Ardnish Was Home Episode 34

The others did a variety of jobs. That day, Kirsty and I took the fleece and rolled it into a ball, twisting it this way and that, and pulling a bit through that we could use to bind the bundle together. There was a knack to it.

The fleece would then be chucked across to those packing it into the hessian bale. As a bonus, there was always a chance for a wee bit of flirting with me knocking the fleece out of Kirsty’s hand as she was finishing, or a nudge off-balance as she threw the wool up to Sandy.

My father shouted at me: “Boy, will you get on with the job and stop mucking about,” as the others would remind him that he might just have done the same thing when he was a lad himself.

The bale was hung from a 10-foot goal post, and Sandy would jump up and down to pack the wool in. He knew to make sure the top few fleeces were nice and clean, as the wool buyer from Lancashire would open the bag and look at the quality before he bought it.

Tea would be brought along by my mother, a piece would be eaten, and usually we would be finished by darkness. That day, there were 14 of us working together. It was a beautiful day I’ll always remember.

Well liked

My mother told us that Jemima Blackburn used to get rowed across from Roshven House to paint everyone at the clipping, sometimes with a couple of friends. She would come if it was dry and there was a breeze to keep the midges away, an easel would be set up out of the way on the bank, looking down into the fank where the men and sheep were working. She was well liked.

The Bochan would shout up – in English, of course – “Make sure you don’t make my nose too big in that painting of yours, Mrs B,” or my father would be asking what percentage of the royalties the men would get if she sold the painting. The craic was always good at the clipping.

The Astley-nicholsons’ factor came across to see how we were doing, too, with half a case of whisky for us for that night. Sometimes Sir Arthur and Lady Gertrude rode across and we would have to speak in English (those of us who spoke it). The Bochan had a collie called Arthur, and he’d shout: “Arthur, Arthur! Come away and lie down!” which disconcerted the laird somewhat and made us children giggle with delight.

Exhausted though everyone was after two long hard days, with aching backs from all the bending over as we handled the shears, and wet through from the drenching we’d endured after lunch, everyone agreed it had gone well.

We had mutton stew that night, having received permission from the factor for a sheep to be slaughtered. A few drams were taken and stories about the old days told, then Sandy, fired up by whisky, suggested a swim. Soon, the five of us younger ones were pelting across the machair and into the sea. We tore up the seaweed and covered our heads in it, and took it in turns to dive off the rocks while our families kept an eye on us from the house.

And that’s my story of the clipping of the sheep...

WAR

John, who has been quiet throughout my tale, speaks up: “It’s just like our place back in Dunedin. It’s all about the sheep, the water – even the people have the same names. I didn’t think there were any of you left in the old country, thought they’d all moved to New Zealand.”

He sighs. “Anyway, I’ll be heading off first thing. Please don’t get up. I’ll get my own breakfast. It’s been lovely to meet you all, and good luck getting out of here. I’ll be sure to tell the Poms where you are if I can.”

We all shake hands, sorry to see him go. “Time for bed,” says Prissie, and the others leave Father Joseph and me alone.

“You tell a good story, DP. Where did you learn that from?” he murmurs.

“It’s just the way in the West Highlands, Father. Everyone sits in the front room, the neighbours come by, you will have sevenyear-olds and 70-year-olds around the fire, there will be tea or a dram in the hand, and the stories of the ancestors are told back and forth.

“My father will have told me stories of 200 years ago, which are as fresh as when his great-grandfather told his grandfather. It’s the same with poems and songs – we’re brought up with them.”

The priest and I talk late into the night.

He is very weak now, and I feel he may just slip off to our maker as soon as we depart. He tells me he has lost a lot of blood. I even wonder, briefly, if I should give him the last rites. I don’t, and I later regret it.

It is good to talk to him; I know he enjoyed hearing about my family and its strong faith. I take some comfort in the thought that he will pass on knowing he was with a friend to the end.

Charming

Up at dawn. It is very quiet outside. The shelling in the distance has stopped. Hopefully, this means our lads have got off the beaches and are safely on the ships and heading home. John had told us that General Stopford, the overall commander, had been sacked and replaced. One of the worst campaigns in military history, he said. Certainly tens of thousands of dead men – and no ground won.

As we drink our coffee we discuss John; we all agree what a charming man he is.

“If I wasn’t going to live in the Highlands I’d go to South Island,” I say. “God’s country, I hear. You can get good farm land for buttons, and Scots are welcomed with open arms.”

Prissie packs for each of us: a blanket twisted around some clothing, and as much food as we can carry. Louise conceals the pistol in her clothing. We are dressed in the drab peasant clothing of our absent hosts. Louise and Prissie wear shawls over their heads, trying to look like the old grandmothers from home.

I am as strong as I have been for a month, but can only really move at half the pace of a normal man. How am I going to make it?

We say emotional farewells to Father Joseph, silently willing him to slip away before the Turks come. He is gracious, holding our hands and whispering a prayer to St Christopher, the patron saint of travellers.

“Thank you,” need it.

My father told me stories which are as fresh as when his great-grandfather told his grandfather. It’s the same with poems

I whisper. God, we will