Shielded from sight

“In answer to M Bell’s recent inquiry regarding the Discovery,” says Stanley Gordon, “it would not have been possible to see the ship from Commercial Street. Camperdown Dock is to the east of the old Customs House and Trades Lane.

“Discovery was also shielded from sight from Dock Street by being berthed behind the sheds which now house retail units, restaurants and a dental practice. It’s a pity that Discovery and Unicorn could not have been berthed permanently in the same dock area.”

Lilias spoke to her sister. “Leave them alone,” she said. “I don’t mind!” Francisco looked up. “She reminds me of my little sister.” “What’s her name?” asked Ishbel. “Sofia Isabella.”

“But that’s your name, Ishbel,” said Lilias. “Ishbel and Isabella are the same.”

Ishbel put her arm through his. “I can be your sister while you’re staying here. And when spring comes, we can show you some more of the island.”

“I don’t even know how big this place is,” Francisco ventured. “Neither do I,” said Ishbel, giggling, looking to her sister for enlightenment.

The island was 17 miles long and seven miles wide, although a Scots mile was, so Lilias told them, somewhat longer than its English equivalent. She didn’t know how one would count it in English miles.

Eilean Garbh was home to many people, all of whom owed their allegiance to her father. There were tacksmen, those who held their land from Ruaridh Mcneill, often relatives, and their dependent tenants and servants in turn. All of them were as closely interwoven as a piece of fine cloth, all relying upon each other, especially during times of hardship.

The islanders relied on the laird to oversee their troubles and their quarrels and to administer justice when necessary. As for the laird, he was beholden only to his clan chief, far away on the island of Barra, so Eilean Garbh was entirely his own responsibility.

In any one year, there would be beasts to care for – horses, cattle and sheep – as well as justice to administer and rents to collect, sometimes in cash and more often in kind. Most of all, perhaps, it was important for the chief to have a number of men whom he could “call out” at need, during times of strife. But the life of the island and those living here relied on Ruaridh Mcneill and his immediate family, to a greater or lesser extent, and Lilias seemed well aware of the responsibility that entailed.

“Not an easy task,” said Mateo, thinking of the quarrels, the troubles, the problems that so often arose for his own father with a smaller estate to oversee. He thought that his father brought some of his troubles on himself, being a harsh and autocratic leader. He knew little of Mcneill, but the man seemed both firm and anger, anyway.

“No indeed. And one that certainly demands the wisdom of Solomon in all his glory,” she said, smiling at him.

It had occurred to him that she could not resist flirting with him. They were always supervised, and since she had a certain freedom here, he had begun to realise that she arranged it that she would be chaperoned.

This meant that she was able to talk to him without raising the suspicions of those who might observe them. It emphasised the innocence of their conversations. If Beathag could not be with her, or one of the younger women who helped about the house, then Ishbel was always beside her.

Today, they were seated in the hall. Francisco was still given a certain amount of leeway because of his illness, and because Beathag seemed happy to treat him like a younger member of her family. He was sitting huddled before the fire, with one of the few precious books the house possessed lying open on his lap, although he was dozing and waking, alternately.

Mateo, anxious for work, had been given the task of repairing pieces of household equipment that had suffered in the course of the summer: a salt box whose lid had fallen off, a new pestle that needed to be whittled for the mortar – the old one having been chewed by one of the hounds that now lay at his feet. Finn and Bran had accepted him as one of the household, sooner than their human companions.

A few days ago, a party of young folk had climbed one of the hills behind the house where a group of fir trees stood, and had gathered splinters of resinous wood for making fir candles to see them through the winter. A good portion had to be hung over the fire so that they were completely dry before they could be used, and Mateo was engaged in bundling them and sticking them into the heavy links of the chain that held the big cooking cauldron.

“There’s always work to be done,” Mcneill had told him, “but after the turn of the year, there will be more physical tasks. You had best make the most of this quiet time.”

Today, Lilias was spinning reddishbrown wool, harvested and dyed earlier that year from the flock of four-horned sheep with their dark and silvery-grey fair. Slow to fleeces, kept close to the house and sometimes along the shore where they were happy to eat what Ishbel, taking Mateo confidently by the hand to show him, had called “sea ware”.

They were brought in and housed in stone sheep cotes by night. They were, Mateo had observed, timid creatures and Mcneill had confirmed that they sometimes behaved as though they “would rather be dead than otherwise”, although the weather didn’t seem to bother them much, so perhaps they were hardier than they looked. They gave a very fine fleece, albeit not much of it, but it could be spun into good yarn and ultimately woven into cloth that was both light and warm.

“May I see your spindle and the is this thing?” he asked.

“A whorl.” The spindle whorl was made of stone with a curious curved design.

“It is very old, I think. My brother Kenneth found it in the old tower by the seashore. We were always playing down there when we were younger.”

“Where does the colour of the wool come from?” he asked, idly rearranging his fir strips in an effort to prolong the work and the moment in her company. “The bright yellow of your wrap and the red such as you have there.”

“This? This wool is combed to make it finer. I didn’t do it. I have small patience with it, although my friend Morag does. And this is dyed red with the crotal, the yellow that you see on the rocks by the shore.”

“So the yellow crotal does not give yellow dye?”

“No. It is very mysterious. The yellow crotal gives this reddish brown and when we comb through it, it will make for a very fine cloth.”

“And the yellow? The bright yellow such as you were wearing the day I first saw you?”

He caught her blushing, as red as the wool she was spinning. ... what

The islanders relied on the laird to oversee their troubles and their quarrels and to administer justice when necessary