TWENTY-TWO

The Echo in the Hills

‘Ach, it’s coarse, coarse weather the day, Nurse, do you not think?’ Morag dragged her coat farther round her plump figure as we approached Archie and Mary’s house.

It was ‘van time’ and several of us were going to drink tea with Mary whilst waiting for the unpredictable vehicle to arrive—or not arrive at all, perhaps.

Ah, the vans! These malodorous vehicles travelled the villages and outlying hamlets once weekly, selling stale food at inflated prices. But the convenience of these mobile shops, which stopped as close to every croft house as the road would permit, was such that, apart from a mild grumble, the crofters seemed resigned. In fact, ‘van time’ was always a good excuse for an impromptu ceilidh. Folk from distant crofts would descend on the lucky people who bordered the van’s route and much tea and gossip would brighten the day. The van could be an hour early, two hours late or fail to appear altogether, but at least everyone had a good time whilst waiting.

‘Aye, it’s cold indeed for May,’ agreed Behag. ‘I’m thinking we’ll no get the peats dry for a wee whiley yet.’

‘I mind, one year, we didna get them in at all until November,’ said Mary, handing round cups (no saucers) of tea.

Everyone began to reminisce about good and bad years for the peat. Although the islanders no longer relied exclusively on peat for their fuel, the unreliability of the ancient coal boat and the frequent storms around the islands made a steady supply of coal from the mainland a constant worry. So peat, with its blue smoke and acrid smell, was still cut and hoarded in huge peat stacks beside the croft houses, some as tall as the houses themselves.

At last, the van arrived and, one by one, we mounted the rickety steps; amid ribaldry and laughter with ‘Starky, the van man,’ who was a great clearing house for gossip, we purchased our goods and departed with the usual mild mutterings about the prices. As I turned for home, an old Land Rover rattled to a halt and Brian’s cheery face grinned from the window.

‘Mary J. Long time no see.’

‘I’m used to that,’ I said. ‘You are always too busy, tucked away there up in the hills.’

Dij and Brian (‘Bri’ to all) ran Echo House as a climbers’ hostel. Much extended and altered, it had been a primitive bothy and a byre but was now a warm and welcoming home-from-home, hidden away in a high fold of Ben Criel. Ben Criel was more than just one mountain; it was more like a group of craggy peaks running down the middle of Papavray, culminating in the highest point which was over two thousand feet. The lower slopes were used for sheep grazing and could be walked or scrambled up, but the higher slopes were sheer, rocky, and remote: ideal for climbers of medium ability and much used for practice climbs before tackling the Alps.

Dij and Brian, now in their forties, had been climbers, and so knew well the requirements of the enthusiastic young people who came back year after year to the rough and ready but homely and welcoming atmosphere, with its big fires and lashings of good food, its comfortable beds and friendly faces. These two worked harder than anyone I have ever known: their task made that much more arduous because there was no electricity supply to Echo House. This meant that Dij had no freezer, so she was always drying or bottling food in order to preserve it, and, with no washing machine, all the bedclothes, towels, etc. had to be washed by hand and dried at night in the vast kitchen, warmed by the old range. Brian spent much time on DIY to keep the crumbling old place going and made weekly sorties to the mainland for supplies returning with a groaning Land Rover. The house was almost surrounded by peat bogs, and here, peat was essential as the coal lorry would not attempt Brian’s steep, rough, three-mile-long track.

‘No, we’ve been a mite busy,’ rejoined Brian. ‘But you’ll know that we have got the electricity in at last.’

We had all been aware for several weeks of the muffled explosions in the hills, as rocks were blasted away to install the electricity poles. These had been sent from the mainland by ferry on low loaders but, of course, such vehicles could not negotiate the trek up into the hills, so they all had to be transferred to a tractor and trailer which kept getting bogged down in the soft ground. The whole enterprise had taken months and must have cost Brian and Dij a fortune.

‘Yes. We have bought a freezer and a washing machine. They will make Dij’s life a lot easier. Couldn’t afford anything else. Anyway, we are having a party to celebrate. Lots of climbing friends, but local folk too. Can you come—all of you? By the way, the post office is going to use the electricity poles, so we are getting a telephone as well. All mod-cons at once!’ And, with a cheery wave, he was off.

