24

Miss Amelia Arabella Anstey-Smythe

‘SHE’S BACK FROM her cruise, I’m hearin’.’ Mary was full of some great news as usual.

‘Who?’ I asked, without much interest.

‘Miss Stephanie Smythe. Her in the big house. Craig Mor, y’mind. She’s been away for months. Now she’s brought someone home with her.’

‘Who?’ I asked again. This was more intriguing. Someone new on Papavray was always of interest.

‘Some relation of hers,’ Mary answered my question. ‘Comes from Australia. Somewhere called “Cranberry”.’

Was there really a place in Australia called ‘Cranberry’? Or did she mean ‘Canberra?’ Knowing Mary…!

‘Weird woman, I’m hearin’,’ continued my neighbour, as I refilled her teacup. ‘Hardly goes out at all; but Mary-Anne saw her one time. Long floppy skirts – I’m thinkin’ they’ll get gey wet in the grass. And big hats – they’ll blow off!’

‘Is she here to stay or just on holiday?’ I wanted to know. Stephanie’s house was large; like a manor house, so there would be plenty of room if some relation had come to live with this solitary woman.

‘I’m not knowing.’ Mary sounded aggrieved. She liked to know the whole story. ‘She’s called ‘Miss Amelia Arabella Anstey-Smythe!’ She was on firmer ground here. ‘What sort of a name is that, I’d like to know?’

I knew Miss Stephanie Smythe fairly well as a result of my ongoing association with the Laird’s children. Duncan and Felicity had five delightful children who were educated at home by a governess while they were young, and then a tutor for a couple of years, before being sent off to boarding school at the age of twelve. Inevitably, there would be a gap; when one teacher left and before another could be appointed. At such times, Felicity begged Stephanie Smythe to step in. She had been a university lecturer, had two degrees, a fellowship and the OBE, but in spite of all these qualifications, she had to be brave, indeed, to tackle the daunting task of trying to beat some knowledge into those resistant little heads. Like their father, the children loved the outdoors, the water, the hills, horses and dogs, frequently accompanying Duncan when he visited the other islands that made up his estate. He was a bluff, happy individual who lived for his wife and his family, and actively encouraged the children to pursue the outdoor life, but often at the expense of their schooling.

So Stephanie filled the gaps and had many heated arguments with the Laird about the children’s education. Even so, she managed to cope with Alicia, Victoria, Elizabeth and Duncan junior – a regular little imp – for weeks at a time. Penelope, the oldest, was at a leading public school by the time that I knew them.

My own involvement with these little terrors was all too frequent. Bumps, bruises, cuts, broken bones, mumps, chicken pox, a near drowning and more than one black eye were but a few of the reasons for my close association with them. Doctor Mac declared that he had never known such an accident-prone family, but he enjoyed Duncan’s whisky on his numerous visits so he did not complain.

I had encountered Stephanie on many of these occasions and we gradually became friends. She was about fifty, tall and rather ‘rangy’, much given to knitted stockings, shapeless jumpers and good quality tweeds. With hair scraped back and piercing blue eyes she was a formidable figure.

Stephanie’s house, perched on the cliff top at Rachadal, near the recently built Somerled hospital, was huge with turrets and cellars, wide corridors and a baronial-style hall. It was built in about 1850 by a wealthy Victorian forebear who had made his money plant-hunting in the Far East. So why such a person should choose to build a house on the windswept shore of an almost barren island was a mystery. Stephanie inherited on the distaff side, but by then, the bulk of the estate had dwindled away and she now ran the place with only three part-time helpers.

This relative sounded more than a little eccentric and I hoped to see the strange lady soon, but the manner of our eventual meeting was bizarre in the extreme.

It was a Friday afternoon: Nick was coming home from school for the weekend, so at about six pm, I drove over to the pier at Dalhavaig to meet the steamer. Rhuari, told me that there had been some engine trouble (again) and the steamer would be at least an hour late. The shops had closed, the pub had not yet opened and the pier café was putting up its shutters. I knew that I would have been welcome in any house, but it was ‘tea’ time and I didn’t want to disturb anyone. What to do for an hour? The only place that had not been closed for the night was the church.

