I Am an Island Page 3

  Some days it can feel so empty, I ask, ‘Where is everyone?’ It is hard to grasp the reality that little more than a handful of other folk live here. The road has scarce traffic, just the odd tractor or dilapidated car clattering past. As days pass into weeks, it feels natural to look for others to share that sky with and to seek a closer company. Belonging requires a community and people. I do not say it out loud, but it also necessitates an acceptance. We are well travelled, but this island feels more remote in its landscape than any other place we have travelled to. Exploring the hills, I feel an unfamiliar freedom coursing through me. There is a raw, energising presence inherent to the landscape itself. When you have no other distractions, you start to quieten into nature.

  Lying close, in a battered caravan, watching someone you love softly breathing, a pale dawn light streaming through the windows, framed by the shadows of the mountains behind, fulfils all my bucket-list wishes. It is wild and liberating. Seeing Rab happy makes me move quietly. It is a relief to see our life on track again. Only, this morning something is different. As I sit up, tilting my head to listen intently, the caravan starts to rock gently. I can hear its dry, rusting panels shard, peeling away in rough splinters.

  As Rab stirs, rolling over with an arm across his face to block out the light, I slip my feet to the floor. I wrap a soft woollen blanket about me and push open the door of the caravan to investigate. As I step out, seed heads brush against my bare legs and the grass glitters, shimmering quietly, across the empty fields. The fresh air and starlight fall cool on to my skin.

  Out of the shadows, a gentle blowing snort accompanies a sudden startle of limbs. A swishing sound meets my own gasp of surprise. Our cows with calves at foot have wandered freely over the fields up from the croft. A moment later, Rab is at my side.

  ‘What the hell?’

  We look at each other. And then we laugh. It is so wonderful and ridiculous.

  ‘We’ll have to drive in some posts and fence them in,’ Rab sighs, tiredly running his hand over the sheared panels of the caravan. ‘And fill up these holes.’

  ‘Ssh,’ I say. ‘Not now.’

  Neither of us says what the other is thinking, of how, come the autumn, the wind will blow through.

  ‘Look, they are just being inquisitive.’ I stretch out my fingers to lightly touch their sleek summer coats. It is our first real encounter with the cows since we bought them at the market on the mainland. It was nerve-wracking watching Rab placing our bids in the frenetically paced auction ring with a raised hand or a quick nod of the head. All of us pressed too close, sweating bodies pushing hard against the bars of the low bidding pit, the bright lights, wet sawdust, the stench of dung and urine, the slamming gates, the deafening bellowing of cows as they were driven into the ring. It was hard to think with the relentless, ear-splitting voice shouting over the tannoy, driving the pace of the sale. I noticed how there were no other women in the crush surrounding the auction ring, just small groups clustered together high up in the hard wooden stalls. I wondered if I should be sitting there with them.

  It has taken the cows a full ten days to settle here on the croft. Their breath is warm and sweet, fermented from the herb-rich summer grass and tiny wild flowers. I take care not to move too quickly as their wet noses blow softly, cautiously scenting us, their tongues slowly rasping out as they taste the air, their flanks quivering, nervous, full of a dense, contained energy. One that is a darker tan reaches forward, nudges me gently and then, startled, backs quickly away. ‘They are not yet used to us,’ I say. ‘But soon they will be.’ And I think of the sheep we are still to buy which, similarly, we have no experience of handling or breeding. I tell myself, it is like anything in life. There is always a first time.

  ‘How did we get such a large family?’ I wonder, as Rab turns to pull me close.

  I yearn to be heavy like a moon suspended, waiting as the seasons pass. I close my eyes and make a wish. It is simply for a child to hold in my arms.

  Sometimes I long to hold the day in suspension. For this idyll never to break. Time glides slow as the brown trout sifting soundlessly under the loch’s still surface. A lone heron flaps out of the reeds, its great body working. The dry heat is stultifying. And all the while, the summer flits as effortlessly as the swallows skimming for insects, dipping their bills before whirling back into the sky.

