New Work in Progress. Ireland, County Mayo 1846

The day they discovered that the potato crop had failed for a second year, Aileen O’Malley awoke with hope in her heart. Yesterday, Connor O’Shea had asked her to marry him. He was learning his trade as a blacksmith, and his father owned a boat and a few acres of ground, not that Aileen cared about that. Connor was the most handsome boy she had ever seen, with his black curls and wild blue eyes, and the way he looked at her made her warm inside.

The green leaves of the taters had looked good and healthy, enclosed in their individual fields by dry-stone walls. This year, everything would be better.

The familiar smells of turf smoke and oatmeal drifted from the other room as her mother opened the door and called, ‘Get up, Aileen, can’t you hear the cow bellowing to be milked. I have to be off, now.’

Reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed she shared with her younger sisters, Aoife and Bridie, she poked Aoife. ‘Get yourself up and ready for school, and get wee Bridie up too. I can’t be doing everything, now.’ She rose and smiled down at the soft faces of her sisters, their red curls so like her own, spread out across the bundles of old clothes that formed their pillows. She carefully pulled the chamber pot from beneath the bed and, taking care not to spill any of the contents, carried it to the outside door. ‘Will ye open the door for me, Mammy?’ she shouted.

Maire bustled from the other room, wiping her hands on her apron as she did so. A lock of brown hair, streaked with strands of grey, had escaped from her loose bun, curling stubbornly against her cheek, grown more hollow this last year.

Yet they were luckier than most as Maire had secured a job as a kitchen maid in the landlord’s house, and there were often scraps of food left over that cook would allow her to take home. She always got a cup of tea and some bread and cheese at lunchtime, she said. Cook was a kind woman, and the landlord, Major Ainsley himself, was better than most. It was her mother’s wages that helped to keep them fed last winter, otherwise, her father might have had to sell his boat when the blight hit, like many others had had to do.

When Aileen returned with the pot, she looked at her mother’s concerned face and said, ‘It’ll soon be over, Mammy. The taters will be fine this year.’ Her stomach almost contracted at the thought of a healthy, floury, new potato bursting from its skin. ‘Last year will be no more than a memory; wait and see.’

‘Aye, my lovely,’ Maire said, leaning in to plant a light kiss on her daughter’s cheek. She made the sign of the cross on her breast before pulling her coat from the hook on the wall. ‘God willing.’

Aileen thought it a cruel god who would test them like he had the last year, but knew better than to say so to her deeply religious mother.

‘Then away ye go and see how yer da and brothers are getting on with the taters. I’ve made some oatcakes for them.’ She handed Aileen a small bundle. ‘I’ll give Aoife a shout before I go.’

‘Aye do that,’ said Aileen, taking the bundle of oatcakes..

She walked barefoot along the rutted path. The autumn sky was bright with thin wisps of cloud dragged across the blue. A slight breeze ruffled the tops of waves in the Atlantic as they flirted with the shore. Birds sang in the air, seagulls screeched in the distance. Further down the hill, one-roomed cottages with low doors and turf roofs lined the beach, ragged toddlers played in the earth, chickens clucked and scratched, and mothers sang childhood songs from within the cottage walls as they completed daily tasks.

‘It’s yerself, Aileen O’Malley,’ shouted Grainne Walsh, a woman as old as the hills with the lines on her skin to prove it. She habitually sat at her spinning wheel outside the door of her cottage, and passed the time of day spinning wool that the villagers brought her, although with the number of sheep greatly diminishing, the locals had little this season.

‘And a good day to you too, Máthair mó. I see you’re out getting a wee bit of sunshine there,’ said Aileen. Everyone in the surrounding cottages affectionately called Grainne, Máthair mó, mother of my heart. Aileen opened the bundle, took an oatcake and handed it to the old lady.

‘May Mary mother of God and all the angels, bless thee, child,’ she said as she clasped the cake to her.

 

Aileen saw her brothers and father high up in the field and ran up the slope.

‘How are the taters?’ she shouted, hopefully.

Her brother, Sean, older than her by two years, indicated the bucket half full of round, healthy-looking lumpers at his feet. ‘We’ve managed to get these,’ he said, but the news didn’t seem to cheer him.

