The Hills is Lonely

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About the author:
www.panmacmillan.com/author/lillianbeckwith

• Lillian Beckwith
  
• Dedication
  
• 1 Arrival
  
• 2 Initiation
  
• 3 Of Fare and Fishing
  
• 4 The Funeral
  
• 5 The Cattle Sale
  
• 6 Patients and Patience
  
• 7 Seagull
  
• 8 A Ceilidh
  
• 9 The Dance
  
• 10 Mary's Visit
  
• 11 Getting Ready for the Wedding
  
• 12 The Wedding
  
• Glossary
  

Lillian Comber wrote fiction and non-fiction for both adults and children under the pseudonym Lillian Beckwith. She is best known for her series of comic novels based on her time living on a croft in the Scottish Hebrides.

Beckwith was born in Ellesmere Port, Cheshire, in 1916, where her father ran a grocery shop. The shop provided the background for her memoir
About My Father's Business
, a child's eye view of a 1920s family. She moved to the Isle of Skye with her husband in 1942, and began writing fiction after moving to the Isle of Man with her family twenty years later. She also completed a cookery book,
Secrets from a Crofter's Kitchen
(Arrow, 1976).

Since her death, Beckwith's novel
A Shine of Rainbows
has been made into a film starring Aidan Quinn and Connie Nielsen, which in 2009 won ‘Best Feature' awards at the Heartland and Chicago Children's Film Festivals.

TO

Lachlan, the son of Peter
Johnny, the son of Alistair's wife
Angus, son of the bagpipes, &

Morag, widow of Hamish

If you have never experienced a stormy winter's night in the Hebrides, you can have no idea of the sort of weather which I encountered when I arrived, travel-worn and weary, at the deserted little jetty where I was to await the boat which would carry me across to ‘Incredible Island'. It was a terrible night. A night to make one yearn for the fierce, bright heat of an ample fire; for carpet slippers and a crossword puzzle. Yet here I stood, alone in the alien, tempestuous blackness, sodden, cold and dejected, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. On three sides of me the sea roared and plunged frenziedly, and a strong wind, which shrieked and wailed with theatrical violence, tore and buffeted at my clothes and fought desperately to throw me off balance. The swift, relentless rain stung my eyes, my face and my legs; it trickled from my ruined hat to seep in cheeky rivulets down my neck; it found the ventilation holes in my waterproof and crept exploratively under my armpits.

Somewhere out on the turbulent water a light flashed briefly. Peering through screwed-up eyes, I watched with fascinated horror as it appeared and vanished again and again. With stiff fingers I switched on my torch; the battery was new and the bright beam pierced the blurring rain for a few yards. Quickly I switched it off. To a faint-hearted landlubber like myself the sound of the sea was sufficiently menacing; the sight of it was absolutely malevolent. Nostalgia overwhelmed me. Why, oh why, had I been so foolhardy—so headstrong? And this was supposed to be for the good of my health! Why was I not sitting with Mary in the cosy living-room of our town flat, dunking ginger-nuts into cups of steaming hot tea and following from my own armchair the exploits of my favourite detective? The second question was simple enough to answer. The first presented more difficulty.

An illness some months previously had led my doctor to order me away to the country for a long complete rest. A timely windfall in the shape of a small annuity had made it possible for me to give up a not very lucrative teaching post in a smoky North of England town, and look around for a suitable place where, within the limits of my purse, I might, in the doctor's words, ‘rest without being too lazy, and laze without being too restive'.

My advertisement in a well-known periodical had brought an avalanche of tempting offers. England, it appeared, was liberally dotted with miniature Paradises for anyone seeking recuperative solitude, and I had almost decided to remove myself temporarily to a Kentish farmhouse when the postman brought a letter which changed my plans completely. The envelope bore a Hebridean postmark; the handwriting, though straggly, was fairly legible, but the words themselves painted a picture as vivid and inviting as a railway poster. It ran thus:

Bruach
,

Dear Madam
,

Its just now I saw your advert when I got the book for the knitting pattern I wanted from my cousin Catriona. I am sorry I did not write sooner if you are fixed up if you are not in any way fixed up I have a good good house stone and tiles and my brother Ruari who will wash down with lime twice every year. Ruari is married and lives just by. She is not damp. I live by myself and you could have the room that is not a kitchen and bedroom reasonable. I was in the kitchen of the lairds house till lately when he was changed God rest his soul the poor old gentleman that he was. You would be very welcomed. I have a cow also for milk and eggs and the minister at the manse will be referee if you wish such.

