by Theo Jones
Skelp: to spank, Middle English, probably Scandinavian origin.
Ay: Island, Old Norse.
The Hebridean island of Skelpay sat lush and green in a dark blue sea, calmly beautiful and breathtaking. The beaches were silver and the hills mottled purple with heather, scattered with craggy outcrops, with sweet cool burns, lined with Rowan and Birch, flowing to the ocean. The glad times of early summer were here and all was well.
Except with Mary Morrison, owner of the 'Bide a While' campsite on the west coast, who was in deep trouble. The trouble had been coming a while and for a long time was merely a small dark cloud on the horizon, easily ignored as it grew. Now the storm was here, although all around her the sun shone and a mild breeze blew.
Mary was Skelpay born and bred but at eleven years old, went to the mainland during the week for her secondary schooling, did exceptionally well as the island children often did and then was 'away south' to university. Then it was working in offices, laptops, meetings, networking and all the wiles and wherefores of modern city life. She came back from time to time, and called the Island 'home'... those who had this belief and followed this practice outnumbered the actual population many times over.
Her mother had died when she was a baby, a sudden illness and a peaceful parting they said. That left her father, already an older man, to carry on with the farm and the campsite in the steady unchanging rhythms of the island. He'd bent to the unexpected task of being an only parent, supported by the island, their people for generations unknown, and now he was gone too.
In a whirl Mary had returned to face the first major crisis of her young life. She had expected the full and warm traditional embrace of the bereaved from the community and her tears and longing for her childhood, now gone. At 25 she had not expected to suddenly decide to stay, to swiftly rent out much of the land to those who still farmed here and to pledge to continue with the campsite.
Her job in advertising was quickly done with, her city flat swiftly sold, friends and casual partners left behind, with fair promises to visit. Suddenly it was done and she was alone in the old stone farmhouse looking down at Skelpay's only campsite along the low cliffs above its finest beach.
This is where the trouble really began. She could have carried on with the settled routine of the business, the quiet couples and families who came year after year; the security... the boredom! Instead Mary wanted to bring the modern world to Skelpay. She thought about its branding, its Unique Selling Point. She looked at the beach and the long rolling waves and thought about the island becoming a magnet for surfers, paragliders, scuba divers and the whole maritime leisure crew and how many of these folk would need the services of her site.
With her intelligence, drive and marketing skills it was easy, and within a year the visitors to Skelpay grew in number and changed in character. They were young, exuberant, irreverent and often, it has to be said, noisy and drunk! There were nocturnal cavortings, fires on the beach, impromptu concerts, scandalous sights and strange herbal aromas.
Many of the locals looked on this change philosophically, pocketing the cash the wave of visitors brought with them and looking forward to quieter times in the winter. Heads were quietly shaken in the Skelpay Hotel bar and the village shop as the visitors' money rolled in.
Others were more disturbed and took to having 'wee chats' with Mary about her increasingly wild campsite. These complaints were mildly expressed, as is the island way, but were unmistakable. "Oh Mary, the site's doing so well now but I just thought that perhaps those lads and lassies need a wee bit more sleep..."
The problem was that Mary was actually out of her depth now, overwhelmed by her success. There were rules, of course, but when they were broken, blatantly ignored, she found she could do little but bleat ineffectually. She was painfully aware of the gulf opening up between her and her people, between her success and their way of life. She knew something had to change, but what and how?
Now the cloud had grown and the storm was here. Last night one of the young women staying at the site, rowdy drunk at 9.00 pm, and on a Sunday too, had been mildly upbraided by one of a famous local spinster trio, Miss Ellie McPherson, and the young woman had responded by swearing, showing the outraged matriarch her middle finger and then had turned around and 'mooned' her and her two friends, the misses Ethel and Annie Cameron.
Mary had happened upon the end of this scene, passed in the village street by a cackling crew, all from her campsite, laughing at the miscreant's temerity.
Miss McPherson said, "Now Mary, this has gone too, too far - did you see what that brazen hussy just did? It's a disgrace!"
Mary, overwhelmed, agitated, distressed and feeling judged saw a red mist descend and suddenly let loose a torrent of abuse at the trio, a flood which included phrases like "old busybodies," "shrivelled prunes" and "witches' coven" ... a raging river of insult which left the three open mouthed, outraged and stunned into silence.
Now the morning had come, the mist had blown away and Mary knew she was in deep trouble, feeling sad and sorry for herself. She also knew the island, and if she could not find a way out of the mess she was in, she was all but finished there.
At that moment the phone rang. "Bide a While Campsite here, how can I help you?"
