The Last Summer, page 21
‘That’s no good for me,’ she whispered back.
Fin shrugged his shoulder, trying to dislodge her. ‘Effie, stop with your games. This is serious now. We’ve all to adapt and that includes you.’
The voice that had been speaking stopped.
‘. . . You. At the back. Is something wrong?’ a man enquired from the other side of the room. Effie wasn’t tall enough to see to whom it belonged.
‘Actually, yes, sir,’ Angus replied, lifting his chin so that everyone could see he was the one talking. ‘There’s someone here who says she’s come to report for work.’
‘Sssht, get,’ Finlay hissed at her again as everyone turned. He was younger than his eldest brother by three years and two years older than her. ‘. . . We’ve all to make a good fist of it. Don’t cause a nuisance, Effie, just for once in your life.’
‘I’ve every right to be here,’ she hissed back, resisting as he tried to push her out into the courtyard with his elbow. They had scrapped plenty of times as children and she’d won her fair share until he was double her weight. She jammed her foot against the door frame, hooking and locking her leg against it; she was determined not to be jostled back out but Finlay simply stepped in front of her, blocking her from sight instead.
There was a ripple of murmured voices at the commotion.
‘What’s happening back here? You, man, what’s your name?’
‘. . . McKinnon, sir. Finlay McKinnon.’
‘And what’s all the bother?’
‘It’s not Fin making the fuss sir,’ Angus said, elbowing his brother aside. Effie stared back at the room of men, all of whom she knew. Except one.
The foreman looked taken aback by the sight of her, although whether it was because she was a girl dressed in a man’s suit, or on account of her muddied leg and clawed hair, she wasn’t sure.
There was a silence as they regarded one another. He had a moustache and pale, doughy skin that was pocked on the cheeks. He was wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and she could see a vivid scar, almost like a crocodile bite, down the length of his right forearm.
‘And you are?’
‘Euphemia Gillies. Effie Gillies. I’ve come to work.’
A flicker of amusement danced through his eyes. ‘Well, Miss Gillies, I’m sorry to have to inform you we only employ men at the forestry commission.’
She tipped her head to the side but didn’t blink. ‘Why?’
He seemed surprised by the question. ‘Because the labour is manual and requires a man’s strength.’
‘That’s what they said back home about fowling on the cliffs, but I showed them there and I can show you too. I’m as able as any man here,’ she said staunchly, refusing to look away, even though she could hear Angus sniggering beside her.
The foreman’s eyes slid between the two old neighbours for a moment. ‘Miss Gillies, I don’t doubt your . . . fitness, but the women have been found work in the village, helping Mrs—’
‘It’s not women’s work I’m after, sir. I need a man’s wage. It’s just me and my father, you see. He’s not good on his feet now so it’s up to me to put the meal on the table. I can’t do that on the wages I’ll get for women’s work. You’ll see I’m as hard-working and strong as any of these men. More so! I was the fastest climber on Hirta—’
A snort of disbelief escaped Angus.
‘And because of my size, I could get into crevices they couldn’t. I’ll be helpful to you, I promise. You’ll vouch for me, won’t you, friends?’ She looked at the faces she had known all her days: Archie MacQueen, Flora’s father; Callum McKinnon, the middle of Mhairi’s brothers and always the most reasonable; even Norman Ferguson. They had prayed beside her in kirk or sat beside her in the schoolroom, they had cragged and hunted and wrung necks together; but the weather-worn, sunburnt faces she had known all her life were turned now to the ground. They were honourable men, brave and stoic, but to her amazement, what she saw on them now was fear – and shame of their fear. They could not defend her when they had no power here. They were no longer the masters of their fate, as they had been back home. A cash wage, and the easy survival it bought, came at a cost to dignity.
A silence grew as no one stepped forward, no one spoke out and she felt her stomach lurch as their silence – betrayal – solidified into something firm. Denial.
‘Things are different here, lass,’ the foreman said as her cheeks grew red. ‘What may have been acceptable – necessary even – over on the islands, can’t be done here.’
