Graeme Burnet: His Bloody Project

My father did not like Mr Gillies. He was too clever for his own good and teaching children was not proper work for a man. It is true that I cannot imagine Mr Gillies cutting peats or wielding a flaughter, but the schoolmaster and I had a special understanding. He called on me only when none of my fellows could furnish him with an answer, knowing quite well that if I chose not to put up my hand it was not because I did not know the answer but because I did not wish to appear cleverer than my peers. Mr Gillies often set me different tasks from the other pupils and I responded by making special efforts to please him. One afternoon at the end of lessons, he asked me to stay behind. I remained in my place at the back of the classroom while the others made their rowdy exit. Then he beckoned me to his desk. I could not think of anything I had done wrong, but there was no other reason to be singled out in this way. Perhaps I was to be blamed for something I had not done. I resolved to deny nothing and accept whatever punishment was due to me.

Mr Gillies put down his pen and asked me what my plans were. It was not a question which a person from our parts would ask. Making plans was an offence against providence. I said nothing. Mr Gillies took off his little glasses.

‘What I mean,’ he said, ‘is what do you intend to do when you finish school?’

‘Only what is meant for me,’ I said.

Mr Gillies frowned. ‘And what do you think is meant for you?’

‘I cannot say,’ I replied.

‘Roddy, despite your best efforts to conceal them, God has granted you some uncommon gifts. It would be sinful not to make use of them.’

I was surprised to hear Mr Gillies couch his argument in these terms as he was not generally given to religious talk. As I made no reply, he took a more direct approach.

‘Have you thought of continuing your education? I have no doubt that you have the necessary ability to become a teacher or a minister or anything you choose.’

Of course, I had considered no such thing, and said so.

‘Perhaps you should discuss it with your parents,’ he said. ‘You may tell them that I believe you have the necessary potential.’

‘But I am required for the croft,’ I said.

Mr Gillies let out a long sigh. He appeared to be about to say something more, but he thought better of it, and I felt that I had disappointed him. As I walked home, I thought over what he had said. I cannot deny I was gratified that the schoolmaster had spoken to me in this way and for the duration of the walk between Camusterrach and Culduie I imagined myself in a fine drawing room of Edinburgh or Glasgow, clad in the clothes of a gentleman, conversing on weighty matters. Nonetheless, Mr Gillies was mistaken in supposing that such a thing was possible for a son of Culduie.

* * *

Mr Sinclair has asked that I set out what he calls the ‘chain of events’ which led to the killing of Lachlan Broad. I have thought carefully about what the first link in this chain might be. One might say that it began with my own birth or even further back when my parents met and married, or with the sinking of The Two Iains, which brought them together. However, while it is true that if any of these events had not occurred, Lachlan Broad would be alive today — or would at least not have died by my hand — it is still possible to conceive that things might have taken a different course. Had I followed Mr Gillies’ advice, for example, I might have been gone from Culduie before the events to be recounted here came to pass. I have thus tried to identify the point at which Lachlan Broad’s death became inevitable; that is, the point at which I can conceive of no other outcome. This moment arrived, I believe, with the death of my mother some eighteen months ago. This was the well-spring from which everything else has followed. It is thus not to rouse the pity of the reader that I now describe this event. I have no wish nor use for anyone’s pity.

My mother was a lively and good-natured person who did her best to foster a cheerful atmosphere in our household. Her daily chores were accompanied with singing and when some ill or hurt befell one of the children, she did her best to make light of it, so that we did not dwell upon it. People often called at our house and were always welcomed with a strupach. If our neighbours were congregated round the table, my father would be hospitable enough, but he rarely joined them, preferring to remain standing, before announcing to them that, even if they did not, he had work to do; a remark which invariably had the effect of precipitating the dissolution of the gathering. It is a mystery why my mother married someone as disagreeable as my father, as she could have had her pick of the men of the parish. Nevertheless, owing to her efforts, we must, at that time, have loosely resembled a happy family.

It was something of a surprise to my father when my mother fell pregnant for the fourth time. She was then thirty-five years old and two years had elapsed since the birth of the twins. I recall quite clearly the evening on which her labour commenced. The night was quite wild and as my mother was clearing away the crockery from our evening meal, a pool of liquid appeared at her feet and she indicated to my father that it was time. The midwife, who resided in Applecross, was sent for, and I was dispatched to Kenny Smoke’s house along with the twins. Jetta remained to assist with the birth. Before I left the house, she called me into the back chamber to kiss my mother. Mother gripped my hand and told me that I was to be a good boy and look after my siblings. Jetta’s face had a grey pallor about it and her eyes were clouded with fear. In hindsight, I believe they both had a portent that we were to be visited by death that night, but I have never broached this with Jetta.

I did not sleep one moment that night, although I lay on the mattress that was provided for me with my eyes closed. In the morning Carmina Smoke informed me amid much weeping that my mother had passed away during the night due to some complication in the birth. The infant survived and was sent to my mother’s family in Toscaig to be nursed by her sister. I have never met this brother of mine and I have no wish to do so. There was a general outpouring of grief in our village, my mother’s presence having been akin to the sunlight that nurtures the crops.

This event brought about a great number of changes to our family. Chief among these was the general air of gloom which descended on our household and hung there like the reek. My father was the least changed of us, largely because he had never been much given to joviality. If we had once enjoyed some moments of collective amusement, it was always his laughter that died away first. He would cast his eyes downward as though this moment of pleasure shamed him. Now, however, his face acquired an unalterable bleakness, as if fixed by a change in the wind. I do not wish to portray my father as callous or unfeeling, nor do I doubt that his wife’s death grievously affected him. It is rather that he was better adapted to unhappiness, and that to no longer feel obliged to feign pleasure in this world came as a relief to him.

In the weeks and months after the funeral, Reverend Galbraith was a frequent visitor to our home. The minister is an impressive figure, invariably attired in a black frock coat and a white shirt fastened at the collar, but without a neck-tie or cravat. His white hair is kept closely cropped and his whiskers grow densely on his cheeks, but are likewise neatly trimmed. He has small dark eyes, which folk frequently remark seem to have the power to penetrate one’s mind. I myself avoided his gaze, but do not doubt that he could discern the wicked thoughts I often entertained. He speaks in a sonorous, rhythmical voice and although his sermons were frequently beyond my understanding, they were not unpleasant to hear.