The real Mackay

WIDOW MACKAY, tenant of Balree Croft. MÀIRI[1] MACKAY, her daughter, a domestic servant. “SANDY” SPEEDWELL, artist and poet, of Edinburgh. MRS SPEEDWELL, his mother.

SCENE: The “best room” in a crofter’s cottage in the Scottish Highlands. To the left a small open window, round which honeysuckle clings and blooms, affords a glimpse of a blue loch, softly screened by the drooping branches of a silver birch, and glistening in bright sunshine. Beside the window Màiri Mackay sits knitting a white shawl. A folding table, with the leaves down, occupies the centre of the room and is covered with a Mackay tartan plaid. Upon it stands a dark blue bowl filled with wild roses. Widow Mackay sits to the right, at her spinning wheel, between the table and a wide, open fire-place. Peat smoulders in the grate. To the left of the fire-place is an “easy chair” (a plain arm-chair with a cushion), and to the right a nursing chair with short legs; a stool is tilted in front on a deerskin rug. Against the wall, between the little window and a bedroom door, is a dark mahogany chest of drawers, on which lies a bulky family Bible between two gaudy vases. Three chairs are ranged against the wall to the left, and the floor is covered with flowery waxcloth, brilliantly new. The walls are adorned with framed portraits of John Knox, John Bunyan, William Ewart Gladstone, and a Free Church minister. On the high mantelpiece squat two white porcelain dogs with black noses, and above it is a set of bagpipes. A “wag-at-the-wa” clock ticks leisurely to the right of the fireplace.

TIME: Early afternoon: a sunny day in late June.

WIDOW (stops spinning and looks towards her daughter over her glasses). You’ll be sitting in a draught, Màiri. Shut the window or you will maybe catch a cheel[2]--you that looks so delicate.

MÀIRI. Oh! there’s no fear of me, mother. If you won’t be minding, I would rather have the window open. I love to breathe the fresh air from the loch. (Takes a deep breath.) It’s so refreshing after being in a stuffy city, and the honeysuckle smells so sweet. How quiet it is here; you can listen to the quietness, so to speak.

WIDOW. Well, well, my treasure, have your own way with it. Balree is indeed a sweet place, and God’s world is very beautiful. (Stops spinning.) Màiri, that honeysuckle was planted out there by your dear father, nineteen years ago, on the very day you came into the world. He’ll be at his rest now three years come Martinmas, and every summer his beautiful flower will be growing and spreading and blooming. The smell of it goes to my heart like a sweet thought of him. (Sighs and resumes her work at the spinning wheel, drawing out a thread and adjusting it.) It’s your own father that would be proud of you, Màiri, if he was still with us, but the Lord appointed otherwise. (Sighs.) His will be done. (Goes on spinning.)

[_Màiri rises from her chair, draws a tendril of honeysuckle through the window and smells it: then she plucks a blossom and puts it in her blouse. Musing, she leans her elbow on the window, chin on hand, gazing towards the loch. Her mother stops spinning, looks up and watches her daughter for a few seconds in silence._]

WIDOW. You are very quiet, Màiri. How you have changed!

MÀIRI. I was only thinking to myself--just thinking a little.

WIDOW. It’s me that sees a great difference in you--you that used to be such a cheery lassie, always laughing and teasing one and making the jokes. Many times, when you’re away, I will be smiling here my lone self, thinking o’ the things you used to be saying and doing. Now, I’ll notice, and I canna’ help noticing it, that you’re changed so much. I suppose it’s the city that does it. You’ll have many things, no doubt, to be thinking over, and maybe, yes, maybe, you’re feeling just a little dull, now, in this quiet place.... You’ll often be sitting thinking to yourself in that way. Surely nosing[3] will be troubling you, m’eudail[4]?

[_Màiri does not answer. She sits down, hangs her head and resumes knitting. Her mother rises, grasping her chin between her fingers, a look of concern on her face; goes over to the window and sits besides her daughter._]

WIDOW. And something is troubling you, Màiri, my own. You canna’ hide it from me. There will be tears in your eyes, Ochone! what will you be hiding in the deep heart of you? You shouldn’t be hiding anysing at all, at all, from me, your own mother.

[_Màiri shakes her head, takes out her handkerchief and dries her eyes._]

WIDOW (very softly). You are all I have left in this world--your father dead, your brother killed in the war in a foreign land far away. It would break my heart to think you would be keeping anysing from me. What is it? Tell me (strokes the girl’s hair), dove of my heart! my fair love!... Màiri (entreatingly).

MÀIRI (resuming her knitting). It was only a foolish thought (pause)--a thought about one I shouldn’t maybe be thinking of, now that I’m here.

