Across the Bridge Read online

  “Oh, leave the boys alone, Dugald,” chided Sarah, “Go and take them to the port and they can look from there and then get them back to my house early so they can get a good sleep for school tomorrow.”

  The answer came in Gaelic. Neither boy understood the words but felt sure it wasn’t laced with pleasantries. They went out of the cottage and turned right down towards the sea. The dog came along, walking between the boys. He had sensed his new responsibility. The island didn’t disappoint the two lads. It was just like their mother had described it and now as the sun dipped behind the hills it glowed in a pink haze. It wasn’t like Walney. It seemed to be about a mile away, dark and mysterious. Dugald pointed out various places but it was too dark now to see them clearly. They turned for home. They were to live with Sarah in Port Appin. Her house was the bottom half of a stone cottage with the delightful name of Cosy Den.

  Life had changed today for all three of them, the two boys in a strange new place and the spinster aunt, now in the role of parent. Some interesting days were now before them. As the two boys lay in bed that night, recounting the day between themselves, soft strains of violin music drifted through the thin wooden walls. Slow melancholy tunes that floated through the house like the soft wisps of summer mist descending the glen. Dugald had gone home for a fiddle. With sleep about to conquer the excitement of the day they heard a tune they recognised. “Slumber gently goodnight, stars above shining bright,” they knew the words well, “Brahms’s Lullaby”. How many times had their mother sung that song? As Dugald’s bow skiffed lightly across the strings, drawing comfort and warmth from the softness of the melody, the two boys fell asleep.

  Next morning Sarah escorted them to school just down the road. The summer break in Scotland starts and finishes a month ahead of England so Ian and Donnie lost their holidays that year. Port Appin School was just starting the new term so it was a perfect time to integrate in a strange school. And strange it was indeed for the two boys, just one teacher and fifteen or so children. Bella MacInnes was the teacher, only twenty-five years old and full of fun and enthusiasm. She welcomed the two young English boys. They both spoke with a peculiar accent. There were traces of their mother’s lilt but when they spoke they sounded like they were from Liverpool. In such a small class they became the source of fun for the first few weeks but they very quickly settled in.

  The next few years passed uneventfully. In the lead up to the great war of 1914-18 there was increased demand for submarines so their father Donald was kept busy in Barrow and was able to send money north to his sister to take care of the boys. Slowly but surely they became part of the Appin community and began to learn Gaelic, not as a language in itself but in the way that it had become fused with English especially for hellos goodbyes and quick exchanges. Even today in 2003 you can have a conversation with a Highlander, all in English, and as you say “goodbye” he will answer “beannachd leibh” or at night “oidche mhath”.

  The war with Germany deepened. Sadness crept into the village as the young men were called up to go and fight in the trenches along the Somme Valley in France and in Flanders. Many never returned and of those who did many were profoundly affected. News came from Barrow that brother Johnny had been called up. And then he came home, shell shocked and suffering from mustard gas, and died within a year.

  Father Donald and brother Bobby came up to Appin shortly after this for a short visit. Bobby was home on leave from the sea and for Donald work in the yard was slackening as the war drew to an end. Bobby, by now, was a world adventurer and enthralled the two younger brothers with his tales of seafaring. He was a “donkeyman”. Both brothers laughed at this name. Steam ships in port had a small ancillary boiler to power the cranes and lifting gear. This was called the “donkey” boiler since it did the work. Bobby was the engineer in charge of this part of the ship. Ian was delighted to see his big brother again and lapped up all his stories.

  They went out fishing in Dugald’s little boat. Bobby went swimming and tried to teach his brothers. They went roaming in the woods and they showed him the spot where the Red Fox was killed. Bobby thought they were talking about an animal. So they told him all about the story of the murdered tax collector. He was a Campbell and was murdered by one of the Stewarts of Appin in 1752 but they never found the real killer. James of the Glens was hanged for the crime and they left his body hanging for months so that everybody could see but he wasn’t guilty. Scottish schools had just recently become enthusiastic about the books of Robert Louis Stevenson and Ian was reading Kidnapped, the fictional version of this story. His uncle had told him that some of the old folk in Appin knew the name of the real killer but it was a family secret among the Stewarts.