‘But they’re lovely,’ exclaimed Aileen. ‘Why so glum?’

‘If it’s part of the same field, then…’ he shrugged.

Her father stopped digging and turned to face her, leaning on his shovel. At the pain on his face, she felt her optimistic mood slip away.

‘McCarthy’s field has gone. The blight has started there, ye can smell it when the wind is right,’ he said.

Further up the field, her other brothers, Roddy and twelve-year-old Jamie, straightened their backs. Roddy shook his head.

‘What are they like?’ called her father.

‘It’s started,’ he called back, his voice full of despair.

‘But maybe there’s enough of ours to keep us going for a while,’ Aileen said, looking at the bucket full of round, healthy potatoes at her brother’s feet. ‘Ours may be fine.’

Sean shook his head. ‘I doubt it. The ones we stored last year rotted in the barn.’

She bit her lip to stop the tremble, remembering the smell when she had opened the barn door. She would never forget that smell. She picked up a potato and cleaned the dirt from it.

‘Can we eat them tonight?’ she asked, her belly clawing at the thought of it. 

‘They rot from the inside. Who knows what decease it might carry.’ Sean clenched his teeth and hurled a potato at the ground. Well they remembered the first blight when some people tried to eat them anyway, only to writhe in agony afterwards, some so ill with the dysentery that they died.

‘It’s no use, Aileen. It’s getting worse,’ said Sean.

‘We still have the turnips and cabbage and the barley,’ she said, trying to be upbeat although her own heart had turned heavy. ‘We’ll surely no have to sell any of the livestock?’ They had not yet bought any of the corn imported from America and sold cheaply in an attempt by the British Government to stave off starvation. They had heard that it wasn’t that good to eat.

‘And where will we get money for the rent?’ He turned his eyes to the broad expanse of ocean beyond the shore of County Mayo. ‘Michael McQuire and Daniel O’Neil are going to America as long as they still have a penny to pay the fare. There’s work there, they say, so there is, and once they’re settled, they can send money home to their folk.’

In spite of the hesitant sunshine, Aileen felt a shiver claim her. ‘You surely wouldn’t go?’ she said. ‘We need you on the land.’ His next words sent a knife through her heart. ‘Aye, and Connor O’Shea’s in a mind to come with me.’

Not Connor, she thought, not the boy she expected to marry. He wouldn’t leave her, he couldn’t.

‘I’d better get the others up,’ she said, turning away least Sean saw the tears in her eyes. Memories of last year leapt into her mind, the shock, confusion, and growing dread when farmers first noticed their potato crops turning black and rotting. Many hoped it was just a temporary blight. If it lasted another year, what was going to become of them all?

 

She left the bundle of oatcakes on the ground, picked up the hem of her skirt and ran all the way, past the little cottages, past the curious villagers waiting for news, and into her own home.

Her sisters were eating bowls of oatmeal. ‘Will ye get a move on, Aoife? Father Rafferty is good enough to be teaching ye the reading and the writing. Ye can at least get yourselves there on time.’ To hide her crushing disappointment, she had shouted and immediately regretted it. ‘Oh, my lovelies,’ she said, ‘It’s sorry I am. Away ye go and not keep the good father waiting now.’ She watched them run down the road towards the chapel. She thought again of Connor. How could he talk of leaving with her brother when he hadn’t said a word to her?

First Chapter of Shadows of Scartongarth

Chapter 1

 

Annie: Raumsey July 1939

 

Annie: Raumsey July 1939

 

Annie Reid set aside the letter she had received from her friend, Tess. 

‘How’s she doing?’ Annie’s mother slipped another bannock onto the iron griddle. 

‘She’s gone back to the nursing. They need nurses more than ever since it seems war’s inevitable.’

Isa paused and turned to look at her daughter. ‘You wish you were there, too, don’t you?’

‘I’ll admit I miss the city, but the islanders are in sore need of a district nurse and,’ she looked down at her sleeping baby, ‘DeeDee needs to be here, where it’s safe.’

‘I’m glad you’re being sensible,’ said Isa. ‘What else has Tess got to say?’

‘The British Union of Fascists are holding regular meetings at the entrance to Queen’s Park. They’re spreading nationalistic and racist views. It’s awful.’

‘Is Tess still involved with all that?’

