The Hill of the Red Fox

If I had not caught a bad cold and developed bronchitis, and if I had not upset the supper tray one night in June, I might never have taken the long road from my quiet street in Chelsea to the Isle of Mist in the Hebrides. It happened as simply as that. I suppose it had to happen that way. Like the strange message, thrust into my hand in the darkness, that sent me to the Hill of the Red Fox and made me lie shivering in the wet heather watching the shadowy forms of my pursuers.

But I can feel Duncan Mòr’s
*
big hand on my shoulder and hear him saying in that deep, commanding voice of his, “A story should start at the beginning, Alasdair Beag.” And so it should.

It all started one night in June when the three of us, my mother, Aunt Evelyn, and I, were sitting in the little flat above Aunt Evelyn’s bookshop. It was quiet in the flat. The only sounds were the muffled rumbling of traffic in Sloan Square, the busy click of my aunt’s knitting needles, and the chink of crockery as my mother prepared the supper things in the tiny kitchenette that lay off the living-room.

I was sitting on a stool by the fire reading an adventure story, but my eyes scanned the words on the printed page without really taking in their meaning, for I could feel my aunt’s eyes fixed upon me.

After a while, she said, “What are you reading, Alasdair?”

“A book,” I said, not looking up, conscious of the disapproval in her tone.

“Alasdair, you really are a most aggravating child,” she exclaimed angrily.

She knew I hated being called a child, and I raised the book so that she should not see the hot flush that spread over my cheeks.

“Of course you are reading a book,” she went on. “But what book? Don’t tell me it is more nonsense about Prince Charlie and his precious rebellion.”

“Yes, it’s about the Jacobites and Prince Charlie and the men who sheltered him even when the English put a price on his head.” I paused for breath. “And it is not nonsense,” I added defiantly.

The busy needles stopped clicking, and I knew I was going to catch it, but I did not care.

“
The English
put a price on his head,” said Aunt Evelyn coldly. “You are not English, then?”

“No,” I said, “I am a Scotsman.”

“A Scotsman who has spent almost all his twelve years in London,” she mocked.

“I was born in Skye,” I said stubbornly, “and so was my father, so I must be a Highlander.”

My mother came in with the supper tray and placed it on the low table in front of the fire. She took the book from me and said wearily, “Alasdair, you really must stop arguing with Aunt Evelyn. It is terribly bad of you.”

“I was simply trying to get that boy’s nose out of his book,” said my aunt. “It is not good for him. Just look at the hours he spends reading when he should be outside in the sunshine. You know he is supposed to be convalescing after bronchitis. Really, Anne, you should do something about it. No wonder he is so pale and thin.”

“Who can I play with?” I said. “All the other boys are at school.”

“There was plenty of time before supper when they were not at school,” retorted Aunt Evelyn in a tone that brooked no contradiction.

I stuck my hands in my trouser-pockets and looked down at my shoes.

“Well, I like reading,” I said loudly.

Aunt Evelyn laid her knitting on her lap and looked at my mother.

“Anne, anyone can see that that boy has never had a father to
keep him in order,” she declared. “You are far too lax with him.”

I knew what would follow and I wanted to say I was sorry, to help my mother, but the words choked in my throat and I sat there dumbly, looking down at my feet, not wanting to catch my mother’s eye.

“Alasdair was two when his father’s ship went down,” said my mother quietly. “You know I can’t take his father’s place.”

“My dear Anne, that does not alter the fact that the child is developing into a dreamer and a bookworm,” replied my aunt, “and it is our duty to make a man of him.”

“Aunt Evelyn doesn’t like me,” I burst out. “She is always nagging at me. It’s — it’s not fair,” and I jumped up from my stool and made to rush out of the room.

As I straightened up, my right elbow caught the corner of the tray, knocking it off the table and scattering the supper things all over the carpet.

There was a horrible silence that seemed to last for minutes on end, and I stood quite still looking down sheepishly at the smashed cups and the spreading milk and tea stains on the pale pink of the carpet.

When my mother spoke I knew she was really angry.

