Francis Michael Enfield watched the clear sheet of blue. The sun was just lifting beyond the easterly horizon where sea meets sky, far down on his right, and his long shift would soon be over. Winter in this once distant northern land was full of surprises to a lone London boy, far away from the Thameside home of his oh-so recent childhood. Where he stood the sheer cliff edge began at the tips of his dubbinned army boots. A black abyss of darkness, at dawn-break gradually merging beyond and into the familiarly restless sea lying some 300 feet directly below him. He rubbed his chapped hands, taking care not to drop the sandwich that Mrs Fraser had prepared for him when he left his digs yesterday.
“Fish”. He spoke the word to clear his mind of the flowing, foreign rolling tongue of the locals. Awkward to him, yet not to them. As they spoke it seemed they sang songs about everything, voices lilting up and down as they pronounced their strange words about fishing, the war, crops and village tittle-tattle. The sour taste of salted herring, with fresh salted butter on thick barley oat cakes was now, after six months placement, as familiar and even normal as everything else in this huge, empty, silent, remote land.
For the coast had to be watched. The Germans were just a few hundred miles away, no doubt eating their Saxon breakfasts as they too looked out across the same iron-grey sea from their reach at the Dutch coast. “I wonder if they are eating fish too?” Frank spoke out loud into the wind, and to the seagulls, and for his ears’ comfort to hear again the Anglian consonants and his clipped Epping vowels. He wondered if - after many more months here in this far northern land of such strangely comfortable lives - he wondered, will I go back to Brick Lane half-Skotch? Will I run to my mother and say matting vaa? (He spoke the strange Gaelic phrase out loud: “matting vaa; good morning!”)
A collie dog barked once at him, running across the moor. Joseph Sutherland, of indeterminate age, perhaps over seventy, was out checking his flock for any strays which had got through breaches in the ever-falling dykes. Every year he lost one or two, which fell, stupidly, from the high cliff edge, losing her life in search of that little bit of better forage just visible beyond the lip of the deadly precipice, falling head-first down onto the ancient rocks and foam inhabited by the ubiquitous, patient and ever-hungry crabs. The old dog was warning him to watch where he stood. He, though fearless of heights, stepped back and walked down to return towards the village where he was billeted.
Joseph waved to him. “A good morning, Francis”. Francis replied with his “Matting vaa, Jo.” They both smiled, secure in the only phrases they shared in their uncommon tongues. Francis then began to head back inland towards the rough track which ran down into the strath leading him away from Joseph’s farm, given to his great-grandfather by the first Duke in guilty reparation for his Duchess’ brutal clearing of their ancestral land upstream. Francis crossed over the single track railway line, and over the beautiful bridge built for the conquering Hanoverian regiments by the great Thomas Telford. Under it flowed the Helmsdale river, rich with salmon, trout and even gold; an umbilical line that tied the village to the lochans at the river’s source, nestling under the great western mountain chain. The people who still called themselves the Cattaich, the cat folk. Somewhere near the lochans, recently forgotten, his ancestors still lay buried, haunting the odd cailleach, a hag who was fey enough to meet and talk with them at the river’s waters.
Was he the first Londoner to ever see this ancient place? Francis doubted this. He was not well educated, learning little beyond some reading, arithmetic and fighting at St Martha’s Church of England School near the docks on the lower Thames. But his aunt Agatha had once travelled as a lady companion to the well-heeled Miss Bartlet of Little Stroud, as she had journeyed round Scotland on a Grand Tour, in the long summer when the old Queen had died. On the day he got the letter sending him to a posting as an Observer in east Sutherlandshire, she had sat down with him, telling her enthralling tales of the foreign northern Scotch who spoke no Queen’s or even Edinburgh English, had few roads, whose land was boggy and infertile, but the earth could itself be cut up into bricks in the summer and burnt in a winter fireplace, or it was placed on cottages as roofing; of winds that were so strong that they could blow you off your feet, of ancient castles and grand houses built opulently in this impoverished and empty land by obscenely wealthy counts and countesses. And, breathlessly, more else than he could remember now.
