Eve

  * * *

  However, despite learning so much at Helspie, there were some things I did not find out – one in particular. Admittedly, it was knowledge not enjoyed by most other girls of my age, either. Though I suspect there were girls at Helspie – especially those in crofter families – who noticed the activities of animals and made certain – deductions. But they were shrewder than I was. The truth is, I simply wasn’t interested, so I didn’t think about the matter – being quite satisfied with my own theory of events. And a blind belief in one’s own theory is never conducive to discovering the truth, is it?

  Mistress McNiven did give me a nudge in the right direction. We were turning out the manse linen cupboard one day when she offered me some discarded towels, with a quiet, ‘If you hem these and stitch tapes on them you can use them during your monthly flow.’ I didn’t ask for an explanation – the boys were waiting for me – but later I asked Aunt Ethel, who told me the bare outlines of what I must expect before too long.

  As you can imagine I was not pleased at the idea, and with the mental reservation that I would be the exception to the general rule I thrust the towels into an old trunk. Aunt Ethel did offer me one piece of advice, ‘It can sometimes be rather uncomfortable, Eve – if so, I always found it best to keep walking, until the discomfort dissipated.’ I was even more determined to be the exception after she said that!

  With regard to any other knowledge, I was Eve still in the Garden. I was aware that babies initially grew inside their mother’s bodies, but on the question of how they got out – and, even more importantly, of how they’d got in there in the first place…

  My theory was that the advent of babies was an event triggered by marriage – when a girl got married then they just happened. I did have same justification for this belief, since in Helspie they didn’t happen under any other circumstance, and they certainly didn’t in India, where girls married so young.

  Confident in my ignorance, I saw no necessity for further investigation, so I made none. Foolish Eve, because I was aware that boys weren’t arranged on the same pattern as I was – I knew they pissed differently. But I assumed they were built differently so they could piss like that – it never crossed my mind that it might be the other way round!

  It certainly never crossed my mind when I fell in love. Ah yes, I haven’t told you, have I? I fell in love again, that summer I was fifteen. He was a doctor, too. I have a definite partiality for doctors – because they’re the direct reverse of soldiers, I suppose – and this doctor was fair of face and merry of mien, and with the most entrancing golden curl that flopped down over his forehead and a motor bicycle. I was extremely taken with that, too.

  He came as a locum while Doctor Lewis was ill and he sped past one summer evening as we were dancing barefoot at the crossroads to Iaian Finlay’s accordion. Then, turning his motorbicycle in a wide arc he came clattering back. He braked, propped his machine up against the signpost and joined us for half an hour. He partnered Jessie MacAlister in the Lancers, and then asked me for The Flowers of Edinburgh. Oh bliss. He wasn’t actually a very good dancer, but he had the most wonderful blue eyes.

  Two days later he saw me coming out of the manse – I only did three mornings a week now, Mistress McNiven had a new girl in training – and I heard this phut-phut – and he stopped, and offered me a lift on the back of his machine, ‘If you’re going my way.’

  ‘I am, I am!’

  He grinned. ‘You don’t know what my way is, yet!’ I exclaimed, ‘Oh, but I’ve never been on a motorbicycle before.”

  He was laughing, now ‘Hop on the back then, and take firm hold of my waist.’ His waist! Oh bliss upon bliss. ‘Right?’ We were off, speeding up the main road all the way to the cross-roads. A great sweeping circle round and we sped back.

  With trembling legs I dismounted. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ A cheery wave and he was off again.

  A week later Dr Lewis recovered, and my hero left. Just as well, probably. I’d spent so much time mooning round those cross-roads that I’d nearly been mown down by a charabanc – not to speak of my narrow escape from the hooves of the Wick-Helmsdale mail coach.

  So I returned to my other love, the harbour. There was always something there to see or hear or do. Even if the weather was bad and the men couldn’t go to sea they’d be busy down at the harbour – mending the nets, or perhaps barking them or the sails in the huge iron cauldrons – it keeps them from rotting at sea. And as they laid the now brown sails out on the grassy slope to dry someone would be sure to say, ‘Sails – they’ve had their day. We should be thinking about steamers, now. With a steam drifter you can get your catch back fast even if the winds against you.’