  Every morning, we pull on our overalls, naked underneath. I fill buckets from the burn, soaking the walls, rubbing away years of debris, dirt and thick soot. It is an unsettling feeling, knowing we are about to live in a place devastated by unforeseen hardship, and that its owner was unable or unwilling to remain on the croft where he or she was born. With our arrival, this life is dead and gone, another heir opting for pragmatism over legacy and selling this home to us. As I scrub, I can hear Rab outside, crawling over the low roof, fixing old slates, and fastening the thin metal ridging to the roof. The roof is full of holes and gaps, its cracked and weathered tiling soft with moss. I try to imagine the unknown winter, when the seas will start lifting and the winds will come funnelling through. I am glad that our cottage is hunkered down, with an unassuming face, and keeps itself close to the ground. I remember the proverb about bright poppies growing too tall being ruthlessly cut down.

  Claiming the land around the house, we discover places of beauty and desolation. The grass is studded with wild orchids, dog violet, flag iris, celandines, bright-blue speedwell and the first pale harebells. But dig a little deeper, and beneath its thin skin are its broken graveyards and shallow landfills. A pile of rocks covers twisted horns, a fractured bovine skull, broken bottles and a pile of thin, whitened bones. And it makes me wonder what else lies just out of sight.

  One day, we decide it’s time for a long-overdue day off. And because the rugby is on and we don’t have a TV, Rab goes across on the boat to Oban in search of a pint and a few hours away on his own. We have been together without a break for weeks. We both need a little space. But I do not want to go to Oban, so I stay on the croft alone. The grass is so long, when I lie down in the sunshine I think I am completely hidden – so I lie back, take off my T-shirt and jeans. The grass tickles my skin. It smells delicious, all the seed heads bursting. And then I think, if not here, under empty sky and rolling grassland, where else can I be free? I strip off completely. The sunshine is hot on my face. I doze, listening to the birds and the sound of the breeze.

  Some time later, I wake abruptly, aware of a subtle change. The birds suddenly burst out of the tree above me. Something that tells me I am not alone. Instinctively I reach for my clothes, and then I freeze. Two men are striding towards me across the fields, at a fast pace somewhere between a jog and a run. I know they have seen me. I think, how embarrassing, but at least now they will give me some privacy and head off another way. But they do not. They neither deviate nor slow down. They are coming straight towards me. Suddenly, I am dragging on my clothes as fast as I can. It is a struggle to get dressed without standing up and exposing myself still further. When they are almost on top of me I roll away from them, with my back towards them, furiously fastening my jeans. The next minute, they are standing right over me as I lie flat on my back, their shadows falling across my body. I put my arm over my face, squinting into the sunlight. But all I can see are two shadows; the sun is blazing behind them, its flare full in my eyes.

  ‘Didn’t mean to surprise you,’ one of them says, apologetically.

  The other laughs, leaning forwards, and offers me a hand. ‘Well, look what we have here.’

  I do not take his hand. I roll over on to my side and get quickly to my feet. I am flustered. I scrunch my hair tight into a knot and take a step backwards, clumsily brushing off seeds and grassheads. I glance from one to another. Then I look down at my bare toes.

  I feel hugely at a disadvantage. And yet I am standing, fair and square, with two feet planted on my own croft. I wonder if it is commonplace to find others walking across fields that don’t belong to them, or are thing
s seen differently here?

  I don’t know why, but I find myself apologising. And that both confuses and annoys me even more, because I feel all the more off-guard, out of my comfort zone.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t see you,’ I say awkwardly.

  The second man laughs. ‘Aye, but we saw you.’

  Flushing, I flash him a look and he winks at me. My cheeks are burning so I quickly look away.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind him, lass.’ The first man shoves him mockingly. He has clear hazel eyes, piercing, shrewd. I feel them looking right through me.

  I lean forward and pick up my things: a book, a pair of trainers. The men do not move.

  ‘But what are you doing?’ I ask clumsily, ‘I mean, why are you here?’