On reaching the village he walked up Stafford Street, past fishing gear - nets, creels, ropes - hung out to dry or awaiting repair. The women stood in the doorways, stopping their chores to watch him in his dark army uniform with his long-legged Englishman’s strides, but the men ignored him as they set to on their nets. No-one was ever rude or cold towards him, a peculiarity, for he was the first, definitely the first, Londoner ever to live in this ancient village which had been founded a millennium past by a Danish viking. Perhaps in this small settlement there yet remained the blood of Hoelme the mythic founder; perhaps, Francis thought, he was a long distant relative returned home?
He walked up the brae towards the Caithness road and turned to cross the free church glebe, stopping to pat the donkey of Reverend Feasie McKay, who watched the southerner from his beloved strawberry patch. Mr McKay was a fiery preacher, strong in the Gaelic, with little time for the lowland Scots heretics of the state kirk with their Aberdeen University and such-like degrees. But he had a soft heart for the young man, far from home, who, in his opinion, needed much yet to learn about the one true presbyterian calvinist faith of John Knox. Francis and the minister exchanged a nod as he headed on through the glebe gate and up to the back door of the Fraser family’s house.
As usual, it was unlocked and ajar, ever welcoming whoever would wish to drop in. At the doorstep he dumped his pack and removed his helmet. As Francis undid his bootlaces he wondered if the front door was ever unlocked and opened; Mrs Fraser said ‘Frank, she is only to be used for guests’; the house was her domain. Leaving his boots hobnails-up - you never knew when the next rain would fall - he entered his highland home, into and through the tiny kitchen with its larder, sink and electric stove, and into the living room, watched closely by Mrs Fraser’s great tabby cat ‘Tiger’ who during the daytime hogged the hearth. There was something uncanny about that cat. It was just a bit too big, muscular, and passively resistant to any opposition; his was the fireplace once Mrs Fraser lit it on cold days. Somehow his feline mass seemed to capture every speck of heat that escaped from the burning coal. The rest of the room, in its darkest recesses beyond the chairs, dining table and dresser, was always remarkably cold; but Tiger roasted himself contentedly.
The mystery of this strange creature, with its camouflage coat, stumpy tail and large bulk, had been revealed accidentally to Francis some months back. Guarding the cliff-top and the German Sea beyond, he had accidentally trodden on a nest of wild cats. The queen was probably away hunting, but when he stooped to pick them up to pet them the little blighters attacked him with such ferocity, scratching and biting through his gloves, army trouser and socks, even piercing his leather boots at the ankle. These kittens were straight out of hell! And, they too were strangely large for such a mild description as ‘kittens’.
And they all were coloured and patterned much as Tiger. John-Hugh had explained to him after he had limped home that Tiger was from a litter of a local tabby cat sired by a wild tom cat from the heather moorlands. He told him that they fought poisonous adders and were around both before and after the wolves were finally eliminated by the tweeded southern tourists with their guns. Only later did Francis notice that - when John-Hugh was at work - Ishbel, his wife, only ever fed the cat on raw steak mince from the village butcher.
The cat lifted his eyelids and stared long at Francis as he entered, stocking-soled, into the well-carpeted living room. “Is that you, Frank, dear?”, Ishbel sung from the spare bedroom. “Yes, Mrs Fraser.” “Was that you who met Jo with his dog earlier?” Francis was becoming used to the strange structure of the language and of the physics of the village’s life - where news you were coming, and who you had met, reached the village long before you did. “Yes. There were no sheep over the cliff today.” “tha, that’s what I heard. I’ll fetch a tea for you now.” Francis rested back in Mrs Fraser’s chair; there was an agreement that nobody else ever used John-Hugh’s chair, with its pipes, fireplace and newspaper wicks all ready by him for a smoke on return from his work at the General Post Office. There were only the two armchairs, and by rights these were for the working men when they were home.