The party, later that week, was typical of Brian and Dij: no fussy finger-food or little things on sticks for these two! Large legs of chicken, venison steaks, and beef joints, together with mounds of home-grown potatoes and carrots, covered in tasty gravy were washed down with gallons of tea out of an enormous urn. They had taken the brave and unusual decision to run a ‘dry’ house—a move almost unheard-of in Scotland. This was not through any religious objection to alcohol—just that they felt that climbers needed a clear head, steady legs, and a good eye and that the only way to ensure this was by a total ban rather than pallid half measures. This decision could have spelt disaster for their business, but their attention to the comfort of their guests was so caring and so in tune with the needs of climbers, and their personalities so bubbly, that surprisingly, there was no problem at all. No one minded!

Dij and Brian and two local girls who helped in the house sometimes bustled about during the evening, making sure that the thirty or so guests were fed (overfed?) and comfortable. Duncan and Felicity, Doctor Mac and Fiona, with her beautiful halo of white fluffy hair, my relief nurse, Sally, and several of the crofters mingled with large, healthy-looking climbers with colossal appetites.

In the general chatter and noisy bonhomie, I began to look more closely at Dij. Although as cheery and jovial as always, there were moments when she seemed to be struggling to keep up the pace of entertaining and, from time to time, she stood quite still, leaning unobtrusively on a chair or the sideboard. I looked more closely at her face and noticed dark shadows under her eyes. In any one else, I would have put it down to all the work for the party, but Dij was used to coping with dozens of hungry people. I watched her in the next half hour and became convinced that she was not well. She had also lost a considerable amount of weight.

At one point, I found myself next to Doctor Mac. ‘Have a look at Dij, Doctor, will you? Just watch her, perhaps? I think she is not well.’

After the initial look of surprise, Doctor Mac nodded and I saw him watching Dij during the rest of the evening.

When we said goodnight, Dij was nowhere to be seen. Brian seemed a bit flustered as he apologised and said that she had a headache. Dij? A headache? I said nothing at this stage, just sending best wishes to her via a worried Brian.

On the long trek home, the Land Rover making heavy weather of Brian’s track. Nick said, ‘What’s wrong with Dij? I don’t think she’s got a headache at all. I saw her bending almost double by the back door, clutching her middle. I asked her what was wrong and she just said that she wanted some air. I don’t think that’s it—I believe she’s ill.’

Next morning, I asked Doctor Mac what he thought of Dij.

‘I agree. Loss of weight, tiredness … How old is she?’

‘Forty-something.’

‘Hmm. Menopause? Heavy blood loss?’

I told him what Nick had seen.

‘See if you can get her to come and see me, will you, Nurse?’

But it was not to be! At about eleven o’clock that morning Brian rang (thank goodness for the new phone) to say that Dij was in severe pain and could the doctor go out to Echo House urgently. He thought it might be appendicitis.

I drove the doctor to Echo House in our Land Rover. Dij was pale and obviously in agony. She indicated her right side and had vomited, so, at first, it looked as though Brian was right about the appendicitis. But, after palpating her abdomen, Doctor Mac was not entirely happy with this tentative diagnosis.

‘How long have you been having the pain?’

‘Some weeks now, but not as severe as this. I thought it was just period pains. I think I have started the menopause, anyway, Doctor.’ She was breathless with the effort of speaking.

‘We need to get you to hospital. I don’t think it is appendicitis, but we will treat it as such in case I am wrong. Brian, does your Land Rover have any more springs than Nurse’s?’ A rueful doctor rubbed his rear with a smile.

‘Shouldn’t think so. It’s about thirty years old.’

‘Ours is nearing twenty,’ I said. ‘What about the helicopter?’

‘No! No!’ screeched Dij. ‘I can’t go in a chopper. I just can’t!’

‘Why Dij? You were a climber; you can’t be afraid of heights.’

Brian stepped forward. ‘Her parents were killed, some years back, in a helicopter crash. She has had a thing about them ever since, even though we have called it for climbers often enough.’

Doctor tried to soothe and persuade her but all to no avail. If it was an inflamed appendix, the juddering of a Land Rover bumping along the track would be dangerous, but we could not force her to go in a helicopter and she was adamant. So we gently walked her to our old vehicle. Doctor sat one side and Brian the other while I did my best to avoid the deeper holes and higher bumps, but it must have been a painful journey for Dij. She was brave. Of course, she was brave! This was Dij! At the little island hospital, Doctor Mac examined her more thoroughly, while a bemused Brian sat in a trance. He had never known Dij to be ill and was finding the whole experience mind-numbing.

