Benbecula, page 7
At night I often hear the clanking of metal on stone. I cannot account for this. Then there are the voices crying out as if in the throes of death or gripped by agonies of some other sort. But these at least I know cannot be real for there is not a soul within shouting distance of my skullhouse. It is my imagination. I am gratified that I am able to make this assertion, that I am still capable – through the careful weighing of evidence – of distinguishing between reality and illusion. The certainty that the tormented voices I hear are only inside my head convinces me that I remain in possession of my reason. A madman could surely not achieve such clarity of thought.
The ninth of July began perfectly normally. The fact that I know the calendar date is enough to tell you that it did not continue in a routine manner for this is the day that my account has been leading up to. I do not suppose that many among you would have the least interest in the incidents I have thus far related were it not for the fact that they serve as a prelude to violence. When a tale promises bloodshed no one leaves their seat, and you may rest easy that I do not mean to disappoint you.
Our family awoke and went about our ablutions much, I suppose, like any other family, without the need for unnecessary talk. Mother served the porridge which we took at the table. Angus sprawled on the settle in the main apartment while we broke our fast. He did not take any porridge as it was one of his habits to pretend not to be hungry and then demand that our mother feed him at the most inopportune times.
Before Marion and I set off for the shore, I gave Angus some tobacco from my pouch and we shared the first pipe of the day with my father on the bench outside the house. We watched as Marion harnessed the pony.
Why not come to the shore with us? I said to him. We can always use another pair of hands.
I was in the habit of using the mildest tone so as not to provoke him.
Many a happy day I spent at work with the pony, he said. I hope that one day I will be well enough to do so again.
I looked at him. There was nothing to my eye to prevent him from accompanying us but I did not say so. Instead I directed John to keep watch over him and Marion and I set off for the shore. Father would do whatever he could manage on the rig.
Marion and I had been at the seaware for no more than an hour before John joined us. Angus was calm and he thought he would be of better use helping us. I did not argue. There was nothing to portend what was about to happen. The day was all blue and yellow. There are those who claim to see auguries of evil events but I am not among them. If a crow lands on your roof, fools like to proclaim that you will be soon be visited by death. If you repeat a prophecy often enough, sooner or later you will be proved right and find yourself lauded as a seer. No matter that you were right only one time in a hundred. No one remembers the ninety-nine times you were wrong. In any case I saw no crows that morning or none that I recall.
If anything, we were in better spirits than we had been for some time. Since the visit of MacLean, Angus had continued to converse in something approaching a civilised manner and I allowed myself to believe that his performance for the doctor might have been more genuine than I had believed at the time. I even chastised myself for seeing treachery in Angus where none existed. He was not clever enough to pull the wool over the eyes of a man of the medical profession, I told myself. I had begun to think that he was recovering his senses and might start to lead something resembling a useful life. There was no reason to have him incarcerated. The fault lay not with Angus, who through no fault of his own had been afflicted with some sort of malady, but with us, his kin, who saw no more than a burden and inconvenience to ourselves in his suffering.
I shall pass over the middle hours of the day as they were uneventful. We forked the seaware into heaps and then at intervals loaded those onto the cart. We worked through the forenoon then sat in the dunes eating the potatoes we had brought while looking across the sound to Lochdhar. Marion remarked that it was peaceful without the tolling of the bell and I understood that she was making a joke. She was not in the habit of making jokes and it pleased me that she had done so.
I replied by saying that I had no doubt Angus would soon put paid to that and the three of us laughed. We worked through the afternoon until the tide brought an end to gathering any more ware and set off back towards the house. I led the pony and the laden cart and Marion wandered a little in advance. I could see from a distance that there was some activity around our house. A woman named Ishbel MacBeath came running towards us and told us that our aunt was dead. I left the pony where he stood and ran to my aunt’s house. There I found her body on the floor between the fireplace and the bed. Her face was very much mangled and there was a great deal of blood where she lay. The table was upset and the objects which had been upon it were strewn across the floor. I stepped outside. Two men were outside our house. These were MacDonald, the Inspector of the Poor, whom I had last seen wiping Marion’s phlegm from his cravat, and a taller man who from the evidence of his dress was not from these parts. The stranger was dressed in fine clothes and wore a top hat. I had never before seen a man in a top hat, and it struck me as a silly and impractical garment. I have no doubt that if Angus had been present he would have crept up behind and knocked it from his head. Marion was standing before them and I had the impression that they had prevented her from entering the house.