  ‘Good question. What were we doing?’ He turns to his friend. ‘Think I must’ve been looking for you.’ He winks. ‘But that’s not right, either,’ he chuckles, shaking his head. ‘Sun’s gone to my head.’ He stares at me, unabashed. ‘Stock’s gone walkabout. We came looking for a ewe.’

  I fold my arms. I am not sure I believe him. It feels a flimsy, powerless gesture, and it is perhaps because of this that my words blurt uncharacteristically out of my mouth. ‘That’s funny, because these fields are empty,’ I say. ‘There are no sheep, just cows grazing here.’

  And it is true. There is not a sheep in sight. The auction where we plan to buy a flock is still a few weeks away.

  ‘Ah, that may be true, but it wasn’t a minute ago.’ He grins. ‘Strange what you can find tucked away in hidden places.’

  I look at him, speechless. It is at moments like this that I long for a quick, fiery wit. I am starting to learn you need a keen edge to your tongue for all the sparring and staking of territory and boundaries that takes place here. I hunt in vain for an apt response. The right words will only come to me, uselessly, hours later at home.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to be rude,’ I say, ‘but there are no sheep here. And this is my croft.’

  At which the first man fixes his eyes on me and slowly folds his arms. ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ he says quietly.

  I look at him, confused.

  ‘Aye, lass, always mind you’re staying at Hector’s croft.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, this is our croft, mine and Rab’s. We just bought it.’ But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to pull them back.

  ‘Aye, so you did. Well, you can call it what you like,’ he counters. ‘But this croft has always been Hector’s croft.’

  And suddenly there is a prickling tension between us. It is as if we have each taken a step further back from one another. I can feel a wind blowing between us, as if the day has suddenly turned cold.

  ‘Bought this wee place as well, did you? Put your wee flag into it, too, no doubt. Conquered with the chequebook where you failed with the sword.’

  He stares at me. His gleaming eyes run up me and back down. I am being sized up. It is discomfiting and intrusive. I feel vertiginous, unsure of my ground. There is a long silence.

  And then he laughs, shrugs. ‘Well now, let’s call it quits. Nothing more than a daft wee storm in your precious china teacup. Maybe next time you’ll invite us in to share some proper Highland hospitality with your good self.’

  Only the way he says this, it is provocative. I look down at my feet. I feel I have been churlish, but also humiliated. Above all, I feel confused.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I do not know why I am apologising again, except that I sense I have only just avoided making a serious faux pas. So I tell myself it is worth it for this reason.

  ‘Next time,’ I say carefully, ‘you are welcome to a dram with me and Rab up at the house.’ I hold out my hand. The gesture seems overly formal but it is the only way that suggests itself to close or seal this exchange.

  When he takes my hand, he squeezes it so hard I wince. I meet his gaze, and still he doesn’t let it go. And then, without warning, he drops my hand contemptuously.

  ‘Never forget,’ he says pointedly, ‘in Scotland, every man has the right to roam. So be careful where you go putting on and off your clothes.’

  When I look up, I feel dazed. I have wronged them. And yet I too have been wronged. I rub my hand and watch them leave at last, confused and disorientated. They are laughing together as they walk away. And the man who gripped my hand slaps the other hard on the back. All the warmth of the sun seems to evaporate. And I feel weary, the sunshine of the day tainted.

  ‘You stupid, stupid idiot,’ I scold myself fiercely. Only exactly what I have done, I am not sure. It is no clearer when I play it back in my head. When I tell Rab, he laughs. ‘They’re just chancers. Of course they came over. You were lying there half asleep without a stitch on.’ I look at him and wonder, is it my fault, then? And I think, would you have done the same? It bothers me for days, like sunburn that prickles its heat beneath the skin. I feel that I have stepped too close to an invisible boundary. I am alone on one side and, inexplicably, for the first time, Rab is standing facing me from across the line.

  I am missing my friends, and Rab is missing his. It is tiring only talking to each other. I wonder if birds too can weary of each other’s voices. Is that why they congregate in flocks – to hear a different song?

