23

The School Outing

‘WILL YOU PLEASE sit still, Angus?’

I was doing my monthly ‘head, hands and feet’ inspection at the little junior school and I had started with the reception class.

‘I canna sit still, Nurse. You’re ticklin’ ma feets that bad. Ha, ha, ha.’ Angus went off into paroxysms of hysterical laughter. All the other children found this infectious and we soon had uncontrolled hilarity.

Poor Elizabeth, the teacher – the sole teacher – was vainly trying to keep the attention of the nine- to eleven-year-olds on the other side of the one and only classroom. They were supposed to be doing geography as she patiently pointed to countries on the wall map.

But they, too, caught the infectious mirth and the whole school was soon laughing with Angus, who was delighted to be the centre of all the fun.

‘I’ll hold him down for you, Nurse,’ volunteered Murdo.

‘I’ll help.’

‘And me.’

Soon a pile of little boys fell on Angus but they were so enthusiastic in their efforts to keep him still that I began to fear for his ability to breathe.

Eventually, I had lines of boys (and it was boys, girls are cleaner) waiting at the wash basins to have their dirty fingernails scrubbed and their feet washed. No-one was really filthy but island terrain is wet and muddy, so wellies are worn most of the time causing feet to get smelly. Athlete’s foot is a problem, too. Hands that help with the croft work or the fishing are never going to be pristine but fingernails need to be kept short and I sat several wee lads down with nail clippers. The intense concentration on their little faces as they snip-snipped away was most engaging.

Finally, the little ones were finished and sent out to play while I began on the older children. Even on Papavray, in the seventies, some of the girls wore pale pink nail varnish on their chubby, childish fingers. It did not look quite as sophisticated as they fondly imagined.

The head examinations were usually straight forward and I rarely found any ‘wee craturs’: only when visiting cousins from the teeming schools in Glasgow or other big towns had brought these hitchhiking pests with them.

As I was preparing to leave, Elizabeth took me on one side.

‘I haven’t told the children yet, but I am trying to organise a proper school outing this year.’

School outings were usually poor affairs as Papavray was so small that the children knew every nook and cranny: nothing was new to them. There were no museums, gardens or castles, other than Duncan’s home, so a picnic and a nature walk was about all that could be expected and no-one got excited about that!

Elizabeth continued, ‘I want to hire two minibuses. There are fifteen children and I’m sure they will all come, and several mothers will have to come with the tiny tots. Arthur, [her husband] will drive one and I don’t drive so I’m having a problem finding a driver for the second…’

I could see where this was going, so I said, ‘Yes, of course I will. When is it to be?’

Elizabeth laughed as I pre-empted her request.

‘July tenth. I’m booking a tour of Castle Benrigg on Eilean Mor. It is a lovely old place, perched on a rocky isle just off the coast. It has just been restored and opened to the public. They do organised tours; there is a shop and a café. I think the children will like it. The ride alone will be a novelty for some. They will love the rather grim old castle and those who can bring pocket money, can buy things in the little shop. I think we can manage dinner for them all out of funds.’

Elizabeth was so enthusiastic. She loved her job and the children and I was sad to think that she had been unable to have a family of her own.

Gradually, all the plans came together and she thought I would like to be there when she told the children. It took a moment for them to realise that this year’s outing was to be very special. Then uproar ensued! There were squeals of delight, clapping of hands and shouted questions.

‘How far is it?’

‘Is it spooky?’

‘Are there any soldiers in the castle?’

‘Are we having dinner there?’

‘What about a ghost?’

These children from simple backgrounds were delighted to be driven to the next island, to look around a castle, have lunch and be driven home again. They were so easy to please, having no grandiose ideas about sophisticated pursuits or exotic destinations. It was most refreshing.

The great day arrived. When I drew up at the school, having picked up the minibus from Roddy’s garage, the playground was already full of screaming, jumping children. And it was only quarter to nine! School days were never like this! I had Andy with me but he soon disappeared into the throng of excited children. Three mothers of little ones were coming with us and two of those had babies as well – so we were quite a crowd. Arthur drew up with the other minibus. Elizabeth looked slightly harassed as she began to tick her lists and control the rush to board the buses with the inevitable jostling to sit at the front. Arthur had insisted that Elizabeth travelled in his bus as he was a little nervous in the presence of so many vociferous youngsters: this was all a far cry from his quiet job as an accountant for the Crofters’ Commission. I asked two of the mums to come with me as I needed at least one other adult in my bus.

Eventually, the seething mob of ebullient humanity was seated and we set off. I delighted them by tooting the horn loudly as we passed various crofters, who paused in their work to wave to us. And again, only ten minutes later as we approached the harbour, I tooted to announce our arrival.