“Everything Aunt Evelyn says about you is true,” she snapped. “You are rude and careless and clumsy and if your father could see you now I am sure he would be ashamed of you. Don’t stand there gawking so. Run and get a cloth and a basin of water before this carpet is ruined.”

I did as I was bidden, feeling my mother’s words worse than the cut of a cane. But worse still was the knowledge that I had deserved it, and that my aunt had triumphed. I expected her to say something scathing, but she picked up the broken crockery and helped my mother sponge the carpet, and never said a word.

It was later, when we were taking our supper, that she spoke.

“Anne, I think it would be a good thing,” she said thoughtfully, “if you sent Alasdair to Skye for a long holiday.”

My mother put down her cup so hurriedly that the tea splashed
into the saucer. She swallowed.

“Send him where?”

“To Skye,” said Aunt Evelyn calmly. “By the time you get everything arranged the school holidays will be almost here, and there is no point in sending Alasdair back to school for a week or so, not after his illness. A long holiday in Skye would do the boy a world of good.”

I could see the bewilderment on my mother’s face and something else too. If they had not been discussing me I would have said she was frightened. She glanced at me, and rubbed the palm of her hand along the edge of the table, as if to reassure herself with the feel of something solid.

“But where could he stay?” she stammered at last.

“At Achmore, of course,” replied Aunt Evelyn. She smiled one of her rare smiles. “I never can pronounce those Gaelic names properly. I think Highlanders must be born with a special sort of tongue.”

“Achmore,” said my mother, as if she had never heard the name before. Indeed, I had not.

“Why,” went on my aunt, and she smiled a second time, “Alasdair is a property owner at Achmore, is he not?”

“The croft and cottage at Achmore belong to Alasdair,” said my mother slowly, not looking at me at all, but keeping her eyes fixed on a spot above my head. “When he comes of age he can take over the croft if he wishes.”

“But how is it mine?” I asked. “In Skye.”

“It was your father’s croft,” she answered, “and his father’s before him. You were born there during the war.”

“But I don’t remember,” I started.

“Of course not, silly,” smiled my mother. “You were only two when I came back to London.” She sighed and the smile left her face, leaving it pinched and drawn. “I came back to London after Black Alasdair’s ship went down. And a few months later the war was over.”

Black Alasdair was my father’s name. Alasdair Dubh in the Gaelic.

“But why didn’t you tell me I had a croft in Skye?” I persisted.

My mother fingered the plain gold ring on her finger and it seemed to be a long time before she spoke.

“You are only a boy at school, Alasdair,” she said at length, “and the croft at Achmore is one of the things that won’t really be yours until you are a man. Besides, Skye is a long way off.”

Aunt Evelyn glanced sharply at her, and said briskly, “Well, there you are. Alasdair really owns this cottage and croft at Achmore and this relation of his who has been staying in the place for nothing all these years should be only too pleased to have him for a few months.”

“But he isn’t really a close relative,” protested my mother. “He is only a second cousin of Black Alasdair’s.”

“Nonsense,” said my aunt firmly. “You know perfectly well, Anne, that it is quite different in the Highlands. Even a second cousin is looked upon as a member of the family, and I am quite sure that Mr … Mr …”

“Mr Beaton,” said my mother. “Murdo Beaton.”

“Well, I’m sure that Mr Beaton and his wife will look after Alasdair as if he were one of their own family.”

“His wife is dead,” said my mother, in a curiously expressionless voice. “He has a daughter, but she is only a child about the same age as Alasdair. His old mother keeps house for him.”

Aunt Evelyn clicked her teeth, a sure sign that her patience was being tried.

“That is neither here nor there,” she declared. “Alasdair has had too many women around him, anyway. It will do him good to have a man to deal with for a change.”

“But Murdo Beaton might not like to take him in,” protested my mother.

“Has he ever paid you rent for the use of the cottage and croft?” inquired Aunt Evelyn.

“Well, no,” admitted my mother. “After the
Empire
Rose
went down I had a letter from Murdo Beaton saying that Black Alasdair had given him permission to use the cottage and croft when we were in London. At that time I didn’t care what happened. I didn’t want
to go back to Skye, and Alasdair was only a baby.”

