E-Book, Englisch, 272 Seiten
Macintyre A Summer Like No Other
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80425-249-9
Verlag: Luath Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 272 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80425-249-9
Verlag: Luath Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
MARTIN MacINTYRE was born in 1965 to a South Uist father and Glaswegian mother. He was brought up in Lenzie, and attended St. Aloysius' College in Glasgow. In 1988 he graduated from the University of Aberdeen in medicine, and between 1990 and 1992 he attained qualifications in Business and Gàidhealtachd Studies at Sabhal Mòr Ostaig. Martin divides his work-time between medicine, writing and storytelling. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife Annmarie and two children Sorcha and Iain Finlay.
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Chapter 1
Bha uair ann reimhid ma-thà… once, a long time ago, when the Gàidhealtachd of Scotland and Ireland were one, there was a band of warriors, the Fèinn, who were duty-bound to protect its lands and shores from any possible invaders. Among them was a young man by the name of Oisean, Oisean mac Fhinn ac Cumhail – Oisean the son of Finn MacCool.
THE JOURNEY FROM Greenock to Glasgow Central, then north from Queen Street, was all too familiar though I’d never travelled it alone. The West Highland Line had been the usual route to Oban, twice, sometimes three times a year until my father purchased our first modest family car near the end of primary school. This wasn’t an advancement I announced with pride to my wealthier classmates. It would have been like saying, guess what lads we’ve finally decided to switch from porridge to Rice Krispies. ‘Wow, really Col!?’
God’s own island, specifically the crofting township of Eoligarry, had looked forward to Màiri Iagain Iain Mhòir’s1 return home with her brood since first she showed off her new baby, James, in the summer of 1955. I followed in ’58 and then my twin sisters, Celia and Flora, a year into the swinging decade.
My dad, Tom (or Tam) Quinn was also made most welcome, but a bus-driver’s limited holidays couldn’t always mean Barra. ‘Blackpool, Mary? Whit aboot Scarborough this year, doll?’
For Mum, time with her parents and sisters was crucial – and demanded. She couldn’t really see why anyone would choose to go elsewhere and pay good money for the privilege. Respectful daughter did though press notes into her mother’s fists on departure – ‘Dìreach son a’ bhìdh, a ghràidh.’2 None of us had ever ventured across the sound to Uist, nor indeed to any of the other Western Isles.
This year the Claymore would call briefly at Colonsay before heading further into the Minch, four hours west, to Castlebay – Barra’s ‘bustling’ capital. For the first time ever, I would not disembark here but sail a further two hours to a more languid Lochboisedale.
The thought of spending a fortnight in South Uist with my mum’s brother did not thrill me. It just wasn’t the right time, I protested – for him or me. Ruairidh was a nice enough fellow and always an interested uncle and generous with birthdays. He was also a stickler for application. Dr R J Gillies swore by hours spent sitting on one’s tòn3 and the by-product. His ‘kind’ suggestion I join him for the second half of his month’s locum on the island was as good as an order in his younger sister’s view.
‘Dè eile a tha thu a’ dol a dhèanamh?’4 her musical North Barra Gaelic demanded. ‘Certainly no exams stopping you for now, Colin, or…’
‘A job?’ I enquired faux-cheerily. This sentence was one I’d completed often in the preceding few weeks, since opting not to take second-year finals. Forced good humour once again stopped my yelling in her wan face.
She was of course correct. The ‘for now’ indicated that while, by mutual consent, my advisor of studies – Big Ron – and I had lost hope of summer success, given some harsh-reality, Ruairidh Gillies-style effort, I might still try in August. Passes in Psychology, English Literature and Modern European History would offer a scraped place in Junior Honours? ‘We’ll see Mum,’ I said.
Academic Year 1977/78 was a most sociable one at Glasgow Uni and sudden release from formal assessment had helped boost its potential greatly. With a full grant, a large, shared flat in the West End and cheapish tastes in food, alcohol and clothes, there was no desperation. As one of less than ten percent of Scottish twenty-year-olds in Higher Education – Father Cairns liked to remind us – I was well off, except that now I was on the verge of failure. So why wasn’t I scared?
