Peter May: The Blackhouse

‘Come and get it then, wheezy.’ Murdo Ruadh was taunting him. And as Artair grabbed for it, he threw it on to one of the flies.

I could hear that distinctive rasping sound in Artair’s chest as he chased after his puffer, panic and humiliation rising together to block his airways. And I grabbed one of the acolytes and pulled the puffer from his hand. ‘Here.’ I handed it back to my friend. Artair sucked on it several times. I felt a hand on my collar, and an irresistible force propelled me up against the wall. Sharp roughcast drew blood from the back of my head. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Gaelic boy?’ Murdo Ruadh’s face was two inches from mine, and I could smell his rotten breath. ‘Can’t speak English. Can’t speak nothing.’ The irony, although it didn’t strike me at the time, was that his jibes were in Gaelic. It was the language of the playground. We only ever spoke English in class.

‘Leave him alone!’ It was just a small boy’s voice, but it carried such authority that it quieted the barracking of the boys who had gathered to see me get a doing from Murdo. A frown of incomprehension clouded Murdo Ruadh’s big, ugly face. Challenged twice in the space of a minute. He was going to have to put a stop to this. He let go of my collar and turned around. The boy was no bigger than me, but something in the way he held himself stopped Murdo Ruadh in his tracks. The only thing you could hear was the sound of the wind, and the laughter of the girls skipping on the other side of the playground. Everyone was watching Murdo. He knew his reputation was on the line.

‘Any trouble from you … and I’ll get my big brother.’

I wanted to laugh.

The other boy held Murdo Ruadh in his gaze, and you could see that Murdo was unnerved by it. ‘If you want to go running to your big brother …’ the boy spat out the words big and brother with something like contempt, ‘… then I’ll just have to tell my father.’

Murdo paled beneath that shock of wiry, red hair. ‘Well, just … just stay out my way.’ It was a feeble comeback, and everyone knew it. He pushed away through the group and across the playground, his followers trotting after him, wondering if maybe they’d backed the wrong horse.

‘Thanks,’ I said to the boy as the group dispersed.

But he just shrugged, like it was nothing. ‘Can’t stand fucking bullies.’ It was the first time I had ever heard anyone swear. He pushed his hands in his pockets and walked off towards the annexe.

‘Who is he?’ I asked Artair.

‘Don’t you know?’ Artair was amazed. I shook my head. ‘That’s Donald Murray.’ His tone was hushed and filled with awe. ‘He’s the minister’s son.’

The bell rang then, and we all headed back to class. It was just chance, really, that I was passing the headmaster’s door when he opened it and scanned the flood of pupils in the corridor for a likely candidate. ‘You, boy.’ He pointed a finger at me. I stopped in my tracks and he thrust an envelope into my hand. I had no idea what he said next, and just stood there with growing panic.

‘He doesn’t speak English, and Mrs Mackay said I had to do the translating for him.’ Marjorie was hovering on my shoulder like a guardian angel. She gave me a winning smile as I turned to look at her.

‘Oh, did she now? Translating, eh?’ The headmaster surveyed us with interest, raising one eyebrow in mock severity. He was a tall, bald man with half-moon glasses, and always wore grey tweed suits a size too big for him. ‘Then you’d better go with him, young lady.’

‘Yes, Mr Macaulay.’ It was amazing how she seemed to know everybody’s name. ‘Come on, Finlay.’ She slipped her arm through mine and steered us back out to the playground.

‘Where are we going?’

‘That note you’re holding is an order for the Crobost Stores, to restock the tuck shop.’

‘The tuck shop?’ I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Don’t you know anything, stupid? The tuck shop’s where we buy sweets and crisps and lemonade and stuff in school. So we won’t go traipsing up and down the road to the store and risk getting knocked down.’

‘Oh.’ I nodded and wondered how she knew all this. It wasn’t until some time later that I discovered she had a sister in primary six. ‘So it’s only us that’s to get knocked down?’

She giggled. ‘Old Macaulay must have thought you looked like a sensible type.’

‘He got that wrong, then.’ I remembered my confrontation with Murdo Ruadh. She giggled again.

The Crobost Stores was in an old stone barn about half a mile away at the road end. It stood on the corner by the main road. It had two small windows, which never seemed to have anything in them, and a narrow doorway between them that opened into the shop. We could see it in the distance, next to a stone shed with a rust-red corrugated roof. The single-track road was long and straight, without pavements, and delineated by rotting wooden fenceposts leaning at angles. The fence made a poor job of keeping the sheep off the road. The tall grasses along the ditch were burned brown and bowed by the wind, and the heather was all but dead. On the slope beyond, houses were strung along the main road like square beads on a string, no trees or bushes to soften their hard edges. Just a jumble of fences and the rotting carcasses of dead cars and broken tractors.

‘So whereabouts in Crobost do you live?’ I said to Marjorie.

‘I don’t. I live on Mealanais Farm. It’s about two miles from Crobost.’ And she lowered her voice so that I could hardly hear it above the wind. ‘My mother’s English.’ It was like a secret she was telling me. ‘That’s why I can speak English without a Gaelic accent.’

I shrugged, wondering why she was telling me this. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

She laughed. ‘Of course not.’

It was cold and starting to rain, and I pulled up my hood, stealing a glance at the girl with the pigtails. They were blowing out behind her in the wind, and she seemed to be enjoying the sting of it in her face. Her cheeks had turned bright red. ‘Marjorie.’ I raised my voice above the wind. ‘That’s a nice name.’

‘I hate it.’ She glowered at me. ‘It’s my English name. But nobody calls me that. My real name’s Marsaili.’ Like Marjorie , she put the emphasis on the first syllable, with the s becoming a soft sh , as it always does in the Gaelic after an r , a Nordic inheritance from the two hundred years that the islands were ruled by the Vikings.

‘Marsaili.’ I tried it out to see if it fitted my mouth, and I liked the sound of it fine. ‘That’s even nicer.’

She flicked me a coy look, soft blue eyes meeting mine for a moment then dancing away again. ‘So how do you like your English name?’

‘Finlay?’ She nodded. ‘I don’t.’

‘I’ll call you Fin, then. How’s that?’

‘Fin.’ Again, I tried it out for size. It was short, and to the point. ‘It’s okay.’

‘Good.’ Marsaili smiled. ‘Then that’s what you’ll be.’

And that’s how it happened that Marsaili Morrison gave me the name that stuck with me for the rest of my life.

In those days, for the first week, the new intake at the school only stayed until lunchtime. We had our lunch and then left. And although Artair and I had been given a lift to school that first morning, we were expected to walk home. It was only about a mile. Artair was waiting for me at the gate. I had been held up because Mrs Mackay had called me back to give me a note for my parents. I could see Marsaili up ahead on the road, walking on her own. We had got soaked on the walk back from the stores and had spent the rest of the morning sitting on a radiator together drying off. The rain had stopped for the moment.