‘Why not?’ Was she to be the only one even to question it?
‘Let’s just say there’s an etiquette to how things are done.’
Effie stared at him blankly. She’d never heard this word ‘etiquette’ before. It meant nothing. ‘If you could just give me a chance to prove myself—’
‘But even if you did, it wouldn’t make a difference. I can’t have a slip of a thing like you working here. We’d be a laughing stock. This is men’s work.’
Effie felt her breathing become shallow as the full hopelessness of what he was saying dawned. She was wholly condemned by virtue of her sex?
‘How about we settle it over an arm-wrestle?’ Angus McKinnon suggested, cruel mockery in his voice.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ the foreman said coolly. ‘Miss Gillies understands the situation, don’t you, lass?’
For a moment she said nothing. She cast her gaze around the room and the men – most of them – had the decency to look away, ashamed of having denied her the chance to prove herself, when they knew full well that whatever they could do . . .
‘Aye, sir,’ she said bitterly.
‘Mrs Buchanan will be waiting on you. You’d best hurry along now, she’ll be thinking you’re late and she’s a stickler for good timekeeping.’ He looked at her clothes again. At her wet foot and the mud tideline up to her knee. ‘I expect she’ll have a change of clothes you can wear too.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘On the contrary, I think you’ll find she’ll insist upon it.’
‘I’m not wearing someone else’s clothes.’
‘Uh . . . you already are,’ Angus stage-whispered.
‘Look,’ the foreman said. ‘You said yourself you need to earn a wage to put food on the table. And how else can you do that if you won’t meet Mrs Buchanan’s standards?’
‘Well, not the other way, that’s for sure. No one’d pay for her,’ Angus drawled, emboldened by the men’s enduring silence.
If he thought he was quick-witted, Effie proved her fists were faster and she connected a strong sucker-punch to his kidneys – just the way John had taught her – before he’d finished laughing at his own joke. He staggered sideways for a few steps before he could recover himself.
‘Beaten up by a girl?’ she crowed through the red mist as he advanced towards her with an open hand.
The foreman positioned himself between the two warring St Kildans.
‘That will do,’ he said firmly, standing eyeball to eyeball with the younger man and making his intention plain. Angus’s hand dropped.
Effie breathed heavily as she stared at Angus over the foreman’s shoulder. She felt wild. She wanted to continue the fight, to show him – all of them – that she wasn’t what they said she was: weak, frail, feeble. She would defend herself no matter what. He had no idea what she was capable of, the things she had done . . . Her bloodlust was still up. It had been since the night before evacuation, outside the kirk, and nothing since could make it settle. Her heart was jumpy, her nerves scattered.
But the argument was already lost. No matter how strong or brave or hard-working she might be, whatever merits she might offer, this was simply a question of how things looked, and she couldn’t fight that. Her presence there would be an embarrassment. This was how things were over here. These were the things that mattered.
Without another word, she turned and left the hut.
‘You’re crazy, you know that? You’re out of control!’ Angus shouted after her. ‘You think you’re something special but you’re not. You’re nothing, Effie Gillies! You hear me? Nothing!’
She could hear the low whirr of the spinning wheels, the clack of the looms, before she’d even stepped through the door, a buzz of chatter bouncing over the machines the way a woodpecker flew, in a rising and falling rhythm.
Effie watched the scene with angry eyes. Women’s work. Women working. Heads bent, hands moving in synchronicity. Light fell in from high windows, shining on their hair, which had been smoothly tied back into buns. The building was a large, converted barn and Effie could see the pale tide of the mud splatter still at the bottom of the walls from when the animals had called this their home. Bolts of tweed were carefully stacked on trestle tables, a soft, feminine version of the giant logs piled high at the forestry yard.