She was transferred to the mainland hospital for exploratory surgery: the doctor was worried that it was something sinister.

And it was. On opening her up, the surgeons could see that she had advanced cancer of the right ovary, which had spread to the uterus and peritoneum. She was closed up—there was nothing to be done. Dij was terminally ill.

‘It’s just unbelievable!’ I was deeply shocked when Doctor Mac told me the ghastly news. ‘She was as busy and healthy as ever just a few weeks ago.’

‘She is staying in the hospital in Inverness for a night or two and then Brian is bringing her home. He insists. How he will manage I can’t imagine, but there seems to be a side to Brian that none of us suspected.’

‘What do you mean? He is certainly a great character and a very hard worker but I didn’t think he had time to have a deeper side.’

‘You will see what I mean. They will need perhaps two or even three visits a day, until … ’ Doctor Mac left the sentence unfinished.

And so I began one of the most arduous, harrowing, but inspiring series of visits of, perhaps, my entire working life. Dij had failed significantly in just the few days that she had been in hospital, but she tried to do some of the cooking whilst instructing the two local girls in the mysteries of the vast old range. She seemed to be trying to arrange things so that the business could carry on without her. She and Brian had been told that she could not expect to live for more than a few months. Did they really believe that her life was coming to such an early end? Or did they hope against hope that they had longer?

As Dij began to experience more severe pain, the morphine injections had to be administered twice daily. She was too weak to do any cooking now, but sat in a chair by the range, overseeing the preparation and cooking of the evening meals. Brian had tried to get in touch with climbers who had already booked in order to cancel their visits, but many were unavailable (there were no mobile phones or emails then) and so a steady stream of folk arrived as planned. Brian tried to make them comfortable and some of the less sensitive stayed on and climbed their mountains as usual, but others immediately departed with embarrassed condolences or best wishes. Some who had become friends over the years stayed to help with the chores and, rather than departing into the hills each day, chopped wood, fetched peat, cleaned rooms, washed sheets and towels (now blessedly in the washing machine), peeled and washed vegetables, and took Brian’s Land Rover to collect supplies from the mainland. These big, strong men (and women) were appalled by the grim news and were determined to do what they could to help the folk who had looked after them so well for so long.

So now I bumped and slithered through the glens, over the little bridges and up the steep slopes in a sort of horrible dream. The beauty of the hills was tinged with melancholy, a gloom that tore away my professional detachment. Every turn and twist in the track opened up a vista of heather-clad slopes or chattering burns, deep in the rowan-fringed gullies. Ben Criel’s lofty summit (often clothed in gauzy mist) loomed over the scene, majestic as always, against a blue-black thunder-ridden sky or the clear, sunny splendour of a perfect day. Or, perhaps, the silvery light of a welcome moon might give an eerie glow to my journey as it picked out the eyes of the cattle and deer grazing uncomprehendingly on the lush grass in the brief summer night. All this beauty—romantic and timeless—and yet Dij was fading away before my eyes.

Brian stayed with her almost all the time now. The helpers made this possible. When I arrived to wash and tidy her and give her the morphine, Brian, who did not like to see the needle entering her thin body, went off for an hour or so to ‘attend to things.’ Many times, when I arrived, I found him lying on the bed beside her, holding her and almost crooning to her—just murmuring about nothing in particular. Sometimes, he might be sitting on a chair by the window with her on his lap, talking gently about their climbing days, or about Echo House and how happy they were there, or just gazing with her at the rugged splendour of their surroundings. Dij would respond with smiles or just a few words; she was now too tired for prolonged conversation. Their love for each other was almost palpable and I realised, at last, what a complex character Brian had probably always been. We had just never seen that side of him.

It was now four weeks since the terrible diagnosis. Only four weeks! Doctor Mac visited with me several times a week, sharing my bumpy but efficient transport.

‘She will not last anything like the months that the oncology consultant estimated,’ he said, gloomily. ‘I shall be surprised if she has another week.’

But Dij had other ideas. One day, after Brian had left the room, she seemed to want to talk.

‘Mary J, wait a bit. Don’t give me the injection yet. I want to talk to you and I might go to sleep instead if I have the morphine.’

‘But you are gasping with pain, Dij.’

