Entry Island

And then, it seemed, I lost all control of events, as servants were called to carry the little girl into the castle, and I was left standing in the big stone-flagged hall as people ran around like mad things. I saw the laird on the stairs, his face pale and etched with concern. I heard his voice for the first time. But I didn’t understand his English.

No one paid me the least attention and I began to cry, desperately afraid that I had failed my mother and that she was going to die because I had been deflected from the purpose of my errand. The maid who opened the door hurried across the flags and knelt beside me, consternation in her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said to me in Gaelic. ‘You have done a brave thing. You have saved the life of the laird’s wee girl.’

I clutched her hand. ‘I need the doctor to come.’

‘The doctor’s been sent for,’ she said reassuringly. ‘He’ll be here in no time.’

‘No, for my mother.’ I was close to hysteria then.

But she didn’t understand. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

And I told her about my mother, and the birth of my little sister, and the bleeding. Her face paled.

‘Stay here,’ she said, and she hurried away up the big staircase.

I stood there for a miserable eternity, until she returned at a run and knelt beside me again, a warm, comforting hand brushing the hair from my eyes. ‘As soon as he has seen to Ciorstaidh, the doctor will go with you to Baile Mhanais.’

I felt a huge wave of relief. ‘Ciorstaidh,’ I said. ‘Is that the name of the laird’s daughter?’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘But they call her by her English name. Kirsty.’

I’m not sure now how much time it took for the doctor to come and see to Ciorstaidh. But as soon as he was done we set off on his horse, back along the road towards my village. At the overturned trap we stopped. The horse was still alive, but had almost given up the struggle. The doctor took a look at the man in the ditch. He stood up, grim-faced. ‘Dead,’ he said. Though I could have told him that. ‘Ciorstaidh’s tutor from Glasgow. Only been here six months.’ He got back on his horse and half turned to me. ‘If you hadn’t brought her back to the castle, son, she’d have died out here from the exposure.’

He hit the horse’s flank with his crop and we set off at a gallop, until we reached the turn on to the path and had to slow to let the horse pick its way gingerly among the stones and heather roots, before descending the hill finally to the village.

Somehow, it seemed, they had managed to stop my mother from bleeding any further and she was still alive. The doctor was led into our fire room, and Annag and me were hustled outside to wait in the rain. But I didn’t mind. It seemed that I had saved two lives that day, and I related the whole story to my wee sister, all puffed up with pride in the telling of it.

Then my father came out, and the relief on his face was visible to both of us. ‘The doctor says your mother should be all right. She’s weak and she’s going to need rest, so it’ll be up to all of us to fill her shoes for a bit.’

‘What’s the baby called?’ Annag asked.

And my father smiled. ‘Murdag,’ he said. ‘After my mother.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You did well, son.’ And I felt such pleasure in the light of his praise. ‘The doctor tells me you carried the laird’s daughter all the way back to Ard Mor. Saved her life, without a doubt.’ He pushed his chin out and let his eyes drift thoughtfully across the hillside above us. ‘The laird will owe us for that.’

I can’t remember exactly how long afterwards it was that the new term at school began. Sometime after the New Year, I suppose. I do remember being on the path to the school-house that first day, passing below the church that served the townships of Baile Mhanais and Sgagarstaigh. The school sat out on the machair overlooking the bay on the far side of the hill and the strips of farmed land that rose beyond it. There were usually around thirty of us who attended, though that number could vary depending on the needs of the croft. But my father always said that there was nothing more important than a good education, and so he hardly ever kept me away.

My mother had made a good recovery, and baby Murdag was doing well. I’d been up at first light that day to fetch in a creel of peats and fill my stomach with the potatoes we’d left roasting among the embers of the fire overnight. Then when the fire was blazing my mother had boiled up more tatties, which we had with milk and a little salted fish. So with a full belly, I didn’t feel the cold too badly, barely noticing the crust of snow crunching beneath my bare feet.

When I got to school I was surprised to find that we had a new teacher: Mr Ross from Inverness. He was much younger than the other one, and he spoke both English and Gaelic.

When we were all seated at our rough wooden desks he asked if there was anyone among us who spoke English. Not a single hand was raised.

He said, ‘Well, who among you would like to speak English?’