A quiet, lilting voice said, "Oh Mary, it's Dr. Ferguson here. I was just wondering if we could perhaps have a little chat sometime this morning."
Dr Angus Ferguson was the Minister of the island's Kirk and Mary correctly understood his apparently mild request as a peremptory command. It had to be about last night's events. Her breath was fluttering, her face grew hot and her legs shook as she agreed to be at the manse within the hour.
Angus Ferguson was a bachelor in his late fifties; a spare, wiry figure with greying hair and a lined weathered face. He looked like he was made of teak and iron but spoke in the characteristic mild tones of the Hebrides; a man of regular, modest habits, of tweed and brogues and long rambles across the island.
Miss McPherson had indeed rung him immediately and several others had done so too. This was the scandal of the year, without doubt! He promised to "have a wee word" with Mary and the island awaited his wisdom.
He sighed and thought about the often difficult work his vocation called on him to do, to restore harmony and respect to this small community, so easily riven by contention. He sat in his book bound study, in his great overstuffed armchair and thought about Mary Morrison, her campsite and their challenges to the ways of the island. It was no good, he'd have to take her under his wing and guide her out of the maze she was in, if she'd let him.
Mary was sighing too as she slowly rode her bike up the hill to the dour Victorian manse. Most of the village had seen her cycle through; a fair-skinned, lightly freckled beauty with a mane of red hair loosely tied up. She was dressed in her working clothes: black leggings, lumberjack shirt and a dull red jacket.
She sensed a coldness in the greetings of those she passed. She knew her behaviour had been reported, dissected, judged and juried by them all. She flushed with shame and then chilled with worry about whether things could be made right. She knew the Minister of old, a deceptively mild man with firm beliefs and an iron core. Perhaps he was going to tell her, diffidently but unarguably, that she really had no place here anymore. What would she do?
She left her bike by the gate and trailed listlessly up the path to the big, dark door where she hefted the knocker and heard it echo within. Mrs Loach, the 60 something part-time housekeeper, cook, cleaner, museum curator, event organiser and full-time gossip and interfering nuisance opened the door and surveyed her coldly.
"Oh, it's yourself, Mary Margaret Morrison! Well you'd better come in, the doctor's been waiting on you."
Mary's thought her spirits were already as low as they could be but experienced a further sinking at this hostility. A cold ball of dread lay in her stomach as she meekly followed the formidable Mrs Loach down the fusty corridor to the Minister's study.
"Oh, Mary," he said gently, "it's fine to see you, thank you so much for taking the time. Now Mrs Loach, I think some tea and biscuits would be appreciated."
Mrs Loach gave a martyred nod, as if tea and biscuits were the last thing Mary's presence called for. Mary took a slightly lower seat opposite the Minister and they passed a few minutes in idle chat about the weather until the clinking tray arrived and Mrs Loach left them, closing the heavy door behind her.
Tea was poured and sipped and biscuits were nibbled. There was a sudden heavy silence broken by the Minister gently enquiring, "Now Mary, what is all this fuss I hear about last night?"
Mary took an enormous breath and her woes poured out like the water at the Eas Mor. She told him all about her plans for the campsite and dreams for the island, her successes and the trouble it had brought her.
She was on the edge of tears as she told him about her apparently futile attempts to keep the site calm and orderly, the ridicule and defiance she had suffered from her rowdy customers, and finally the shame of last night; the humiliation of one of her campers behaving so badly and then her own shame at her loss of self control, and the utterly unacceptable way she had talked to the three spinsters.
The Minister nodded along, muttering "dear, dear" from time to time and making little shocked sucking noises as a particularly flagrant incident was described. He sounded cross but in fact was pleased that she knew how bad things were. It would make his job much easier.
Mary finished in a tearful gasp. "Oh, what can I do? It's such a mess! I'm sorry, I am!"
"Now, now Mary, I'm sure this can be made right, perhaps even made better."
"How?"
"Well, first there are amends to be made and then plans for the future. It seems to me that at the heart of things you've mixed up island ways with mainland ways. So you've used your branding and such to get these folk here and then treated them as if they're islanders - you know quietly suggesting it's a wee bit late and would they mind and perhaps this and perhaps that..."
"I need to be firmer and clearer you mean?"
"Aye, from the start and not just you - we all need to set out who we are and what we expect. So perhaps if you have a wee word."
Mary felt her mood lifting; she suddenly saw a way forward. I'll do that; I know exactly what to do and who I'll speak to. We need a leaflet, some signs, an Island Code, that sort of thing! Thank you, thank you. What about the amends? That young woman is going to get a piece of my mind, I can tell you, and I'll apologise to Miss McPherson and her friends."
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