Latha Math do Luchdachadh | A Fine Day For Loading
sgeulachd ghoirid le Mara Dougall
short story by Mara Dougall
© National Museums Scotland
Latha Matha do Luchdachadh
Bha a mhàthair air ràdh ris, thalla ‘s cuir ort d’ aodach Sàbaid a-nist. Bha an uair air tighinn orra ceart gu leòr, agus cha robh nì sam bith eile ann ri ghiùlan sìos chun a’ chidhe. Ghabh e iongnadh carson, an dèidh dha an ròpa a leigeil bhuaithe agus an luchd mu dheireadh a thoirt sìos, a bhrùth an cuideam uile air, uair eile. A’ crùbadh ‘s ag èirigh a-rithist mu choinneamh grèine dealraich; chòrd e ris air an t-slighe sìos gun robh am feur ‘s na clachan ‘s a’ ghaoth a’ beantainn ri gach corrag-coise. Bha cuid de na boireannaich nan aodach spaideil mu thràth, crom crotach fo dhrungan, air am bannadh ris an fhiodh rèidh - bha e coltach gun robh iad a’ giùlan chisteachan-laighe. An aon aghaidh chruaidh orra uile. Bha làn fhios aige nach bu chòir dha tighinn eadar na boireannaich agus an luchd. Agus bha an t-am ann dha a dheise Shàbaid a chur air co-dhiù.
Rùisg e e fhèin san t-seòmar lom - nach robh e riamh lom, ge-tà? Uill bha, ach cha robh e cho dorcha, an dòigh air choireigin. Bha e coltach gun robh a chraiceann na luisneadh, geal soilleir san dorchadas, ach far an robh an ròpa air loidhnichean eargnach fhàgail air. Air a chom, air gàirdean a thaobh chlì. Air a bhois. B’ urrainn dha dual an ròpa fhaicinn a-nist, car domhainn an àitichean, ged nach do mhothaich e idir aig an àm. Dhùin e a dhòrn, gu cruaidh, gus na cuislean sa ghàirdean a thoirt am follais. Agus nuair a dh’fhosgail e a-rithist e - cha robh càil ri fhaicinn. Ach an fhuil a’ sruthadh, ‘s e a’ gabhail anail, gu trom. A mhàthair ag èigheach o thaobh a-muigh gum bu chòir dha greas a chur air.
Bha a bhriogais ro mhòr dha, ach ro ghoirid, cuideachd, agus bha an lèine teann air a ghuailnean. Cha bhiodh e cho furasta iomramh san aodach seo, ach bha e air a dhèanamh roimhe, minig gu leòr.
Rinn e fiamh-ghàire ‘s iad a’ coiseachd chun a’ chidhe, ‘s a’ ghrian a’ deàrrsadh fhathast agus sin ga dhènamah na b’ fhasa; agus bha e na b’ fhasa, cuideachd, nan coimheadadh e seachad air a mhàthair chun nan creagan. Seachad air na creagan, far an robh a’ ghaoth na b’ fhiadhaiche. Fuasgailte. A’ mhuir agus an t-adhar a-mhàin. Phaisg e a ghàirdeanan, ‘s e a’ greimeadh air a chlisneach.
Bha a mhàthair a’ bruidhinn a-rithist.
Co-dhiù, chan eil sinn a’ falbh cho fada ri Astràilia, thuirt i.
‘S bochd nach eil, ars esan.
Dia a thoirt mathanas dhut, thuirt i le osna - nuair a smaoineachas mi air a’ sin… na truaghain.
Nuair a thàinig am bàta ri taobh an Harebell thug iad an ròpa dha. Phaisg e an ròpa timcheall air a làimh - deiseil airson an cuideam a ghiùlan. Na seasamh mu thràth, thog a mhàthair a sgiort gu sròn a bròige, ‘s an uair sin stad i. Thug i sùil air an dà bhàta ag uideal san uisge, mì-chinnteach a-nist mun làimh a bha a’ sìneadh a-mach thuice.
Bidh e taghta, a mhàthair, thuirt e, agus sheall e na sùilean. Fad diog no dhà.
Ach ‘s e a bhiodh taghta. An ròpa mìn na chorragan chruaidh. Mìn ach blàth; ga losgadh gu slaodach socair, a ghàirdean teann ri chom.
Bidh e taghta, a mhàthair.
Geallaidh mi dhuibh.
[’S e Dòmhnall Iain MacFhiongain a tha san dealbh gu h-àrd, ’s e a’ dèanamh deiseil gus Hiort fhàgail air 29 Lùnastal 1930. Chaidh a dh’fhuireach aig 5 An Làrach Bheag, faisg air Loch Àlainn, còmhla ris a phàrantan agus ceathrar bhràithrean ‘s triùir pheathraichean. Chaidh an sgeulachd seo a bhrosnachadh leis an dealbh, ach 's e ficsean a th’ innte uile gu lèir. Chaidh a sgrìobhadh sa Bheurla agus eadar-theangachadh chun na Gàidhlig.]
A Fine Day for Loading
Mother had said to him, go and put your good suit on now. It was time right enough, there was nothing left for him to carry down to the pier. He wondered why, after he’d loosened the rope and unbound himself, swinging that last load down, he had suddenly felt the weight of it all at once. Bending and rising again to meet a sun still shining; he’d enjoyed it on the stroll down, feeling the grass and the stones and the breeze touch each one of his toes. Some of the women were dressed as best already, bent double under trunks – tied tight against the smooth surface, they looked as if they were carrying coffins. All with the same severe face. He knew better than to try and come between them and their load. And it was time he was getting into his good suit anyway.
He stripped himself in the bare room – hadn’t it always been bare though? Aye, but not so dark somehow. His skin seemed to glow a bright white in the dull, except the angry lines where the rope had dug in. Across his chest, his left arm. The palm of his hand. He could see the braid of the rope indented, quite deep in places, though he hadn’t felt it at all at the time. He made his hand into a fist, squeezing the fingers in on themselves until the veins in his forearm bulged. And when he opened it again – nothing. Just the blood moving, the sound of his breath, heavy. Mother shouting from outside to hurry up.
His trousers were too loose and too short, and the shirt felt tight across his shoulders. It wouldn’t be so easy to row in, but he’d rowed in it often enough before.
He smiled as they walked to the pier, sun still shining, making it easier; and it was easier too if he looked away from his mother and out towards the cliffs. Beyond the cliffs, where the wind was stronger. Unimpeded. Nothing but sea and air. He folded his arms across his front, clutching absently about the ribs.
His mother was talking again.
It’s not as if we were going to Australia, he heard her say.
More’s the pity, said he.
God forgive you, she said, sighing - when I think of it…those poor souls.
As the boat pulled alongside the Harebell they passed the rope back. He coiled it around his hand – ready to take the strain. His mother, already on her feet, lifted her skirt to bare the point of a shoe, and paused. She looked from one bobbing boat to the other, suddenly unsure of the outstretched hand above.
I’ve got it, mother, he said, and their eyes met. Just for a moment.
But he did have it. Smooth against his rough fingers. Smooth but warm; a slow steady burn as he held his arm taut against his chest.
I’ve got it here, mother.
I promise.
[The photograph above is of Donald John MacKinnon getting ready to leave St. Kilda on 29th August 1930. He went to live at no. 5 Larachbeg, Lochaline, with his parents and seven siblings. This story was inspired by the photograph, but is wholly fiction.]