Cromarty

Welcome aboard. The name’s Jamie Urquhart. I’m captain of the Eider Down. Aye, well you might ask how a fisherman out of Cromarty knows the tale of a farmer in Fearn. Sit down, I’ll tell you.

No, I wasna’ born there. Happen I was born and raised in Cromarty. You see, what it is, the nearest airfield is just outside a little town on the coast about five kilometers down the ways from Fearn. Why’s that of any note? Aye, well you might ask. And I’ll tell you. 

Now the Eider’s only a wee trawler, and we don’t go out for as long as the big fellows, but if we’ve a good enough haul of haddock or cod, we get the best price by sending it south on a plane. We’ll get over there once a month, maybe twice if things go well. Whenever we’re there I buy a bit of grog for the crew in a wee pub the street up from the docks. Agnes Mackay’s been serving drinks there for years, but she willna’ work past eight bells. After then, she sits down with us and swaps us some stories. We’ll buy her a few glasses—she enjoys her Scotch and honey—and afore too very long she’ll aye tell the one about the winter blankets. And she tells it the same every time, no matter how we try to get her off course, so I think it must be true.

The question today is, can I tell the story as well as she? That you'll have to decide yourself.

Winter Blankets

In 1748 the Scots were still heeled over from the massacre on Culloden Moor. But life goes on, and one fine summer afternoon a farmer name of Ian MacBain married young Helen Mackay from over the northern side of Loch Eye. The neighbors were there, but they were poor farmers every one, and the celebration didna’ last over long. They needed to be home in time for milking.

Ian and Helen were happy in their croft on the hill above the burn to Loch Eye. Ian kept his promise to support Helen, and she took good care of him as well. She bore him two bairns. The girl came first. They christened her Merrie. The son came about two years after. He was Kenneth. Helen nursed them both in turn by the warm, soothing fire in the hearth.

Not very many years after Kenneth was born Helen took to her bed. Some said an evil eye had been cast her way, but who would want to plague a poor farmer and his wife? Ever what, she never rose up from her bed again. It was easy to die in those times.

So Ian was marooned with a six year-old girl and a wee four year-old laddie. Helen’s older sister, Iselda, saw the need and came down from the Mackay farm to help out.

She was a hard woman, was Iselda Mackay, maybe on account of having only one good eye. It happened on a day she was helping with the family cows and got broadsided by an ill-tempered bull. From that day she had no use of her starboard eye. Still, Iselda filled in the space Helen’s dying had left, and folks spoke well of her for it.

Now Ian wasna’ used to dealing with anything more stubborn than a cow, so when Iselda moved in, she quickly took full command of the household. And what do you think an easy-going man like Ian would say to that? He went out and told his neighbors, "I couldna’ manage without her, and I’ve decided we’ll marry." Cock-eyed though his thinking was, everyone told him that was fine.

So there was another ceremony, this time it was a cold, rainy spring day, but the few who came and stood ‘round the hearth, found that the three-room croft was shelter enough.

Now, Iselda knew she was charting a course through rough waters, being married to a poor farmer and all. He had his land, though. A good number of folks lost theirs in those times, but he had hung on to his. That was the piling she would tie her fortune to. Of course now that she had legal control, wouldna’ you wonder what colors she’d fly? Aye, and they were this: she was going to add to her purse every chance she got.

Not Ian, nor his children had ever worn fancy clothes, but so long as Helen was there, if they needed new they’d get it. Iselda set them on a new heading. At supper table one evening, she straightened her back and announced, "Merrie I’m putting you in charge of stitching up the clothes, your brother’s and your father’s as well as your own." 

Merrie stitched the best she was able, but she couldna’ it. And what did Iselda say to Merrie’s best effort? She scolded. "Such poor work, Merrie! You’re full seven years old, now. It’s time you learned to haul your own load."

Sad to say, her father was no help. He was fine for handling cows, but Iselda was beyond his ken. It was all he could do to stay out from under her bow, which he did by spending his day in the fields, not coming home for much, other than to go to bed. That was fine for running the farm, but it left Merrie and Kenneth to steer for themselves.

The summer was cool, and they fared well enough, but when the weather turned cold Iselda turned even colder. Merrie was trying to keep the family’s clothes stitched up, but she didna’ have the talent, and the wind kept blowing through her seams. "Mother," said Merrie one cold autumn day—Iselda she called "Mother"—Helen she had aye called "Ma."

"Mother," Merrie said holding up Kenneth’s badly stitched shirt, "I’ve not the knack to sew the seams tight enough to hold out a winter chill. Can you show me how to do it better?"

"You’ll learn because you have to learn," said Iselda with a voice flat as a sea with no wind.

"But if my father gets frostbite, he willna’ be able to take care of the farm."

Iselda stopped stirring the stew pot. She was going torepeat herself, and that made her cross. She sighed an angry sigh and with her jaw clamped tight, she said, "You’ll learn because you have to learn."

A lesser girl would have thrown out her anchor right there, but Merrie stayed on her heading. "But I fear if Kenneth’s clothes are drafty he’ll take ill."

This time Iselda turned on Merrie like a force four gale. "Dinna’ snivel, child. I do not have the time to teach you things you should be learning on your own."

