AS MURDO AND KIRSTY DREAMT of their new life in the west, darker skies were gathering in the east. The killing of the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne passed unnoticed by most. Political alliances forged between the European powers were just politics played out in capitals far away. But the political coalitions began to pull the nations inexorably towards war as if the hand of doom was scrunching up the map of Western Europe. Even those on the very edges were getting dragged in.
For many young islanders the shillings paid for signing up to the Militia supplemented their incomes from crofting and fishing. Hundreds had joined the army’s reserve forces and spent weeks of summer training on the mainland. The islands had a strong tradition of providing fodder for the imperial battlefields. They had a reputation as good warriors and there was no great political cost to their sacrifice. For the young men going through their paces each summer there was little thought of war. They needed money and this was one way of earning it. The great battles belonged to the century that had just died. It was a new world.
Murdo was one of these men. He was the eldest in a family of five. His father had been lost at sea, leaving the family to struggle in tragically common circumstances.
The fishing was a hard life and a dangerous one too; every generation lost some of its men plundering the teeming shoals of herring in the Atlantic. They had fished for generations. They knew the waters and they recognised the changes in the sky. But sometimes the shoals were far out, and the fishing boats had to follow. There had been many a desperate race for the shore as the black clouds formed on the horizon and drove mercilessly towards the land. Boats had been smashed on the cliffs that heralded home, others had been engulfed by the wall of waves, and it happened too that as the boats were tossed and pitched someone would be thrown into the water. Many refused to learn to swim because it would prolong the inevitable. Desperate survival instinct would make them swim but they would know when their strength was sapping and the sea was sucking them down. If you could not swim it would be over sooner. ‘Lost at Sea’ was the epitaph on many a gravestone with no body beneath. It had been the same for Murdo’s father.
Murdo remembered the torment of the night well. The village folk gathered in the whipping wind above the pier on the sea loch, lighting big fires as beacons to guide the fleet home to them. The hope that the intermittent flashing of a lantern in the heaving darkness might be the boat with his father aboard. The disappointment when he was not among the exhausted men stumbling off the boats into the arms of their loved ones. Sitting until the dawn came and the fires failed and the ocean calmed. Comprehending that his father would not be coming home. It was the night he became a man.
The responsibility was on Murdo to help his mother provide for the family. He took on what his father had left behind, the crofting and the shepherding, which provided the barest sustenance. The Militia provided some much-needed cash. There might be a price, but like the others Murdo assured his mother it would never have to be paid. Nevertheless, if the buff envelope arrived calling him to arms, there would be no alternative. Murdo Book would have to take up arms.
Murdo saw Kirsty the morning after their walk on the moor. There had been little doubt he would for it was the Sabbath, and all but the ill and the infirm made their way to the church at least twice in the day. It was the Lord’s Day, a day to glory in Him. Food was prepared the night before, shoes polished and everything readied so that nothing would interfere with the worship of the Lord and contemplation of His Word.
Murdo had slept fitfully, his mind restless and dancing. She had turned to him after he had first kissed her. Turned to him, not away. Surely that held a promise? There was little he could understand, save that Kirsty had inflamed in him a surge of something he had never known before. He had read of love and lust, one so wonderful, the other coarse and raw. There had been nothing vulgar in what he had felt, nothing that made him feel ashamed. He had been overwhelmed, but in a way that brought his senses alive and made him tremble so vitally. It had not been a thrill in the way that his first smoke had been, or his first surreptitious drink. It had been instinctive. It had been pure. He felt some embarrassment at his impulsiveness, but no shame in what had roused it.
He had sat with his mother and brothers and sisters. Kirsty was across the church sitting a few pews in front of him with her own family. Her hair was pulled up beneath her beret, but he could see the fringe of red transform into a vivid aureole in the sunlight that poured through the long windows. She would have known he was there, but she never looked for him.
He heard nothing of the minister’s sermon. He watched her stand, head bowed for the prayer, followed her fingers flicking through her Bible for the readings. As the congregation praised the Lord through the psalms of David, each voice was lost amid the distinctive wailing of a congregation following the a cappella lead of the precentor with myriad minute variations. The sound was at once haunting and beautiful. But he was lost in her, absorbed by the sight of her lips, the glimpse of her teeth as she mouthed the words, her eyes cast down. Not once did they turn to him, not so much as a glance.
