Love and Music Will Endure (12 page)

Màiri enjoyed replaying the meeting in her mind but there were a few jarring notes that made her flinch. The first discord had sounded when she returned to her seat and a voice from behind her said, ‘Was that the best John Murdoch could find? An old, illiterate woman from Skye?’ Illigitterate indeed! How dare that snooty English speaker insult her family by suggesting her parents had behaved shamelessly. Her ears straining, she sat taut with the effort of not turning round.

‘Well, Robbie Burns himself was only a ploughman when he was taken up by Edinburgh society.’

This time it was a cultured male voice, tinged with amusement.

‘It’s not the same thing at all. He might have been poor but his father had him tutored at home. Anyway you wouldn’t find a proper lady disporting herself like that on stage,’ the woman sniffed in disdain.

What force of will it had cost Màiri to stay still, back rigid and head proud. And what about Professor Blackie? She had been overwhelmed to learn that she would be appearing on the same stage as such a distinguished scholar. Yet, hadn’t he made rather a fool of himself?

But it was John who had most perturbed her. She would always be grateful to him because he had rescued her from despair and given her a new life. She had thought they were of one mind about the sufferings of the Highlanders. So she had been so taken aback when he rounded on her about Lord MacDonald. She felt as if a good-natured beast that stayed quiet for milking had
suddenly turned on her, kicking over the bucket and knocking her off her stool.

What I need, she decided, is a rest and change of air. Once the spring came she would go to Skye. She had heard from Mairead. After all those years in Australia she was returning home for good and she had invited Màiri to stay with her. What could be better?

Now here she was, her first night in her friend’s house. She felt unsure after the first flurry of her arrival. They had been close as girls but that was so long ago. Now they were like dogs that had been separated as puppies. Meeting again there was the familiar smell of a litter mate but they didn’t know whether to lick each other or growl a warning.

‘Come on Màiri. Will you put those wretched things down. You don’t have to pretend to be a wee Highland wifie.’

She dropped the carding brushes, narrowing her eyes.

‘Well, I’m not used to sitting still. I didn’t as a girl and then I was always making clothes for my children and even when I was nursing I …’

‘But there’s no need to do it now. You were fair hammering those brushes. Mind you, I can remember you spinning when you were a lassie; the wheel sped so fast that it nearly flew off,’ she smiled. ‘I think you can’t settle after all that excitement in Glasgow.’

‘I’m no slip of a lassie now,’ Màiri chuckled as she surveyed her broad hips, straining against her corset. ‘How did I get so stout? I was never a wispy wee thing but I was fair and bonny enough. Living in a town and bearing children is what ruined me. Each babe that popped out left more weight behind it.’

Mairead straightened her already erect back and smoothed her hands over her own slender lap. She clamped her lips at such indelicate conversation. Had Màiri been so coarse in the old days?

‘It was exciting being at the meeting. Of course they needed me to draw in the Highlanders. I’m one of their own, not a lady idling in her parlour.’

‘I expect a lady wouldn’t stand up there with all those men,’ Mairead sniffed.

An awkward silence settled. Màiri started to hum under her breath and then softly added words,

Towards the end Mairead was humming and smiling. ‘How do you keep all those words in your head and not lose them?’

‘I don’t know. Some of my poems are like hens that run away to lay their eggs in secret and there I am hunting everywhere for them.’

‘You need to get someone to write them down. A sort of milkmaid, drawing off your words. You know how it is with a house cow, the more you milk her the more she yields.’

‘So, I’m not a wee wifie but a beast needing to be milked, is that it?’ Màiri roared, pretending to be outraged.

Their gusts of laughter lightened the air. ‘I’ll fetch some milk and make us tea’.

Màiri stayed sitting by the fire, watching the water heat up in the pot hanging over the flames. She thought about how she could usually find where her words were roosting. Maybe because she only learnt to write late in life she kept the old habit of storing everything in her memory. Pappa had told her about the people living on Saint Kilda, perched on islands on the edge of the world, pounded by winds and waves. It was hard to imagine how they could keep anything warm and dry but they had perfected a way of building small hollow cairns with turf roofs which preserved the carcasses of the seabirds they had caught. She too protected her words from the spoiling elements of time and forgetting.

Mairead returned with the milk from the cold press, ‘I was remembering the gatherings we had in the old days. We had cèilidhs still in Australia but it wasn’t the same without the glow of the peat fire. And what about waulking the cloth? All the women and lassies there – no man dared come for fear of being rolled up in the cloth and pounded.’

‘I always thought it hard that we girls just got a sip of whisky, not a proper taste,’ Màiri added, ‘But what a feast afterwards! Everyone brought a contribution to the food and added their
share to the bucket. You had to sing heartily to forget about the reek in your nostrils. Don’t look so disapproving, Mairead. You squatted to give your portion, the same as the rest of us.’

‘I prefer to remember the songs, how they got faster and faster. It’s odd but I don’t remember you being so much of a singer in those days.’

Màiri shrugged, ‘Do you think this milk’s a wee bit sour?’

Dr MacLaren was absorbed in his newspaper when the guard blew his whistle. As the train started to move he heard the carriage door flung open. From under his paper he could see a pair of heavy boots haul themselves aboard. They were black, scuffed and slack-laced as a loosened corset. Not the sort of footwear you would expect from a first class traveller. He lowered his newspaper to reveal a bulky woman wriggling and edging herself into the seat opposite. Rather like a cow backing carefully onto a tree to rub an itch, he thought.