Of course, Iselda would have had time if she wasna’ going so often to town to sell their milk and eggs, then re-doing their account books, and then re-counting the pennies and shillings she’d gathered in and re-doing the account books again.

There would be no help from her stepmother, so Merrie came about and went to sit at the other end of the hearth to practice stitching. She had tears in her eyes, and not from the needle pricks in her finger.

Winter arrived, and though Merrie didna’ like to admit it, her stepmother had been right. Her stitching was getting better. But Merrie had no need to thank her stepmother. She improved all from her own practice.

Did Iselda notice? First I’d have to tell you that she cared, and that I canna’ do. She cared for little but money. And for making plans to pull it in even faster. Her problem was that there had been so little from the start. No, Iselda was never satisfied, and aye in a sour mood.

On the fourth of October Merrie went out to fetch the eggs. She looked up at a sky that was gray and low, and heard a cold wind rattle the thatch on the roof. She finished her chore and hurried back to the house. Merrie went to Iselda and said, "Mother, It’s getting cold. Kenneth and I will need our winter blankets tonight."

Iselda was cross already from having to put an extra log on the fire. She was in no mood to have such luxuries in the house. She scowled and said, "I’ve looked at those blankets. They’re too good for children to use. I’m giving the cold weather another week to set in, then I’m going to sell them in town. They’re top quality, and I’ll get a good price for them." She went back to her account book muttering, "Better to have the money than the blankets."

"But Ma made them for us," cried Merrie.

Iselda pointed her quill at Merrie and snarled, "I’ve told you about that sniveling. Put an end to it, or you’ll be wanting for supper."

Merrie and Kenneth went to bed cold that night, and without a very good supper. A Norway wind was blowing across the North Sea and over the Hill of Fearn. To keep from shivering, the two children shared their two summer blankets and huddled together for warmth. Sleep they did, though, and Merrie dreamed of a warm summer evening, walking along the shore of Loch Eye. When she woke she found one of her Ma’s warm blankets on top of them. Do you find yourself wondering if Iselda had a change of heart? So did Merrie.

The question was answered soon enough when Iselda barged in to roust them for the day. She took one look at them and howled, "I told you those blankets were not for you to use. The blanket chest is in your room only because we’ve no room for it anywhere else." Iselda snatched the blanket away and threw open the lid of the chest.

Merrie and Kenneth were too frightened to speak, for if Iselda’s anger had been a tide, it would have capsized them.

Iselda folded the blanket, lifted a key from a side pocket in the chest, and slammed the lid closed. "I see that I canna’ trust you with an unlocked chest in here, so from here on it will stay locked." She turned the key with a jerk and stuffed it into her apron.

After Iselda stormed out of the room, Merrie whispered to Kenneth, "Thank you for fetching the blanket from the chest."

"I did no such a-thing. I wouldna’ disobey the mother."

The next two nights were a bit milder, and by huddling in their bed the two children were able to stay warm enough. Then came the third night, and along with it the winter’s first snow squall. Merrie and Kenneth huddled together once more. It was hard to sleep for all their shivering, but they finally drifted off like two untied dories in a choppy sea.

In the morning they woke to Iselda yelling like a boatswain. "You pulled one out again, and the very best one to boot. I dinna’ ken how you got into a locked chest, but I’ll teach you a lesson this morning. You’ll have naught to eat till supper, and then it shall be porridge and naught else."

Merrie cried, "But Mother, we didna’ take it out. I canna’ tell you how this came to be, but it was not our doing."

"You’re lying," shrieked Iselda, "and for that you may not even get porridge for supper."

It was a miserable day for Merrie and Kenneth, and they took a sharp hunger along when they crawled into bed wearing two pairs of wool stockings each. Iselda shook her finger at them. "The chest is locked, and this time I expect you to leave it that way. If not, tomorrow you’ll have less food yet."

Merrie and Kenneth huddled for warmth, but this night was even colder than the night before. Kenneth finally drifted off into a light sleep, but it was too cold for Merrie. Her shivering kept her awake.

The moon was well up when Merrie heard a creak from the direction of the chest. She looked, and there stood a woman tenderly taking a blanket out of the chest.

Iselda had been keeping a watch outside their bedroom listening for just that noise. She flew open the door and shouted, "Ha!"

The woman at the chest turned and looked Iselda full in the face. In the candlelight filtering in from the next room Merrie recognized the woman. "Ma," came a gasp that Merrie couldna’ hold in.

Iselda’s one good eye went wide as a flounder. She took a quick look at Merrie sitting up in her bed, then looked back at her sister and retreated to the doorway. Och, she was angry at this turn. Iselda stood watching in the doorway, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Iselda clenched two angry fists at her sides as Helen MacBain gently laid the blanket on her two children and tucked the edges under them. That done, Helen faced her sister, lowered her head, and walked toward the door. Then did Iselda’s face finally show fear. She put up her hands as if they would protect her and backed away. As Helen passed through the doorway, she disappeared into a smoky mist. The door closed gently and silently. The only sound in the house was Iselda's whimpering.

The wonder of seeing her mother kept Merrie awake for a good, long while yet. When she did she fall asleep, she was warm and snug with the sure comfort that she and her brother would never again have to beg for their winter blankets.