At the sermon’s end, the congregation shuffled out, heads nodding acknowledgements and voices whispering greetings. The after-service conversations outside the church were as much an arena for gossip and news as the village stores and bothies. Without moving his head, Murdo’s eyes followed Kirsty filing down the far aisle. Still she did not so much as glimpse at him. Had he shamed her so greatly last night?
His eyes searched for her instantly he stepped out of the church. It had been but a few moments since he’d lost sight of her, but he felt a tingle when he saw her again, standing in a knot of people with her parents. Now that she was out of the church she was looking for him too, her eyes fixed on the church door watching everyone coming out. When he appeared she smiled at him and then turned her head back to the conversation. She had smiled. She had smiled. He wanted to rush to her, but he knew he would have to bide his time.
A group of the village men were in deep discussion. He had made a habit of joining them, listening to them and learning from them. Today the preliminaries of the theme of the service were quickly disposed of. Other matters were to hand.
‘The Kaiser’s declared war on the Czar,’ said Calum Boer gravely.
He was an older man whose experiences stretched beyond the district boundaries, a legacy of serving in the African wars.
‘I came back from town last night and that was the word over there. It’s war for sure now.’
He looked at Murdo.
‘You can expect your call-up lad,’ he said. ‘Over there, fighting the Germans. They’ve been wanting it for a long time.’
‘ Let the Germans and the Russians sort it out themselves,’ said Murdo quietly.
Calum Boer grimaced.
‘You can be sure that won’t happen. The French will be there and we’ll get hauled in too. It’s been building for a long time. We might think history is history, but the Germans and the French have always been at each other’s throats, and the changing of the numbers of the years doesn’t change that.’
‘Well let them get on with it,’ repeated Murdo.
‘If one’s in, we’re all in, lad.’
‘You might even pull on the old kilt again yourself, Calum,’ laughed another of the men.
There was a jocular murmur among the group, old men declaring they would be able to take up arms against the Germans and show them what for.
‘It’ll be good for you, lad,’ said another old fellow. ‘Good to get away for a while. See another part of the world. You’ll not be away for long and you’ll have money to send back to your mother.’
Murdo said nothing.
Others had heard the rumours and pressed Calum Boer to tell them more. There was no apparent fear or foreboding. Who would the King call on to fight first? Why, the warriors from the north, who had served so well before. Having heard all that Calum could tell, the young lads bragged of their training in the Militia and how they were ready for anybody. On another day they would have mimicked the marching and squared up to each other in mock aggression, but they kept their joshing in check because of the day it was and where they were.
The Reverend MacIver could sense the buzz and felt some resentment that the message he had delivered to them so powerfully had so quickly been forgotten. This was his domain and he should be the focus of their attention. He approached the throng.
‘And what, gentlemen, could possibly be overshadowing the Word of the Lord on this, His day?’
‘News of war, Minister,’ said Calum Boer.
‘War?’
‘Indeed. The Germans, the French, the Russians, and ourselves likely as not.’
‘I have heard of no such thing.’
‘It was the word in town yesterday, Minister.’
‘Ah yes, so you came back from town last night eh? I think the Word on which we must concentrate our minds is the Word of God. And if what you say is true, then He will guide us through whatever tribulations are set before us.’
Murdo drifted away. He had heard enough. The news had unsettled him and chilled the glow that had been with him since the night before. He wanted to get away from the talk of war and the banter of his contemporaries, as if putting a distance between the words and himself would make them less real. It was only talk, after all, and he did not want to confront the implications of it now. He wanted to feel good again. He wanted to be with Kirsty.
The congregation was drifting home. Old women walked down the road, arm in arm, always deep in conversation. Their breathing patterns barely affected the stream of chat, as they continued talking even as they inhaled.
Some of the men took the chance to roll a cigarette. They were not all quite as committed to the Sunday rituals as the women folk. There were zealots, certainly, but many of the men, although believers, welcomed the moment of escape from the oppressiveness of the church environs. Once on the road home they enjoyed the chance to talk and gossip. The cluster of black-clad worshippers slowly fragmented, leaving the minister outside the church with his elders. They would be back again in a few hours for more of the same. There was so much sin and he was the man to show them the Way.