On the boat, we drove into the car parking area and then everyone went on deck to savour the views, the sun and the sheer excitement of the day. Even the weather was good to us. A scattering of pellucid clouds in a serene sky was mirrored in an unusually tranquil sea, so clear that sea weed and fish were easily visible. Then to our intense delight, a pod of dolphin swam majestically past.

I was fascinated by one little girl, Amy, who lived by the harbour and had watched the arrivals and departures of the steamer several times daily every summer but until today, had never been on it. She was oddly quiet as she savoured this new experience. Most of the children were jumping up and down and shouting with glee but Amy stood slightly apart, watching the sunlight on the waves, occasionally glancing up at the wheeling gulls and then down again to the bow wave as the ship parted the water. I tried to read her thoughts – I would talk to Elizabeth about her. Was she repressed in some way so that she could not show her emotions or was she just quiet, deep, and maybe prematurely mature for her age? I had a strange feeling about her – that she was somehow different and would be special in some way when she reached adulthood.

I have not kept in touch with many of the islanders over the years but I was intrigued by this little girl and made a point of following her progress. Amy went to university in England, and then became a protestant nun. Later she was one of the first women to be ordained as a priest in the Church of England, in 1994. But of course, we knew nothing of this on the bright day of the school outing when she was just a fascinated little girl, absorbing all the new sights and sounds in her own quiet way.

I was also amused to watch Andy, who was well used to car rides, boat rides, plane rides – all these things since birth – but was now joining in the excitement of the rest of his friends, especially noisy Murdo.

But the boat was soon approaching the little harbour on Eilean Mor and we ushered the children back onto the buses. We drove along narrow roads, scarcely better than our own roads on Papavray but well signposted to Benrigg Castle. Lochans winked in the sunlight as we traversed boggy stretches, burns chattered as we plunged down into chasms and then we were breasting a heather-covered ridge, and there we caught our first view of the castle. I pulled over for a moment so that the children could see what a spectacular position the castle occupied.

‘’Tis nearly in the sea.’

‘We will need to walk over yon wee bridge to get to it.’

‘I wonder how they got all the stones over there to build it.’

‘It’s near bigger than the rock it’s on.’

‘It doesn’t look too spooky.’ This was from Murdo, who sounded quite disappointed.

He was right. The imposing castle looked inviting, perched on its tiny island, the granite stones sparkling in the sunshine, and surrounded by the huffing wavelets which splashed gently against the rocky shore. The picturesque little stone bridge had three arches spanning the narrow strip of water separating the island from Eilean Mor, while the high, purple mountains on the distant mainland formed the perfect backdrop to this impressive fortification.

We carried on down the hill to where the road met the sea and ended in a good sized car park.

The castle was on the mainland side of Eilean Mor, which meant that we were out of sight of Papavray and this made the outing seem even more of an adventure. The car park was quite busy with two or three coaches drawn up and people spilling out of them, making for the bridge or just standing about taking photographs.

‘All these people!’ exclaimed a wide-eyed Angus.

‘So many folk; all come to see the castle!’ Ailsa stood near me.

‘There’s millions and millions of them!’ This was Murdo, of course.

The children were momentarily quiet, staring at the people, and I suddenly realised that for some of the younger ones, this would be the first crowd that they had ever seen. Nowhere on Papavray would they have seen hundreds of people all together. I had not thought of this.

‘Just keep together,’ admonished Elizabeth, looking a little taken aback at the number of tourists already here. We gathered everyone together and marshalled them into a crocodile. The mothers who had accompanied their own offspring took charge of an extra child each, but even so, Elizabeth had a head count as we went through the barrier. Once on the little stone bridge, the children surged forwards in excitement.

‘I’ll bet there’s ghosts,’ announced Murdo. ‘I wonder if people got their heads chopped off here?’

‘Ugh! There won’t be ghosts will there, Nurse?’ (Although out of uniform and only the driver for the day, I was invariably still ‘Nurse’.)

‘I don’t think so and in any case ghosts don’t like the daylight, do they?’ I did not want to spoil the fun but some of the little girls looked scared.

‘I had not thought that there would be so many people here,’ said a rather worried Elizabeth. ‘Ah. Here is the guide!’ A tall man in a kilt, cloak and bonnet smiled at the children and prepared to take us around the castle. He greeted Elizabeth, explaining that, as the castle had only just opened to the public, we were his first school party.

‘Is that Rob Roy?’ asked young Dougall.

‘Nae. Don’t be daft, man. He’s just nobody dressed up,’ explained Martin, informatively.

