Free The Loud Halo by Lillian Beckwith Page B

seemed to want very little from their government. There was no appeal voiced for factories to provide regular employment, no general desire for larger crofts, no agitation for higher pensions. Perhaps it was because in the cosy atmosphere of the ceilidhs the Bruachites were entirely honest with themselves. They did not want the discipline of industry in addition to that already imposed on them by storms and rides. Their crofts were as large as they could comfortably manage without mechanical aids. On the matter of pensions they kept wisely silent for in Bruach there was no pride about receiving Public Assistance. Rather was it a source of rivalry to see who could wheedle the most out of the authorities and at times one got the distinct impression that the recipients regarded the payments as in the nature of prize money for the best storyteller. Their avarice was both shocking and amusing and I well remember an occasion when, as I was waiting to board the train at the mainland station en route for a visit to Glasgow, I had suddenly been hailed by a lady whom I knew had been drawing Public Assistance for years. She was dressed neatly in black with touches of that sparkling whiteness I believe only Highland rainwater can impart to a fabric, and had I not known her I should have thought from her dignified bearing and the quiet authoritativeness of her manner that she was at least a duchess. We greeted each other cordially and agreed it would be nice to travel together.
    â€˜There are some empty compartments down there,’ I said, including my head towards the rear of the train.
    My companion gazed at me with sorrow and surprise. ‘Oh, but those are all second-class compartments down there,’ she told me. ‘You’ll surely not be travelling second class, will you, Miss Peckwitt?’
    â€˜Why, yes,’ I replied, ‘Aren’t you?’
    â€˜Oh, no, mo ghaoil,’ she responded without a trace of embarrassment. ‘I always think one meets such common people travelling second class.’ She scanned the train and then turned to me again. ‘Will you not change your ticket?’ she begged with affected concern, for she had just spotted a more desirable acquaintance who was beckoning to her from the genteel end of the train.
    â€˜No,’ I said firmly. She shook her head in mock reproof but her mouth relaxed into a lenient smile as we parted, she to step regally into a first-class compartment while I wilted into a second.
    I recall too the time when there came to reside temporarily in Bruach an old lady whom the Bruachites invariably referred to as ‘yon rich old fool’. However when the ‘rich old fool’ had been in the village for some months she revealed, with a discernible pride in her achievement, that she too had joined the ranks of those receiving Public Assistance. The crofters were scandalised and her revelation was tossed from person to person along with comments that were as disparagingly hostile as if she had gatecrashed an exclusive club. Of course they never for an instant believed that she was not still a rich old woman; but I never again heard anyone refer to her as a fool!
    Though I once heard of a crofter who was too proud to accept Public Assistance or to allow his wife to accept it whilst he was alive, the story was accepted by the rest of the Bruachites with the same mocking half belief as they accepted such tales as of the man who had grown a third leg and of a child who had been buried out on the unhallowed moor because it was born with two heads.
    It was not long before we began to hear of various election meetings being held in neighbouring villages more accessible from the mainland than Bruach itself, and if there was a pub and the owner of the bus could be persuaded to run a cheap trip then there was always a fair contingent from Bruach willing to listen courteously to anyone who might care to practise his rhetoric upon them. They would titter at