Murdo saw Kirsty a little way ahead, walking a few paces behind her mother and father. Her head was bent forward and he saw the paleness of her neck against the drab black coat that hung so shapelessly from her. His heart was thudding hard as he came within two steps of her.
‘Aye,’ was all he could say.
Kirsty smiled and let him fall in beside her. There was a gentle blush to her cheeks and she kept her head tilted forward and her eyes on the road. When she looked at him, it was the quickest of glances.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered hesitantly. ‘I’m sorry for what I did.’
She smiled broadly and her eyes glowed.
They walked a few more steps in silence.
‘I maybe got carried away,’ Murdo continued, struggling for coherency. ‘But I’m glad I did.’
Murdo, although encouraged by the smile, was made uneasy by Kirsty’s reticence. Maybe she didn’t want to talk about it, maybe she just wanted to forget it. But the smile, the smile hadn’t said that. If he walked with her much further he would draw attention, but neither could he walk away from her with nothing, no understanding.
‘I’m glad too,’ she said at last, with a nervous, muted laugh.
‘I would like to see you again.’
‘You’re seeing me now,’ she teased.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I know,’ she giggled gaily. ‘I would as well.’
Her mother looked round. She said nothing, but stared at her daughter before looking ahead again. Their moment had passed.
‘By the black rock on the shore,’ he murmured quickly. ‘Seven o’clock, on Wednesday.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll see you.’ With that he was gone from her side, his hand ever so quickly brushing hers. Kirsty instinctively gripped her fingers and held her hand against her stomach. Wednesday seemed so far away.
Kirsty’s mother turned to her again.
‘What was Murdo Book wanting?’ she asked.
‘He was just saying hello,’ Kirsty answered, unconvincingly.
‘Was he indeed?’
It was a mild admonition. Kirsty’s step became lighter. Her father said nothing. He kept walking. He had an idea why she had been late home from the potatoes the previous night. She might now remember where she’d left the bucket.
Before the next Sunday their world had changed. On the Tuesday, Great Britain declared war on Germany. By the Wednesday, it was the talk of the village, though Kirsty paid little heed to talk of the Kaiser and the King, cousins both. It didn’t concern her. Her thoughts were of Murdo and the evening ahead, her only anxiety that he would be there. She let the clock chime the quarter to the hour and soon after she glided unnoticed away from the house and almost skipped the short distance to the shore, dancing across the stones to the black rock, so splendid and resolute.
Rather than striding down the village road which would take him directly past Kirsty’s house, Murdo had gone down his croft and made his way across the moor to the shore. He was in a turmoil of emotions; excited at the prospect of seeing Kirsty, anxious that she might not be there, and uneasy about the news. Britain’s declaration of war could indeed force him away if the generals decided the regular army needed reinforcements. And what then?
She saw him coming down off the moor on the south side of the bay where the rocks and earth seemed to slink from the sea rather than roar out of the water with the dramatic defiance of the cliffs opposite. She made her way across the shoreline to meet him, her feet causing the stones to clack as she went. Already she wanted to run to him and to throw her arms around him, still not fully understanding why it was that she now felt such a bond with this man. One conversation, one kiss, and she now she felt as if she would rather be with no other. Running on the stones with any elegance was impossible, and anyway Murdo was cautiously descending the sharply sloping grass before stepping onto the rocks.
When at last they were face to face, he looked behind her to the track up to the village before shyly taking her hand and kissing her cheek. Kirsty slipped her mouth round to his and kissed him full on the lips as if to say ‘don’t be bashful now, Murdo Book’. As they kissed he watched her red hair cavort in the wind and her smiling eyes close ever so delicately. He brought his free hand to her cheek and as his own eyes closed he breathed the scent of her and thrilled to her softness. And there as the breeze danced around them and the sea purled beneath them they unveiled their love for each other. Doubt and uncertainty between them could be cast away. Whatever lay ahead, this at least would endure.
They sat watching the ocean, her head resting on his shoulder and fronds of her hair playing on his face.
‘You know I may have to go?’ Murdo said softly. She tensed perceptibly.
‘But why?’
‘We’re at war.’
‘I know, I heard my father say. But why would you have to go?’
‘I’m in the Militia. If they call you have to go.’
‘And will they?’
‘I don’t know. I thought I should tell you, so that you know. But I’ll know soon enough. Let’s just enjoy the moment.’