The door creaked as I entered the cold, stark, gloomy house of God. The smell of dust and damp met me, combined with a faint and welcome aroma of furniture polish. So Anna-Mairi, a devout Free Kirker, had been busy. The good lady did her best to keep the place clean, but it remained a poor tribute to the Almighty.

I sat in the gathering darkness for a while. The building had never been wired for electricity and relied on oil lamps and candles, while Roddy’s young son worked the old-fashioned bellows to coax wind into the ancient, asthmatic organ – on the rare occasions that the frivolity of hymn singing was tolerated.

I was suddenly aware of a movement to my right as someone or something flitted down the side aisle. Startled, I was left doubting my eyes. In an empty, gloomy church on a dark evening, it was easy to imagine things.

Just then a blast of cold air told me that the main door had been opened. Footsteps advanced up the aisle; it was Stephanie.

‘Amelia! Amelia! Are you in here?’ she was calling, and as she neared the front of the church, she became aware of me.

‘Ah! Mary J!’

I told her about the figure flitting silently around the aisles.

‘And where is she now?’

I pointed towards the vestry. The door stood ajar and an uncertain light flickered through the crack. Stephanie put a finger to her lips and we crept forward until we could see the inside of the room. Seated at the desk, attempting to light one candle from another, sat an outlandish figure. I could see long, loose black hair and clothes that appeared to descend from her shoulders with as little shape as an old curtain. Her thin, white hands trembled as she placed the candle on the desk, and were then pressed together as though in prayer.

Stephanie spoke gently, ‘Amelia?’

The woman turned quickly and I saw a pale face so thin that the cheekbones appeared sharp beneath the yellowed skin. Candlelight is supposed to be kind, but this face would look ravaged in any light. She looked from my companion to me and I saw burning eyes with the wild look of madness.

Stephanie advanced slowly towards the pathetic figure. ‘Amelia, this is my friend, Mary J.’

Miss Amelia rose. She was very tall and her body had a grace and poise that belied the haggard face and wild eyes.

‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ She graciously inclined her head as she pronounced these stilted words in a deep, but monotonous voice.

Stephanie spoke quietly and gently and, taking Miss Amelia by the arm, led her back into the church and down the aisle. I blew out the candles, shut the vestry door and followed. I was just in time to see the two ladies drive away.

A few days later, Stephanie rang to ask me to ‘take tea’ with her while Amelia had her afternoon nap. Seated in her spacious drawing room with its view of the sea and the hills beyond, I heard Miss Amelia’s sad life story.

The cousins had attended a Surrey boarding school together. Parents and teachers were concerned about Amelia from an early age as she showed signs of extreme eccentricity, gradually becoming irrational and unpredictable. When she was in her teens, her parents moved to Australia, where her father took up a government post. She became more wild and devious as the years past, frequently absconding and she would be found in strange, dark places or wandering in the outback.

When her parents were killed in a plane crash, Amelia was put into a secure mental home run by nuns. She spent about fifteen years there and was happier and calmer than she had ever been. Then disaster struck for Amelia. The home closed! As the only known relative, Stephanie was sent for and had travelled to the Antipodes. There, she discovered that her cousin was not only severely disturbed, but also suffering from cancer and was not expected to live for more than a few months. So Stephanie made the brave decision to bring her back home to Papavray.

I listened to the sad tale with enormous respect and admiration for her, but I could not help wondering whether a cliff-top house on a remote island was an entirely suitable environment for a deranged and very sick lady.

As though reading my thoughts, Stephanie said, ‘I know this is not ideal; but she has no-one else. I shall do my best to look after her.’

A few weeks later, Stephanie’s altruistic devotion to Miss Amelia nearly cost her her life!

It was purely by chance that I became involved in the drama at Craig Mor. I was driving away from the hospital, when I heard shouting and screaming and the deep-throated bark of a dog, from that direction. Some instinct told me that Miss Amelia was the cause of the commotion, so I changed direction and sped towards the house.

A group of people had gathered where the grounds ended in sheer cliffs dropping to the angry, green sea, some one hundred feet below. Others were running across the grass carrying various bits of rope and chain. It was not hard to guess that someone (Amelia?) had gone over. Just then the island’s ancient fire engine lumbered into view and drove near to the edge of the cliff.