‘She’s not giving too much away, but there seems to be a genuine fear that things will get bad. Glasgow is preparing for war, she says.’ 

Annie knew it wasn’t just in the cities. All across Britain, preparations were being made. Around nearby coastlines, lookout towers were being erected and, across the water, Scapa Flow had been of immense importance during the Great War and would be again. Daily, large warships sailed through the channel. 

‘You don’t mind me staying here, do you, Mam, when I now have a nice little nurse’s cottage?’ As the first state-paid district nurse on the island of Raumsey, she had been afforded accommodation and a bicycle to get around. Since her experience and skill were welcome, the islanders forgave her for the sin of returning home with a child and no husband.

‘How could you even ask? Donald and I love having you here. It’s a big manse, plenty of room. Furthermore, you do need us to watch Dee. It’s far more convenient.’ She lifted the bannock with a spatula and set it on a plate. ‘Butter a couple of slices, while I get the tea.’

Annie lifted a knob of butter and spread it over the bannock where it melted and glistened.

She had no sooner drunk her tea and eaten her bannock than David Donald, affectionately known as DeeDee or just Dee, woke, demanding attention. After feeding and changing him, she placed him back in the cot and lifted her jacket from the back of the chair. 

‘I’ve a couple of calls to make,’ she said, ‘but I shouldn’t be long.’

‘Take as long as you want, love. The wee man is no problem.’

 

Magnus Munro, Tess’s brother, caught up with her as she wheeled her bike along the road. His unruly hair, the colour of wet straw, fell over his deep blue eyes, fringed with the longest lashes she’d ever seen. He pushed his hair back with the heel of his hand, his smile as wide as the sea as he looked at her. Since he’d returned from the Great War, injured and broken, he’d gradually gained the strength and confidence to become the attractive man he once was. Despite having a limp and a twisted arm, he continued to work effectively as both a farmer and a fisherman. 

‘I was hoping to catch ye,’ he said. ‘Have ye thought any more about my proposal?’

‘I can’t answer right now,’ she said, uncomfortable. He had asked her to be his wife, and saying yes or no involved making a final decision. How could she explain that she cared for him, valued his friendship, would miss him if he left, that he would make a great husband and father, but she craved more? After experiencing a deep, heart-stopping love once, she didn’t know if she could ever settle for less.

‘Ach, come on, if it’s a definite no, I won’t mention it again, but ye’ve kept me waiting around for far too long.’

Annie didn’t want to lose him, but at the same time, she could not commit.

‘I’m sorry I can’t give you an answer. I do care about you, but I don’t think I’ll ever marry.’ 

‘If you change your mind…’ He gave her a longing look. ‘But don’t leave it too long.’ He turned away. Annie watched him walk along the road with his shoulders hunched and felt a moment of regret. If she accepted him, they would live amicably, she was sure, but would that ever be enough for her? 

She answered her own question. Her eyes turned to the far distance, to the road where the ghost of Alexander Garcia still lingered, and she knew Magnus would never be enough.

 

My Stroma Home part 6 The return of the Wanderer.

 I had not returned to the Island for several years. It is no longer the isle of my memories but a sad, neglected place. 

It is September, the sky is a bright blue, the sea is calm and the wind is fair.  The tide is in, and the harbour is ideal for wild swimmers.

The back of the pier wall has been demolished due to frequent storms, but otherwise, the harbour gives the same refuge as it did when it was built in 1956, after over six years of argument and counter-argument between the islanders, the local council and The Scottish Home Department, it was finally completed at a cost of £30,000. 

These are the workmen who took time from their farms and fishing to build the harbour. In the photo are three generations of my family. My grandfather, (middle back row) my father (far right second row) and my brother (far left front row)

The engineer was Jake Lindsey who lodged with us. He was a lovely, friendly man and remained friends with the family until his death. (He is not in the photo) 

The house where I was born on 10th October 1946, always known as Eben's, sadly being slowly taken over by nature.

The trees at the bottom of our garden, or at least what I saw as trees, appear nothing more than overgrown hedging. The nettles are rampant.

The whole island should be renamed Rabbit Island, as the rabbits seem to have taken over.

The view from a window that once held glass and curtains.

