Read Online Love and Music Will Endure by Liz Macrae Shaw - Free Book Online
Authors: Liz Macrae Shaw
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tried to join in her brother’s soldier games. It was harder than ever to eke out a living on the family croft. They grew few oats now and no barley at all. The soil was exhausted, even with all the seaweed dragged up from the shore to improve it. Without a horse it was draining work using the breast plough. So, like their neighbours, they turned to the bountiful potato and bought their overpriced oatmeal from the factor with money from selling the cattle.
Her mother had finally struggled ashore from the shipwreck of grief after Seonag’s death. Her sadness had become a shawl draped around her shoulders rather than a backbreaking load. Now it was her father’s spirit that seemed to drain away, leaving him morose, gazing into a clear sky and expecting storms. As a child Màiri had seen him as unchanging as the landscape, an upright pillar like the Old Man of Storr. But rock could crumble, gnawed silently away by wind and rain. The tide was running against him and she must tackle him again about the future.
They had finished planting the potatoes and were sitting with their backs against the wall of the house, enjoying some spring sunshine.
‘Let’s hope for a good harvest,’ she said.
‘Aye. But I heard a fellow say that the tatties failed in some places on the mainland last year. First the stored ones turned into a reeking mush and then the ones still in the ground went bad.’
‘They’ve always done well for us though, haven’t they?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what will happen to us Gaels. So many have left already. How can we cling on?’
She held back a sigh. ‘Surely the worst is over now. Those who have stayed have good big families to follow them.’
‘That’s part of the problem. There’s not enough land so they slice it up to give everyone a piece. Then no-one has enough to live on.’
She took a deep breath, ‘Well that needn’t happen here. I can take over. If a widow can be a tenant why not a daughter?’
Pappa’s troubled blue eyes had looked distant but now he turned to face her.
‘But Murdo will leave the army one day. I must hold this land in trust for him and any son he might have. I will not divide it.’
He saw the look of flayed hurt in her eyes and dropped his gaze. She stood, looking down at him.
‘So what life would I have if I stayed, except as a poor relative in someone else’s house?’
He shaded his eyes to look up at her, ‘You’re still young. You could marry and have your own home. That would be for the best.’
‘Well, I shall have to think about what I must do.’ She turned on her heel and strode off before her father could see the tears scalding down her face, but she knew that the jagged splinters of her voice had pierced him.
In the following days Màiri carried out her tasks with a savage energy. She stormed up the hills, forcing the bemused cattle to canter ahead of her. Bad enough to live the tough life of a crofter but for a woman, she thought, it seemed doubly harsh to be a beast of burden and a bearer of numberless children. Only a loving husband could make that bearable. She would only agree to marry if there was love, or at least kindness, between them. She would never accept the stale leavings of more favouredwomen even if she faced disapproval for being too fussy. But if she refused the only offers that had come her way from ugly and selfish old men she would have no land or independence. Perhaps she could brace herself to marry an old man who would die soon and then she could take over his tenancy? But the idea of being caressed by gnarled old hands, roughened like tree bark, brought bitter bile to her throat. There was only one answer. She must leave Skye and earn her own living. Like an otter caught in a trap she would have to gnaw off a limb so that she could escape. And maybe one day she would have enough money to return and live in style. That would show everyone. She had heard the whispers:
‘She’s a strong lass but
Her mother had finally struggled ashore from the shipwreck of grief after Seonag’s death. Her sadness had become a shawl draped around her shoulders rather than a backbreaking load. Now it was her father’s spirit that seemed to drain away, leaving him morose, gazing into a clear sky and expecting storms. As a child Màiri had seen him as unchanging as the landscape, an upright pillar like the Old Man of Storr. But rock could crumble, gnawed silently away by wind and rain. The tide was running against him and she must tackle him again about the future.
They had finished planting the potatoes and were sitting with their backs against the wall of the house, enjoying some spring sunshine.
‘Let’s hope for a good harvest,’ she said.
‘Aye. But I heard a fellow say that the tatties failed in some places on the mainland last year. First the stored ones turned into a reeking mush and then the ones still in the ground went bad.’
‘They’ve always done well for us though, haven’t they?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what will happen to us Gaels. So many have left already. How can we cling on?’
She held back a sigh. ‘Surely the worst is over now. Those who have stayed have good big families to follow them.’
‘That’s part of the problem. There’s not enough land so they slice it up to give everyone a piece. Then no-one has enough to live on.’
She took a deep breath, ‘Well that needn’t happen here. I can take over. If a widow can be a tenant why not a daughter?’
Pappa’s troubled blue eyes had looked distant but now he turned to face her.
‘But Murdo will leave the army one day. I must hold this land in trust for him and any son he might have. I will not divide it.’
He saw the look of flayed hurt in her eyes and dropped his gaze. She stood, looking down at him.
‘So what life would I have if I stayed, except as a poor relative in someone else’s house?’
He shaded his eyes to look up at her, ‘You’re still young. You could marry and have your own home. That would be for the best.’
‘Well, I shall have to think about what I must do.’ She turned on her heel and strode off before her father could see the tears scalding down her face, but she knew that the jagged splinters of her voice had pierced him.
In the following days Màiri carried out her tasks with a savage energy. She stormed up the hills, forcing the bemused cattle to canter ahead of her. Bad enough to live the tough life of a crofter but for a woman, she thought, it seemed doubly harsh to be a beast of burden and a bearer of numberless children. Only a loving husband could make that bearable. She would only agree to marry if there was love, or at least kindness, between them. She would never accept the stale leavings of more favouredwomen even if she faced disapproval for being too fussy. But if she refused the only offers that had come her way from ugly and selfish old men she would have no land or independence. Perhaps she could brace herself to marry an old man who would die soon and then she could take over his tenancy? But the idea of being caressed by gnarled old hands, roughened like tree bark, brought bitter bile to her throat. There was only one answer. She must leave Skye and earn her own living. Like an otter caught in a trap she would have to gnaw off a limb so that she could escape. And maybe one day she would have enough money to return and live in style. That would show everyone. She had heard the whispers:
‘She’s a strong lass but
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