It was still to him a strange village. Every place and street was named in large English letters, and the newspapers were also in English, but hardly anyone spoke or read English; just Gaelic (“like the Docherty’s in Brick Lane, whose son Timothy had gone to serve with the London Irish”, Francis thought). Occasionally a tramp - who was called a macafee - would cross the Ord out of Caithness to sell clothes pegs. They spoke the nordic tongue of further north and the islands. But, English?, there had never before had been any reason for it before the disaster that followed the Stuart rebellion. Nowadays, two hundred later, the keen youngsters listened to the BBC Home Service, and practised speaking in the Saxon tongue, as was strongly encouraged by the school mistresses (and their Edinburgh masters) all of whom were brought in by train from down south in bustling, busy, rich Glasgow or Edinburgh.
Mrs Fraser was just finishing preparing Francis’ bedroom for him. His night shift over, watching and - just as importantly - listening to the sea for the long-feared invasion of our shared sceptered isle of Saxon and Brython, Gael and Norse. On thousands of points around these hundreds of islands men and women like Frank and others were yet watching, knowing this was a divine task which had been entrusted to them. Perhaps the dread day will be today? Frank undressed, placing his uniform and underclothing on the chair, put on his pyjamas, already fresh and folded on the pillow, tucked himself into the sheets, under the blankets and touching the deliciously hot water bottle drifted off to sleep, his mind’s eye still on that eastern horizon.
What seemed like minutes later, but was actually many hours, there was a sharp rapp at the bedroom door; and giggles. He awoke, but just shouted, “I’ll be up soon.” The door handle slowly turned, a slice of light, and two girlish faces entering from the hallway. More giggles. A foot stepped gently inside the room. A burst of Gaelic from Mrs Fraser set her two elder daughters running off, before Renee, the eldest, rushed back to slam the bedroom door closed. At least once a week this would be his wake-up alarm as the girls returned from the village school. Mrs Fraser knew how rare it was to have such a tall young man in the village, and that every young woman’s eye was often upon him, but there would be no shenanigans in her house, least with John-Hugh being an - albeit reluctant - elder of the Free Kirk, for gossip was the richest currency in any village, highland or lowland.
As Francis slept Mrs Fraser had quietly removed his clothing, tidying up his army uniform and even polishing his boots. He had often tried to stop her doing this; it was his duty in serving the King to make his own bed, clean his clothes, iron his shirt and generally stay in good order as if he was in barracks. But Mrs Fraser was having none of it. She told him sternly in motherly love that he was in her house and in her house she looked after the menfolk or things would be said about her in the streets, shops and behind closed doors. Really, as John-Hugh knew all too well, she had always wanted a son, to be called Iain beag (‘wee John’), a man from her womb to continue her husband’s name. The last pregnancy had produced another girl, and John-Hugh was not for taking a chance of a fifth woman living in his comfortable little home.
About a year back John-Hugh had received an official notice from the War Office in London. As the village postmaster, and almost the only native English speaker, he had received the notice to pass on to the two kirk ministers, Mr McKay of nearby Kildonan, minister of the free kirk (of which John-Hugh, as his son-in-law, was an elder) and Mr Stowbold from Falkirk, minister of the state kirk. The notice was clear, it read,
To Be Read To The Loyal People of Helmsdale As They Are Assembled in Church On Sunday
[ To Be Read In English Only ]
There will be a soldier of the Observer Corps to be placed in the village of Helmsdale, Sutherlandshire for the duration. He must be placed in a family where the English language is spoken (but not necessarily exclusively). This must be an orderly house and one of agreement between the Householder, the Postmaster, and local Clergy.
It had reached John-Hugh like manna from heaven. He was an Invernesian, who spoke perfect English but who also knew Gaelic. Fifteen years back he had procured the significant and well-paid position of Postmaster of Helmsdale, picked out his choice from the local beauties - a daughter of the Free Kirk minister - and soon converted out of the state church, and married her. With the position came a new-built house with three bedrooms, a living room, a reception room, gardens, and a loft. Two daughters followed quickly, and all was well until about ten years on; Ishbel had become increasingly broody for a son, fell pregnant, who had turned out to be just another daughter.
John-Hugh thought as he held the notice, “I could put the big girls in the loft. There is a ladder which can secure them from accosting the young man. Their bedroom would suit him. And the baby is still in the cot in the room with me and Ishbel.”
