THE year is 1968. It is midnight in blustery Stornoway town. A girl is setting off on the ferry Loch Seaforth from Stornoway to take up her new position in a hotel at Acharacle.
Just 15 years old, she braves the biting wind, the diesel fumes and the sickening sea swell all through the night until David MacBrayne’s venerable old tub reaches the malodorous port of Kyle of Lochalsh.
Still reeling from the voyage, the nauseous teenager finds the platform on which stands the hissing, spitting train that will take her south to deepest, darkest Lochaber.
It is the very first time she has been off Lewis. She knows no one around her. They all speak funny, she thought quietly to herself, which was a bit peculiar as the rest of the world thinks everyone back home on the peninsula of Point are the ones who speak like coughing ducks.
She steps aboard and sits at the seat nearest the door. She puts her luggage by her feet, ready to dash out on to the platform and begin her new life.
All these doubts are besetting her. Oooh, has she done the right thing? Will they manage the peats at home without her? When will she see that mechanic from Knock who is always winking at her?
At least her new boss said in his last letter that he would be at Lochailort station to pick her up. Thank goodness for that, she thought.
Amazed at the breathtaking views from the magnificent tree-enshrouded West Highland Line, just a wee bit different from what she left behind in Garrabost, she is anxious as the locomotive chugs into the station.
Lochailort station
Before it shudders to a halt, she is heaving her cases and ready to go. She pushes open the door and . . . oh, mo chreachsa thainig, where has the platform gone?
She peers down and sees a big drop to the ground. Can’t be the station? Yes, it is. There is nothing for it. She knows the train will not stay long. So she flings down the bags and, with her heart in her mouth, begins to clamber down the side of the filthy carriage.
By the time her feet eventually touch the stone chips, her clothes, nylons and hair are smudged in oil and dirt. Then, in a whirlwind of steam and exhaust fumes, the train clatters off into the green beyond.
What a stupid place to put a train stop, she thinks. There is nothing here. She hears a sound behind her and turns round. The platform and Lochailort railway station are there – on the other side of the track.
Then it hit her. She had got out on the wrong side of the train.
Up on the platform is a man in a collar and tie. He looks like a hotel owner waiting for his smart, new member of staff to arrive. Before they can even shake hands, the boss has to take her bags and then see her heave her skirt up before pulling her in the most inelegant fashion up on to the platform.
I tell you all this because I was away on the mainland myself last week and I bumped into the lady concerned. It happened 42 years ago and she is mortified even to this day. I am not allowed to name her. Shame, I know.
Things can go a bit awry for us Hebridean types when we go off-island for the first time. We’ve heard of crofters in hotels pushing doors marked Push, pulling doors marked Pull and scratching their heads when they get to the lift.
One of our Garrabost lady’s friends told another true story of several young Lewis girls away on the mainland and working in hotels in Perthshire. After working hard for a few weeks, the girls finally got a day off. Heading into the city itself, they went for a piece of shortbread and a wee strupag in a tearoom before deciding they would go shopping for dresses.
They would all need to have a new dress for when they returned home, you see. The coves in the Lido cafe in Stornoway would expect no less. As they would not be getting a lot of time off they would just choose their dresses that day. They would have them put aside until they had saved a little cash.
Window shopping was great fun but, sadly, all the dresses they fancied were a tad expensive. They began to think they would have been better buying them at home and paying half a crown a week to the traveller who came round door-to-door.
Then bingo. They found a great shop that had loads of lovely outfits on a rack in the window. In fact, this shop was really very different to the others. They had men’s boats and jackets too hanging alongside the most beautiful dresses and gowns. And the prices were out of this world. They could read the price tags from the street. None of the fabulous clothes on the rails were more than five shillings in the old money. Just 25p. In they went.
The girls excitedly chose a couple of dresses each and took them to the counter. They asked if they could put them aside for a few weeks.
The manageress seemed slightly puzzled. She asked if they actually owned the clothes they had chosen. Silly question, the girls thought. No, they didn’t own them – not yet. But they would in a few weeks.
In that case, no, they could not have them, declared the manageress. That was that.
Crestfallen, the girls put the dresses they had set their hearts on back on the hangers. They felt crushed and tearful.
“Just one thing,” the manageress asked, as they trooped out. “Do you know what shop this is?”
They all shook their heads in unison.
That was when the manageress shook her head too, and said softly: “This is Pullars of Perth. We are dry-cleaners.”