“And Mr Beaton has occupied the cottage ever since,” prompted my aunt.

My mother nodded.

“That settles it then,” declared Aunt Evelyn briskly. “The man can hardly refuse to take Alasdair when you have been so generous with him.”

My mother cast me an anxious glance.

“But the journey,” she said helplessly. “All the way to Skye from London.”

“You can take him as far as Glasgow,” said Aunt Evelyn, who liked nothing better than organizing people. “Stay the night in Glasgow and put him on the morning train to Skye. Alasdair isn’t helpless. As long as he has a tongue in his head he can find his way about quite easily.”

“But he is so young to be going there alone.”

“Anne, unless you are careful you will be tying this boy to your apron strings,” said my aunt severely. “After all, his father was at sea when he wasn’t much older than Alasdair, and as far as I can see it did him no harm. How do you suppose he rose to be a sea captain before he was thirty?”

“But Alasdair is so small for his age,” protested my mother. “And he is only twelve.”

I saw my aunt’s contemptuous gaze on me, and the words burst from me in a breathless rush.

“I’m nearly thirteen,” I cried, “and if I have a croft in Skye I want to go and see it, and I know the way because I’ve looked it out on the map dozens and dozens of times.”

That clinched it. My mother’s protests were swept aside, and when I went to bed that night she was already writing a letter to my father’s cousin in Achmore.

I don’t know why, but somehow or other I never really expected my mother to get a reply from Murdo Beaton in Skye. To me, Skye belonged to the land of make-believe; to stories of Prince Charlie and his hurried flight across the island disguised as a spinning maid;
to clan feuds of long ago, and to old sad songs. It was another world from the one I lived in. My world was bound up with the smell of new books in Aunt Evelyn’s shop; with escalators and tube trains; with endless streets and hurrying people, and dead flies in the window of Mr Goldsmith’s antique shop on the corner, where I waited for the bus to take me to school. It did not seem possible that I could step out of my drab world into that other far-away world where Prince Charlie had rallied the clans and the Fiery Cross had flamed on the hills.

But one Tuesday morning the letter came. I knew it at once because it was postmarked Portree. My mother took it from me and sat down. She did not seem to hear me when I urged her to open it, although Aunt Evelyn was caught up in my excitement.

“Oh, do open it, Anne,” she exclaimed. “Can’t you see Alasdair’s just dying to know what the man says?”

My mother opened the letter without a word and unfolded a single sheet of crumpled notepaper.

“What does he say?” I cried. “Can I go?”

My mother cleared her throat.

“Dear Mistress Cameron,” she read. “You know what a great friend I was of Alasdair Dubh, poor man. I shall be pleased to welcome his son to Skye. But it will be strange for the boy after life in the city, so do not be surprised if he gets homesick and I have to send him back to you.”

She paused.

“Well, go on,” said Aunt Evelyn.

My mother handed her the letter.

“That’s all,” she said.

“Dear, dear,” clucked Aunt Evelyn, as she scanned the brief note. “What a strange man. You would have thought he would have had more to say than that.”

“I don’t suppose he writes many letters,” said my mother.

No more was said about it. The shortness of the letter was soon forgotten in the excitement of planning the journey. Aunt Evelyn took command and drew up a list of the things I would need, but
my mother was strangely silent and withdrawn, and I could not help feeling that she should have been pleased with me now that I was setting out on my own for the first time. I felt sure my father would have been, if he could have seen me.

As soon as supper was over, I went to bed. I was already travelling, in my imagination, through the purple hills on my way to the west — travelling over hills and lochs with names like proud battle-cries. For a long time I lay awake, saying softly to myself, over and over again, “By Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go,” until the words gathered momentum, like the wheels of an express train, and I was plunged into an uneasy sleep.

I dreamed I was striding through the heather, when I saw an old woman with a creel of peats on her back. I took the creel from her and she straightened up and I saw that it wasn’t an old woman at all, but Prince Charlie, and I cried out in astonishment.

My mother’s voice whispered, “Hush, Alasdair, you’ve been dreaming.”

I tried to tell her that I had seen Prince Charlie, but before I could speak I felt her cool fingers stroking my forehead, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.