She sighed softly, exhilarated yet tired. She had been performing at yet another cèilidh. She was brimming with new songs; they were pouring out of her. She was relishing John’s praise too, ‘It’s so powerful when you sing about the speakers of English who mistreated you.’ He had started to sing in a warm baritone,

‘Then when you turn to the plight of our people,’

‘Now those are the words that rouse the spirit, much more than the poems where you praise people, even though I was flattered to be called “the hero who shifts the millstone about the necks of the stalwarts.”’

He had smiled to remove the sting from his remarks. Still, Màiri frowned in vexation now, churning it over in her mind. Surely it was the bard’s role to praise important people? She could only compose verses in the way she did and that was that.

Watching her covertly Dr MacLaren bit his lips to hold back a smile. He thought how this stolid woman looked for all the world like a cow in a summer pasture, tossing her head to get rid of irritating flies.

It was tiring though, rushing to catch the train home to Greenock. She had moved from Glasgow. It wasn’t really suitable anymore staying with Flora now that she was married and had so little room. Effie was grown up too now and didn’t need her there.

‘I suppose you consider our poor wee close beneath you now you’re so grand,’ Flora had snapped, very unjustly Màiri thought.

Once she had qualified as a midwife she wanted the freedom to work outside the hospital and to have her own front door. It was the first time ever that she had lived on her own and she enjoyed suiting herself. It was other people who didn’t like her bobbing free. They wanted to anchor her down to what they thought a widow should do. Did they imagine that she was gallivanting to cèilidhs for her own amusement? She was invited because her songs inspired people and put them at their ease after all the speechifying.

What would Isaac have made of it all? She closed her eyes, trying to summon up his face, his voice and his presence. It was difficult to gather them all together. She would remember one aspect of him but then it would shift and slide like uneven ground beneath her feet as she tried to assemble the whole man. She suspected that he would disapprove of her appearing in front of audiences. Maybe he would have changed his view of the world though, had he lived? After all, she had done so. Ten years
ago she would never have imagined that she would be not only a qualified nurse with her own money but also a respected bard whom folk flocked to see. And all those important gentlemen listening to her songs and her opinions. She had done well for a simple girl from Skye. She sank back into her seat, letting her shoulders drop and looked out of the window. She wouldn’t dwell on other people’s disapproval.

Dr MacLaren noticed her relax. Now she’s settled to chewing the cud, he thought. She turned her head and caught his eye.

‘It’s a hot evening to be travelling, Madam.’

Before replying she took in his tailored coat, neatly trimmed greying beard and smooth, well-tended hands. His scrutiny made her feel flustered. Then she chided herself, remembering that she was no longer a servant but a woman of substance, a lady even, who could hold her head up high.

‘Indeed it is, Sir, and I was fortunate to catch the train.’

‘Do I detect a Highland lilt in your voice?’

‘Aye. I’m Skye born and bred. Màiri, nighean Iain Bhàin I was born, although I’ve passed more than half my life away from my home. I lived in Inverness for many years until my husband died.’

‘May I introduce myself? I’m Dr Fergus MacLaren and originally my family hailed from Argyll. Like so many others my grandfather came to Glasgow in search of work.’

Màiri watched him intently and to his surprise he felt moved to continue.

‘He was a canny man and married his employer’s daughter. Thanks to his enterprise and good fortune I was able to train as a doctor.’ He hesitated and then added, ‘I too have lost my companion in life.’

He stared at her, his cool blue eyes scalpel sharp and she steeled herself not to look away.

‘I hope that you won’t consider me impolite if I ask you a question?’

Her deep set eyes were guarded but unflinching. She nodded.

‘Have you ever been associated with the Royal?’

‘Indeed I have. I trained there a few years ago as a nurse and midwife.’

He smiled in satisfaction, ‘I thought so. You’ve remained famous. A colleague from the hospital told me about a nurse answering your description, a brave lady he said who had bearded the great Professor Lister in his den.’

She smiled, her treacle dark eyes gleaming.

He leaned forward, ‘So you are the lady in question. Is it true that you attended one of his lectures and asked a question of the great man?’

‘And why not? I’ve always believed that cleanliness was vital. I couldn’t understand why some of the doctors wouldn’t wash their hands and wore their dirty outdoor clothes when they tended patients. So I decided that I should seek his advice.’

‘Did no-one warn you how much he abhors the female sex studying medicine? He won’t allow lady medical students to attend his lectures, let alone …’

‘Common nurses,’ she interrupted, laughing. ‘I told no-one about my plan to speak to him. If I had, my resolve would have wavered. I needed to speak to him because I strive to be a good nurse.’

‘Even if that means criticising doctors?’

‘If needs be.’

‘What did you think of the great man?’

‘A very dignified gentleman who took great pains with his patient. He spoke to her gently but then after she was given chloroform he put on his operating coat.’ She paused and shuddered. ‘It was so stiff with dried blood and gore that he had
to force his arms into the sleeves. How could he be so careful about keeping the wound clean and yet so heedless with his dress?’

He frowned, ‘I think you are venturing into areas beyond a nurse’s duties.’ Seeing that she was about to retort he looked out of the window, ‘I believe we’re coming into Greenock now.’

Màiri watched him silently. Her spirits were buoyed up after her performance but there was something more stirring in her, a stronger swell making her rear and buck in the waves. The conversation with the doctor had stimulated her and she realised that she would like to know him better. After all, he was a widower and a well set up gentleman. Why shouldn’t she harbour hopes for a second marriage? She was still lusty and healthy. The train was slowing down. How to find a way of prolonging their conversation? Should she speak or wait for him? How did the gentry act in this situation? She hesitated, unsure of herself.