Charlie, the roadman, came towards me. ‘’Tis that Miss Amelia. She climbed down – the Lord only knows how – and now, she’s on a ledge away down yonder. They’ve called the coastguard but they’ll be a wee whiley, I shouldn’y wonder.’

I could see Stephanie’s tense figure standing near the edge.

‘Hurry!’ she was shouting. ‘She won’t hold on to anything. She’s just standing there and the wind is going to blow her in. It’s catching her skirt.’ She noticed my arrival. ‘Oh, Mary J, I’m so glad you are here. She’ll be so cold and wet when they get her up.’

Peering over the edge, I could see that it was going to be very difficult to rescue her, particularly as she was unlikely to cooperate. Meanwhile, the firemen were attaching one end of a rope to the fire engine and dangling the other over the edge.

‘What good will that do?’ Ally asked. ‘She’ll no be able to climb up – even supposin’ she could understand.’

‘I’ll go down the rope and get her!’ exclaimed Charlie immediately.

‘Ach, no. You’re too wee. You’d never hold her.’

‘Wind’s rising to gale,’ warned Fergie, who had just arrived.

‘I’ll go!’ Everyone stared at Stephanie. ‘I’ll go,’ she repeated. ‘Amelia is my responsibility: it’s right that I should go. At least I could hold her until the coastguard arrives.’

There was a shocked silence, and then everyone started to talk at once.

‘You’ll no’ do it!’

‘One of us should go!’

‘Yon woman down there’s daft. She’ll no’ do as you say. She could take you over the side with her.’

‘How’ll ye do it, foreby?’

‘I insist. I will not allow any of you to take such a risk. Tie me to the rope and lower me over the side.’ Stephanie sounded nervous, but determined.

‘You will be risking your own life!’

It was no good. ‘I can’t just do nothing. I know the danger, but I cannot just stand and watch.’

The firemen began to loop the rope around her and make it safe, then in a surprisingly sprightly way she wriggled over the grassy cliff-edge and began to descend. Just then, Amelia screamed, startling Stephanie who lost her purchase on the rock face. She fell the last six or seven feet, landing beside Amelia on the ledge.

‘Stay still, Stephanie,’ I shouted. ‘Lean against the rock face if you can. It will be safer there.’

I could see that one leg was at a strange angle and that she was supporting one arm.

‘What now?’ I asked. ‘How long until the coastguards get here?’

Donald shrugged in despair. ‘They are supposed to be on their way,’ he said.

But fate was kind. Chas (Doctor Charles Spencer, who was standing in for Doctor Mac)) arrived at that moment, having heard the commotion. As he got out of his car, several voices gave him a garbled update and he peered over the cliff edge.

‘Miss Smythe,’ he called to Stephanie. ‘I’m coming down, so stay still.’

Chas was the doctor to the Mountain Rescue Team for several islands, and an obsessive climber, so he always seemed to have a car full of climbing equipment. I ran back to get his medical bag while he collected ropes and harnesses and various bits and pieces from the boot. Once more the fire engine was used for one end of the rope, while Chas stepped effortlessly into the harness and disappeared over the side.

There was only just room on the ledge for the three of them, but he was able to give Stephanie something for the pain. Amelia had begun to scream again.

He looked up. ‘I’m going to give the other lady a sedative. We can’t possibly get them up the cliff or down to a boat, so you’ll have to get the helicopter.’

I was more than familiar with the helicopter, having needed to call it out on several occasions, so off I went into the house to phone.

‘Thirty minutes, max,’ came the answer. ‘Winch job, is it?’

‘Yes, it will have to be,’ I replied. I returned and relayed the message.

Chas replied, ‘I shall stay with them.’

The helicopter arrived in less than twenty minutes and hovered above us while the winch man was lowered to the ledge. Amelia was taken up first, and then Stephanie was secured onto a stretcher and lifted to the waiting aircraft, which quickly disappeared into the skies.

Chas climbed back up, wandered back to his car, stowed the climbing and medical equipment, jumped in and continued his rounds as though nothing unusual had happened.

Stephanie recovered well, but Amelia died the following day. I think the escapade on the cliff had been just too much for her fragile body, but probably saved her a lingering and possibly painful death.