Grasping the notice, John-Hugh had left his office, locking the door (an old Inverness habit) and walked nonchalantly - for if the postmaster was to be seen hurrying down the main street there would be an impression of important news, and he was not willing to be stopped to talk. He headed up to the glebe, as if to go home, but he turned instead to the manse and rang the bell. His father-in-law was busy preparing a sermon from Daniel which would, he hoped, sear the local state churchgoers in their deep apostasy. Respectfully, John-Hugh had handed the notice to Feasie, who read it, read it again, and quickly ushered him into his small one-room home. He sent out his wife and the two men schemed quietly. Half an hour later John-Hugh left to visit the state kirk minister, handed him the notice, who also read it. Even as the southerner read it he knew that John-Hugh had him beaten. But he was not a bitter man, and had a lot of time for his straying sheep, hoping that the forces of civilisation would return the Fraser family to his fold. (He had a lot of faith in the power of coal, iron and education which was building a new kingdom in Scotland.)
So when the three men later met in the state minister’s manse study - an elegant room worthy of greater things and places - the three men agreed, nem con, that the young soldier would be placed with the Fraser family. John-Hugh would gain an ally at his own hearth, and Ishbel now had a son of her own. Before Francis arrived the girls’ beds were moved to the loft, a new bed and furniture were ordered from Sinclair’s of Wick. Then Mrs Fraser sat down with her two older daughters, and the three women practised their English together as she nursed the baby, Joan, at her breast.
TIme had passed and the War would soon be over. The Caithness Courier was filled with exciting news of the coming victory. John-Hugh and Ishbel had quietly harboured hopes that one of the two older girls would be courted by Francis, but he was a shy lad, busy with helping in the garden and awkward around the lively young women. The girls had grown up and had taken their Higher examinations, passing comfortably. What future awaited them in the village, devoid of so many in the Great War and now the Second War? Their aunts Kate and Bella had never married, one becoming a teacher and the other a shop-keeper, filling the spaces left by the men who never returned.
The talk in the village school playground was of Inverness, Glasgow and Canada. The girls shared their future plans to go to college, become a nurse, marry a handsome young doctor, and speaking the English with their own children in this bright new future. The boys talked of shipyards on the Clyde, herding cattle on the American plains, or joining the peacetime army and visiting India, South Africa and Australia.
The talk at the dining table was of this fine future. The older girls would chatter, in English for Francis; or was it just boasting in their youth? When Francis got his recall to London Ishbel was heartbroken, but she needn’t have been. Francis promised that he would come back every year to visit his ‘other’ parents. He loved the short little life he had grown into. The girls were, perhaps, ungentle; they only talked of themselves. When the entire village came out to wave goodbye to Francis as he boarded the train to Inverness. Mrs Fraser cried; “We will be missing you, my Frank.” Finally the train pulled out, and the time had passed.
Visiting the village twenty years later, he was struck by the changes. Everyone spoke to him in English. The village school was much reduced with just twelve children from four families, and two of them were from Skipton and Derby. Almost all the girls and boys he had known during his posting had left, and as they expected, had settled in cities and lands far away from their upbringing. Some came back; some got divorced; some just disappeared.
When Francis came up for last time it was for the funeral of John-Hugh. Ishbel had died from a stroke five years earlier. Her unmarried sisters had written to Francis, asking him to stay away as John-Hugh was now far from well. He thought he knew what they were saying, and that they were protecting him. But at John-Hugh’s death they welcomed him home and brought him warmly into their shared cottage. John-Hugh was buried in the new cemetery beside his wife. Afterwards Francis walked up the farm track to the cliff, looking east, watching the diving cormorants, shivering involuntarily at the cold east wind.
Perhaps it was tiredness, but as the gulls shouted at him, balancing their wings on the wind beyond the cliff edge, he thought he heard a woman’s voice cry, “Frank!”, as Ishbel used to do. He turned round to look, but all he could see was the sheep in the field, some cows nearby, and the path he had long ago taken back to the village. But he would only go as far as the railway station, and be in time to see the noisy train, smoking dark clouds, slowly entering the empty station, under clear blue skies, from the ageless mountains, and the long silent moors of Sutherlandshire.