Once upon a time, these houses were filled with families and pets. Animals would be grazing the fields, other fields would be filled with various crops. vehicles and walkers would be on the roads.

Some houses seem to have weathered the storms better than others. One could almost imagine that they still could be saved.

Unfortunately, My grandmother's house, Garrispow, is not one of them. I remember that front porch. Three pots of geraniums sat in the window, red white and pink, their scent filling your nostrils the minute you entered. The garden had daffodils and poppies. I dug up some of the double-faced daffodils and took them home with me. They have followed me from house to house until they got lost among others of their kind in the gardens of Scaraben.

Inside the houses, are the remnants of ranges, and even box beds.

Unfortunately, the animals have left proof of their occupation. 

Ignoring that, can you close your eyes for a moment and imagine a family sitting around this range of an evening? 

A large kettle, singing softly, would be on the top. A brass rod would stretch across the front of the mantlepiece for drying clothes. A clock would tick away the hours. Most likely a radio would be imparting either news or music, whatever the family's preference. 

Most families had a dog and a couple of cats.

 In winter months, the man of the house might be making lead sinkers for the fishing, knitting nets or playing games with the children, mother would be knitting or sewing. 

Sometimes the neighbours came around and there would be a sing-song. My mother played the accordion, and my granny had a repertoire of songs. Or we might be playing records on the gramophone which was powered by winding up, and the needle changed every time. 

We had three records, China Doll and Love Song of the Waterfall by Slim  Whitman,  The Little Red Caboose behind the Train by the Pichard Family and Just a Poor Batchelor by Frankie Laine. 

Not quite the same but as near as I can find to our original music center. Imagine us, four bairns, and I guess more with the cousins and all, dancing along 

Time to go home, and down to the harbour we trek. We must leave our island once more to the sheep, the birds, the rabbits., and, of course, the ghosts of our past.

My Stroma Home part 5 on a Dark and Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night -- yes, honestly, I just wrote that.

As you already know, I was brought up until the age of nine on Stroma, an island in the Pentland Firth. Our transport to and from the island was a yawl, not more than eighteen feet long.

My mother and I had been in Wick for the day and were homeward-bound in our small but sturdy craft that had weathered many a storm.  The light was fading, but we should have made it before nightfall. Suddenly, the engine died and we were plunged into darkness. 

Now, the backup plan for any boat in trouble would normally be hoisting the sail. Not only would this give us wind power, but islanders, seeing a boat under sail, would be alerted that something was wrong.  Unfortunately, my father had cleaned out the boat that day and the sail was back on the island in the sail-shed.

The tides in the Pentland Firth are pretty strong, and with no power, we were being swept towards the notorious Boars, a place where several currents meet causing whirlpools and high, lashing waves. As we were dragged nearer, we were tossed around.

Luckily my mother had bought torches that day -- a present for my cousins who lived on the island. With the light, my father and grandfather struggled to get the engine going again. Dad had bought a new part for the engine and had it in his pocket.

I was scared, crying. They put me under a tarpaulin and the spray rattled like hail above my head as the boat bucked and rose on the waves and plunged into the troughs.

Meanwhile, back on the island, my grandmother, carrying my baby sister, continued to look out the window, searching the firth for any sign of the boat. In the darkness, we were invisible, the tiny torches not able to carry enough light to send a signal.

Finally, the engine spluttered to life and we fought our way from the lashing waves back to calmer waters.

I don't remember the welcome we must have got that night as relief flooded the family. But, as I had been taught, I did say my prayers and thanked God for delivering us from the jaws of the ocean.

Our boat, The Tern, in calmer waters.

 

My Stroma home part 4. Difficult weather.

 Winters could be tough when the boats could not get to sea or across the firth for fresh supplies. Yet, as a child, I don't remember ever feeling hungry or cold, so I guess the hardy island folk were always well prepared. 

My mother baked a lot, pancakes, bannocks, and sponges. Biscuits were a treat. Traditional sweets were a treat, but she often made tablet. 

We had a plentiful supply of chickens, salt herring, hard fish, and tinned food, and I imagine the shop was well stocked up in preparation for inclement weather.

The coal boat came once a year so the coal had to be rationed to last till the next coal boat came. 

In January 1955, we had the worst Snowstorm I ever remember.