  A head would be shaken in disagreement. ‘Steamers, they cost too much – and then there’s the price of the coal. Now the wind, that’s free’

  ‘But it doesn’t always blow the way you want to go.’

  ‘You can tack, can’t you? ‘Sides, a drifter drifts – you don’t need steam for that.’

  A third voice would butt in. ‘What we do need is a new harbour.’

  Everyone was agreed on that, and the whole crew would turn their heads a moment to look at that jagged, broken end. ‘Took long enough to get the railway down to Lybster – there’s never going to be one built to Helspie.’

  ‘That’s for sure. So we need a harbour that can take the bigger coasters.’

  There’d be nods of agreement all round ‘It’s the only way forward, a new harbour—’

  Another day I’d come running down the hill to the sound of the women singing at the farlins. I’d tie my old oilskin round my waist, bandage my fingers, take out my knife – and be in time to join in the first line of the chorus: ‘S comadh caileng bhoidheach—’ There’s many a bonny lass…

  Or a voice might call, ‘Eve, Mrs MacLeod was wondering if you’d kindly do her round for her – with her being so near her time, and her elder lass over-young to carry the creel—’

  I wouldn’t carry the creel, either. I’d tried it once and found the strap bit cruelly into my upper arms – but I had the long, strong legs of the mountain-born, so I’d split the load, put half on my head in a basket lined with oil-skin, and when that was sold I’d come racing back for the rest.

  Sometimes I played the role of fishwife on my own behalf, carrying my basket far inland where fish was a rare delicacy and duly prized. Money rarely changed hands on these trips, instead I’d return bearing a new load: eggs, cabbage, butter, apples, maybe a couple of turnips – and if I wasn’t too far from home, some oatmeal to supply our porridge drawer.

  And just occasionally, if I happened to be down at the harbour at the right time, I managed to get to sea. That wasn’t easy – no Helspie fisherman wouid take me on his Fifie or Zulu, since for all I sometimes wore breeks they knew I was female, and females were BAD LUCK on fishing boats. Rules they might be prepared to break, but superstitions, never.

  However, there was a small German cargo steamer which sometimes called with salt and timber and coal. They’d let me hitch a ride up to Wick, or down to Helmsdale. I’d chatter in German all the way, and then alternately walk and canter back, late on into the light summer eveningm until on the breeze I’d hear the lilt of Iaian Finlay’s accordion, and go running down the last hill to join the dancers at the crossroads. And so we’d dance until midnight, when Mr Fraser would come out and chase us all off home.

  There is a saying in Kumaon, that if you have once dwelt in Almora, then you will never be happy anywhere else. It’s not true, I was happy in Helspie. And sometimes, just sometimes that summer, I danced in Paradise again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Winter again. But I was better prepared this time. I kept myself busy – so busy I often nodded over my Watt and went to sleep early, and dreamt – No, dreams are private.

  Anyway, by the end of February I had something else to occupy my time – a letter had arrived from Aunt Ethel’s bank, to say her money had run out. My petticoa
t was bare, too, so something would have to be done – you could live on very little money at Helspie, but not on none at all. For instance, there was the laundry to be paid for – obviously I could have done that myself, since Mistress McNiven had naturally ensured my competence in that direction, but washing linen is my least favourite chore – and then the current orange crate had nearly run out, and Aunt Ethel’s London Library subscription was due, so – I decided to get a job.

  It would have to be as a daily maid, not a live-in one, because of Aunt Ethel and the poaching, but luckily my last purchase before my petticoat bared itself had been a brand-new 3-speed Raleigh bicycle. My pride and joy. I needed money to keep it supplied with puncture kits, too – given the state of the roads and tracks round Helspie.

  So, a job. I knew the first move on that front, I had to secure a character from the minister. The minister usually wrote these with Mistress McNiven’s assistance, but I decided to leave nothing to chance and chose a time when I knew she was out. He proved quite willing to accept my assistance instead – anything to get back promptly to his Gaelic poetry.

  I reminded him to sign the completed work and then bore it off in triumph. It really was a very good reference – perhaps a better one than I deserved – but then, as the Mistress McNiven herself so often said, God helps those who help themselves.