Yours affectionately,
Morag McDugan.

PS. She is not thatched
.

Mary, reading the letter over my shoulder, dissolved into laughter. We were still chuckling when we went to bed that night, I to dream of a minister in full clerical garb, tearing frantically around a football pitch, blowing a referee's whistle, while two teams of lime-washed men played football with a cow's egg—a thing resembling a Dutch cheese—and an old man changed furtively in the kitchen.

Deciding privately to postpone acceptance of the Kentish offer, I wrote next morning to Morag McDugan, excusing myself to Mary by saying that a further reply might provide more amusement. I had to admit to myself, however, that the ingenuousness of the letter had so delighted me that the idea of a possible visit had already taken my fancy. The reply from Morag (already we were using her Christian name) did not disappoint us. Her advice regarding travelling arrangements was clear; obviously she had been instructed by a seasoned traveller, but her answers to my questions about quietness and distance from the sea, etc., were Morag's own.

Surely its that quiet here even the sheeps themselves on the hills is lonely and as to the sea its that near I use it myself every day for the refusals
.

Mary's eyelids flickered.

‘What does she have to say about the water supply?'

‘
There's a good well right by me and no beasts at it
,' I read.

Mary shuddered expressively.

‘I'm glad you're not going there anyway, Becky,' she said.

‘I believe I am though,' I said suddenly, but I was thinking out loud, not really having made up my mind.

She stared at me, incredulous. ‘But you can't.' Becky!' she expostulated. ‘Surely you can see that?'

‘Why not?' I asked defensively. ‘I'm interested in meeting people and finding out how they live and I've never yet crossed the border into Scotland.'

‘Don't be a fool,' argued Mary. ‘I admit the woman sounds fun, and so does the place; but it's ridiculous to let yourself be carried away like that. It wouldn't be in the least funny to live under the conditions suggested by those letters.'

‘I'm sure it would be even funnier,' I replied, with a flippancy I was far from actually feeling. ‘After all, there can't be many dual-purpose cows in the world and it's time someone did something to cheer up those poor lonely sheeps.'

Mary giggled. ‘Don't be a fool!' she reiterated.

Her words goaded me to a decision.

‘That's just what I'm going to be,' I replied.

Mary was not the only person to remonstrate with me on my decision to forgo the indisputable attractions of a Kentish farmhouse for the doubtful charms of a Hebridean croft. My doctor was equally incredulous when I told him of my plans.

‘I don't think you're very wise.' he said seriously. ‘Friends of mine who've been up in the Hebrides tell me the inhabitants are only half civilised.'

‘Well,' I replied gaily, ‘I'm going to find out for myself,' and added: ‘Really, I'm quite determined.'

He stared at me for a few moments, then shrugged his shoulders and rose. ‘In that case,' he warned me, ‘I think you should let me inoculate you against typhoid.'

Inoculated I was, and now, standing embittered and lonely on the pier, I was heartily amazed that I could ever willingly have embarked on such a venture, and heartily glad neither the doctor nor Mary could witness my plight.

The light I had been watching drew unsteadily nearer and with sickening dread I realised that it belonged to the masthead of a tiny boat, and that its appearance and disappearance was due to the boat lifting and plunging on the huge seas. Slowly she lunged nearer, the dark outline of her bow leaping recklessly until it seemed impossible that she could come closer without being smashed to pieces on the stone jetty. But suddenly she was alongside and a figure clad in streaming oilskins and thigh-boots jumped ashore, a rope in his hands.

‘Are you off the train?' he shouted as he hitched the rope around a tiny bollard.

The question was directed at me. ‘Yes,' I yelled back. ‘Is this the ferry?'

‘Aye.' He spat with all the dignity of a man presenting a visiting card and obviously considered it sufficient introduction. ‘Iss there anybody else for the ferry?' Again the question was for me and I peered vaguely into the surrounding darkness.

‘I've no idea!' I yelled.

The man grunted. ‘Wass there many on the train?'

Dimly I began to appreciate the degree of familiarity I must expect in my new surroundings.

‘There were quite a few people on the train,' I replied, ‘but they've all disappeared.' Impulsively I glanced behind and immediately regretted having done so, for the movement had deflected some of the rivulets along chilling new courses.

‘Have you been here long?'

I felt that the questions were becoming pointless and was tempted to grossly overstate the ten minutes proclaimed by my watch. But I replied truthfully. Again the man spat.

‘You'd best be gettin' aboard, then, if you're going the night,' he growled.