Who’s this? the tall man said to MacDonald when I reached them.
The eldest son, Malcolm, MacDonald replied.
I took umbrage at the fact that the tall man had addressed his question not to myself but to MacDonald. Beneath his coat he wore a waistcoat woven from colourful threads.
And who are you? I said.
This is Mr Briscoe from Inverness, said MacDonald. I was in the process of giving him a tour of the parish.
It was Briscoe who then said, Your father is dead, Mr MacPhee.
I resented the fact that merely by virtue of being from elsewhere this Mr Briscoe saw fit to take charge of the situation and for some reason I felt that his statement was not intended merely to convey this piece of information but was in fact a sort of accusation, as if my father’s death was due to some negligence on my part. The antipathy I felt towards this stranger prevented me from expressing any surprise or indeed any other reaction.
Is that so? I replied.
And your aunt as well, said MacDonald.
Yes, I have seen her, I said, as if it was a commonplace occurrence to find a relative with her head bashed in.
And in truth I cannot say that I felt any surprise. I have said that I do not believe in auguries or portents and even less in the second sight that some around here claim, but the moment I saw my aunt’s body, I had felt with utter certainty that that would not be the end of it. Clearly she had not dropped dead of natural causes.
I pushed my way between the two men and stepped into the house. Marion followed behind me and they behind her. I do not know where John had got to. Perhaps he was also present but I do not remember. Father’s body was on the floor of the main apartment. His face was smashed in although to a lesser extent than my aunt’s. Blood issued from his ear and formed a pool soaking into the floor next to his head. His bonnet lay next to that. I realised how rarely I ever saw him without his cap. He put it on first thing in the morning and did not take it off until he went abed. Seeing him bare-headed and shrunken by death, he resembled a child. His foot was at an unnatural angle and his hands were positioned on either side of his head, as if he had moved them to protect his face from whatever blow was to be inflicted. It was a sorry sight. I knelt down and placed my hand on his chest. His body was still warm but his heart was not beating. I was sorry for it. Though I had often bemoaned his feebleness of body and character, I had liked him. He was an affable man who was guilty only of wishing to pass his days without conflict. Had it not been for the presence of this Mr Briscoe I might have let out a great wail but I did not want to confirm the idea that we were the savages he clearly took us for. Instead I got to my feet and said, Aye, he is dead all right, or words to that effect.
My mother was nowhere in evidence. It did not seem likely that she had fled the scene, firstly on account of her girth and secondly because she was loth to leave the house under any circumstances. In addition to this, if Angus had taken it into his head to kill my aunt and father – for from the first moment I had no doubt this was all his doing – it seemed unlikely that he would spare our mother, as of all of us it was for she that he had reserved his greatest antipathy.
I stepped into the bed chamber. At first the room appeared empty. I then noticed that the chest that usually sat beneath the window had been dragged across the floor in front of the bed. I pulled it back and saw a foot protruding. I threw off the bedclothes and boards and Mother’s body lay there, a cloth thrown over her head. I removed the cloth. Her bonnet was tied beneath her chin but her face had been obliterated. There was nothing left of her features. Had it not been for the fact that she was lying beneath her own bed and wearing her own bonnet, I would not have known her. Briscoe instructed Marion and I to lift the body from where it lay. It was cold and beginning to stiffen. When we had laid her on the floor, the sight of our mother’s pulverised face caused Marion to faint. MacDonald fetched a ewer of water and when she revived we led her from the room. There, as if seeing my father’s body for the first time, she began to scream. It is a measure of the horror of the scene that it caused Marion to react in this way as she was not one given to histrionics.
We led her outside and we sat down the two of us on the bench. When Mr Briscoe and Mr MacDonald asked who I thought was responsible it did not occur to me to do anything other than utter my brother’s name.
One evening we sat down the three of us, Marion, John and myself, to our evening repast. It was summer as we had been all day at the seaware but whether it was one or two years since our family had been reduced in number I cannot say. Perhaps it was even three but I think not. When we had eaten and Marion had cleared away the plates, instead of resuming whatever chores were left to her, she returned to her seat on the bench. John had not moved from his place and I had the sense that something was afoot. I filled my pipe and lit it. Marion filled hers too. She took a few puffs and then said, We have been thinking that it’s time we left this place.