At the far end of the space, a group of women were standing in a cluster around a desk; they were distinctive from the women already at the looms by the red shawls on their shoulders. Effie’s eyes narrowed to points. Only yesterday those same shawls had been on the women’s heads, but now they had slipped to their shoulders? Of course, there weren’t the same ferocious winds here to harry their hair, but that they had spent less than twelve hours on these shores and the old ways were already, quite literally, slipping . . . It made her heart tremble to see how quickly her tribe was disappearing into the mainland mass, disbanded and anonymous. Even Flora? Her head was bowed, her distinctive black hair tied back. For once, she blended with the crowd.
Effie watched the women standing so obediently as they took their orders. Was she the only one who felt torn from her own life? Who felt a need to retain her sense of self? Why was no one else . . . fighting?
‘You.’
The voice startled her from her thoughts and she focused her gaze to find a small woman staring at her. The top of her head would come no higher than Effie’s shoulder but she commanded the room. ‘You’re late.’
‘Aye,’ Effie replied flatly. ‘I went to the wrong place.’
There was a pause. A sense of expectancy hung in it, like a cradled baby in a hammock.
‘. . . Then perhaps you might think to apologize for the inconvenience you’ve caused,’ the short woman said finally, looking displeased that she had had to spell it out.
‘Do I not look inconvenienced to you?’ Effie asked back, indicating her muddied leg and clawed hair. She was tired and irate. Last night’s fractured sleep was already digging its sharp fingers into her. The room felt airless.
Another silence followed her words, their impudence causing the women at the looms to fall still as the short woman walked slowly towards her, hands fastened in front of her crisp white apron like she was in a funeral procession. She stopped in front of Effie and stared up at her. The height difference between them was almost comical, but it was clear with whom the power lay.
There were deep fold lines around the older woman’s mouth and between her brow. The corners of her mouth dipped downwards; her eyes were a dark blue but the whites around them were faintly yellow. Effie could see she had never been a beautiful woman, but her plainness had ripened with age to a bright sourness. She enjoyed her bitterness. It imbued her with a character her face had not.
‘You are Euphemia Gillies.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve just been hearing about you.’
Effie didn’t reply but her gaze flickered towards her old neighbours, now standing in a gaggle, watching them. Like the men, there was pity in their eyes, but none would step forward to defend her. They were gathered meekly in a huddle like the very sheep they had once chased, herded, plucked, and she realized why they weren’t fighting. They were terrified that this new life – miserable and meagre though it may be – might be ripped from their arms at any moment and they would be left with nothing at all.
‘No. It wasn’t them as said anything,’ the woman said, watching her eyes track her old neighbours. ‘Mr Lennox rang ahead, saying you’d caused trouble at the forestry.’
‘I didn’t cause anything! I went seeking employ—’
The sudden slap stung her cheek. For a moment she thought she’d been hit with a paddle.
‘You’ve a tongue on you, I can see that. And there’s fire in your eyes.’ The woman was scrutinizing her through narrowed slits of her own. ‘You’re trouble, Effie Gillies. I know your sort. Don’t flatter yourself that you’re an original.’ Her voice lowered threateningly. ‘You’d do well to understand folks have put themselves out for you. Homes have been found. Jobs too.’ A quick toss of her head indicated the weaving machinery set up behind her. ‘But there’ll be no favours either. No talking back, no shirking, no arriving late. You’ll work hard, and to my rules, or there’ll be no work at all. Am I clear?’
Effie’s eyes watered. Her blood was boiling. Every part of her wanted to scream. She owed nothing to this woman. She was free to work where she chose; this job may have been allocated to her by some bowler-hatted bureaucrat in London, but why should she accept it? She would turn it down and work where she pleased. Her life was her own.
At least, it would be . . . but not yet. She couldn’t just leave. She was hamstrung by the economic reality over here of earning a wage. There had been more freedom, more equality, back home, where she could catch their own meals and live in their ancestors’ house. But their new home had been given to them, and these jobs too. Until she could arrange something else, she must submit, like all the rest.
‘Am – I – clear?’ The words were enunciated slowly, threat lurking like shadows in the backs of them.