  During the long weeks before our off-grid address is connected with a landline, I walk to the phone box, located outside a nearby farm, to keep in touch with friends and family. My fingers push coins rapidly into the metal slot. Each minute is precious. ‘It’s great to hear your voice,’ I say to a friend. And to another, ‘Will you write? Call it that coffee or lunch we used to have.’ Only no one uses ink any more.

  It makes the few letters that come all the more important. Even opening a bill feels special in the absence of other communications. Post is delivered daily. It is always a hopeful time. Every morning the post office van drives down to the shore to meet the ferry. It turns around, reverses down the slip and on to the boat. The sacks are loaded into the back and then it drives up the island to the tiny post office, where the post is sorted before being delivered direct to each mailbox or placed inside each unlocked household door. Later, the outgoing mail will be stamped, bagged, put on to the ferry and taken to the mainland central depot in Oban. Each day is marked by this routine. It demands accurate timing. The ferry waits for no one, not even the post. Only the weather or a mechanical fault will stop its clockwork precision.

  We long to know other islanders; to hear of the gatherings that take place behind closed doors. The key, it turns out, is on the road. One day the cheery red post van comes to the house as I am working in the yard and the post lady toots the horn and rolls down the window. ‘Doing anything tonight?’ she asks, and laughs as I shrug and shake my head. Truth is, I cannot remember the last time I had a night out. ‘Well, it’s my birthday – I’m making a girls’ outing. I’ll come by to pick you up close to the back of six.’

  ‘Don’t be late and don’t get drunk,’ Rab jokes as we hear the blast of a horn outside and he pushes me out of the door. ‘You’re on your own now.’ I have clean jeans and make-up on. I have washed my hair and left my work boots at the door. For a minute, I do not recognise myself.

  ‘Jump in!’ a voice shouts, but when I try the handle, I realise that others are already squeezed into all the available seats. ‘Full house up front!’ the voice shouts again, ‘Let yourself into the back.’

  I heave the back door open and say hello in surprise. The back is already nearly full as well. I can see at least five women squashed in there. No one says anything but legs and bodies move over. There is a squeal and then someone laughs. ‘Mind, you clump – you’re sitting on my foot.’ It is an ice-breaker. A hand reaches out, hauls me in and the door is slammed shut from the outside. Inside it is completely dark until a torch flicks on. There are giggles, and then a bottle is passed around. It feels wonderful to be included in this celebration, whirling about the island, picking up still more revellers along the way an
d, later, to sit crammed with them around a small table at the ferry bar across the water. After the last tenner is slammed down hard on the table, and glasses are downed, there is a dash for the boat, and the ferry sings its way home.

  Although I cannot remember everyone’s name, I now know a handful of others who live here. It occurs to me that perhaps I have always taken friendships for granted and brings home the enormity of the step we have taken. With hindsight our old life seems incredibly simple, trustworthy and dependable. Everyone needs to feel the presence of other lives close by. Strangely, it makes you less discerning of the company you have found, so grateful are you to have found it at all.

  It is an old island custom to look for lights in the darkness. A light in a window, I learn, is an open invitation to knock on the door of the house for company, and others expect hospitality on seeing a similar light in your own home. Our first visitors are an elderly couple. They arrive on the doorstep and pass the time of day. They will not come in or sit with us, but their warmth is welcome, as is their kindness and genuine curiosity. They bring a tin of shortbread and homemade tablet, a delicious sweet made from sugar, condensed milk and butter – it is so hard it is safer to break it with your fingers than risk your teeth – and then they walk away up the road. Visiting from door to door, unannounced, is an altogether different and unexpected way of socialising.

  ‘Why don’t we practise?’ I suggest.

  I hastily wrap some bread and biscuits I have made using our basic cooking equipment. I am excited yet it feels daunting to go knocking on strangers’ doors. In the end, the outcome is as we might have anticipated. Some doors open with warmth, curiosity and a cheery welcome, whilst others pull back warily. And at a couple we experience open hostility.