Distant Voices

When, tentatively, I suggested the place to Peter he laughed. ‘So the famous Macdonald blood is coming to the surface at last.’ He dropped a kiss on my forehead. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Isobel. We’ll write for details at once.’

So it was all arranged. On a beautiful June evening we climbed onto the train which was to take us north. My heart should have been singing and my blood tingling with excitement but it wasn’t, for something was wrong with Peter.

Peter was usually a cheerful, matter-of-fact person. Tall, strong, broad-shouldered with the clear grey eyes and tanned face of an outdoor man, he was everything a dream husband could possibly be. I could never quite get over my luck in having married him at all. His humour and optimism carried me along on the crest of a wave even when I was feeling a bit down. But now, for two days he had been moody and depressed. He had eaten nothing and snapped at me every time I spoke to him. His face had taken on a sunken grey look which secretly terrified me. I wondered whether to suggest he saw the doctor, never a popular idea with Peter at the best of times, and I wondered with a sinking heart whether I should suggest cancelling the holiday, but in the end, cowardly, I did neither and hoped for the best.

In the sleeping car which normally would have been an exciting adventure to share and enjoy we undressed in total silence. Peter hauled himself into his berth without a word and settled down, his face to the compartment wall. He never even said goodnight.

I lay awake for hours listening to the rhythmical rattling of the wheels over the miles of track, tense and unhappy. The further north we got the more I was filled with a dreadful sense of foreboding, and when at last I fell asleep in the early hours of the morning it was to a restless slumber tormented with formless nightmares.

The grandeur and beauty of the scenery and the excitement of the boat trip out to the island distracted me a little next day, I must admit, from Peter’s mood. He seemed to have made up his mind to try and enjoy himself and he smiled and talked and gazed as I did at the scenery unfolding before us on every side. But I could see there was still something very wrong. The strange look haunted his eyes and though his mouth smiled and joked I could see that deep down inside he was in bleak despair. I shivered as, standing by the boat rail, feeling the hot salt wind blow the hair off my face, I turned suddenly and caught him looking at me with such an expression of bewildered resentment and hate it was all I could do not to cry out in horror. It was as if he had become a stranger. I turned back to watching the slippery silver waves and bit back my tears.

The cottage we had rented was tiny; no more than two rooms with a little kitchen and bathroom extension built on at the back. From the sink as I filled the kettle for our first pot of Highland tea I could see a vista of mountain peaks and valleys leading to the horizon and before them the silver sea lochs, glittering ribbons in the dusky twilight. Somewhere down there beyond the horizon lay the magic pool.

The next morning dawned bright. I lay for a long time listening to the shush of the sea in the distance and the weird, eery whistle of the curlew, watching the thin beams of early sunshine edge slowly through the undrawn curtains. Suddenly I realised that Peter was watching me. I turned to him, and leaned over to kiss him, but abruptly he turned his back on me and pulled the pillow over his head. Hurt, I drew back.

‘What’s wrong, love? Can you tell me?’ I whispered, hardly daring to ask the question which had brought such fear into my heart.

‘Oh, go to hell,’ the muffled words sounded so desperate I didn’t know what to do. I climbed out of bed and stood gazing down at him numbly. ‘Go on; go away. Leave me alone.’ Peter’s voice was taking on an angry tone. Quickly, stunned with misery, I grabbed my dress and sandals and fled to the bathroom.

The path from the back door led across an area of heather bent towards the rocks and the loch. I ran quickly, wanting to get as soon as possible out of the sight of the cottage windows. Tears, half of fear, half anger, were running down my cheeks, and all I wanted was to hide my misery on my own by the shore.

I didn’t see the small fishing boat, hidden as it was by the rocks, until I was almost on it and by then it was too late to turn back. A young man, tall, with a thatch of midnight-black hair and piercing blue eyes, was learning negligently against the stern pulling a net from the tangle at his feet. His lips were pursed in a soundless whistle. I turned away as soon as I saw him, wanting to be on my own, and headed up the beach but he must have seen me at once. ‘It’s a grand morning.’ His voice, not raised above a half-whisper, arrested me where I stood. Seeing me turn back he gave a broad smile. His teeth were astonishingly white in his tanned face.

‘You’ll be staying up at the cottage. How are you finding it?’ he asked casually, his fingers never ceasing to work through the tangled black mesh.

‘Oh fine.’ I rubbed the back of my wrist across my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see that I had been crying. ‘We only arrived yesterday though. So I haven’t seen very much.’

He grinned. ‘Well, I’ll take you out in the boat any day you want. Do you like the fishing?’

I shook my head, warming to the charm of his infectious smile. ‘I’d like to go for a sail though. And one thing, I would like so much …’ I hesitated, imagining he’d think me such a fool.

‘You’d like to visit the fairy pool,’ he finished for me. ‘Aye, everyone wants to go there. I’ll take you whenever you wish. Now, if you like.’ He straightened hopefully, but I shook my head. ‘I must go back and get some breakfast for my husband now. Perhaps later?’

He shrugged. ‘Any time. You’ll always find me round the boat if I’m not at sea. My name is Ross by the way. Ross Macdonald.’

‘I’m Isobel,’ I said. ‘Once Macdonald too, now Hemming.’

He held out his hand. ‘No doubt we’re kin. I saw it in your eyes.’ He grinned. ‘Now, away to your food, Isobel Macdonald. You must not let your man starve.’

He turned back to his nets and I began to retrace my steps towards the cottage. My encounter with Ross Macdonald had cheered me and when I went back into the kitchen I was humming quietly to myself. I stopped abruptly when I saw Peter sitting at the kitchen table. He was absent-mindedly stirring a cup of coffee.