  All this was too much for Bobby. He had become a man of the world and obscure little folk tales were not for him. He had changed a lot since Barrow. They had all changed. Once so close-knit they now had their separate worlds. Bobby had no desire to stay in the “Great Glen”. A couple of days later he received a telegram to pick up his boat in Glasgow. Donald the father went too. They hadn’t seen so much of him. He’d been most of the time in the pub. They all exchanged their goodbyes and life in Appin went back to normal.

  In 1918 the war ended. Britain was numb from the loss of so many of its young men in such inhuman conditions. The public and in turn the government reacted with revulsion and cancelled all planned expenditure on defence. The submarine programme was shelved and work in Barrow in Furness ground to a halt. Donald was now out of work. Johnny was dead, Bobby away at sea and the younger boys up in the Highlands. A bitter man, he turned the key one last time in the door of number 10 Avon Street. He didn’t take the key to the factor’s office. He threw it in the water as he crossed Walney Bridge for the last time. But first he made one last visit to the little churchyard. Her tomb stood out from the rest. A large white marble bed and a headstone, like the headboard of a bed. “Mary the dearly beloved wife of Donald Black” He got down on his knees and cried.

  “Goodbye, my love,” he said, stood up and walked away. He walked into Barrow and took the first train out. Changing trains at Carnforth, like the boys had done six years before, he headed north to Glasgow and the Clydeside.

  Mary Black

  6. BRAXY

  Argyllshire, around 1916-20

  Braxy is a disease common in sheep in Scotland. It is a chronic intestinal illness that claims a number of young sheep on the hills in winter. At the time of death the animal gives off an offensive smelling gas. Mr. Macpherson, the head teacher of Appin School had an unpleasant smell of his breath. Perhaps that was why the children called him “Braxy”. Ian changed to Appin School at the age of eleven.

  Braxy was a good teacher and his classes were seldom dull. He taught English and Gaelic and instilled in the youngsters an appreciation of God’s gift of nature and of their Highland history and heritage. The Jacobite uprising of 1745 wasn’t just a part of history. It was the fulcrum of the history of the Scottish Highlands. David Livingstone wasn’t just another explorer. He was the explorer of the 19 century, descended from the Livingstones of Lismore.

  “Just like you Iain, my lad, from the Livingstones of Lismore, part of the Stewart clan.” He insisted on calling Ian by the Highland version Iain.

  And that was it. The formal history class was abandoned while “Braxy” Macpherson launched into the Appin version of the battle of Culloden.

  “Donald Livingstone would have been your Great, Great, Great Grandfather. Do you hear me, Iain Black? It was he who rescued the banner of the Stewarts of Appin after the Battle of Culloden. There were twelve clans, you know, whose banners flew that day. Disgrace fell upon the Highlands when they were burned publicly in the Mercat Cross in Edinburgh. That was the beginning of the persecutions of the clans, their tartans, their language, their lands and their livelihoods. But one banner didn’t fall that day. Young Donald, himself just a lad of eighteen, as the standard bearers lay bleeding on the heath, grabbed the standard, removed the precious ba
nner and escaped the battlefield.

  He wrapped the banner round his body and when knocked to the ground by a bullet the flag saved him. Up he got and jumped astride a passing horse. He was chased by two dragoon soldiers. He killed one and the other ran away. He rode all the way to the coast and then rowed out to Morvern. From there to Lismore he returned the Banner to its rightful owners.

  Now there’s a story to tell your grandchildren, Iain Black.”

  “But if my family are Livingstone, why is our name Black?” queried Ian, a little uncomfortable with the burden of such newfound fame.

  “Hah, that’s an easy one to answer. Ask your own folks. They’ll tell you. Listen. First of all the Livingstone name is from your mother’s side. Your father’s ancestors were Carmichaels and Maclarens. After Culloden the Campbells and their Redcoats scoured the Highlands looking for anyone who had sided with Prince Charles. One of your great, great, great uncles was the blacksmith at Tynribbie where your family still live. Three Redcoats came one day and questioned him about whether he was of one of the suspect clans. No, he assured them, everybody in that house was Black, and so they were, black from the soot of the forges.”

