Ardnish Was Home Episode 4

Mother had on a purple heathercoloured skirt that she had woven herself and Sir Arthur Astley-Nicholson, the laird of Arisaig estate, had had made into a skirt for her, and a mantilla, with her beautiful red hair almost glowing through it.

I was wearing a kilt that used to be Angus’s and was far too big for me. It was the first time I’d dressed up like this; my hair was smoothed down with Brylcreem, and my woollen stockings were scratchy in the heavy army shoes that my mother had borrowed for me. I was a terribly selfconscious 15-year-old.

Building battleships

Along with all the other families we were in a quiver of excitement, and fiercely proud of our priest-to-be. Most of them came from the Isles and Lochaber – the mainstay of Catholics in Scotland, or so I’d heard. We stayed with Aunt Aggy, my dad’s sister, and other friends and relations who had moved down to live in the big city.

They all lived in tenements, on top of each other in wee rooms, sometimes two to a mattress – and toilets just a bucket.

There was another family who had been great friends of my parents from Arisaig and had moved to the city a couple of years previously to find work. Cameron, the father, and his son Iain both worked in the Govan shipyards, building battleships for the Royal Navy.

Aunt Aggy had a job as a cleaner in the Grand Central Hotel. They were much better off now, with enough money to be able to eat, and they were hoping to get a flat to themselves soon, in a better part of town.

It all seemed very rough to us, but they treated us like royalty and there was a tremendous party in a bar before the big day. We all went to the Barra Head, a pub frequented by those from the west and run by the redoubtable Mrs MacNeil who, it was said, had owned the place since Adam was a boy.

There was no nonsense about Protestants taking us on here, unlike in many parts of Glasgow where Catholics were given a hiding. The Catholics had been pouring into Glasgow from all over the West Highlands seeking work, and the locals feared for their jobs.

The Irish, too, had come to Glasgow to seek work in the mighty industrial powerhouse that the city was.

Old Mrs MacNeil didn’t hesitate to come bolting out from behind the bar with her shinty stick, cracking heads left, right and centre, if people got out of order.

Although there were drams a-plenty that night, Mother was keeping everyone under control – no one would have a hangover for Angus’s big day. Sandy and me she watched in particular. We had not seen much more than the odd dram before, and we were keen to live it up a bit.

The cathedral was packed with a thousand souls, we guessed. The whispering up and down the aisles was mainly in Gaelic; you could hear the soft lilt of Barra and Eriskay.

My father said that were three men being made priests from the village of Invergarry. Here and there was the unmistakeable broad tone of Glasgow Scots.

The choir sang and we competed with them, nearly lifting the roof off. As you can imagine for a lad used to no more than 50 in our wee church at Polnish, it was quite the thing.

Hugging and kissing

In came the procession: a dozen altar boys, then the same number of priests and, lastly, Archbishop Maguire wearing his tall mitre and carrying his crozier. The singing rose and fell, and the men were welcomed into the priesthood.

A circle of hair about four inches across was shaved from each of their heads, which my sister Sheena told me was called a “tonsure.”

Angus came and joined us before the service for a few moments. There was much hugging and kissing, shaking of hands, and then he was off again. We would see him later, on the train.

My mother was sobbing like a baby. Our family had always been emotional; it was my mother who’d got that going, she couldn’t be doing with all that formality. I would wrestle and twist away as she clasped me to her at any time, even when my friends were watching.

After two hours, we were done, and there was a rush for the 4.10 train to Mallaig, so we could get home that night.

MacBraynes had laid on a special steamer to take people from Glasgow to Barra and the other islands. There would be a lot of whisky and not much sleep on the boat that night.

The train was packed as we headed up north, where a huge party was planned. My brother looked funny in his new black habit. Sheena and I both felt his tonsure; as smooth as a baby’s bottom, she said, to her brother’s discomfort.

“Not much of a halo on you yet,” said his disrespectful sister. Mother preened and glowed as people came from all over the train to shake his hand and wish him well.

The train clattered and rocked up Loch Lomond and across Rannoch Moor. You could see the steam yacht on the loch that Sir John Maxwell had shipped up to Corrour in pieces from Glasgow by train. It was reassembled on the side of the loch and was used to ferry his guests the eight miles down to the new lodge he had built. Big celebration

The spring sun made the hills glow orange and the rocky outcrops glisten like silver. The mountains of Glencoe had snow still in the gullies, and alongside the track the stags would gallop away from the train as it approached.

Ben Nevis towered above us as we pulled into Fort William and many of the passengers disembarked. But just as many newcomers got on, most of whom would be joining us for the big celebration that night.

Bottles of Long John whisky were passed around as we set off for the final hour on the train, and three fiddlers – Alex Macdonald and his two brothers from Avoch – got the party off to a good start.

They were coming to the village to provide a bit of music, having played at a wedding in the Fort the night before. Sleep was a thing that fiddlers never seemed to need.

They simply curled up after the evening was finished, always the last to bed down, and were up and off to the next ceilidh the following morning.

My mother was sobbing like a baby. Our family had always been emotional; it was my mother who’d got that going