Luckily our guide smiled at this less-than-flattering description and we were marched into the grand hall. He tried very hard to keep the children’s interest in the portraits but he had no hope as they had seen into the next room which was full of suits of armour, shields, pikes, cutlasses, knives of all kinds and several life-like sculpted figures of fearsome looking warriors. The boys were in seventh heaven! The girls were more interested in the dresses worn by two figures of women cowering under bushes while a battle raged around them.

‘She’ll be droppin’ that baby. It’ll fall from yon tartan cloak.’

‘She’ll not be too warm in that dress. It’s no’ got any sleeves.’

‘Just look at those feets. They are filthy, just.’

‘What particular battle is this?’ asked a studious boy of eleven, when the guide had realised the futility of trying to interest everyone in portraits and had wisely moved on. With relief, the man welcomed the question and launched into an explanation of the battle tactics of the time, which were brutal and uncompromising. After many ‘oohs’ from the boys and ‘ughs’ from the girls, we moved on into the bedrooms. The huge four poster beds were the subject of much speculation.

‘Look! They’ll be needin’ a step ladder to get in to bed. Why are they so high up?’

I wish I could remember the guide’s answer because I don’t think I have ever known why four posters are so high off the ground.

There were two realistic figures lying in the bed. Little Ailsa pulled at my sleeve, ‘Why have the men got nighties on – not pyjamas?’

Two of the boys were hooting with laughter. ‘They’ve got bonnets on, too. Fancy wearin’ your bonnet in bed!’ The guide’s history lesson did not seem to be going too well!

‘They are wearing night caps,’ he offered weakly. Then he appeared to brace himself.

‘Now I must ask you to walk in twos and be very careful. We are going down to the dungeons and it will be rather dark.’ This was the worst thing he could have said. Several of the small girls screamed that they did not want to go while the boys were jubilant and surged forwards in an undisciplined mob.

Elizabeth blew her very effective whistle. ‘Children! Behave properly and do as our guide tells you.’ She looked at me. ‘Would you stay with those who do not wish to go down, Mary J?’ I was quite willing as I have no great love of dark places and grim reminders of torture and suffering.

The very young, one of the mums and a number of the girls stayed with me and we found the room given over to costumes of the day. The girls were charmed by the splendid dresses of the aristocracy of that time and the basket cradles for the babies. It was a great relief from the frenetic enthusiasm of the boys for all things warlike or ‘spooky’.

After a while, a weary looking guide, a harassed Elizabeth and the group of slightly more thoughtful boys and girls emerged from the dank dungeons. Apparently, the displays had been so graphic that even the most bloodthirsty of our students had been subdued. The horror of the instruments of torture and the terrible methods of inflicting pain and death had quashed all the bravado.

Back in the main hall, Elizabeth thanked the guide, instructed the children to do likewise and then announced that we were going to the café for ‘dinner’. Among the enthusiasm that greeted this, I glanced at the retreating figure of the guide as he walked towards a door marked ‘staff only’. He was mopping his brow. The poor man had certainly had a baptism of fire!

Part of the café had been set aside for our use, but Elizabeth stopped the children at the door, admonishing them to be quiet as other people were eating in the rest of the room. She then let four or five in at a time, only sending the next lot in when the first were seated. I admired her organisation, which prevented any unseemly rush and pushing.

They sat quietly, eyeing counters laden with hot food which smelt delicious.

Elizabeth sent the children to the counter a table at a time. I stood by to help the younger ones to choose from the rather baffling array of dishes: sausages, beef casserole or shepherd’s pie. It took some a long time to choose and again, I realised that I did not know nearly as much about these island children as I had thought. It was apparent that some had never been to a café before and most had not had the luxury of choosing what they ate. We had healthy children on Papavray. They were adequately fed but most households stuck to traditional meals and the children would have had the meal placed before them and would have eaten without argument or fuss. Unlike today, when we have innumerable sensitivities and allergies, likes and dislikes and often mistaken ideas of what is ‘good for you’.

Quietness reigned as they tucked into the first course with gusto. Occasionally someone would glance towards the dessert counter and discuss with a neighbour what they were going to have for pudding.

Suddenly, Andy said, ‘Where’s Johnny?’

There was silence. Everyone glanced around. No Johnny! Elizabeth paled.

‘Toilet, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Arthur, will you…’

Arthur was already on his way, but was back almost immediately. No Johnny!

‘I’ll have to stay with the children.’ She looked at me. ‘Can you…?’

I took one of the mums – Jenny – with me. We tried the ladies toilets in case he had got confused. He was only seven. No luck. I went to the costumes room and the armoury while Jenny looked in the main hall and the bedrooms.

‘Have you seen a little boy by himself?’ we kept asking as we weaved in and out of the crowds. We asked any members of castle staff that we met, but there were a lot of children running about so it was not going to be easy. Jenny and I met again at the entrance to the dungeons. ‘I hope he is not in there. He might be scared,’ said Jenny.