'There's going to be a blizzard.' my father said, and we watched as he brought in extra drinking water and coal, and a large shovel. I didn't worry over much. whatever happened my parent were there and they would keep me safe.

The following morning, I woke up to a silent darkness. The house was encased in snow. My father was already tunnelling his way to the byre to tend the animals. He also tunnelled a path upwards, and once the blue sky could be seen, we children, decked out in wellingtons, hats coats and scarves, clambered out. Only the top of the roof and the chimneys were visible.  The large drifts made excellent sledge slopes. We could tunnel in and build caves, then fall back indoors with freezing feet and fingers, desperate to warm up and get outside again. The fact that our snow caves could collapse and bury us never entered our heads. When we ran out of water, my father brought in tin pails full of snow and put it on the stove to melt. 

Several of our sheep wandered over the cliff edge and fell down, sinking in the soft snow. My father tied a rope around his middle and rescued them. Trapped in their freezing bubble, and no doubt kept insolated by thick woolly coats, all had survived. 

Unfortunately for us children, being snowed in did not last long. I well remember the disappointment when I woke up one morning and the snow had almost disappeared. 

We perhaps fared better than many of our mainland neighbours, since those who relied on electricity had to do without. We relied on bottled gas and solid fuel and still had warmth and light. 

1953 brought a gale and floods all over Britain. Our sturdy wee houses fared better than many mainland dwellings. It was reported that 300 lives were lost in the UK. We didn't go to bed that night, but sat up and listened as the wind railed and battered our cottage. Strangely the wireless did not lose a connection and continued to report the progress of the storm until morning. I understand a great wall of water hit the north end of Stroma where the land was flatter, sending the coastal dwellers running up the rise while the sea poured into their houses. 

Next day, many households woke up to discover their wooden porches had gone. Many roofs had been damaged, ours included. 

1955 was Scotland's sunniest year on record. After a cold winter and a cold June, July and August were the hottest since 1911, giving a memorable summer. Not only was it hot on Stroma, but dry. Most of the wells dried up, leaving only a spring called 'the Stroop,' which supplied a constant source of drinking water, but even it was eventually reduced to a trickle.  

The big drums behind our house which stored rainwater also ran dry and my father carted containers of water from a pond near the lighthouse. Since the animals also needed to drink, it must have been hard days for the adults. 

My Stroma Home part 3 School days.

 School days

I left home on my first day of school clutching my brother's hand. I held fast although we didn't like each other very much. At the top of the hill and in sight of the playground, he refused to take my hand any more. He obviously didn't want this friends to see him  hold his little sister's hand!

 There were four of us new entrants, three girls and a boy.  The school consisted of two ends, the Beeg end for the older kids, and the Peedy end for the younger ones. Once upon a time, there were two teachers, one for each end. When I started there was only one. Mrs Wares. and we all sat in the Beeg end warmed by a small stove. On rainy days, we hung our coats near the stove to dry. No matter how far away we lived, we had no choice but to walk.

There were two doors, one for the boys and one for the girls, but the boy's door was permanently shut, again due to lack of numbers. Our toilets were outside, again separate toilets and consisted of buckets beneath wooden seats with the customary hole. 

The school building is no more and used for dipping sheep.

To one side was what we called the Cookery. Made of corrugated iron, it still stands defiantly against the elements and is mistakenly referred to as the School Room by day trippers, possibly since many of the exercise books were taken from the school rooms and stored there. 

The cookery was originally used to teach girls cooking, hence its name, but when I lived there it was the equivalent to a village hall for the islanders. After our Christmas treat, where the children put on a concert and received gifts from Santa, there was a dance for all in the Cookery. A white powder called Slipperine was liberally sprinkled on the floor and we loved sliding up and down on it. We were ordered to behave when the band struck up and the adults took to the floor.

Looking back over the years, it can be imagined how busy and thriving the island once was by the number of children attending school. 

This early photo is dated 1907.

This early photograph is dated July 1932. Back then Children could be educated in the school until they were ready for university if that was their aim. Many had to leave as soon as the law allowed,  at age thirteen, as they were needed on the land or to help at home. My mother had to become a full-time carer for her grandmother who was housebound.

Unable to find a date for this one.