The evening slipped past as they kissed and caressed and talked. He had laid his jacket on the ground and she lay on her back, he beside her, propping his head up on his arm.
‘We could travel down to Glasgow, and on to Greenock. Boats sail from there to the Americas and the cost is not so great.’
‘Murdo, I so want to go with you, you know that. But how can I? My father would not allow me to just go off on my own.’
‘But you wouldn’t be on your own.’
‘He’s even less likely to let me go with you. Not just you, but any man. He just wouldn’t have it.’
‘You wouldn’t go without his permission? What of all that you said about breaking away from what being a woman means here?’
‘I know, and I do believe that and want that. But I couldn’t just run away. I couldn’t do that. It would hurt my mother so much, and my father. I love them too much to do that to them. But I still want to go.’
‘Well, how could you? Would they ever give you their blessing?’
Murdo was sitting up now and his voice was not so soft.
‘I have been thinking about that and I think there would be only one way.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘I think they would let me go with a husband. If my husband was going they would not try to keep me back.’
He turned toward her again, the grimace gone from his face, leaned over her and kissed her.
‘Well then we must get married.’
She threw her arms around his neck and squealed with delight.
By the week’s end Murdo’s buff envelope had arrived. So soon, he reflected bitterly.
‘They have paid me long enough and now I’m theirs,’ he said to his mother.
He had to report to the barracks at Inverness. It didn’t say, but thereafter he knew he was destined for France. He was not alone. Other young men in the district had received a similar summons. For most, the formal instructions were their passage to adventure, but not for Murdo. He was obliged to be strong for his mother. She had already lost one family leader and couldn’t bear the thought of another being denied her.
‘They’re saying it’ll be over by Christmas, Mam,’ he reassured her. ‘And we could do with the extra money.’
‘War is war, my dear,’ she said. ‘It might be over quickly, but war is war and men are killed.’
She packed an old bag for him. He didn’t want his trunk, he had told her, he wouldn’t be needing too much. It was a trunk she herself had used as a young woman when she and the other girls followed the fishing fleets to the east coast and to Shetland. They would be away for the summer months and the kist would hold everything for them. It always came back with her and she hoped it might have good fortune for her son and bring him back to her.
‘I can’t take it with me to France, Mam,’ he chided gently.
She knew he was right, but it would have brought her some solace to know that he had it, and that when he looked at it at night far from home it might bring him the comfort that it had brought her. But it was to be a bag and she knew that made sense. There were tears in her eyes as she washed and pressed his clothes.
She feared for him, not just his physical safety, but for his emotional wellbeing. Murdo had always been a sensitive boy. He had never backed away from the rough and tumble as child, but she always knew that his heart was never really in it. When he went off for the summer training with the Militia, it was not with the exuberance of the other lads. He did it because he believed he had to. She regretted that he’d had to grow up so quickly. After his father was lost he had taken on responsibility. But he had always been happier with his books and his thoughts. War could crush such gentle spirits. She prayed for not just for his return, but for the same thoughtful, caring, young man who was leaving to come back. Her son would surely come back a harder man with darkness in his soul.
In houses throughout the district, mothers fussed over the sons who would be leaving. Clothes were washed and bags packed. In almost every one, a Bible or passage of Scripture was tucked away in the belief that it would perhaps protect and certainly comfort their boys. In some homes, the young men talked into the night with their mother or father making the most of the time they had left. Stories from childhood were retold and plans for their return from the battlefields discussed. For some they would be the first in the family to have left the island, and fathers tried to offer wise counsel. In other homes little acknowledgement was made of the impending departures. It meant a baring of emotion that they could not stand.
Prayers were said at special church meetings. The minister and his elders visited the home of every conscript and prayed for his safe deliverance. The people could offer little to their young men other than love and prayers, but they gave generously of both.
Plans were afoot for a Road Dance. Supplies of drink were organised and accordions, fiddles and bagpipes brought out. It was to be the most memorable ever. The young men leaving for war were to be done proud. They would leave with their hearts warm and their spirits high from the cheers ringing in their ears. The Road Dance was to be held the night before the boys left and it would be a ceilidh to remember. Only to be outdone, they said, by the one that would be held when the boys returned safely.
In the midst of it all, Murdo sought out Kirsty.