‘Never mind. There are a few things I want to say.’ She took a shaky breath. ‘Brian and I have not had children—we did not feel the need—we had each other, you see. Neither of us has any relatives. So each is the reason for the other to live, if you see what I mean … And now I have to leave … ’ Here, she paused and gathered strength. ‘I know I haven’t many more days. I’d be an idiot not to know. So I want you to promise me something.’

‘Of course I will, if it is in my power, Dij.’ I was wondering what could be so important that she was willing to delay the morphine and suffer such pain.

‘It’s midsummer soon. Shortest night. We met in the Cuillins, climbing. On midsummer night. I had broken my ankle. Brian was with some friends. He carried me down the mountain. It really was love at first sight. We have been together ever since that night. I am going to ask him to take me up to Stony Field … you know it?’

I nodded. Stony Field was not a ‘field’ at all, but an odd, flat slab of rock, perched on Echo hill high above Echo House. It was a long way up.

Dij gasped again but carried on. ‘On midsummer night. From there you can see all the way to the Cuillins. On midsummer night. Like the way we met. We go up there every year.’ She suddenly seemed to panic. ‘When is it, Mary J’?’

‘It’s tomorrow night.’

‘Oh, that’s good … I wondered if I might not make it … But tomorrow is good.’

She paused for so long that I prompted her. ‘What do you want me to do, Dij?’

‘Oh, yes. You will be here to do the night time injection. They will try to stop us … I know they will. They will think it too much for me … So what? I’m dying anyway. But you will tell them to leave us alone … We will come down when we are ready.’

‘And Brian? Is he happy with this idea?’

‘Oh, he will be. We have to have this time together on the hill, within sight of the Cuilllins.’ She was beginning to sweat with the pain, her face was deathly pale, and her usually fluffy hair was sticking to her head.

‘Dij, you must let me give you the morphine now. You are in far too much pain.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve done … But remember.’

‘I will. I promise,’ I said. I had deep misgivings, but a promise to a dying woman was just about as sacrosanct as anything could get. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ I said to the now peaceful Dij.

As I crept away, Brian appeared on the stairs.

‘It’s all right. I heard every word. I will take the greatest care of her, you know I will.’ And, with a shuddering gasp, this six foot five inch giant of a man seemed to fold up as he collapsed onto the top stair. I sat beside him and held him as I would a baby, while all the love and all the hurt came roaring out of him in howls and wails and long, jarring shudders. No tears—just this terrible, terrible, animal-like bellow of pain. Instinctively, I rocked him to and fro, and a ring of climbers at the foot of the stairs gazed in deep concern at their friend, helpless to ease his pain. These men, used to the dangers of the mountains, would have witnessed death, sudden and devastating. But this raw despair and single-minded devotion was something entirely different.

Gradually, he quietened. ‘I’m sorry. I shall do it for her,’ he vowed. ‘I shall do it.’ He kept repeating this, like a mantra.

The next evening, I drove to Echo House at about ten p.m. I had hoped that she might have changed her mind but she was as determined as ever.

Brian, white and strained, said, ‘I’ll take her up at about eleven o’ clock. I shall sit with her until then—help yourself to a coffee.’

So I left them together and joined four climbing friends to sit in mutual misery round the big table at which they had eaten so many hearty meals. They had heard Dij’s plea and were going to follow at a distance—in case there were problems.

‘We must not interfere, though,’ I reminded them. ‘I, too, will follow and keep watch from a little way off, in case she needs anything. We shall have to be very discreet because it will still be light—it is such a clear sky.’

We stayed in the kitchen until we heard Brian’s footsteps as he descended the stairs and set off for Stony Field with his precious burden. Then we quietly followed up the steep, boulder-strewn path, keeping some way behind. Even though she had faded to almost nothing, the strain of carrying her so tenderly over the rough ground would be exhausting—but Brian had promised and nothing would stop him!

At last he reached the huge, flat rock which gave the place its name. The sun had dipped behind the far hills and the silvery light of the gloaming showed him sitting on the ground, arranging her on his lap so that she could see the Cuillin hills in the distance as they rose in silhouette against the turquoise sky. In only a thin sweater, he seemed oblivious to the cool wind but had wrapped her in a shawl and a warm blanket and held her closely to protect her.

I settled down in a hollow, where I could just see them. The four climbers stayed a little distance away. None of us knew how long the couple intended to stay there, but so long as they remained, so would we.

