to be accepted. There was still a sense of distance between me and them. I knew that Billy, a ram of monstrous proportions, with great curling horns, might be the means to prove me worthy of their affection, but he petrified me. I was pretty scared of all the animals on the croft. If truth be told, I am still wary of anything on four legs. My knowledge of animals had been confined to the mangy cats and dogs that patrolled the streets of Glasgow.
Jimmy and Johnny were, however, well versed in the ways of the country. They thought it would be fun to introduce their newly found brother to Billy. I don’t know what age Billy was, or whether he was suffering from some malaise, but his great shaggy coat looked as if it was in tatters.
‘OK,’ I said at last.
‘Good man,’ said Jimmy, who swung me onto the creature’s back, while Johnny held its horns.
‘Daaa-vie!’ wailed Irene.
I was numb with fear.
‘Ready?’ said Johnny, letting go of Billy’s horns without waiting for a reply.
Still robbed of speech, I nodded. ‘GO!’ shouted Jimmy, and I was off, like a National Hunt jockey heading for the sticks.
Someone was screaming in terror and I realised to my horror that it was my own voice. God Almighty could that beast run, round in circles, up and down, with me bouncing ever higher on his back. Johnny was already rolling on the ground, helpless with laughter, when the world went into slow motion and Billy came to a grinding halt, throwing me into the air over his head. I hit the ground and skidded through a muddy puddle. My shrieks had brought out the household and a bedraggled boy with a very sore bottom was gathered up by Jeanette.
She crooned, ‘Davie, Davie, are you all right?’
I was speechless with shock as she carried me back to the adults, who were trying very hard, damn them, not to laugh at my discomfiture. The family gathered in the kitchen as I was deposited naked in the tin bath. My indignation was complete when Morag rolled her sleeves high up on her leg-of-mutton arms and began soaping me all over. Very soon I was respectable in clean shirt and shorts, and placed into the care of my siblings.
‘Get off and play with your wee brother for a few minutes while we grown-ups have a talk,’ said Morag, who added, ‘And mind now, you’ve got jobs to do, so don’t wear yourselves out.’
We all ran through the open door, out into the sunshine. ‘Davie’s a good sport,’ said Johnny.
I was now officially one of them. I cried.
My brothers and sisters were soon revealing their individuality and personalities. Jeanette was five years older than me and she was the little mother, taking my hand and kissing me on the cheek, ruffling my hair and tickling me until I laughed out loud. She would whisper me to sleep in my bed.
I was closest to Irene. She was nearest to me in age. Irene was a serene girl. It quickly became apparent to me that Morag regarded her as special. I’m certain she loved us all in her own gruff way, but it was as if Irene were her own daughter. It was touching to watch the solemn child interacting with this childless woman. It was new territory for them both. Irene and I would remain close until our teens, when she was abruptly removed from Quarriers after reporting that she had been physically beaten. Having to deal with our shared abuse and facing up to our abusers brought us close together, but for the moment we were safe from the future, distanced by geography and time from the bad days that lay ahead.
James, or Jimmy, was the joker, an incorrigible youth who enticed me into the barn one day to exhibit a country skill that I would have no problem in leaving behind me when I eventually left Uist.
‘Look!’ he said, holding out a pillowcase that was squirming alarmingly. ‘I have something to show you.’ He opened the bag to reveal a chicken. ‘Watch,’ he said, pulling the head off the chicken and throwing the quivering carcass at my feet.
I ran for my life, mouthing silent screams, to the echo of Jimmy’s laughter. I believe Jimmy quite liked wringing chickens’ necks, an everyday pursuit in the country, but a definite character flaw where we had come from.
Johnny was the oldest, older than me by six years. Poor Johnny had suffered, and it showed, God love him. He apparently took the worst of the beatings from our father and his sleep would be for ever broken by nightmares that caused him to wet the bed. He would be mortified and the usually sanguine Morag would be furious. Johnny would have to wash himself and his sheets in cold water from the pump at the side of the house. My brother never talked about it, but we could sense his pain, which resulted from the torment inflicted on him by my wicked father. He was, however, a good person. During the eerie night hours, when the world was filled by strange noises and animal songs, he would be the first to comfort me.
Life was good, but there were legacies from our old existence. My brothers and sisters were all afraid of the dark, thanks to our less than loving father. When we lived in Kennedy Street, he invariably chose to arrive late at night, when he was in a drunk and violent mood. He would rouse the boys from their sleep and challenge them to fight. Morag understood our distress and provided us with paraffin Tilley lamps. That light saved us from the darkness.
Morag was kindness personified, but even that good woman would not allow herself to be seen to be spoiling the Whelan brood with such fripperies as chocolate. I’m certain, however, that she had a deal going with soft-touch Willie. He would often call us into the barn and ceremoniously close the door after ensuring, somewhat theatrically, that his wife was out of earshot. Bars of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk would appear as if by magic from his dungaree pocket. As he broke up the chocolate into equal shares, he would say, ‘Wheesht now. Don’t tell Morag. She’ll have my guts if she finds out I’ve been spoiling you.’ We would wolf down the chocolate, promising never to reveal our secret.
Soon after, I would be required to keep other secrets, terrible secrets, but I still delight in the ones we shared with Willie, a good and honest man.
Long before we returned to the bad times, the croft would echo to our laughter. We were content. Life was anything but easy. Morag and Willie were disciplinarians, insisting on the maintenance of Christian values that were adhered to strictly. The Sabbath is a big day in the Hebrides, the last bastion of Presbyterianism. No games were allowed, no playing, no washing on the line, no radio. Reading the Bible was the only recreation permitted. In spite of being nominally a Protestant, something in my Irish Catholic genes railed against the notion. I was content to go along with it, though.
On the Sabbath, we went to church three times. The Reverend Ian MacDonald had a particular talent for making scripture as unutterably boring as it could possibly be. Hollywood may have by that time injected high drama into the Old Testament tales of Moses and Samson, but the Reverend Ian could not. I recall there was much talk of heathens, hellfire and damnation.
The church was fashioned from grey stone as dull as his sermons. It was typically Protestant, devoid of decoration. There were no statues, paintings or stained glass to reflect a rainbow of colours that might have illuminated the Reverend Ian’s dreary monologue. I prayed for the day the strong gusts of Atlantic wind might blow off the corrugated-iron roof. It was as cold inside as it was outside and our legs required to be swung to and fro to maintain circulation. This did not please Morag. ‘Don’t think God doesn’t see you, Davie Whelan – playing instead of praying.’
There would be a brief, if welcome, respite for lunch before afternoon Sunday school. The final service at 6.30 p.m. was mercifully shorter than the morning version. I never worked out why God required our presence three times on a Sunday. Morag declared it to be representative of His love. God must have loved