‘You’re going, aren’t you?’ she said, tears blurring the sharpness of her eyes.
‘Yes. But not just yet. We have this time together.’
They walked away from the sounds of the village and beyond the cattle on the moorland pastures, until all that could be heard was the sibilance of the sea and the breath of the breeze. There was a rock here that was his place of solitude, worn concave by the winds and the rains into a natural seat. From it he would look onto the sea and imagine beyond the horizon. He had been returning from this place on that first evening, and it was there that he was taking her now.
As they walked hand in hand, she asked him about his call up and when he was to leave. He had told her what he expected, but it was not until they were seated at the rock that he spoke of their future together.
‘We will still go,’ he said pulling her head to his chest. ‘When this is all over we will still go.’
He played his hand through her hair, stroking the long strands and feeling them smooth between his fingers.
‘I’ll be back by the turn of the year and I’ll have extra money in my pocket. By this time next year we will be away.’
He was trying too hard to convince her.
‘What if you don’t come back?’ she asked quietly.
He felt her tears drop onto his hand and held her close. His own eyes were misty now and he could speak no more. He lifted her head and kissed her potently, the flesh of their lips burning with emotion. Then they held each other as the sun slipped away, the breeze rippled the grass and the rocks sat unmoved.
The night of the Road Dance was upon them. In a flurry of preparation Kirsty and Annie fussed over their clothes and brushed each other’s hair. Annie asked about Murdo Book. What was he like? And Kirsty had laughed and told her some of it. Sorrow lurked beyond this night but she had resolved to enjoy the time they had left together, and Annie’s light mood was infectious.
Kirsty had chosen her best skirt, a heavy, wine-coloured velvet that her mother had brought home from the mainland when she was a young woman. She would wear her white blouse, the one she saved for going to church. And she had a brooch at her throat, a red garnet set in a Celtic tangle of silver. Annie helped her tie up her hair.
Murdo was proud to escort his girl. When he knocked on the door he heard a commotion of muffled squeals and urgent whispers from within, though when the door was opened Kirsty’s mother seemed almost serene. He was invited in and sat awkwardly waiting for Kirsty to appear as her mother plied him with questions and small talk. How was his own mother keeping and what a terrible thing this war was. Kirsty’s father sat by the fire, smoking his pipe. He had said nothing beyond a self conscious ‘Aye’ when Murdo entered.
When Kirsty appeared it was as if the roof of the house had been lifted and light had flooded the room. Annie followed just behind, almost stumbling into her sister. She saw how Murdo gazed at Kirsty and longed for the day a man would look at her like that.
‘We’ll see you there, Annie,’ said Kirsty and she headed for the door, inclining her head for Murdo to follow. He mumbled a goodbye, and they were out of the house and into the evening. It held much promise. As they walked onto the road, she looked at him and smiled. The harshness of the afternoon sunlight had eased to a mellow evening glow. Murdo told Kirsty that she looked wonderful.
The lilt of the music could be heard some distance away. As Murdo and Kirsty drew closer, laughter rose to meet them. The Road Dance was not yet in full flow, but some early revellers were getting warmed up. The merry sound of the accordions carried the mood to them. There would be two of them, played by Norman Ruadh and Gee Gee, whose proper name was used by no-one. Kenny John would be there with his fiddle and there would be bagpipes as well.
As Murdo and Kirsty came round the final twist in the road they saw the folk, forty or so of them yarning away in small groups. Their number would easily pass a hundred before long. The Road Dance was held on a straight stretch of road close to the loch side that allowed for large dance sets. Although tonight’s had been planned, the Road Dance was normally a spontaneous affair. On a summer evening the local young folk would gather here, one of the central points in the district. Among the laughing and joking a squeezebox would start to play, a lad would proffer an arm to a girl and the dancing would begin.
Tonight’s was special, though. Tables had been brought, covered in linen and home baking. Someone had taken a cart into town and come back with barrels of beer and some whisky. The older folk would be there as well. There would be plenty time for solitary contemplation when the boys went off to war, but tonight was a night for everyone, a night of communal merriment. A night when the warmth of shared carousing would help sustain through the cold days to come, when the young blood of the villages trickled away.
Some heads turned when Kirsty and Murdo arrived together.
‘Is that Kirsty with Murdo Book?’