Ruairidh had enjoyed none of these luxuries in the St Andrews of the ’30s and ’40s and had ‘just got on with it’. His questions would be uncomfortable. My parents, neither of whom stayed on beyond fifteen, (nor James his sixteenth birthday), had pinned considerable academic hopes on their second child. ‘Our Colin might well try Law in the end, though he’s still considering teaching.’ Really? The Colin Quinn I knew had no wish to lose hours of real life mugging the minutiae of dead tomes or babysitting bored kids with writing for which he felt scant passion.
‘And it’s not’ – my mother’s other refrain – ‘that you wouldn’t make a good doctor, if that’s what you chose to do.’
Like her husband Ruairidh, Aunt Emily – an elegant, refined lass from Perth, had chosen and indeed succeeded in medicine; her painful death eighteen months previously being the cruellest of Christmas presents.
This then was my uncle’s first locum on the island since his darling’s grave was closed. Until that point, over a period of some twenty-six years, he’d become a regular feature on the visiting professional Gael landscape; quite a small, discreet group of men. His usual routine entailed a week at home in Barra – with and at the family – then a further week’s ‘holiday’ on Uist relieving one of the local GPs; he and Dr Marr had been housemen together in Dumfries. Eric Adams, a tough Yorkshire lad, would remain on-call for all surgical emergencies. Ruairidh could cope with the rest, including most childbirth scenarios, and crucially he also had anaesthetic skills.
This year, having wrested himself from partnership in Duns, he could give the fine chaps a whole month; they would each get their first proper holiday in fifteen years. And my proposed role? To walk, fish, chat and presumably not quaff too much if Ruairidh was on-call round the clock.
So, I agreed to go; an initial commitment of a week that could be extended if all was cordial.
My ‘passage’ proved uneventful – the extra time on board the vessel a challenge to fill, and no compelling book to help achieve this. The sea was its usual grey, rolling, choppy self, but not nearly as turbulent as I had experienced it. A greasy pie and beans slid down in The Sound of Mull and behaved themselves thereafter. If any of those travelling knew me, none took the additional step of saying hello.
There was, though, a table of drunks in the bar – still high from the previous day’s cattle-sale – who were continuously hassling a guitar duo who denied knowledge of any popular Gaelic numbers. The young singer had a sweet voice and his rendition of ‘Yesterday’ was well-practised and supported with care by his friend. The boys soon tired of the facile jibes, returned their instruments to the luggage rack and donned duffle coats to escape outside. I passed them on deck near Mingulay – a first romantic visit there was still pending since delighted Catrìona MacNeil raved about the deserted island’s cliffs, between kisses, on my seventeenth birthday.
Uncle Ruairidh was on Lochboisedale pier as promised and undaunted by the hour – around 2.00am. ‘Almost had to send a stand-in,’ he joked, ‘but wee Anna cracked on and now has her fifth boy to carefully place in front of the TV to shout for Scotland.’
‘We’re on the march with Ally’s army!’ – another song the ferry pair refused to play – had been recorded weeks previously by comedian Andy Cameron. He gallusly assured us that football manager, Ally MacLeod, would lead Scotland to World Cup victory in Argentina. Our opening game, against Peru, was still over a week away.
‘Do bheatha dhan dùthaich!’5 My uncle’s more formal greeting, as he opened the neat but adequate boot of his silver MG. ‘A new acquisition, Colin,’ he added, half apologetically. ‘Always fancied one, but with a family it was never a practical consideration. Suspension’s much better than you’d think – it can handle the worst of the roads here. I see the hair’s not got any shorter!’ he then said with a funny little smile, which I answered by hooking a few strands behind my ears. ‘Just like a wee lassie’, my dad would grunt on a bad day. ‘Anyway,’ said Ruairidh, ‘how’s everyone?’
We exchanged family news as he drove, firstly to Daliburgh Cross, then right onto the main island artery. Both my older cousins were now down south I learned: Claire had recently moved – ‘with our first precious grandchild’ – to London for her husband’s job. Much of Ruairidh’s ‘our’ must still have belonged to Aunt Emily, but he made no mention of his late wife that night and nor did I.
‘Bill has sorted me a rather interesting house this year, Colin. In Eòrasdail. Bit further from Cnoc Fraoich Surgery but nothing is too far away in this machine.’ I again stated my ignorance of South Uist, much as I had when he phoned to confirm travel plans.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘I’d only been here once myself before starting locums all those years ago. Now I know the place, the South End anyway, like the back of my hand – probably better than I know Barra these days. Did you ever...
