by Flora Sharp
The Anderson family were not popular in the tiny West Highland village. There was a large element of jealousy in the villagers' dislike, because the family were the owners of, or had the extended lease on, no less than five properties in the neighbourhood. As crofters on both sides of the family they had also inherited grazing rights on a major acreage of the best sandy shoreline 'machair' as well as expanses of the good hill pastures.
Strangely, though, despite this apparently ideal state of affairs, none of their three children had chosen to remain and work the crofts or benefit from the business and tourist potential of all the properties. As a family they rarely mixed with the locals, the father's job as a travelling salesman taking him away for much of the time and the household being effectively ruled by the fearsome mother, known with good reason as Big Mary, with a rod of iron.
It was said that the children - who as they grew up were allowed no friends - had to work constantly on the croft, were very unhappy and all terrified of their mother, leaving the area just as soon as they were finished with their schooling. By the time Charlie Anderson retired, the miserable couple, now without their 'slave' labour, found their land deteriorating, their stock sickening and their many properties requiring maintenance from professional tradesmen - whom they were too mean to pay at the going rate.
To make ends meet and to pay for essentials such as animal feed and fencing materials, they began to require to rent out various bits of property. Unfortunately, as they had failed to maintain their other houses to a standard acceptable to the Tourist Board, they were forced to rely on local tenants, most of whom were employed, if they were employed at all, in very low paid labouring, farming or tourist-related jobs and could certainly not afford to pay much in the way of rent. From the late 1970s through the '80s the going rate for renting a cottage comprising two or three rooms and a kitchen was rarely more than £10 per week, depending on the other facilities, condition and accessibility of the property.
Morag was a student when she first came to the village to a summer job at the nearby country house hotel, doing a bit of everything - reception, bar work, waitressing, housekeeping. Initially she lived in one of the hotel's own bunk rooms, for which £3.50 or 50p per day was deducted from her wages each week. This also covered her meagre but adequate meals. An outgoing and attractive 20 year-old, she loved the variety of the job and entered into local life with a vengeance, including a turbulent but exciting relationship with Donald MacLeod, the tearaway son of a local farmer.
Inevitably when autumn and the start of term approached, like many a misguided student before her, she decided that the village was where she wanted to spend the rest of her life! Fortunately for Morag, the local shop would be requiring an assistant starting in the week in which the hotel's season finished. No amount of remonstrating from her parents could make her return for the last year of her college course. Her mother sounded far from happy, but her concerns were easily ignored from a distance.
Encouraged by Donald, who claimed to earn far more working for his parents than she ever could, Morag took on the lease of one of the Andersons' oldest and most remote croft houses for six months. He insisted that he'd happily fork out a fiver each week as his share of the ten pounds rent - this due to be paid on Thursdays in advance. The young couple scraped together £40 as the required first month's rent in advance and moved in towards the end of October just to coincide with the clocks going back and the dark days getting even darker and stormier, and making the cottage feel even more primitive and isolated.
Neither Morag nor Donald had ever really had to pay their way before, or perhaps they had thought unrealistically that 'rent' covered all costs. But by the time they had bought their food, paid for the gas and electricity, wood and coal - all this before 'luxuries' such as telephone, radio and television - the budget was stretched to its limits. Morag certainly had nothing left at the end of the week.
To make matters worse, or less comfortable, Big Mary had taken to making a regular Thursday evening visit to the cottage, driving her flashy six month old Range Rover up the rocky track. Donald, who of course knew her of old, was often conveniently absent and poor Morag found herself scrubbing and polishing for hours in advance as if for a military inspection. Mary, all sweetness and light, claimed just to be concerned that they were settling in well and checking that they had all they needed. Annoyingly refusing a seat, she tended to stand around, opening and closing doors, straightening furniture and running her finger over surfaces as though she was the resident and they the visitors. But never did she leave without going through the charade of checking the rent book and confirming (as if they needed a reminder) that on the last Thursday in November she'd be collecting their first weekly payment.
These weekly visits, when she felt she was expected to provide tea with home baking, confirmed to Morag that Big Mary was even more fearsome than she had been warned. Mary, at only an inch or so under six feet was heavily built, looked as strong as a horse and had a habit of standing, feet astride, hands on hips and loudly putting the world (and her neighbours)to rights. Her hands were like shovels, if not quite the ditching spades so frequently used locally.
Fortunately Donald, with the promise of some freshly baked pancakes, was at home on the last Thursday in November when Mary called for her first rent payment. It was he who counted out all the loose change and handed it coin by coin to their landlady who then made a great show of marking off the payment in her Book. In her very best 'saccharine' voice Big Mary eventually took her leave, assuring them she'd see them next week.