Effie knew she had to nod. If there was going to be a meal for her father’s table tonight, she had to nod. But she could see in this woman’s eyes that she wanted more than a ‘yes’. She wanted wholesale submission. Humiliation. A line had been drawn in the sand and – contempt established – Effie knew she would get no peace from this woman now.
Another expectant silence quivered even though there could only be one outcome.
Finally, she nodded.
‘Good.’ The woman gave a small, victorious sniff as though a trifle had been settled. ‘My name is Mrs Buchanan, I am the manageress. Your neighbours already have been trained to use the looms, you’ll have to catch up.’ Slowly, she looked Effie up and down in her men’s garb. ‘And I don’t know what passes for civility where you’re from, but over here, men and women don’t share each other’s clothes.’
A titter of amusement escaped from behind one of the looms. Effie’s head whipped round but all eyes were downcast.
‘It’s lucky for you we’ve no visitors today as Mr McCaughrean, our buyer in Glasgow, has just cancelled. I’ll not lose any more time to accommodating your antics. You’ll stay as you are for today and turn up properly dressed tomorrow – if you want to be paid.’ She went to turn away but looked back with a glimmer of amusement in her rheumy eyes. ‘They tell me that on the isle, only the men wove. The women only carded and spun the yarns?’
Effie blinked a vague assent.
‘So then it’s men’s work you’ll be doing here after all. That should please you.’ Sarcasm sparkled off her words. ‘Everyone, back to work!’
Effie watched her go as the clatter of the looms started up again.
Flora came over – she appeared to be limping – and clutched Effie’s hand in her own whilst smoothing her reddened cheek with her palm. ‘Eff, are you well?’ she whispered. Her long black hair that had blown free in the wind like a pirate’s flag on the ship yesterday was pulled back in a braid and pinned up. Effie read it as a sign of submission from her fiery, beautiful friend. A ready – and bewildering – surrender.
‘No!’ Effie hissed below her breath, her gaze skirting sideways and taking in the curious stares of the women on the looms. She was a wildling to them, no more than a savage. She could still feel the heat in her cheek at her public striking. Where Angus McKinnon had failed, little Mrs Buchanan had succeeded, and Effie didn’t doubt he’d hear about it soon enough. ‘I hate it here, Flora! I can’t stand it!’
‘Sssh, you need to keep control of yourself,’ her friend said, steering her away towards a corner. ‘It doesn’t have to be forever. Just let things be for a wee while, let the waters settle. I know it’s hard.’
‘Hard? I’ve left my home and seen my dog killed, all so that I could live in a house worse than the one we left? Up a track with only Norman Ferguson for help? Doing a job that’ll kill me within the month?’
‘Why should it kill you?’ Flora frowned. ‘There was nothing ever so dangerous as climbing the cliffs.’
‘The boredom, Flora! I’ll die of being inside! Of wearing these damned boots all day!’
A couple of heads turned at her cuss, watching as she kicked at the ground.
‘Sheesht!’ Flora whispered, eyes glittering with concern that Mrs Buchanan should be called over again. ‘This is no time for starting a revolution.’
Effie glowered at her friend. ‘Since when did you become so docile?’
‘You know I’m not that.’
But her friend’s voice was flat and toneless and she was still pale from the journey. She was struggling too. They were all of them like landed fish, gasping against the shock of air. ‘Flora, why are you still here? I thought you were going straight to the city?’
Flora nodded. ‘And so I will. But I can’t just leave my family behind without a backward glance. I’ll get them settled first before I go.’
Effie watched the shuttles pass across the looms, biting back furious tears. ‘It’s all right for you. You can swallow this when you know James has something better waiting for you. But . . .’ She met her friend’s gaze. ‘I can’t stay here. I have to leave. I have to find somewhere else—’
‘Gillies.’ The bark was a command.
She turned to find Mrs Buchanan standing by the door, her dwarfed figure in silhouette as the sunshine glowed in the courtyard behind her.