‘Are they courting?’
Murdo barely controlled the smile of pride pulling at the corners of his mouth. Yes, Kirsty was arriving with Murdo Book. The bonniest girl in the village, and she was arriving with him. Kirsty blushed.
Iain Ban stared hard. He had been watching for her, as he always did. He had seen her walking in the distance and was unsettled by the figure walking with her.
Iain was not in the Militia, but he had seen the excitement around the lads who would be soldiers and he envied them. There was talk of volunteers being needed and he had decided to sign up. Tonight he would tell Kirsty that nothing would make him prouder than if she would consent to being his girl. Time was short.
He focused at the point where the road re-emerged from behind a hillock. Then he could see that it was Murdo Book. The realisation of what it meant only hit home when they came close to the gathering and he could see them holding hands and their smiles and their glances. His heart kicked hard. He had sensed nothing of this. Iain had seen his future around him, the croft, the house he would build, and Kirsty. Now suddenly for the first time there was doubt. It was worse for having it thrust into his face.
For most, though, the sight of the new sweethearts was of momentary interest. Others were arriving and there was much to talk about. The evening was coming alive with chatter and the almost absent-minded accompaniment of the accordions. Louder male voices issued instructions while the tables were put in place. There was laddish laughter as the first of the beer barrels was punctured and giggling from the girls, all turned out in their best clothes. Even the birds seemed to be twittering with anticipation. The sound of the water of the loch lapping the shore was drowned and there was little in the way of a breeze now.
Kirsty looked around at all the familiar faces. There was Dr MacLean, a mainlander who had come to the district some five years previously, a quiet man who had the admiration of his patients. Uisdean the storekeeper was there, Miss MacDonald and Miss Ferguson, the school teachers, and even Mr Hector, the head teacher. An august gathering indeed. The road was daubed with people, and every available bump in the ground was being used as a makeshift seat, as was the drystone dyke on the side of the road opposite the loch. A hundred people, thought Kirsty; yes, and maybe twice that.
Suddenly there was the sound of life being breathed into the bagpipes as the drones sounded out their wail and the piper loosened his fingers by quickly working them through the scale on the chanter. The accordions became as one and the fiddle joined their rhythm. The dance was about to begin.
There was no pronouncement from the players. The dancers would simply recognise the tune and know the dance. Whoops went up as the musicians began a Strip the Willow, an energetic whirl of bodies and clapping and foot stamping. Murdo did not even look at Kirsty as he grasped her hand and led her on. They joined three other couples, the women on one side of the road, the men on the other. More groups of four couples formed all the way along the stretch. There was much calling and glancing up and down the line as each set got itself organised. An extra couple needed here, a bit of extra space there, and even as some were still finding their places, the music was away at full tilt, and the dancers with it. Grasping hands, spinning one way, then at the change of beat spinning the other, now linking arms as the girl twirled down the men in the set, each time being returned to her partner in the middle, his arms ready to grasp and spin her again. And after the last man they would whirl for longer until the next phrase of the music, all the time their eyes trying to lock onto something that was not awhirl, before the man would go spinning through the women, mirroring what his partner had just completed. And then they would both repeat what they had just done, in a final dizzying frenzy. As they returned breathless laughing to the end of the line, a second couple was already reeling.
The drive of the music, the crunching of the stones in the road, the hard clapping and the whooping had transformed the gathering within moments from one of promise to one of gaiety, energy and fun. The Road Dance was underway.
A gentler Gay Gordons was followed by the Military Two-Step which provoked much ironic laughter. More energy in a Dashing White Sergeant and an Eightsome Reel, the music men gauging the will of the crowd. Bursts of energy followed by an easier mood as the throng regained their breath. Not everyone danced all of the time, but most were scrunching the road at any one note. It was like a village wedding to which everyone had been invited. Mothers and sons, fathers and daughters danced, neighbours reeled, cousins whirled while the older folk watched, blethered and smiled. In the midst, younger children copied their elders. On the fringes lads flushed with adrenalin and alcohol approached the girls and laughed with them, teased and flirted. The girls responded in kind. These were no longer silly boys, tomorrow they would be on their way to be soldiers.
Murdo and Kirsty danced as often as they could, but it would not have been right to ignore the offers from others. Murdo was grabbed for a dance by Kirsty’s sister Annie.
