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August, usually the bonniest month of the year, was pale and muggy and oppressive on the island. The MacLean women struggled in the field under the glare of the sun, the drops of rain that thankfully did not gather speed, and the clegs that flew about their faces to torment them as they cut and gathered the barley.
Muirne had read between the lines of Neil’s last letter that he yearned to come home to Mull. She in turn wished to be done with the harvest so they could be together again, and be free of the heavy wooden tools and wire used to bind up the sheaves. Time and again she’d looked out to see her father or Gillan doing these tasks and it had seemed so effortless, but in her arms the bundles were awkward, and oftentimes the sheaves fell out before she could twist the wire around the full circumference. Starting over frustrated her to the point of angry tears.
What was more frustrating, however, was seeing Robbie Eglund, who’d never come around before, pass by their fields, touching his cap as he went. It was clearly meant to taunt her, and she ground her teeth in fury as she swung the scythe, almost taking off her leg in one sweep. After that she reminded herself to be more careful, no matter the taunts she received. I’ll no’ change my mind and accept him, if that’s what he was thinking.
Each evening, all three women collapsed after a porridge supper, tired to their bones from the day’s work. Only Alisdair, at six not able to lift any of the tools, stayed home or ran and fetched for them. He also was now in charge of milking the cow and feeding the hens, after they had left for the field rows.
It was almost three weeks before they saw the end in sight. September loomed close by. They knew from their letters that the men had both started jobs, but in different places: Gillan in the same cotton mill as Charlie, Neil as a freightloader on the Clyde. They were all curious about this, as it seemed very odd and out of form for Neil to choose some place other than beside his stepfather. There must not have been enough spaces or something of that sort. Sheila wanted only that they do a good job, earn a good wage, and find them a solid enough house. She prayed for this each night before bed. Muirne saw that her mother’s dream of paying the rents with her weaving had dissolved and floated away when the Laird said no amount of money would allow them to stay: they must make way for more efficient farming methods and livestock production. He was indeed turning ‘English gentleman.’
As September came and the women worked to deliver the barley stooks to neighbors that could spare some recompense, Robbie no longer appeared at the end of the day, for which Muirne was thankful. They had four more small loads left to deliver, which they had figured to do on the morn, when, returning, they saw men hanging about their front door. Muirne turned her head to see her mother from under the empty creel she carried.
“Inspectors, likely.” Sheila seemed calm, but Muirne’s heartbeat quickened as she thought of Alisdair inside. The three of them tossed aside their empty creels and ran down the hill to the house. As they had feared, they saw one of the men coming out of the house. Where was Alisdair?
“Hallo, gentlemen,” she called from a distance as they caught up to the yard. “We’ve been out all day with the harvesting. Can I help you with anything?”
There were three of them, and they were dressed well in plain dark wool suits. They carried scrolls and sheaves of paper in a case that evidently they had been consulting before the women had arrived. One of them looked up; it was Alex Eglund. Another caught her eye, and Sheila fought down her panic to face him. This man she would treat as the messenger, and not Eglund, the toad.
“We are here inspecting for Laird of Torloisk, Mrs. MacLean. It seems you were meant to leave three days ago, when your harvest was in. Is not that so?”
“Well, sir, we have been preparing to leave, as demanded.” Her voice took on a hard edge. “But as we are moving to the city, we’ve had to deliver it to neighbors who could purchase the stores from us. We are set to go in two days’ time,” she finished quietly.
“That is not what was specified in the notice of eviction, Mrs. MacLean, though, was it?” His tone was patient, as if he were talking to someone soft in the head.
“Well, what would be the point of stooking up the barley as the Laird allowed, then letting it rot? I’m only—”
The back of his hand connected with her cheek in a loud crack, and she barely stuck out her left hand in time to stop her head hitting the side of the house. Her right hand flew to her jaw, where she felt blood from inside her mouth. She spat it out, looking up to see her Alisdair in the doorway. His eyes were wide and afraid. Sheila coughed to cover the temper that came immediately on the heels of the pain.
Before Alisdair could scream, Muirne darted forward and scooped him up, holding him in her arms as she kept her back facing the house. “Can we leave in the morning then? Would that satisfy you?” she asked brusquely. She was thinking they could notify their closest neighbor to collect their remaining barley stooks on the morrow, as their situation had changed. And instead of the wagon they’d meant to borrow to transport their things, they would need to fit everything in the creels.
The stranger interrupted her thoughts with his reply. “No,” he said loudly. “It would not.”
“You were meant to be out; you shall be out,” he said, and Muirne noticed a frisson of excitement pass through Eglund’s body. The third man she could not make out in the shadow.
“We are here to tear down this structure, and the easiest way to do that is firing it. So if you’ve anything you want of value from it, hurry to it while we prepare our torches.”
Muirne felt a scream die in her throat. Her mother rushed in, grabbing their pile of blankets by the bed and dumping it outside in the yard, a small distance from the door. “I’ll get the hens in their cage,” whispered Sheena, her eyes limpid and wide, obviously in shock.
Muirne set Alisdair down, telling him to stay with their pile of goods, away from the house, and away from those men. He nodded and she rushed in, looking wildly about. Her eyes blurred with tears as she tried to consider what was most important in this dear, old house. She wiped them away and made a grab for the iron pot over the fire.
The bedding was out, the cooking utensils were out, the hens and milk cow were caged and tethered by the smoke house. The smokehouse! thought Muirne, but she looked to see Sheena dash in and wrap their bounty of fish in a small apron, adding it to the pile of belongings. Muirne went in herself, grabbing the heavier salted mutton and bacon, deep under the chest.
Muirne skittered back into the house again and helped Sheila to lug out the wooden chest. They placed it farthest from the house as their eyes darted over to where the men stood. They had soaked rags in some sort of rancid fat and were now making a show of looking for their matches. Muirne choked back a sob as she ran back in, grabbing the few pictures off the wall, the rags from the holes in the walls, the spoons and the basin and her father’s spare plaid.
As she passed through the doorway, she smelled the first whiffs of smoke. They had started from the back of the house, where it sat against the hill. She sought her mother’s eyes. The loom, she mouthed. Her mother nodded, and they dove in once more, rushing to the left corner of the house where the loom stood.
“Should we break it down, or—”
“Nae time, let’s just pull it through. It’ll fit yet.”
They struggled, pushing and pulling the large awkward wooden frame forward to the door. It bunched and creaked, not liking the sideways movement. Muirne took the front side and pulled it backwards through the door, but suddenly tripped and fell on her rump. She looked up to see one of the men laughing at her. She swiped away the tears of frustration and screamed, “Mama!”
For it looked as if the flames were inside the house now, and her mother trapped behind the loom, which took up the doorway. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed hold, and pulled to. She felt her mother twist one of the legs so it would fit through on the diagonal, and changed her grip to match its weight. Pulled again, and finally it was free of the doorway.
Sheila stumbled out, and they managed to get the loom out of the reach of the fire. Alisdair held onto the rope, but the milk cow, frightened by the noise and heat, was pulling him away into the darkness. Muirne quickly covered its head with a cloth and led it back with shushing sounds. Sheena kept the overturned creel pressed to the earth so that none of the hens could escape. The four of them bowed their heads together briefly, holding hands while Sheila gave a broken prayer of thanks. The fire crackled away, smothering her words.
When they looked up, the men were gone.