Slowly they swung the crib to and fro between them until, almost reluctantly, their eyes met. “Now,” one mouthed

Elgol, Skye, 1723. Oblivious of the storm raging outside, the tall, stooped man rose from the bedside and turned to face the two onlookers. He took the hand of the woman lying motionless in the bed. “I don’t hold out much hope. What happens next is in God’s hands.”

The watchers, anxious-looking women approaching middle age, pursed their lips.

“Bless you anyway, Doctor, you did your best for the poor lass.”

“Aye, maybe so,” the doctor replied. “Few women would survive such a birth.”

A whimper was heard from the ornate crib standing in the corner of the room.

“I’m surprised the mother’s hung on to life these two days. She has a strong constitution.” He made ready to leave. “I can call again tomorrow?” The women looked at each other. “No need, Doctor,” one said hastily. “We’re trained birth-wives.” “As you wish.” Closely followed by one of the women, the doctor made his way down the steep, winding stairs. Opening the door, he recoiled as a blast of icy wind and hail blew in.

“Good night to you,” he said, and disappeared into the darkness. Scowled Closing the door firmly, the woman turned and then nearly jumped out of her skin as a figure stalked towards her in the gloomy corridor – that of a man, medium-sized, burly, hook-nosed and heavily bearded to hide numerous pockmarks.

“Lord save us, Mr McLean!” she cried. “You near frightened me out ma wits!” Thomas McLean scowled. “That’s the doctor away?” “Aye, and he’ll no’ be back, either.” “Did you pay him for his services?” “Of course, Mr McLean, just as you said.” “Good. I take it the bairn survived the birth?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Not that it matters. No-one cares.”

He yawned loudly. “I’m away to ma bed, for I’ve much to attend to when day breaks. In the meantime, you and Meg know what to do – what you’ve been well paid for.”

“We know what’s to be done, Mr McLean, never fear,” came the answer.

“I’ll be leaving at dawn, so make sure I have no cause for concern.” With a final glare he stumped off down the corridor. The woman sighed and made her way upstairs to join her companion. Together they stood in silence, looking into the crib.

“Did you tell him, Ann?” one said at last. “I tried, Meg, but he wasn’t interested. No-one cares, he says.” Meg shook her head. “A cold-hearted wretch he is.” “Aye, he is that,” her companion replied. In the cold moonlight the two women left the farmhouse, carrying the crib between them by its brass handles.

Slowly they made their way through bracken and sodden grass, frequently lowering their heavy burden and pausing for breath until they reached the clifftop. Foaming waters They looked down at the thundering, foaming waters of Loch Scavaig lashing the rocks far below. Moments later, as if by some prearranged signal, they grasped the crib’s handles more firmly.

Slowly they swung it to and fro between them until, almost reluctantly, their eyes met. “Now,” one mouthed. Simultaneously they unclasped their hands and the crib soared forward, toppling into space.

They waited for a few seconds, then, gripping each other for support, they gingerly stepped to the cliff edge and peered downwards.

Of the crib there was no sign, but as they scanned the roiling water below they made out a patch of white swaddling clothes undulating on the surface.

“Come,” Ann urged, grasping Meg by the shoulder. “Let’s get back.”

Once indoors they removed their coats and shawls, and while Meg revived the listless peat fire Ann made hot milk.

Only then did they sit down. At last, Ann looked up at the wall clock. “Time’s passing. Best get the lass ready.” Together they returned to the upstairs room where the young woman still lay in a deep but restless sleep. They bundled her up in the bedclothes and wrapped a towel lightly around her neck and head.

“That should do her, poor soul,” Meg said, close to tears.

As dawn broke McLean barged into the kitchen and greedily swallowed the bread and ham meal the women had prepared.

“Everything attended to?” he snarled. “The babe’s been done away with?” Both women nodded. “Right, I’ll be on my way. I’ve set up the horse and carriage. Give me a hand.”

Minutes later all three carried the inert woman down the stairs and into the cobbled courtyard.

There she was bundled into the open carriage and covered with a heap of ragged blankets. McLean climbed aboard. Moaned “A carriage will collect you in two days. Clear up here and leave no trace of our presence. You’ll be taken back to Aberdeen and then given a final payment.” “Aye, Mr McLean,” the women chorused. Scowling, he stared down at them. “God help you if either of you breathes a word of what’s taken place here. You’ll hae me and others tae answer to. Better still, you can face the gibbet for what you’ve done.”

With that he cracked his whip and steered the carriage out through the courtyard.

Back in the damp, dank kitchen the women sat and faced each other.

“We’ve a lot on our consciences now, haven’t we?”Ann sighed. The other nodded. “God help us, Ann,” she moaned. “What have we done? What possessed us?”

“We did what was best, Meg,” her companion replied, “for all concerned. Only time will tell if we were wrong.” More tomorrow.

Glens of Stone was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. There’s more great fiction in The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Mandy Dixon