Love and Music Will Endure (13 page)

‘Well Madam, it’s been a pleasure to speak with you. May I assist you onto the platform?’

The doctor swung the door open and stepped down, offering his arm to Màiri as she heaved herself onto the platform, still wondering how she could keep him talking. Neither of them noticed the stationmaster running up behind them, his round face crumpled into a frown and his watch chain beating against the mound of his waistcoated belly.

‘Do forgive my intrusion, Sir, but another passenger has told me that you’re a doctor and I’m in dire need of your services.’ He edged closer and whispered, ‘We have a young woman in the Ladies’ waiting room. She collapsed at the station entrance. Well, she’s not a lady as such but she appears to be in a delicate condition. I’ve closed the room to everyone else for the time being.’

The doctor looked bemused.

‘An urgent,
delicate
condition, if you follow me.’

‘Do say clearly what you mean, my good fellow,’ Dr MacLaren snapped.

As the station master floundered Màiri stepped in, ‘Do you mean that she’s in labour?’

His shoulders slumped in relief as he nodded, ‘Could you come and assist her, Sir?’

A shadow scudded across the doctor’s face before disappearing behind his professional smile, ‘Well, she is indeed fortunate. She has the skills of two people at her disposal. This lady here is a midwife, trained at the Royal. However, there is a minor
difficulty. I’m returning from a social function so I don’t have my medical bag with me. I shall go to collect it while the midwife examines the patient. In all likelihood she won’t give birth within the next few moments.’

He strode off before the other two could reply. The stationmaster smiled and started chatting to Màiri as he showed her the way. He was relieved to be dealing with someone of his own class rather than the condescending doctor. As she puffed along beside him Màiri thought how Dr MacLaren was a typical medical man, issuing orders and leaving her to do the hard work. She would ruin her good clothes in the process, too. Then no doubt he would saunter in later to claim all the credit.

She sent the anxious stationmaster off to organise clean cloths and hot water before opening the door to the waiting room. She could hear stifled groans coming from what looked like a pile of discarded old clothes, strewn across two chairs, pushed together in a corner. As she moved closer she saw a pair of protruding feet, grubby toes clenched tightly, battered boots lying abandoned in the corner. Their laces had long gone and the escaped tongues lolled over. One sole was parted from the upper; it gaped open in a silent scream.

Màiri winced at her creaking knees as she knelt down. She reached out to ease back the matted shawl that the young woman was gnawing.

‘I’m Màiri MacPherson,
isean
, a midwife. What are you called?

The pale young woman opened greenish eyes clouded with pain. She let go of the blood flecked cloth. Her lips were bleached but her high cheekbones were flushed.

‘Anna. I’ve had three babies already, all stillborn,’ she whispered. ‘This one’s coming early. The pains gripped me as I walked past the station. I was going to find my man and see if he had been paid his wages. I must have passed out and someone brought me in here.’

Màiri carefully examined her patient. Her body was slight and bird-like except for the straining, distended mound of her belly. She moaned as another pain thrashed her, making her heave like a broken-backed boat trapped on rocks.

‘I can’t go on. I’ve no strength left.’

‘Come on Anna – don’t lose heart. It won’t be long now. I can feel the baby’s head.’

There was no time to wait for either Dr MacLaren or the promised clean cloths. She would just have to catch the baby in her newish, tweed cape. The tiny child flopped out, an exhausted fish spilt from a net. Màiri chaffed the limp little body to no avail.

‘It’s the same as the others, isn’t it, born too soon?’ muttered the young woman, her defeated eyes awash with unshed tears. ‘Another wee lad was it, not that it matters now?’

Màiri busied herself cleaning up her patient. There was still no sign of the doctor. So she sat down in the drab waiting room, the sole witness at a silent wake while her patient sank into a sleep as heavy as a rock plummeting down a bottomless well.

Màiri could remember plunging into that sort of deathlike slumber when her own baby died and then again when Isaac breathed his last. Finally she had to haul herself back to life again to tend to the living. Women were supposed to be the weaker sex but they were the ones who had to endure. Where was this poor woman’s husband? Probably drinking away his wages. Where was fine Dr MacLaren? He had likely never attended a confinement. He would, like many doctors, have considered it beneath him. But of course he would never have admitted his ignorance of childbirth. So he had slipped away, telling lies about his return. She wouldn’t see him again and didn’t want to, now that she had glimpsed his true colours. Màiri closed her eyes and let her head dip forward. Women, like boats, knew how to stay afloat in a storm, letting the waves drench and toss them until the winds
died down. What did the men do? They pretended that they could defy the elements and steer the vessel through the gale.

‘Where’s my Anna?’ Màiri was startled awake by a soft but insistent voice. She jolted her eyes open and hurried to the door.

