

‘Kilvechewan?’

Mrs Macquarie stared at Elizabeth, seeing her with new eyes. ‘Fancy you thinking of Kilvechewan,' she said, then smiled at the girl from Airds with deep fondness. ‘Aye, Elizabeth, a visit to Kilvechewan would be a real treat.’

Elizabeth harboured no regret at her suggestion, even though the walk up to Kilvechewan took four hours. Both women were Highlanders and took the journey in their stride, engrossed in the wildlife of the small woods and moorlands, pausing here and there to talk with crofters when Mrs Macquarie enjoyed a succession of short rests and caught up on all the gossip.

And then, finally, at Kilvechewan, the old woman stood gazing thoughtfully at her husband's grave, which now also contained Donald.

‘My husband was a good man,’ Mrs Macquarie said quietly. ‘The Macleans of Torloisk might be the lords of Mull, but I didna marry a pauper when I married a Macquarie, I married a gentleman. Aye, I did.’

She looked at the girl. ‘Did ye know, Elizabeth, that the first people to settle on Ulva were Nordic Vikings?’

Elizabeth nodded.

Mrs Macquarie suddenly chuckled. ‘I remember my man telling me that when the first Vikings arrived in their longboats at Ulva, they sent a scout ashore to see who was here, and how the land lay. The scout wandered over the island which was completely deserted of all human habitation, then returned to the shore, shouting, "
Ullamh dha!
" That's Viking for "Nobody home."’

The walk back seemed twice as long, and so tiring that poor Mrs Macquarie let out a sigh of ecstatic relief when she reached the lonely little rowing boat. It had been morning when they rowed across from Mull, and now it was sunset. All the kelpers had gone to their homes, the shore deserted.

Mrs Macquarie yawned tiredly as Elizabeth lifted an oar and pushed the boat away from the rocks, too tired and too full of gratitude to make any objection when the girl from Airds delayed the homeward journey even longer, by pausing halfway across the Sound to rest on her oars ... gazing dreamily at the sunset.

From the western horizon the sun's purple and orange rays glinted like coloured glass on the sheen of the water. Only the seagulls flapping and screaming overhead disturbed the warm still evening.

Mrs Macquarie watched Elizabeth's face and smiled to herself, knowing now that her first instinct about the girl had been right. Underneath all that sensibleness and no-nonsense practicality, Elizabeth had a heart of gold.

And moments later, when Elizabeth dipped the oars and continued rowing gently, Mrs Macquarie heaved a sigh of inward satisfaction. There were so many frauds in this world, so many people who took you in with their falseness and insincerity; so it was a good feeling to know that her own sense and judgement was not completely gone, and her first instinct about Elizabeth Campbell had proved to be a sound one.