  “Oh, Iain Black,” old Braxy continued, “You have a proud heritage valich, even if you are an Englishman. And speaking of heritage our language isn’t persecuted any more so we will now begin our Gaelic lessons. For the rest of the afternoon we will speak only in Gaelic.”

  So, over the years Ian and his older brother lost their North England accent and acquired a fine Highland lilt. Gaelic began to blend into their conversation. They learned some of the songs their mother used to sing and Ian learned to play some on the fiddle. He still couldn’t play “The Bonnie Lass o’ Bon Accord” like his uncle but he knew that his fiddle was already under construction. Life with Aunt Sarah however was becoming more tenuous.

  In February 1919, one year after the end of the war, Ian turned 13 years of age. The money from his father had dried up since his move to the Clyde in search of work. The post-war years were not good for shipbuilding. Sarah, who was a dressmaker, was having to take on more work to keep Ian. His brother Donnie had already left school and was now working with his mother’s brother in the gardens of the nearby estate. Braxy’s stories of heroic ancestors were fine to tell your grandchildren but reality dictated that Ian would have to leave school and look for work. His education was deemed to be complete.

  Destiny took him first to the home of other Highland heroes and antiheroes. Meggernie, in the wilds of Glen Lyon about forty miles from Appin, was the land that the Campbells stole from the famous Rob Roy Macgregor and from where a later generation planned and executed the Massacre of Glencoe. But as Ian trudged the last few miles of the glen with his pack of worldly goods on his shoulder he was going to work for the Wills family. W.D. and H.O. Wills were tobacco importers and makers of such famous brands as Woodbine, Bristol and Player’s. In Glen Lyon they had bought Meggernie from the Campbells and built up the gardens, the forests and the hill farms. Ian caught the first morning train from Appin to Connel and then changed to the train that came out of Oban heading for Glasgow, the reverse of his journey with Sarah seven years before.

  He got off at a small station in the village of Tyndrum about ten in the morning. From there he had to walk up a sheep track between the crags to the western end of Glen Lyon. There was no road except coming from the other side from Aberfeldy but the track was well trodden by sheep and cattle over many years. No doubt it was a track well used by Rob Roy and his followers. It climbed between Beinn Odhar and Beinn Charorach and along the side of Creag Mohr then down to the source of Loch Lyon. This was the month of February when Scottish nights close in about five o’clock and behind the mountain crags about four o’clock. Luckily it was a cloudless day so there was an extra half hour but the frost was falling so he had to try and reach houses before night made further travel impossible. He thought of Alan Breck and David Balfour, the fugitives of “Kidnapped” as he tramped through the heather.

  The red glow from the west sank lower and lower behind the moors of Rannoch in the distance. The temperature dropped too as the soft glow turned to dusk. The landscape was desolate, not a house to be seen for miles. However, even as darkness fell he still managed to follow the side of the loch, jumping burns and gullies and hoping he didn’t fall in a peat bog, but he didn’t want to stop. Just when he was beginning to resolve himself to sleeping rough he came across a sheep pen with a small stone built shelter. It smelled a bit but was big enough to huddle down for the night. Just then he heard a whistle and a shout. He called out and a dog came hustling round his legs. Another whistle and a shout “Rory here!” and the dog ran off to the call of his master. A shadow came into view.

  “Who’s that out on the hill at this time of night?” asked the shadowy figure.

  “ My name is Ian Black. I have walked from Tyndrum and I am going to work in Meggernie. Do you know how far it is?”

  “Good heavens lad, you have about five miles more to go and there’s no road to guide you. It will take you a good two hours more and there’s a mist coming down.”

  True enough wisps of night mist were rolling down the crags and the loch was no longer visible.

  “You don’t sound very old,” the voice continued. “Where are you from?”

  “I come from Appin. I’m thirteen. I finished school last week and have a job at Meggernie.”