‘Well Murdo, you’re the quiet one,’ she laughed. ‘Do you want to marry my sister?’
‘What did she tell you?’ Murdo asked shyly.
‘Oh, that you’d promised her a White House bigger than Iain Ban’s and that she would have a child a year,’ said Annie, deliberately offhand.
‘Oh, at least,’ grinned Murdo, sweeping her into another twirl.
Iain Ban sought Kirsty for a waltz. He did not say anything, he just touched her shoulder and jerked his head toward the dancing. Kirsty could not deny him a dance, but she was uncomfortable as she followed behind him. He turned to face her and fixed his arms in the dancing pose. She came up to him and he grasped her hand and awkwardly circled the other around her waist. They danced stiffly.
‘There’s a good turn-out,’ she said, in an effort to ease the strain between them.
‘Are you with Murdo Book?’ he asked sternly, ignoring her question.
‘We came to the dance together,’ she responded uncomfortably.
‘I saw that. That’s what I’m asking. You and Murdo Book?’
‘Well, we’ve been seeing each other sometimes.’
‘Murdo Book?’ His tone verged on contempt.
‘Yes. Murdo.’
‘You never thought to tell me?’
The arrogance of the question left her speechless. They continued to dance, Iain unsmiling and vigorous and Kirsty going through the motions, wanting the dance to end. He broke the silence again.
‘You knew what I had planned, Kirsty. You knew how I felt about you. And yet you couldn’t tell me. You couldn’t say to me that you wanted to be with him.’
‘Iain, that’s not fair!’ she protested. ‘It wasn’t something I planned. And anyway, why should I have had to tell you?’
‘Why should you have to tell me? You should have told me and you know you should. I’ve spent my time working to build something that would give you and me a good start together. And while I did that, Murdo big-for-his-boots Book was sneaking in, talking his fancy talk. You should have told me.’
‘But Iain. Murdo has done nothing wrong and… I love him.’
‘What! You love a man who’s good for nothing but his damned books? You just feel sorry for him, don’t you? He’s going off to the war and you feel sorry for him. That’s all it is. You’ll see.’
‘I gave you no reason to think I would go with you. Whatever you thought, I never gave you reason for it. I never promised anything.’
She knew he liked her and she had been flattered, but knew that she had never led him on. If he had expected more, that was because of his own arrogance rather than anything she had done.
As their exchange became more strident people around them began to notice.
‘One day you will see how wrong you are.’
‘Iain, I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
The waltz was coming to an end. He didn’t even thank her at its conclusion, but merely waited until she had turned to go. If he had expected her to say something, he had misread her again. There was nothing she could say.
When Murdo and Kirsty danced together again the intimacy between them grew. Apart from their kisses and his comforting hugs there had been a physical formality between them, unspoken limits. But as they danced he was more aware than he could ever have supposed of her form, the tautness of her body and the swell of her breasts. As they moved forwards and back together he could not take his eyes off her, as she span beneath his upstretched arm her face was alive in the embers of the daylight, her eyes flashing and her hair almost alight. And when they came together to waltz he pulled her tight, closing the rigid inches of decorum between them, and she did not resist. He ached and wanted to hold her within him. What had started for him as a meeting of minds had rapidly and uncontrollably become a helpless love.
It was no less so for Kirsty. She now saw in Murdo a depth that she had begun to explore, and the further she went the more engulfed she became. She had never really noticed his smile before, but tonight he was doing little else. How she wanted to hold his head close so that he smiled just for her, how she wanted to stroke him and kiss him. She felt desire, strong surges of passion that she little understood and that made her tremble. This was the man she wanted to be with, and how she wanted this night to never end. She did not even think of the morning to come because then he would be leaving.
The sun had long gone and the light came from the fire that had been kindled by the loch. It crackled and sparked as the flames danced on the shimmering inky blue of the water. Some now had plenty whisky in their blood, on their breath and in their eyes and the dance was moving to a crescendo after which, on past form, it would fade to overlong farewells.
Over the evening, two paths had become flattened through the heather. Each led to a separate hillock some fifty yards away, behind which calls of nature could be discreetly answered. Kirsty saw that Murdo had been corralled by some friends. The drink had fired their inquisitiveness. This would be an ideal moment to slip away briefly. She smiled as she heard them banter with him.