‘Is he a nervous boy, do you know?’ I asked, as we pushed our way through the people queuing to go down the steps. In spite of the excuse me’s and the I’m sorry’s, we were not popular.

‘Could be. He’s an outdoor type, really,’ puffed Jenny.

Eventually, we descended into the darkness. There were several rooms or ‘cells’. We looked in things, behind things under things – no Johnny.

On emerging, we met Arthur who had been searching the staircases and corridors.

‘No luck,’ he reported.

We were desperately worried by now. Returning to the café, we encountered a pale, tense Elizabeth. The children were devouring steamed puddings or apple tarts by now, completely unconcerned for Johnny’s whereabouts. Arthur hurried off to the reception and asked them to put out a call over the tannoy. Three calls later – still no Johnny! Jenny and I looked around the tiny rocky foreshore while Arthur went off to the car park in case Johnny had returned to the bus. We met again at the café – no luck.

‘I have asked the castle staff to instigate a proper search,’ said Arthur. ‘We should probably contact the police, too.’

Announcements were made asking everyone in the building to make their way to the main hall to allow an organised search to take place. There were a few grumbles but most realised that the matter was now serious.

It was very serious. Somehow, in spite of all the care and having six adults in the party of twenty-four, somewhere we had lost a small boy. How easily these things can happen!

We kept the children in the café while the castle staff searched all the places that we could not have known about or had the right to enter.

The general atmosphere had now changed from a slightly amused interest to a tense concern. Even the children, now replete, were quiet and apprehensive.

The curator was called and decided to involve the police, but our own search continued as the nearest police station was some twenty tortuous miles away.

Elizabeth asked the curator to telephone Cill Donnan post office so that they could tell Johnny’s mother. ‘I hate to worry her but I feel she should know. His father is at sea.’ Elizabeth was white and strained, Arthur had a permanent frown, Jenny was whispering reassurances to some little ones and I was desperately trying to think what else we could do.

A side café door opened to admit an oldish man in waterproof leggings, carrying quantities of fishing gear. He dumped all this on a chair and turned to the counter. He was quite obviously not one of the tourists.

He became aware of the quietness and the strained atmosphere. He looked round and then turned to the counter staff, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘A little boy is missing – everyone is very worried.’

‘Oh, dear!’ The man appeared to think for a minute. ‘Is his name ‘Johnny?’

There was a gasp. Elizabeth rushed forward. ‘Yes. Oh please, do you know where he is?’

‘Yes. There!’ He pointed to the small door, which was on the seaward side of the café. In the doorway stood Johnny!

Elizabeth burst into tears. The children rushed at an astonished Johnny.

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Oh, man. We were worried about you.’

‘You missed dinner,’ observed Murdo, severely.

I took Johnny’s hand and led him to a table, indicating to the counter staff to bring him some food. ‘Where were you, Johnny?’

The child was totally unaware of the furore that his absence had caused.

‘I was with Angus.’ He nodded towards the man. ‘Fishing.’

‘Why did you leave the rest?’ I asked.

‘I was in the dungeons, but I didn’t like them so I came out. You had all gone so I went out and onto the shore.’

We had gone to see the costumes, thinking that those down in the dungeons would stay together.

‘Angus was there and he let me fish with him.’

‘Didn’t you hear or see people looking for you?’

‘No.’

Angus said, ‘I saw a lot of people poking about, but they were too far away to hear anything. I didn’t think young Johnny here was lost. He didn’t seem lost to me! He’ll make a good fisherman, one day.’

We were in time to stop the curator from ringing Cill Donnan and the police had not even left their station. The members of the public resumed their interrupted tours and we did a lot of apologising to everyone. The children took it all in their stride.

Murdo said scathingly, ‘You didna catch any fish, foreby.’

The drive home was quiet as many of the younger ones fell asleep. Johnny, who, at seven, failed entirely to understand the trouble he had caused, was something of a celebrity at the back of the bus.

When we drew up at the school, various parents were waiting to collect their offspring. There was a terrific babble as everyone tried to tell their families about the day.

Elizabeth immediately went to Johnny’s mother and told her of his adventure, apologising for losing sight of her son. His mum did not seem too worried about him or by the problems that he had caused, saying, ‘Ach, he’d rather be fishin’ than anything, I’m thinkin’.’

When they had all gone, I said to a relieved Elizabeth, ‘Well. We shall not forget this year’s outing in a hurry!’

‘How could you doubt it?’ she replied. ‘They will be talking of it for months, I wouldn’t wonder.’

‘But…’ I said.

‘What?’ she was wide-eyed.

‘How will you top this next year?’

She laughed. ‘Sufficient unto the day and all that.’

But much was due to happen before the next outing.