The below photo was taken before I started. We joined those children for a year and then the majority of them left for secondary school.

.

And finally, the last two pupils left before the school closed for good.

As you see, a busy school, a busy island. I believe there were four shops on the island and a pub at one time. Also, the Floating shops from Orkney visited every fortnight. they came to buy as well as sell. I will deal with that in a later episode. 

When I lived there there was only one co-op shop built in the center of the island. 

My Stroma home part 2 Life on an island.

Stroma is divided into two areas. The north is Nethertown and the South side is Uppertown. We lived on the south side looking over the firth towards John O'Groats. 

Our cottage was a typical Butt and Ben, the design found all over the Highlands; a rectangular shape consisting of three rooms and attic space, with an outside lavatory. According to Wikipedia, it is a two-roomed dwelling, perhaps because the third room is very small, but in many cases still held a double bed and a chest. The Butt is an all-purpose room, a kitchen, living room and bedroom in one tiny space, the bed encased in an alcove in the wall and hidden by a curtain or shutters. The Ben room was usually the best room. Again with a box bed, fireplace and possibly easy chairs. 

Some cottages had extra porches at the front, and others had extra rooms added on with their own door, a granny flat would be the modern-day equivalent. 

We had a black Dover Range with a boiler to one side, so there was a supply of hot water. The box bed had been converted into fitted cupboards. We had a table and chairs, two comfortable chairs by the range and a chaise longue in worn brown leather which could be converted into a bed.  

No TV in those days but the wireless (radio) was constantly on, giving us news of the outside world. I particularly remember the children's program,  'Listen With Mother,' at about two o'clock every day. 

Before the days of Calor gas, I vaguely remember the Tilly lamp being suspended from the ceiling. 

Later that was replaced by the most modern of modern inventions, Calor gas.  Gas lights replaced the oil lamps, and cooking was now done on a gas cooker. For washing clothes, we had a gas boiler, a Godsend for my mother who had previously scrubbed my father's boilersuits which stank of oil and fish, on the step outside. She even had a gas iron! 

Being the gas engineer for the district was yet another job for my overworked father. He was now a crofter/fisherman/occasional lighthousekeeper and Gas representative. During the time he did spend at home, he taught us to play chess, draughs, Monopoly and cards (the only games we owned) and played hide and seek with us or read from Alice and Wonderland, which seemed to be the only children's book we owned. He read it in put-on voices and always made it sound different somehow. We loved those readings! Other indoor games we played were Hide the Thimble, I Spy, Consequences and The Minister's Cat.

Our small back room was referred to as the Closet, or scullery. In there we stored food, drinking water brought from a well, and a small table holding a basin beneath a tap. Water for washing came from two large tanks outside and was piped through the wall. they either caught rainwater or were filled manually during dry periods. Our roof was not slate, tile or even thatch, but flagstones quarried locally and cemented together. 

My parents slept in the Ben end, and the children slept in the attic. My father was handy and fashioned two bedrooms up there, one for my two brothers and one for myself and my sister. It wasn't a high attic and standing upright was impossible for an adult. The staircase was very steep, not dissimilar to a wooden stepladder, for comparison.

We often had relations come to stay for a holiday. At those times my parents gave up their bed and somehow managed to squeeze in beside us! Our wee room was than wall-to-wall bed!    

 Left was the view from our skylight. We called it The Chapel, but it was never used as a place of worship in my lifetime.           

The kirk, standing roughly in the middle of the island, is the kirk. It was well attended on a Sunday and still stands proud to this day. With its steeple, it can be seen clearly from the mainland.

The manse is attached to the far end and is now used as a home for the owner. 

 The public phonebox was not added until 1953.

The interior, in my memory, is reminiscent of all old churches, smelling of books, wood and beeswax, that unique smell only churches seem to have. The triangular dome above the pulpit was bright red. 

After the last sad service, the bible was left open at the last reading, the hymn books left open at the last hymn ever sung in that wee kirk, 'God be with you till we meet again.' 

That must have been a very poignant service indeed. I can just imagine the congregation filing out in silence, hearts too full to speak. I was just a young child, and none of it touched me.  

Unfortunately, the building has been emptied and is now used as a store.

Above are the children of the Sunday School on that same last day. I'm the one with the long legs in the middle!