‘Hush, she’s sleeping and she badly needs to. She’s very weak, the baby came early. He was stillborn, I’m afraid. I wrapped him in my shawl.’

The father glanced briefly in the direction of the sad bundle and then turned his back abruptly, covering his face with his hands.

Màiri spoke to his narrow, bowed back, ‘I’m Màiri MacPherson. The Station Master asked a doctor to come and help your wife but he disappeared. I’m a midwife, so I did what was needed.’

He made a noise, half sob and half snort, straightening his hunched shoulders and turned to face her. She saw a haggard man in early middle age but his scooped out cheeks and the crevices gouged beside his mouth made him look older than his years.

‘Well, what else would you expect?’ he sneered. ‘I’m John Alec MacInnes. Poor Anna. She can’t carry a child long enough for it to be born alive.’ He scratched distractedly at the ginger stubble on his chin.

‘How is her health usually? She seems very thin and flushed.’

‘What are you saying? That I forced myself on a sick woman and made her pregnant when she was ill?’ he snarled.

Màiri stared back steadily, ‘No, John Alec, I’m saying no such thing.’

He shrugged, his anger deflated, ‘We both work in a mill. I’m a weaver and she spins. It would make anyone weak, working in that hell hole – so much heat and dust. You’re a Gael. You know that we’re bred to an outdoor life.’

‘Aye, that’s true. And where are you from, John Alec?’ She could hear the rise and fall of the Lewis accent in his voice.

He slumped down on a chair. ‘I don’t even think about where I came from any more,’ he replied, knuckling his eyes, ‘But since you ask, I’m from Carloway.’

‘Where you come from matters. It makes you who you are. Were you driven from your home?’

‘Aye. I was only a wee lad. All I can remember is the terrible hunger. I couldn’t sleep with the empty hole in my belly. We dug up silverweed roots for my mother to grind into meal. And we had shellfish to stop us starving. One day I went down to the shore with my sisters to gather them. I made a fuss because I thought it was women’s work. My mother smacked me for being so crabbit. It was so unlike her but she was expecting my wee brother and must have been demented with hunger herself.’ He gulped and looked towards his sleeping wife.

‘Anyway we collected two full pails and toiled up from the shore. There at the top stood the factor, hands on hips and a smirk on his face,

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting our tea,” I said.

“Well, it’s not yours to take,” says he, kicking my pail over. I tried to pull it back but he knocked me down. Then he trampled the shellfish into the sand and swaggered away.’

‘What happened next?’

‘We waited until he’d gone, picked up the shellfish and washed the sand out of them.’

She shook her head, frowning, ‘He’d no right to do that. We were always allowed a deer from the hill, a fish from the stream and wood from the forest.’

He jerked his head up and stared hard at her. ‘So they say, but fine words don’t mean anything. Anyway we left soon after that, carrying everything we could on our backs, like beggars. Ended up in Greenock. It’s a pity my parents weren’t wise enough to go
to Canada.’ He fell silent, his fingers rubbing the rough cloth of his trousers.

‘I’ve heard so many tales like yours of people treated like vermin. We need men like you to join the fight against the landlords.’

He looked at her red indignant face and laughed bitterly, ‘And who are these brave fighters? Not the likes of me, worn out mill slaves. You’ll be meaning the gentlemen who parade themselves in kilts.’

Màiri gasped but rallied quickly, ‘These gentlemen have told the world about the wrongs done to us Highlanders.’

‘You can’t turn the clock back. People have left their land for ever. The ones who emigrated have started a new life. And men like me have no time and no desire to listen to gentlemen and ladies,’ he spat the words out, ‘telling us to fight for justice.’

‘But look at John Murdoch. He’s not rich. He struggles to keep
The Highlander
going. He travels all over Scotland raising money for the paper.’

‘Aye, I’ve heard of him. He’s the one who strides over the hills in a kilt singing Gaelic songs at the top of his voice,’ jeered John Alec.

‘You mock our tongue even though you speak it yourself,’ Màiri pointed out tartly.

‘Well, it’s my native tongue but what use is Gaelic here? If I had children …’ his voice shook, ‘I would make certain that they spoke English so that they would get on in the world. Gaelic is like a fish caught on a hook, struggling to breathe in the English air.’

‘All the more reason to fight for it.’ She jabbed her forefinger at him, ‘And don’t imagine you’re the only one who has suffered. I spent time in prison, found guilty of theft just because I couldn’t understand what I was accused of.’

‘Maybe you should have learnt English sooner then,’ he mocked. ‘If you want to do some good why don’t you go back
to Skye and help the poor folk there? I’m sure they’ve need of a midwife.’

Their raised voices woke Anna. She started to cough, gasping for breath. John Alec rushed over to her, ‘How are you,
mo ghràidh
? I’m so sorry the wee one died.’