Brian was holding and rocking her and I could just hear the murmur of his deep voice as he bent his head over her. I think the sight of that heart-rending tableau will be with me forever. This was not the superficial romantic notion of a flashy pair of drama-seekers, or a mere whim on the part of a sick woman. This was the very merging of two souls or spirits in their own way, in the place that meant so much to them: for the last time here on earth. Did they believe that they would meet again in another place and another time?

I went on watching. An hour went by and then another. I was stiff with cold. But I could just hear that Brian was still murmuring to Dij. This had gone on for too long, I thought. Although swathed in blankets, she would be getting chilled. But I had made a promise, so what should I do? I crept back to the huddle of climbers.

There were only three of them now.

‘We were getting worried,’ said one called Bob. ‘Dave has gone for the doctor … I know … I know … The promise. But there is a limit. Brian is only just about in his right mind and who knows … ?

I returned to my spot, wondering what Doctor Mac would think of the whole crazy scheme, as he would probably call it.

I gazed at the couple through the gathering mist of the approaching morning and something about them was different. Brian’s head was lower. He was no longer speaking.

I knew! In that moment, I knew! I was trembling and I held my breath as I watched Brian stand up, still cradling Dij in his arms. He lifted his head and howled. It was the same animal howl as before, despair just pouring from him into the hills and mountains that they had loved so much. This time the roar of pain came back again and again, rolling round and round on Echo hill until it gradually faded in to the night—just as Dij had faded this night.

I stood quite still until the roaring ceased and Brian seemed to crumple to the ground, holding the now still, quiet body of his beloved wife.

Then I approached and began to talk to him. I don’t know that I actually said anything—just vague murmurings that I hoped might help to bring him out of his torment. He quietened but still clutched Dij.

Doctor Mac was beside me; I had not heard him come. ‘Brian, we have to take you and Dij back to the house now. There is a storm brewing.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Brian seemed to respond to the doctor’s quiet authority. ‘I shall carry her home.’ But his strength had gone and he was stiff with cold.

Bob and Dave helped to lift Brian to his feet and, gently taking Dij from him, Bob carried her down the hill in the early morning light. As Doctor Mac and I followed, I wondered if Dij had known—or even if, somehow, she had decided to die out there on the hill. How do we know whether death can be willed like that? One thing was certain. She had wanted to go to the hill with Brian on midsummer night and see the Cuillins and she would undoubtedly have wanted to die in his arms. She had achieved both this night!

Once inside Echo House, Doctor Mac made Brian sit by the fire while he talked to him. I asked the men to carry Dij to her bedroom so that I could attend to her. Brian made no objection. I think he was exhausted: mentally, emotionally, and physically.

Upstairs, I gently unwrapped the blanket and shawl around the cold little body and then stopped in surprise. She was wearing her wedding gown! She had been plump when she was married and was now emaciated, but Brian had dressed her and pinned the dress together so that it did not hang in ugly folds but looked beautiful—as did its wearer. Somehow, although ravaged by the cancer, she looked peaceful and happy. There was another quality to her face that I could not quite place. But gradually, as I gazed at her, I realised what it was. Even in death, she had the serene glow of someone who had been deeply loved.

We buried Dij in the windy little graveyard by the sea, after a brief but difficult service. I was amazed at the number of people present—locals as well as climbing friends. After the committal, Brian, in a strained but controlled voice, thanked everyone for coming, regretted that there would be no funeral breakfast, turned his back, and walked away. We heard his ancient Land Rover start up and depart.

Doctor Mac and I visited Echo House together several times in the next few days: we were worried about Brian. But he was never there. Bob and Dave seemed to be trying to keep the place going.

‘He’s like a hollow man,’ said Bob. ‘We can’t get through to him at all. He won’t talk and he spends all his time up there.’ He nodded towards Stony Field. Concerned though we were, if Brian would not see us, we could do nothing.

Then one day, the space where the track left the road was devoid of the usual cars. I drove up to the house. It was closed: windows shuttered, door padlocked, livestock gone. The place was as desolate as its owner.

* * *

It was ‘van time’ again some weeks later.

Starky was weighing apples. ‘Have you heard about yon young fellow from Echo House?’

I was suddenly horribly afraid.

‘He was killed in a climbing accident in the Cuillin yesterday.’

Starky put six bright red apples into a bag.

‘He was an expert climber. They don’t understand why he fell.’