  Unfortunately I’d been too confident Of the minister’s vagueness – he told Mistress McNiven what he’d done. ‘Confessed’ might, I suspect, be a better word. Next time I was at the manse she called me into her sitting room. ‘About this reference you requested, Eve—’ I said hastily, ‘Oh, you were out, so the minister did it himself—’

  ‘He did, did he?’ Her gaze was level.

  I rushed on, ‘So you needn’t bother, it’s a perfectly good reference—’

  ‘I’ve no doubt that it is a perfectly excellent one, Eve – but that is not my area of concern…’ Which was, it emerged, to know the reason why I was planning to take a domestic job in the first place.

  When I explained the parlous state of our finances she frowned. ‘I don’t understand, Eve. Your father was in one of the Indian services, surely he would have made provision for you – by taking out an insurance policy, for example?’

  I sprang to Apa’s defence. ‘He didn’t need to – he knew I was provided for—’ Out came the story of Grandfather Courtney’s will.

  Her brow cleared. ‘Then there’s no problem, Eve, is there? All you need do is go back to school.’

  I exclaimed, ‘No! Besides, I can’t go off to England and leave Aunt Ethel—’

  Mistress McNiven pointed out rather tartly that some excellent schools existed in Scotland – Caithness, even. I could do my Lowers at Lybster, or if I could pass my Qually I could go straight to Wick to begin studying for my Leaving Certificate at Pulteney Town Academy. The new Wick High School was even now being built, and I would transfer to there the following autumn. She frowned, ‘But I do wish you’d told me earlier about your grandfather’s will – I have been somewhat concerned about the question of your education. After all, you can’t work as a housemaid, can you?’

  ‘Whyever not?’

  ‘Eve, people do not employ housemaids who speak English with your accent,’ she snorted, ‘Why, it’s indistinguishable from that of Lady Mary Fotheringhay’s!’

  ‘Then I’ll just speak Gaelic.’

  ‘The demand for domestic staff who speak only in Gaelic is not large outside Helspie – or indeed, within it. Now, we’ll go straight back to the minister, and he will write a letter to your grandfather’s solicitors.’

  ‘Write’ being merely a technical term, you understand – indicating that the minister held the pen and moved it over the paper to Mistress McNiven’s dictation. She’d got it all worked out. She informed the Scottish Mr Henderson that if I was unable as yet to pass my qualifying exam then I could cycle each day to Lybster. If, however, I did manage to pass it this summer, then I could go straight to Wick in September, and start certificate work at once.

  In view of the distance and the weather I would lodge in Wick during the week, and a reliable girl would have to be employed to look after Aunt Ethel in my stead. Or to look after both of us, if I were cycling to Lybster every day – since I would need time for my studies. The entire bill would be footed by Mr Henderson, who must, she assured him, be most concerned by my current lack of schooling – and who in view of the considerable saving on boarding school fees, would she was sure, be pleased to pay for the above arrangement. After a few closing words on the excellent reputation of Pulteney Town Academy she allowed the minister to sign off.

  Mr Henderson replied with unconditional surrender. I wasn’t surprised; after all, I’d surrendered to Mistress McNiven myself. ‘So all you have to do now, Eve, is pass your Qually – I’ve seen Mr Bain (the dominie at Helspie) and he’s to give you private coaching. Your lawyers will, of course, pay for this, and I—’ she hastily corrected herself, ‘The minister, that is, has written explaining that you will need some money for living expenses for yourself and your aunt until September. The minister has given his word that in return for this advance payment you will attend school from the autumn.’ She paused, Mistress McNiven was no fool. ‘Now, Eve, I would like a similar assurance from you.’ A pleasant smile, but with that touch of frost round the edges. I promised.

  Anyway, I could always fail my Qually, and just cycle to Lybster – Mistress McNiven continued, ‘I’ve told Mr Bain that as you’ve spent so little time in school you’ll probably fail your Qualifying exam – having never had a proper educahon-’

  I exclaimed, ‘I did! Apa taught me – my Apa was a brilliant teacher!’

  She smiled, ‘Then prove it, Eve.’