It was not the notion of leaving that first irked me but her phrase, We have been thinking.
We? I repeated. And who is this we? Have the pair of you been conspiring behind my back.
John stared at the table.
We have not been conspiring, Malcolm, she said. We have only been talking.
What’s the difference? I asked.
We’re outcasts, she said. What is there to keep us here?
The kelp, I said.
The kelp! she said with contempt. Then she held up her hands. They were calloused and covered in wounds. Maybe you want to break your back shovelling seaware for pennies for the rest of your life but I’ve had my fill of it.
Well, I haven’t, I said. And even if I hadn’t, I don’t know anything else.
You could learn something else.
I made some kind of grunt to convey my scorn for this idea.
I won’t be driven out, I said.
Marion adopted a softer tone. You’re still young, Malcolm. We all are. Don’t you want to find a wife?
What use have I for a wife? I said. I have you.
Even if you have no use for a wife, maybe John would like to find a wife.
John? I said. Who would marry him?
No one round here, that’s for sure. No one would marry any of us. Not after . . . She tipped her head to the side to indicate that she was alluding to the events which we never spoke of.
I got up and fetched the whisky and poured us all a measure.
And where is it you propose to go? I said. Creagorry? Lochdhar?
To Skye.
Skye? I said. None of us had ever been further than Lochmaddy and only then once a year if we had livestock to sell.
To Portree.
And what does Portree have that Liniclate does not?
No one knows us in Portree, said Marion. In Portree the name MacPhee is not a curse.
Then John spoke for the first time. I hear there is work to be had there on the fishing.
And what do you know of fishing? I said. You wouldn’t last a day. Has Marion being putting thoughts in your thick head?
He looked hurt but I did not regret my words.
He stared at the table for a few moments then drew in his breath and looked me straight in the eye. It’s not Liniclate I’ve had enough of, he said. It’s you.
I had never known John to speak to me in this manner, nor to any other person. I felt laughter rise in my gullet but suppressed it.
And what have I ever done? I said mildly.
You’re a tyrant and a bully, Malcolm, he said. Since we were infants you’ve done nothing but ridicule me. I know what you call me behind my back. Dimwit. Cretin. Imbecile. I’m not an imbecile and I’m leaving for Portree. And since you ask, it wasn’t Marion that put the thought in my head. It was me that put it in hers. If you want to rot away in this God-forsaken hole, so be it. But you can rot alone.
I leant back on the bench and slowly applauded. It was the longest speech I had ever heard him make.
You’re no better than Angus, he said quietly.
At this I reached across the table and grabbed the lapel of his jacket and drew back my fist, but I did not strike him. Doing so would only have proved his point. In any case, Marion sprang between us and I loosened my grip on his collar.
John held my gaze, a look of defiance in his eyes.
I had upset the whisky glasses but Marion did not mop up the spillage. I righted the glasses and poured us all a fresh measure.
And there’s your answer to everything, said John. The bottle.
There was a period of silence. I drank my whisky and poured myself another.
And what about you, Marion? I said eventually. Do you plan to whore yourself on the harbourside?
Malcolm, she said quietly, I will find work as a servant. Flora MacAskill is at work in a house there and earns more in a week than all of us do in a month.
I will not have my sister working as a servant, I said.
And what am I to you if not a servant? she said.
You are not a servant to me, I said. You’re my sister.
She then embarked on a lengthy speech about the abject state of our existence, the dilapidated hovel we lived in and how we were so shunned that no one would share a pew in the chapel with us. How her back ached constantly and her hands were spoilt from shovelling seaware and taking in washing from our neighbours.
It would be better, she said, to be a whore in Portree than to exist like this.
I then thought to cast doubt on her ability to earn a living as a whore but held my tongue.
Come with us, Malcolm. There is nothing for you here. There nothing for any of us. I have money for the passage for all of us. Don’t you wish to be free of all this?
She reached across the table to grasp my hand but I pulled it away.
Never, I said. And you will not go either. He can do what he wants for all the use he is, but you cannot. I will not allow it.
It is not for you to allow or not allow, Malcolm. We are leaving for Lochmaddy in the morning. You can come with us or not as you choose but we are leaving. It’s decided.