‘There’s more in the pot, Isobel,’ he murmured and there seemed to be a note of apology in his voice.

The next three days passed quickly and without further incidents. I told Peter about Ross and we went out with him twice on fishing expeditions. I was beginning to like the tall islander very much. He had a calm, gentle sense of humour which did much to ease us over uneasy silences and the awkward angry moods which still came on Peter seemingly for no reason at all.

Then on Wednesday night came the most terrible moment of my life. I had had my bath and was sitting up in bed reading, wondering why Peter was taking so long. On the past two nights he had gone to bed early and had been asleep when I joined him. At last he came, turning out the light, and he stood looking down at me for a long while without speaking. I threw down my book and held out my arms expectantly. He went white and took a step back as though I’d hit him.

‘No, Isobel,’ he said, quite loudly. ‘Never again, my dear. Never; I’m going to divorce you.’

‘Peter!’ I heard the anguish in my own voice, like the voice of a stranger. ‘Peter, what’s happened?’

‘I don’t want to live with you any more. That’s what has happened. There’s no more to be said on the matter.’ He walked deliberately to his side of the bed.

I flung myself up on my knees and caught hold of him. ‘Peter, why? Peter, I love you. Is there someone else?’ My eyes were burning with hot tears. ‘What’s wrong?’

Quite coldly and deliberately he flung me off. One minute I had my arms round him, clinging, the next I was lying on the cold, painted floorboards. He climbed silently into bed and turned his back.

Sobbing wildly I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair, and flinging it round my shoulders over my nightdress ran out into the translucent warmth of the night.

It was quite easy to pick my way down to the loch for although it was after eleven, it seemed not to get dark at all this far north. My heart was hammering against my ribs with fear and I felt very sick.

All I wanted was to be alone by the gently lapping waters of the loch. Alone to think.

It was almost as though Ross were waiting for me. One moment I was alone, sobbing desperately, and the next he was there beside me. With only the slightest hesitation he put his strong arm round my shoulders and pulled me against him.

‘There, there, lassie; it’s best to cry. No woman should be afraid of crying, especially one as beautiful as you. Why, your tears are like crystals, here on your cheek.’ He raised his finger gently and brushed them aside.

‘Oh Ross, what shall I do? Peter wants to divorce me.’ I clung to him, thinking only of my husband and the terrible pain in my heart.

‘I could see that there was something wrong between you.’ Ross nodded, his lips very close to my hair. ‘My dear, I’m so very sorry.’

Slowly, clinging to him for reassurance and comfort, I walked beside Ross down the warm beach. We didn’t talk at all after those first few words, then at last when we reached the barrier of fallen rocks which lay across the end of the sand he stopped and turning me to him he kissed me. Behind us an enormous moon was rising slowly from the circling mountains and somewhere on the waters of the loch a lonely night-bird cried.

I hardly know what made me let him do it. The magic of the night, the warmth of the sand, the ache of rejection in my heart which needed so badly to be comforted and stilled. All those things must have helped to enchant me as we sank slowly together to our knees in the moonlight, still kissing, and I let him slide the pale blue silk of my nightdress from my shoulders.

It was dawn when I finally let myself back into the cottage. I felt chilled and the hem of my nightdress was wet with dew, but I felt indescribably reassured and happy. It was as though Ross had imparted to me some of his own quiet strength.

I put on the kettle and groped in the cupboard for the teapot as the first red glow of the sun rose above the mountains.

Peter found me there. He stood for a moment in the doorway looking down at me and I saw with a hideous lurch of pity that he had been crying.

Without a word I pushed a cup towards him and began to pour out.

‘Isobel, I’m sorry, darling.’ He sounded hoarse and uncertain. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all night. I must tell you the truth.’ Nervously he clasped his hands around the cup, staring deep into the steaming liquid. ‘I went to see Dr Henderson a week or so before we came here. No.’ He held up his hand as immediately I tried to interrupt, full of anxiety. ‘No. I’m not ill or anything …’ He sighed and sipped the scalding tea, trying to find the courage to speak. ‘I had to know if it was my fault we have no children, Isobel. I had to know.’ He looked at me pleadingly. ‘I’m sorry, love.’ He seemed unable to go on and I waited, not daring to say a word. I could feel myself beginning to shiver.

‘I’m sterile, Isobel. I can never father a baby.’ He suddenly managed to find the words and they came out in a rush. Then he sat quite still, not looking at me.

I felt numb.

For a long time we sat in silence, neither looking at the other. I could sense his misery and shame and I wanted to comfort him but part of me was crying out in a shock of disappointment and yearning. Never have a baby. Never hold my own child in my arms. I could not bring myself to believe it. I wanted to argue; to say it couldn’t be; to talk about specialists and further tests but one look at his face clamped the words in my throat.

At last I dragged myself from my chair and going round the table to him I dropped a quick kiss on the top of his head. However I felt about babies I still loved him more than life itself and I told him so, kneeling before him on the cold kitchen flags, my hands resting, pleading, on his.

‘You can’t divorce me because of this, darling. You can’t.’ My own voice was breaking. ‘I won’t let you. I love you too much. Babies don’t matter so very much; perhaps we might adopt one, but the important thing is we have each other. That’s all I care about.’

At last he brought himself to look at me, and I saw the anguish and uncertainty still flickering behind his eyes. ‘I’m not a proper man Isobel. I can’t be, I …’

‘I’ve never had any complaints, have I?’ I leaned forward and kissed him firmly on the lips. For a moment he stayed completely still, without responding, and then, almost unbelieving, he returned my kiss. We clung together for a long time as the sunlight slowly crept into the kitchen and then at last we went together into the bedroom.