"Not if I have anything to do with it," muttered Donald, as they listened to her crashing her expensive gears whilst manoeuvring onto the track. "That woman's poison, always has been, and I wish you'd never agreed to rent her rotten croft. It's a hellhole anyway, and I'm not spending the winter here!"
"Hey, that's not fair! We both decided we wanted to rent the place - it was all we could afford - and I've signed up for the full six month's rent!" wailed poor Morag. "I was looking forward to getting it really cosy for the winter. You never warned me just how dreadful she was and you can't let me down now," she added, snivelling, her shoulders starting to heave. Seeing his normally cheerful girl so upset soon had Donald apologising, reassuring her and cuddling her better in the way he did best!
But come the next Thursday Donald had had a bad day. His father, Don, was giving him a hard time as he didn't think his son was pulling his weight around the farm. It had been better in the 'old days' when he had his only son under his thumb - and roof - all the time, not just turning up and leaving when it suited him as if it were no more than an office job! In his opinion, farming demanded more commitment than that. As for Donald, a big lad, he was beginning to miss his mother's cooking and the generous portions he used to take for granted. It seemed that the inexperienced Morag's housekeeping just didn't seem to stretch far enough - certainly not allowing for cooked breakfasts and platefuls of meat and stodgy puddings with custard every night.
That day they had been over the hill gathering for a neighbour and had missed his mother's generous lunch which Donald had become used to 'filling up' on, so he arrived home wet, tired and starving to find his girlfriend scrubbing the kitchen floor, supper the furthest thing from her mind. They had had their first serious row then, so that by the time that Big Mary arrived for her money it still hadn't been resolved, they were looking daggers at each other and not a scone had been baked let alone a meal started!
Mary as usual wouldn't settle, which might have given Morag time to relax and pull her frazzled nerves together. Donald, unable to think of anything other than his gnawing hunger, changed into slightly less filthy jeans and sweater and put his head round the door just long enough to chuck in his dirty work clothes and to announce that he was off to the 'local' for a bar meal before they stopped serving. Morag, slow to realise she hadn't claimed his share of the rent from him, ran out behind him, calling urgently, but just in time to see his rattle-trap of a pick-up disappear fast around the corner. She had no option but to return and face the music, knowing that she only had an extra pound or so beyond her own share of the rent.
On her return she found that Mary had, contrary to her custom, sat herself down on one of the four high-backed chairs which she had pulled away from the little dining table. Waving aside the girl's tentative offer of tea and biscuits, Mary seemed anxious to get to the business of collecting the rent. She had removed her heavy jacket, planked her massive handbag on the table, and looked decidedly formidable as she sat upright, legs as far apart as her thick tweed skirt would allow, feet in their hefty brogues planted solidly apart. "I can buy my own biscuits, thank you, miss. Let's just get on with our business - that will be ten pounds, please."
"I'm really sorry, Mrs Anderson," Morag muttered, as she tipped the contents of a pottery pig onto the mantelpiece. "Donald forgot to leave his share, and I only seem to have," ...she scrabbled the coins together, counting hastily, "six pounds twenty at the moment. I'm very, very sorry indeed."
"But that's just not good enough!" Big Mary sounded louder and looked more severe than ever before. Gone were the saccharine tones and the fake-genteel demeanour. "I am not leaving this house without what is owed to me! It seems to me as though you are three pounds eighty pence short, and I WILL have that money NOW, young lady!"
"But I haven't GOT it!! Can't I just add it to next week's rent? Or I could bring it round to the house first thing tomorrow if you'd prefer?" blustered poor Morag in desperation. She was starting to feel decidedly scared. "Please, PLEASE, Madam?" she begged in abject terror.
"Bring me that pathetic amount right here!" Mary growled, pointing to a spot just in front of her chair. Whilst Morag stood there, shaking, she counted the coins out deliberately and removed a large purse and the Rent Book from her capacious handbag. "I'll deal with you in just a minute, young lady, never fear!"
With a deep, theatrical sigh she tipped the cash into her purse and slowly entered the amount of six pounds twenty into the book, making a very clear note of the shortfall on the line below. She returned the purse to her bag but left the Rent Book, open, in the middle of the table.
"Stand up straight!" ordered Mary, taking a deep breath before rearranging the position of the hard dining chair. "It would appear, as you have abjectly failed to provide adequately for your rent, that I must in the meantime take payment in a different way, a way which is going to prove very painful for you, my girl. How long is it since you were corrected physically?
"WHAT?" shrieked Morag, forgetting she was in quite such close proximity to such a very large, very angry woman. "Never... you can't... don't... OW!!" This last as she found herself flipped head over heels, her head all but bouncing off the familiar carpet which she had only recently cleaned.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.