  I passed my Qually. As I said, Mistress McNiven was nobody’s fool.

  So now there were regular evenings at the dominie’s to help me ward off off the dark of winter. And eventually spring did come, and so did the herring. My sixteenth birthday arrived, too. Aunt Ethel and I sat outside in the long light evening drinking glasses of sherry and ranging widely in our discussion. I managed to keep her off religion (most of the time, anyway!) and we talked about women – how important they were, and yet how little status they had in the world. I remember her telling me about Korean women not even having names of their own – and how at that point she hobbled inside and returned with a birthday present for me – her own copy of Grandmother Fanny Gunn’s “Variety and Diversity in Humankind”.

  Apa’s two volumes had disappeared in the move, and I hadn’t really missed them, because despite my pride in my foremother’s achievements I’d only ever dipped into the tome she wrote. My grandmother was not a natural writer, and I’d found her prose style turgid – sadly lacking the clarity and vividness of my favourite Watt. But now Aunt Ethel assured me that there was lots of fascinating information between those covers, if only I was prepared to persevere. ‘Though unfortunately Fanny did not always discuss local customs in their religious context…’ Definitely a point in my grandmother’s favour. I hastily brought the conversation back to the weird and wonderful head-dresses worn by Mongolian women in Urga.

  I spent my last summer of freedom in gutting one or two herrings, poaching one or two salmon – well, alright, perhaps rather more than two in both cases – selling the occasional basket of fish and listening to the increasingly frequent arguments about steam versus sail and the vital need for a new harbour. Of an evening I would often sit outside chatting to Aunt Ethel for a while – the long light nights of summer had drawn her out of her winter hibernation.

  Then there was the dancing – the Hornpipe down the harbour, and at the cross roads – or if it rained, in Dancie Gordon’s barn – we Lancered and Mazurka’d, Flung and Reeled, One Stepped, Two Stepped, Waltzed and Galopped…

  Often in the daytime I roamed along the shore or far inland with Duggie, Mungo and Ewan – the first two of whom were also enjoying their last summer of freedom. Next year they’d be off on the
boats – and not even putting in at Helspie over the summer since Mungo’s father and Duggie’s uncle followed the herring – sailing up to Lerwick in May, down to Scarborough at the end of July, and then on to Yarmouth to finish the season there with the winter fishing.

  Ewan, whose father ran the ships’ chandlers at Helspie and so had more cash to spare, was going on to Pulteney Town Academy, like me. It was all fixed now. Mr Henderson had made the long journey up from Edinburgh to Wick in order to escort me to an interview with the Headmaster. For my Group Leaving Certificate I was to study two Lowers and three Highers. The Highers being English, German and Latin – the latter under protest since I’d never been keen on unspoken languages, but the Headmaster said firmly that if I wanted to go to University this was ‘definitely advised’. My two Lowers were to be maths (compulsory) and science – the science being somewhat frowned upon for females, but I insisted, since I wanted an antidote to the Latin and maths.

  The Headmaster in his turn insisted that he would decide when I would take my Leaving Certificate. This would be next summer if I was considered up to scratch, the summer after if I needed more time – or, as he put it, if my capacity for hard work had been undermined by the irregular nature of my schooling.

  I didn’t argue, not for long, anyway – he wasn’t a person who was easiiy, or frequently, argued with. But I made up my mind I would buckle down and work, since one year as a schoolgirl was quite long enough. No new Wick High School for me.

  Meanwhile Mistress McNiven arranged my digs at Wick, with a Mrs Sinclair who let three bedrooms to commercial travellers and a fourth in the attic, complete with desk for doing my homework at, to me. Only for four nights, since I’d decided to rise very early on Monday morning and cycle back to Wick, and then depart again straight after school on Friday.

  Mistress McNiven said that when the weather was bad in winter I would have to stay the weekend at Wick, but I said that if the snow stopped me cycling then I’d catch the train down to Lybster and walk the rest of the way. To which Mistress MacNiven pointed out that when the snow was really bad the train didn’t run either – but, she said, I would have to find out for myself – experience was the best of all teachers. She’s absolutely right, but I didn’t know that then.