Distant Voices. Barbara Erskine

       The Fairy Child

      The rain was streaming down the office windows as I folded my letter booking the cottage, clipped Peter’s cheque to it and pushed them both into the envelope. I looked again at the address. ‘Ishmacuild.’ The word was a magic spell in itself.

      A magic spell. I repeated the phrase out loud, gazing at the orange carpet at my feet, but seeing only silver sand, rippled by wind and tide. Was that why I had chosen the island for our summer holiday; why of all the places in the guide book I had picked a tiny lonely spot like Ishmacuild: because of a magic spell?

      ‘Your turn to choose where we go this summer, Isobel,’ Peter had said with a grin. ‘Don’t choose the Bahamas though, will you? I don’t think the family coffers will quite run to that.’

      In the five years of our marriage it had worked out that way. He had chosen one year and I the next, each seeing places we might not have dreamed of otherwise, for our tastes were so different. I, the dreamer, seeking lonely places or sites steeped in history, and Peter, the energetic sportsman, choosing lively walking, sailing and exploring holidays. Such an arrangement could have spelled disaster for some marriages, but for ours it was a stimulus and an excitement. We both enjoyed the new efforts we had to make and learned, too, far more about each other than we ever would have done had we reached a dreary compromise each year.

      The next time I was in the public library I crossed to the travel shelves and scanned the titles. I knew roughly what I wanted: the Scottish Highlands and Islands. I, with the maiden name of Macdonald, had never been there. My father had always said that our family came from Scotland years ago, and although we’d often talked about it we had never visited it when I was a child. This year, I was determined, I was going to remedy that. I reached down a volume and flipped slowly through the pages, glancing at the breathtaking photographs. There were so many places to choose from, so many lovely things to see. I took the book home and with it another of stories and legends. It was in this second book that I found Ishmacuild:

      Below the picturesque village, deep amongst the rocks, lies the magic fairy pool where countless generations of Macdonald women have gone by moonlight with a gift of gold to ensure the birth to the family of a son and heir …

      I blinked and read on quickly. That was a very unhappy subject and one I tried to put out of my mind, but somehow over the next few days my thoughts insisted on turning back to that magic pool. After all I was a Macdonald woman, and I desperately wanted a son and heir.

      The first two years of our marriage had been intentionally childless. The last three not so. Neither of us had worried at first and we had used the chance we had to go to concerts and theatres and have the kind of holidays our friends with growing families could not afford. But of late I had begun to wonder if anything could be wrong. I had not mentioned it to Peter but once or twice I had seen him glance broodingly into the pram of our baby nephew, and I knew that like me he was thinking about children.

      The guide book recommended Ishmacuild for its peace and silver sands and the beauty of the surrounding mountains. It listed several addresses.

      When, tentatively, I suggested the place to Peter he laughed. ‘So the famous Macdonald blood is coming to the surface at last.’ He dropped a kiss on my forehead. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Isobel. We’ll write for details at once.’

      So it was all arranged. On a beautiful June evening we climbed onto the train which was to take us north. My heart should have been singing and my blood tingling with excitement but it wasn’t, for something was wrong with Peter.

      Peter was usually a cheerful, matter-of-fact person. Tall, strong, broad-shouldered with the clear grey eyes and tanned face of an outdoor man, he was everything a dream husband could possibly be. I could never quite get over my luck in having married him at all. His humour and optimism carried me along on the crest of a wave even when I was feeling a bit down. But now, for two days he had been moody and depressed. He had eaten nothing and snapped at me every time I spoke to him. His face had taken on a sunken grey look which secretly terrified me. I wondered whether to suggest he saw the doctor, never a popular idea with Peter at the best of times, and I wondered with a sinking heart whether I should suggest cancelling the holiday, but in the end, cowardly, I did neither and hoped for the best.

      In the sleeping car which normally would have been an exciting adventure to share and enjoy we undressed in total silence. Peter hauled himself into his berth without a word and settled down, his face to the compartment wall. He never even said goodnight.

      I lay awake for hours listening to the rhythmical rattling of the wheels over the miles of track, tense and unhappy. The further north we got the more I was filled with a dreadful sense of foreboding, and when at last I fell asleep in the early hours of the morning it was to a restless slumber tormented with formless nightmares.

      The grandeur and beauty of the scenery and the excitement of the boat trip out to the island distracted me a little next day, I must admit, from Peter’s mood. He seemed to have made up his mind to try and enjoy himself and he smiled and talked and gazed as I did at the scenery unfolding before us on every side. But I could see there was still something very wrong. The strange look haunted his eyes and though his mouth smiled and joked I could see that deep down inside he was in bleak despair. I shivered as, standing by the boat rail, feeling the hot salt wind blow the hair off my face, I turned suddenly and caught him looking at me with such an expression of bewildered resentment and hate it was all I could do not to cry out in horror. It was as if he had become a stranger. I turned back to watching the slippery silver waves and bit back my tears.

      The cottage we had rented was tiny; no more than two rooms with a little kitchen and bathroom extension built on at the back. From the sink as I filled the kettle for our first pot of Highland tea I could see a vista of mountain peaks and valleys leading to the horizon and before them the silver sea lochs, glittering ribbons in the dusky twilight. Somewhere down there beyond the horizon lay the magic pool.

      The next morning dawned bright. I lay for a long time listening to the shush of the sea in the distance and the weird, eery whistle of the curlew, watching the thin beams of early sunshine edge slowly through the undrawn curtains. Suddenly I realised that Peter was watching me. I turned to him, and leaned over to kiss him, but abruptly he turned his back on me and pulled the pillow over his head. Hurt, I drew back.

      ‘What’s wrong, love? Can you tell me?’ I whispered, hardly daring to ask the question which had brought such fear into my heart.

      ‘Oh, go to hell,’ the muffled words sounded so desperate I didn’t know what to do. I climbed out of bed and stood gazing down at him numbly. ‘Go on; go away. Leave me alone.’ Peter’s voice was taking on an angry tone. Quickly, stunned with misery, I grabbed my dress and sandals and fled to the bathroom.