35

FOR THE LOVE OF RACHEL

I’ve been going on far too long about my life, folks, so how about another tale from the tent?

Here now is a story of love.

Three months passed and Rachel was becoming increasingly worried that she had heard not a word from James since Father Dillon had brought the last crumpled letter.

‘My lassie, it has rained for weeks,’ was the first line the old priest read, before saying, ‘Aye, and no’ just on the soldiers fighting in France, but here in Glen Coe, we’ve had oor fair share, is that no’ right, Rachel?’

‘Aye, aye, Father. Now please read on, maybe ma laddie has been hurt and you sitting there going on aboot the weather.’

Father Dillon sat back into the soft chair Rachel had placed by her campfire to make him as comfortable as her meagre means allowed. He was a very important person, was the old priest, for what would she do without him? Tinkers in those days seldom learned to read and write, and she was no exception. Neither could her good man James: his saviour who put pen to paper on his behalf was an army minister.

The priest continued reading to Rachel who had gathered her wee sons, Jamie and Harry into her bosom, so that they too could listen to their father talk from within the crumpled letter held gently between his sinewy fingers.

‘We are fine here in France but my pal Joe who comes from Brora took a bad one and is in the field hospital. Hope he makes it. Are the boys behaving themselves? Tell Jamie to keep chopping wood, and Harry you mind and gather twigs for kindling, I’m on guard duty tonight so best get my bully eaten and take up position. Love you till the heather grows feet and walks off the hills, James’

‘Thank you, Father, you’ve no idea how much better we’ll sleep knowing he’s still safe.’

Father Dillon said nothing as he handed her the letter. She stared at it for ages, touching it and smelling it as if a piece of James were in her hands, then she gently folded it and slid it into a small box under the tent door.

The memory of that day three months ago was all she had to cling to. ‘When will he be in touch again?’ she thought, then prayed he remained safe.

As October headed to its end it was becoming colder with each passing day. The women of Ballachulish were knitting and baking, because weather predictors had already foretold a bad winter looming. Rachel became concerned about her two children living in her tiny canvas hovel—oh, how she needed James. Suddenly a voice she knew well boomed from a small, bent man making towards her. It was Father Dillon. He held something in the air and waved it, a letter. ‘Oh, praise God, word from my man!’ She ran to meet him, with Jamie and Harry at her heels. ‘Read it, father, read it. Hurry up, what does it say?’

‘Come now, lassie, ye’ve waited this length of time, a few more minutes won’t matter. At least let me settle my bones.’ Breathless, he dropped onto the familiar seat, took a grey handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow.

Rachel and the boys sat wide-eyed, with the biggest grins on their faces, eagerly waiting to hear what James was saying and doing in the mud-filled trenches of France.

The priest read on, not losing a moment to bring joy to this small family of tinkers.

‘Dear Rachel, Jamie and Harry, Daddy here again I hope you are fine, I have managed to stay clear of the bullets. Not much time so this letter has to be short. Rachel I want you to take up roots and head over to Glen Etive. As you know my folks have a wee cotter hoose there. I had a feeling last night you are going to see a lot of snow this winter. I’d feel a lot better knowing you and the boys were with the auld yins. By the time Father Dillon finishes this note I want you packed.

Look for me among the heather, love always, James.’

‘Well, I’d have thought he could have put a wee bit more into the letter, Father. Surely he’s not that busy, fighting the Germans?’

‘Lassie, I’m sure he’ll write a longer letter next time. You never know, but maybe there’s one waiting for you when you arrive at Glen Etive—you know how long it takes for mail to arrive, goodness, this letter must have taken weeks to get here.’

‘Aye, Father, I’m sure you’re right as always.’ She began gathering her belongings into a tablecloth that she tied in two large knots. Jamie and Harry skilfully did the same with their own things. Jamie, who had just turned seven, already owned a knife and wood-axe, while five-years-old Harry pocketed a catapult and a handful of marbles he’d won from a local laddie.

‘Father,’ asked Rachel, untying and piling her skeleton ribcage of hazel sticks on which stretched the tent canvas, ‘would you be so kind as to store our tent in the shed by the manse? I’ll collect it when James and I come back here again.’

‘Why, of course ye can, pet. Now, away with ye and take the path through the Buchailles. No short cuts, mind.’

She’d shared many a story with the kindly old man, about James and her running over Beag and Mhor as children knowing every inch of the traverse.

‘Not with the boys, Father,’ she promised. ‘Anyway, this nippit wind and heavy sky tells me my soldier laddie’s feelings are coming with a herald o’ truth in them.’

Father Dillon raised his head upwards and agreed with her. Already Aonach Eagach saw a top tapping of white, even further down the Paps were dusted like fairy cakes.

They parted, and the priest watched her turn the bend in the road with a pack bigger than herself, wee boys following on; she was like a ewe with her precious twin lambs. He waited until Rachel and her bairns disappeared from view before he set off back to his duties, because even in that small, sparsely-populated area, there was already news to break. A mother would find no sleep that night, nor ever see her son again.