  “Well laddie, you can’t stay out on the hill all night; you’ll freeze to death. Why don’t you come back with me and my wife will find you some supper. You can sleep on the rug in front of the fire. My name is Duncan MacFarlane and the dog is called Rory. In the morning I’ll point you in the direction of the Castle.”

  “OK, thanks,” replied the relieved young lad, “I wasn’t looking forward to sleeping outside and I was starting to get lost.”

  So, down they went about half a mile to a little stone cottage. Mrs MacFarlane welcomed him in to the warm fire and they enjoyed a supper of “skirly”, fried oatmeal and onions. In the morning, still crisp with frost, Ian prepared to head down to Meggernie Castle. Duncan MacFarlane was the shepherd on the south side of the glen in charge of a growing flock of blackface ewes. They shook hands man-to-man outside the cottage and Duncan, who preferred being called Dochie, told Ian that he could do with a helper.

  “Maybe someday valich you’ll come and be a shepherd.”

  “Maybe Dochie. I’d quite like that. Beannachd leibh.” The Gaelic parting now came naturally to Ian.

  When he reached the main estate his first impression was the enormity of the trees, giant elms with trunks fifteen feet wide and huge larch and fir trees reaching to the skies. He’d never seen trees so big. He found the gardens and one of the gardeners directed him to the factor’s office. By midday he was in employment as helper to the general handyman of the estate and his bag of worldly possessions were left by his bed in a workers’ bothy. The handyman was Donald MacNeil from the other side of Loch Tay. He had a workshop with sawyer’s tools and blacksmith’s anvil and all the tools and materials necessary to make what was required around the estate. This could be anything from snares for the trappers to catch rabbits to a shed or small barn for animals. He might be asked to repair a bicycle or clean the filters in the burn to maintain the water supply to the castle and its offices. The workshop was not unlike John Black and Sons at Tynribbie so Ian felt immediately at home.

  The bothy, however, was not so welcoming, ten rough beds, each with a chest of drawers, and a wood-stove in the corner. The place smelled of working men and tobacco, creosote and stale food. But when he finished his first day with MacNeil and came back to sleep in the bothy the atmosphere was friendly. Ian was obviously the youngest and the oldest seemed to be a tall white haired man who spoke only Gaelic, no English. Everybody called him “skianach” so it was logical to assume he was from the Isle of Sky. Some worked in the gardens, some in the woods and a couple on the home farm. They explained that they took
turns to make dinner, which would be a large pot of soup or stew. The lads from the gardens were allowed to take potatoes and vegetables and from the woodlands came a plentiful supply of rabbits, sometimes a hen from the farm.

  Tonight though seemed to be a special treat. One of the farm hands, called Lachy, proudly proclaimed that he had made the greatest braxy stew. Just for a brief moment Ian thought they were going to eat his old headmaster. The look on his face demanded an explanation.

  “Have you never eaten braxy?” asked Lachy.

  “What is it?” asked Ian.

  “ A braxy sheep has the best meat,” declared Lachy, ”but you have to get it when the sheep has just died.”

  They sat down round a rough wooden table and the pot of stew was placed in the middle. It was indeed a tasty meal but Ian still had doubts. He decided that when it was his turn he would try to catch some burn trout. He had some hooks and line in his bag.

  Their employers, the Wills family, had made their fortune from tobacco plantations in the Caribbean, presumably in the first years with the help of slaves. Their attitude to the workers on their Scottish estate was not significantly different. They had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies but not too many coins to rattle in their pockets. By December Ian had just enough for a ticket back to Appin for the New Year. This was the only holiday allowed and they worked every day except Sunday from six in the morning till six at night and even later in the summer. Despite the hard work the life was good fun and he was learning well from Donald MacNeil. He liked making things and quickly showed an aptitude for the work.

  They made everything: doors, gates, windows and even the hinges and the latches. They built fences, sheds and, sometimes, small bridges. They made wheelbarrows for the gardens and maintained the wheels of the horse drawn carts. Every day was different, always something new.