WIDOW. Ah! has he--has he ... turned false to you, now?

MÀIRI (quickly). Well, not what you would call false, not that altogether.

WIDOW. A lovers’ quarrel, no doubt. You’re young, you’re young, but the young heart can feel sore. I mind well. I was once like you, Màiri. Your father and I had once a lover’s quarrel. But it came all right. Lovers’ quarrels are sometimes sweet to remember afterwards.

MÀIRI. It’s not what you would call a quarrel either. But we’ve parted--parted for ever. But don’t be worrying, mother, I’ll maybe no’ be caring so much as you would think.

WIDOW. Well, well, it’s the way of the world. Maybe you’ll change your mind yet. Maybe you wass just a little bit to blame yourself, now, eh? I wouldn’t say you wass, Màiri, no, no. But girls--bonnie girls like yourself, my dove, will sometimes be doing things and saying things they’ll no’ quite intend altogether, and then they’ll be thinking afterwards that it’s maybe a pity it wasn’t otherwise.... Is he a good lad, Màiri, steady at his work, no drinking, and always attending the church? Is he what you would call handsome, now,--big and manly like your father?

MÀIRI (smiling). No doubt he would have pleased you. If looks were everything, you’d be quite satisfied. He’s a gentleman in every way.

WIDOW. A Highland lad, too, maybe, and of a good clan?

MÀIRI. Well, no’ exactly what you would call Highland; but his grandfather was a Ross and he’s proud of it.

WIDOW. So well he might be. There were some fine Rosses, although they were never like the Mackays, or my own clan, the great clan Donald. I would like to see your young man, Màiri. You’ll make it up all right with him yet, eh?

MÀIRI. No, no; it’s all past. He’s fickle, mother--a poppy in the corn--a butterfly--one you would maybe like to look at, but not to depend on--changeable as the wind, and cruel without knowing it--aye! (Sighs.) But don’t be speaking about him. It’s time I was beginning to forget there’s such a one in the world.

WIDOW. Aye, so.... (Looking through the window). There’s Sandy coming.

MÀIRI (rising quickly in alarm). Who--who?

WIDOW. It’s only Sandy, oor neighbour. He’s coming to sow the turnips for me. Ah! Màiri, the neighbours will be very good to me since your father’s death. Every one of them comes to do his share o’ work on the croft and keep a roof above my head. I’ll better be speaking to Sandy. (Exit.)

MÀIRI. Sandy.... Why should I have thought it was him? He does not know where I live, and, besides, he wouldn’t come if he knew, except maybe to wound my heart deeper without knowing what he was doing.... Why did I tell mother? I can’t explain everything to her. She cannot understand. Did Sandy’s mother not tell me that he is not in my station of life, and that she would be disgraced if he married a servant--a servant in his mother’s house. Oh! it’s her that wounded my pride--her thinking she was better than me! a shopkeeper’s wife (as if that were something great) and me a real Mackay, with lords and bards and great chiefs in my line.... Oh! if I only had the money, she wouldn’t despise me so. But what’s money? Money will not make one a lady.... I must forget, forget what was--forget Sandy and his mother and the rest.

WIDOW (enters). Sandy was asking when you will be going away. (Sighs.) I said I wasn’t very sure. He’s wondering you haven’t been down to see his wife who was so ill last winter. Haste you, my dear, and be calling on her at once. She has been a good kind friend to me, Màiri.

MÀIRI. I’ll go down just now, mother. But don’t be speaking about me going away. (Smiles.) I have made up my mind to stay here with you always after this. You’re getting old and canna’ be left alone.

WIDOW. I wish you could aye be here, as you say. (Sighs.) But we’re too poor, Màiri. It canna’ be. We must bear our burdens in this world though our hearts should be breaking.

MÀIRI. I have a plan, mother, that will bring us money, and I’m going to give you a little surprise.

WIDOW. How can you make money here, lassie? Now, tell me that.

MÀIRI. Keeping visitors. Letting the house. I’ve thought of it for a long time, and that’s why I brought you things for the house--the waxcloth, the new blankets, and the rest.

WIDOW (amazed). Keeping veesitors?

MÀIRI. I saw how it was done last summer when we were holidaying near Oban. Oh! the people in the west are clever at making the money in the summer.

WIDOW. Don’t tell me they’re cleverer in the west than in the north. Who ever heard of such a thing? They haven’t such land as our land.

MÀIRI. I know a widow near Oban--a Macdougall she is. Her son has a bicycle and her daughter has a piano. The croft is a poorer croft than our croft, and they have a slated roof, a porch at the door, registered grates, water taps in the kitchen, and a carpet in the best room.

WIDOW. How did they manage it?