Reaching the spot that cuts a fine path through the mountain feet of Buachaille Etive Beag and Buachaille Etive Mhor, Rachel ushered her boys onwards. About a mile in, she stopped to sniff the air. ‘My God, if that’s not an ice-filled wind I don’t know what is. I pray we make it before the storm. I haven’t set eyes on a deer or a grouse, and they are scarcely seen when foul weather is coming.’

Young Jamie looked at the concern wrinkling his mother’s brow and asked why she was so afraid of the snow.

Rachel ran a hand over her son’s head and said, ‘bairn, when it snows here, it’s like a tunnel that fills, burying everything in its path, and we’re in its path.’

No sooner had she uttered those fearsome words when the snow fell, gently at first, with half-crown-sized snowflakes covering the ground and also their life-line to Etive: the winding narrow path. Rachel gathered her sons to walk behind her; she’d shelter them from the fierce wind, now building up in force with every minute. On and on the small band trekked, until it was almost impossible to go any further; snow filled their way, progress was at a standstill. She had only one chance to save her children, to reach higher ground, but that in itself held great danger, with hidden crevices and jagged rocks. However, no way could she fight the constant build-up of white piling in front, so taking the boys firmly by the hands she began to climb. Finding what she thought was a level track, she began to go forward again round the hillside. Up there she was safe from a snow burial, but her path had many dangers: the precipitous crags meant one wrong footing and she and her boys were dead. Her knowledge of the area meant nothing in a storm with powerful winds forcing her eyes shut. Panic was quickly taking hold, she threw off her bundle and pulled the boys tighter for warmth. ‘What am I going to do?’ she thought, ‘I know I’m lost, there’s no way I can go on in this nightmare. God help us this day.’

Jamie pulled on his mother’s sleeve and called up at her, ‘Mammy, look, along the track. I can see a man, see, there is a man.’ Rachel screwed her eyes and stared into the blizzard, and yes, praise be, she could just make out a form ahead. ‘Come on, lads, I think we might be found.’ With a stronger hold she took her boys’ hands and headed toward the man, who was waving his arms above his head. As they drew closer to the man she heard a voice, a familiar voice, it grew louder. ‘Rachel, go left, my love, left, save yourselves, go left.’ It was James. He was calling to them. Then, as he began to fade back into the storm, Rachel screamed, ‘James, James!’ but as quickly as he came he was gone. Thank God, before she was able to run to find him, Jamie pulled hard on her arm. ‘Mammy, Daddy said go left.’ With that he pulled her and Harry down into an opening on their left, where they sheltered from the horrendous storm. All night they sat huddled together in their godsent tiny cave, praying James had found his own shelter.

Dawn came with a clear crisp, blue sky before they peeped their tired heads from the opening. The sight that was spread out before them made Rachel’s heart leap to her throat, because an inch from the cave was a sheer hundred-feet drop. If James hadn’t shouted ‘go left’, then they would without a doubt have been dashed to pieces far below!

Now, with a clear view and clear sky, she knew exactly where they were and was soon headed down toward Glen Etive and her in-laws’ home; but where was her man? Surely he was coming to meet them, to see if they were safe?

Tired, cold and hungry, Rachel and her laddies arrived at Granny and Grandad’s door, who were overjoyed to see them.

‘Guid Mother, James, where is he?’ Rachel told them about the previous night.

‘Rachel,’ her good father laid a hand upon her shoulder and said, ‘lassie, James was killed at the Somme this month past, has no news reached you yet? Whoever you saw on the mountain last night it could not have been him.’

Rachel fell upon a chair and looked at her sons in utter bewilderment. ‘Jamie, Harry, tell Grandad who called out to us in the blizzard last night.’

Jamie, unable to speak, was resting his head in his hands, while little Harry stood up, went over to his Granny and said, ‘Granny, we saw Daddy last night, he had on a green hat and coat. But you’ve not to worry, because he’s in among the walking heather.’

Rachel put gentle hands on her small son’s shoulders and said, ‘No, pet, the snow was far too thick and fearsome for you to see what he was wearing. It couldn’t have been Daddy, it must have been a shepherd or somebody else.’

Little Harry kissed his Mother’s tear-streaked face and said, ‘Mammy, last night while you and Jamie fell asleep, Daddy came. He sat down beside me and held me tight. He kept me warm because I was shivering. His clothes were army green and I gave him one of my marbles because he asked for one. When the snow stopped and you were stirring, he took my catty, then said he’d walk with the heather.’

Rachel, overcome by her child’s words, ran outside into the crisp snow and stood proud, facing a fresh wind, ‘I’ll look for you, my love, in the heather, I promise.’ As she turned to walk back something came whizzing past her nose and landed by her feet. She leant down and picked up a small glass marble. Unable to explain or understand the supernatural event she wiped her tears, and popped the glass ball in her pocket.

The hills were resplendent in their white coats, they’d stay that way until the long winter was over. She had sons to raise and elderly people depending on her. She’d keep her tears until the purple came back upon the mountains, then cry for her lost love.

You have been told a true story. My people have taken time on many occasions to tell me stories of loved ones coming back, so to speak, and helping in time of need.

Here is a similar tale.