‘I know. Surely you’re not arguing with the kind midwife who took such good care of me.’ She lowered her voice, ‘You must pay her. Then go to find a box to put the baby in and take him to the churchyard.’

‘To be thrown into a common grave,’ he croaked.

‘That doesn’t matter. God will know where to find him.’

John Alec scrabbled in his pocket and awkwardly held out the coins to Màiri. She gravely accepted them and walked away out of the station. The Station Master caught sight of her and hurried to catch her but he was too late. She pushed forward through the crowd, a warship cutting through the smaller craft on every side.

After the crowd had left, Màiri stepped outside the cramped hall to escape the stifling atmosphere. The room was sour and damp from the reek of sweat soaking through heavy clothes. That smell reminded her of the stench of restless, penned-up animals at the cattle sales in Portree where she’d gone with Pappa. Highland houses smelt too – of peat-saturated walls – but at least in the country she could escape to life-giving air outside. Here in Glasgow the outside air was rank, choked and sooty.

Màiri had brooded for a long time about John Alec’s words once her anger had spent itself. His fierce comments had at first snatched away her enjoyment of the cèilidhs. Being attacked in court had been like a sword slash. Since then there had been other, blunter, blows; the mocking lady nurses, Professor Lister’s chilly disapproval and Dr MacLaren’s dishonesty. These had left a dull throb of disappointment but being savaged by one of her own was worse, like being hacked by a blunt saw.

As if she could just run off to live on Skye! Women there needed her but they couldn’t afford her services. She depended on the money that she earned here. Mairead made her welcome when she returned to the island for visits but it was a burden being a guest. Her old friend refused any payment for her board and Màiri hated being in debt to her hospitality.

Even if she could afford to live on Skye would she still be able to create poetry there? Down here in the Lowlands her mind could conjure up so clearly the details of her childhood. She whispered quietly to herself one of the new verses she had added
to one of her songs. It was becoming a favourite with audiences and she had sung it again tonight,

Would her well run dry if she returned home for good? She knew how much Skye had changed since her youth. She saw the differences for herself each time she returned. For a number of years she had not ventured near her old home after the time she had gone there and had been chased away by the shepherd’s barking dogs. Would the sadness of it all swamp her if she stayed on Skye? When she was away she could keep her anger sharp, like a wolf snarl; she could stoke her rage at the ruined homes sprouting nettles. If she lived there would the wolf’s blood grow thin, his bones stiffen and his howl shrink to a weary whimper?

Still, John Alec had made her think about the younger, poorer Gaels in Glasgow, especially those who had been born in the city and only knew about the Highlands from the stories told them by their families. They didn’t have the leisure or the smart clothes to go to the Highland Society meetings. Yet they were the ones who had suffered most from losing their birthright. How to reach them? She had spoken to John about her concerns.

‘You’re right, Màiri. I’ve spent so much time tramping the Highlands that I’ve forgotten about the streets of Glasgow. We need to follow the example of our Irish brethren. They’ve forged bonds with all their exiles, rich and poor. We’ve much to learn
from them. As you know, my dream is that all the Celts will stand together, Gaels and Irish.’

‘That’ll be difficult. Haven’t the Irish come over here and taken work from our folk?’

‘But the real enemy to both the Gaels and the Irish are the landlords who’ve forced them to leave their homes. Anyway, I’ll spend some time visiting the places where the poorer Gaels meet. Of course you can always find them under the ‘
Hielanman’s Umbrella
.’ Well, I had better be on my way.’

‘And I shall speak with the women in the closes. I’m sure they won’t mind a hand with the mangles on wash day.’

‘If you wish,’ he replied in a lukewarm way, ‘But the men are the ones that matter. They’re the ones who will get the vote and influence Government.’

‘When it comes to fighting it’s the wives and mothers who will be among the bravest, as it’s been in the past. Didn’t Flora MacDonald risk her own life for her prince’s?’ Màiri’s dark eyes glinted steel.

John had the grace to look a little embarrassed, ‘You’re right. Never underestimate a Highland woman.’

So between them they had encouraged working men and their wives to come to the meeting that evening.

‘I’ll sing but as I’m a mere woman with no hope of a vote you won’t be wanting any speeches from me,’ Màiri had joked. They had both laughed. Màiri was a confident speaker now, talking with passion about the hardships she saw on Skye. And she had done plenty of both singing and speaking tonight. She sighed with satisfaction as she breathed in the damp Glasgow air. The door opened behind her and she turned.

‘Ah, it’s yourself Màiri,’ he exclaimed as he joined her on the step, ‘You gave a strong performance tonight.’

‘In what way, John? Was my singing particularly fine?’ she grinned.