‘How did you manage that then, Murdo?’
‘What’s she like?’ asked another suggestively.
That would be Donald Fraser, or Donald Letch as the women called him. Despite being at least a decade older than most of them he always hung around with the younger ones to talk about women. His conversation was lewd, and yet most suspected he had never even kissed a woman. With the face of a rutting deer, he would ask a lad with a girlfriend how far he’d got and what he’d done. The boys tolerated him because he was older and presented himself as the voice of experience. His drinking tales and stories of women fascinated the uninitiated until they began to realise what a sad figure he really was. Kirsty could not hear how Murdo responded, but she knew by the tone of his voice that it was respectful. She smiled all the more.
A couple of girls passed her on the way back and tittered as they went past. Kirsty knew that other liaisons would be made this night.
As she came round the hillock there was no one else there. When she had relieved herself she began to walk back to the festivities, taking another route round the edge of the loch. This would bring her back into the throng almost unnoticed and she wanted to sneak up on Murdo and surprise him. She heard a movement in the darkness, but thought little of it. Others may be coming to do just as she had done, or it might be a sheep nearby. The sky remained light although the sun was long gone, but the moor was a dark mass against it. The loch was defined by the various specks of light from the fire and the moon sparkling on it, but the land was a scape of indistinct contours and shadows. It held no alarm for Kirsty, this was all so familiar and walking in the dark was nothing new. She was accustomed to the sounds of the night. A closer sound of the brushing of the heather barely registered with her.
There was a dip on the loch bank that took her behind a white rock, the face of which was exposed to the loch, but which on the other side was covered in a thick layer of peat and looked like simply another small knoll on the moorland. The ground rose again just ten feet on. As she carefully stepped down the dip she heard the thudding of heavy steps running behind her. Before she could turn, a force barged against her back driving her against the rock’s bluntly serrated surface, banging her head and scraping her face. She gasped in the sweet stench of alcohol. Instinctively, she tried to push herself back but was instantly jammed against the rock. She was too dazed to make sense of what was happening. A hand pushed against the base of her skull, rasping her cheek up the rock and forcing her throat against it. She found herself struggling for breath. Swallowing was impossible. She tried to lever her arms to press her shoulders back, but they were quickly grasped and twisted behind her, a shoulder now clamping her to the crag.
All she could hear was heavy breathing and a rough grunting right next to her ear.
Kirsty’s throat was so constricted, only a whimper escaped. She felt her wrists being bound by a belt, the body-weight of her attacker denying her any movement. The belt bit into her wrists. She was now aware of blood trickling down over her eyebrow and down the back of her throat. With her hands now tied, the attacker stood back, using an arm to keep her where she was. With a huge effort she kicked back with her right leg and felt her heel crack against a leg. There was a growl of pain, but even as she tried to yell, the arm pushed her back against the rock and her legs were kicked away from her. Her face tore against the rock’s cold flintiness as she slumped to her knees.
The hand moved away from her neck and she felt the shoulder against it again. She frantically wriggled her hands, but they were tied tight and beginning to go numb. She tried to kick her legs back again, but she couldn’t muster any force and whoever was there was ready for any resistance now. Then she felt her skirts being lifted and a hand roughly grabbing at her underwear. Now she knew what was happening and the terror surged further. She could not scream and she could not use her hands. She could not kick back. Her only hope now was to resist as fiercely as she could. But he was forcing himself hard against her, overpowering her. She squealed and squirmed, but her head was yanked fiercely back by the hair and thrust against the rock again and again until her pain subsided into oblivion.
It was the burning sensation that stirred her back into consciousness. Between her legs was on fire and inside she was in agony. Although still on her knees, she had fallen to her right side and was in a semi-kneeling, semi-lying position. Her head thumped and her face was beginning to sting through the numbness. She flopped round to sit, and almost screamed with the spasm that shot through her. Her hands hugged her abdomen as she curled forward, pulling her knees towards her head. She could taste the blood in her mouth and feel the swelling on her face, but it was the pain within her that she could not bear, so sharp it cut through the fog in her head. A feather-like trickle between her legs meant she must be bleeding. She could feel that her face was not right and she tremulously touched it, wincing as her fingers traced lumps and cuts. Slowly, thickly she tried to understand what had happened.