‘It was inspiring as always, but I meant how well you trounced those hecklers. Charles was worried about rough behaviour. The Glaswegian working men are especially fond of putting speakers on their mettle. He was right too. There wasn’t much Highland courtesy there tonight. What was it that rude fellow called out when you were talking about the brave men of Skye?’

‘“What use is that place to anyone?” he said, “There’s nothing to see but rocks and nothing to eat but tatties.”’

And I wondered if it was your voice I heard calling out, John Alec, she thought to herself. She had scanned the crowd for a gingerish head but there was a good scattering of redheads in the audience and she couldn’t be sure. She wondered how his poor consumptive wife was faring.

‘And then you drew yourself up to your considerable height, glared at him and slapped your … er …’

‘“Rump”, is the word you’re after, I believe, John.’

‘I prefer “haunch,”’ he said, looking a little pink, ‘“That’s how well they feed us on Skye”, you declared. The crowd loved it.’

‘Well, people like it if you laugh at yourself, and if you surprise them. I gave them all a shock when I turned my back on them and pretended that I was going to lift my skirts, “Look at the two bannocks I got on the Isle of Skye.” That silenced him. Oh dear, I’ve embarrassed you now. Isaac always scolded me for not being ladylike. Many years ago I said something similar in Inverness at the time of the potato blight. At least my friend told me I had. I was a little the worse for wear with strong drink and don’t remember. It was before we were married and he made me promise never to do anything like that again. What would he think of me now?’

Another figure appeared in the doorway, a tall upright man with a long, serious face and well-tended beard. John was relieved at the distraction.

‘I never had the honour of meeting your husband but I can only hope he would applaud the way you strike such a spark with a Highland audience. I’ve advocated for a long time that the fairer sex should have a voice in local government. Maybe the day will come when there are ladies in Parliament itself.’ Charles Fraser Mackintosh smiled as he spoke.

‘You do me an honour but I fear that men like declaiming too much themselves to allow women to join in.’

Charles shrugged, ‘Maybe so.’ He turned to John, ‘I’ve not had a chance to ask you about
The Highlander
.’

‘Its fate is in the balance. Captain Fraser is taking me to court for libel,’ Murdoch said softly.

‘That scunner Fraser,’ Màiri exclaimed, ‘He’s in the wrong for putting up the crofters’ rents. Of course he was egged on by that sneak of a factor. Red Alick MacDonald may as well be a Lowlander for all he knows about crofting. How different from his grandfather,
An Dotair Bàn
– now he was loved by everyone on Skye.’

Charles raised an eyebrow, ‘I don’t understand, John, how you gave such a vengeful man a chance to attack you.’

John’s shoulders slumped. ‘I was away trying to raise money when those terrible floods hit Uig. I was remiss in not checking Finlayson’s article before publishing it.’

‘But he wrote the truth. Captain Fraser’s house being flooded was a judgement on his wickedness.’ Mairi said firmly.

Charles sighed and tugged at his beard with a sinewy hand, ‘Even if it’s true it can’t be proved in a court of law. It will be seen as a matter of opinion and a slur on his character. You aren’t schooled in the law, Màiri.’

She pursed her lips while he turned to John, ‘Perhaps not all is lost. Have you offered Fraser an apology?’

‘Aye, straightaway. But he wants his pound of flesh. He’s threatened me through his lawyer. “You escaped when you
attacked the landlord of the Skibo estate last year but we’ve got you now and we’ll lock the door on you.” That’s what he said,’ his expression was bleak.

‘That’s just bluster. We’ll have to trust in the good sense of the judge and hope that he awards low damages,’ Charles said firmly.

Màiri puffed up her feathers again, ‘I would remind you that I had the misfortune to be forced to learn about the law. I had the shame of being named as a common thief in the Inverness newspapers, me who came from a clean nest. Should I have cried libel and gone to court? Even if I had the money to do so, the mocking laughter would have reached to Heaven. Although we are all equal in God’s sight, on Earth the rich have all the laws on their side.’

‘I know you have suffered, my friend,’ John murmured.

‘We shall have to wait and see,’ Charles said. ‘That flood was a terrible tragedy for Skye,’ he said to her, feeling that he had been too dismissive.

‘Aye, whole flocks of sheep were swept out to sea; and so were bodies from the graveyard. It’s just a pity that it was the estate manager who drowned and not Fraser himself. After the bridge was carried away, two brave men from the village waded up to the house through shoulder high water to tell him to leave at once but he refused. They risked their lives for a man they had no reason to care about. I’ll wish you goodnight gentlemen. This
cailleach
’s away to her bed.’

‘May I escort you home? It’s a rather insalubrious area here.’ John asked.

She laughed and brandished her umbrella like a bayonet, ‘Who do you imagine would dare to attack me? My daughter’s expecting me tonight and it’s not far. I’m among Gaels here, my own people.’