ties to the earth. Some of the Scots performers were so small they could barely hop across the swords laid flat on the grass, and some had to be tugged back and forth in the ritual patterns by their older sisters. Watching the trite, earnest routines, Bea beside Bech acquired a tranced smile; tears had appeared in her blue eyes without canceling the smile, an unsurprising combination in this climate where sun and shower and rainbow so swiftly alternated. In the sheltered bleachers where they sat they seemed the only tourists; the rest were mothers and fathers and uncles, with children’s raincoats in their laps. As Bech and Bea returned to their hotel, the still-twilit sky, full of hastening clouds, added some drops of silver to the rippling river that looked as pure as soda water, though it was fed by the black loch.
Next day they dared drive left-handedly along the crowded coast road north, through Dingwall and Tain, Dornoch and Golspie. At Dunrobin Castle, a downpour forbade that they descend into the famous formal gardens; instead they wandered unattended through room after paneled room, past portraits and stag horns and framed photographs of turn-of-the-century weekends—the Duke of Sutherland and his guests in white flannels, holding tennis rackets like snow-shoes. “
Its
name
,” Bech read to Bea from the guidebook, “
may
mean ‘Robin’s Castle,’ after Robert, the sixth Earl of Sutherland,whose wife was a daughter of the barbarous Alexander, Earl of Buchan, a younger son of King Robert II and known as ‘The Wolf of Badenoch
.’ Now there’s history,” he said. “ ‘The barbarous Alexander.’ The third Duke of Sutherland,” he went on, paraphrasing, “was the largest landowner in Western Europe. Almost the whole county of Sutherland, over a million acres. His father and grandfather were responsible for the Clearances. They pushed all these poor wee potato farmers out so they could graze sheep—the closest thing to genocide in Europe up to Hitler, unless you count the Armenians in Turkey.”
“Well, don’t blame me,” Bea said. “I was just a Sinclair.”
“It was a man called John Sinclair who brought the Cheviot sheep north into Caithness.”
“My mother’s branch left around 1750.”
“The Highlanders were looked at the same way the Victorians saw the Africans—savage, lazy, in need of improvement. That’s what they called it, kicking the people out and replacing them with sheep. Improvement.”
“Oh look, Henry! Queen Victoria slept in this bed. And she left her little lace gloves.”
The bed had gilded posts but looked hard and small. Bech told Bea, “You really don’t want to face it, do you? The atrocities a castle like this is built on.” He heard his sore-headed father in him speaking, and closed his mouth abruptly.
Bea’s broad maternal face was flustered, pink, and damp in the humidity as rain slashed at the leaded windows overlooking the North Sea. “Well I hadn’t thought to face it
now
, just because I’m a little bit Scotch.”
“Scots,” he corrected.
“The Sinclairs didn’t order the Clearances, they were victims like everybody else.”
“They had a castle,” Bech said darkly.
“Not since the seventeenth century,” Bea said back.
“I want to see the Strath Naver,” he insisted. “That’s where the worst of the Clearances were.”
Back in the car, they looked at the map. “We can do it,” Bea said, her wifely composure restored. “Go up through Wick and then around John o’Groats and over through Thurso and then down along the Strath Naver to Lairg. Though there won’t be much to see, just empty land.”
“That’s the point,” Bech said. “They moved the poor crofters out and then burned their cottages. It was the women, mostly, who resisted. The sheriff’s men got drunk and whacked them on the head with truncheons and kicked them in their breasts.”
“It was a terrible, terrible thing,” Bea said, gently outflanking him. Her
Next day they dared drive left-handedly along the crowded coast road north, through Dingwall and Tain, Dornoch and Golspie. At Dunrobin Castle, a downpour forbade that they descend into the famous formal gardens; instead they wandered unattended through room after paneled room, past portraits and stag horns and framed photographs of turn-of-the-century weekends—the Duke of Sutherland and his guests in white flannels, holding tennis rackets like snow-shoes. “
Its
name
,” Bech read to Bea from the guidebook, “
may
mean ‘Robin’s Castle,’ after Robert, the sixth Earl of Sutherland,whose wife was a daughter of the barbarous Alexander, Earl of Buchan, a younger son of King Robert II and known as ‘The Wolf of Badenoch
.’ Now there’s history,” he said. “ ‘The barbarous Alexander.’ The third Duke of Sutherland,” he went on, paraphrasing, “was the largest landowner in Western Europe. Almost the whole county of Sutherland, over a million acres. His father and grandfather were responsible for the Clearances. They pushed all these poor wee potato farmers out so they could graze sheep—the closest thing to genocide in Europe up to Hitler, unless you count the Armenians in Turkey.”
“Well, don’t blame me,” Bea said. “I was just a Sinclair.”
“It was a man called John Sinclair who brought the Cheviot sheep north into Caithness.”
“My mother’s branch left around 1750.”
“The Highlanders were looked at the same way the Victorians saw the Africans—savage, lazy, in need of improvement. That’s what they called it, kicking the people out and replacing them with sheep. Improvement.”
“Oh look, Henry! Queen Victoria slept in this bed. And she left her little lace gloves.”
The bed had gilded posts but looked hard and small. Bech told Bea, “You really don’t want to face it, do you? The atrocities a castle like this is built on.” He heard his sore-headed father in him speaking, and closed his mouth abruptly.
Bea’s broad maternal face was flustered, pink, and damp in the humidity as rain slashed at the leaded windows overlooking the North Sea. “Well I hadn’t thought to face it
now
, just because I’m a little bit Scotch.”
“Scots,” he corrected.
“The Sinclairs didn’t order the Clearances, they were victims like everybody else.”
“They had a castle,” Bech said darkly.
“Not since the seventeenth century,” Bea said back.
“I want to see the Strath Naver,” he insisted. “That’s where the worst of the Clearances were.”
Back in the car, they looked at the map. “We can do it,” Bea said, her wifely composure restored. “Go up through Wick and then around John o’Groats and over through Thurso and then down along the Strath Naver to Lairg. Though there won’t be much to see, just empty land.”
“That’s the point,” Bech said. “They moved the poor crofters out and then burned their cottages. It was the women, mostly, who resisted. The sheriff’s men got drunk and whacked them on the head with truncheons and kicked them in their breasts.”
“It was a terrible, terrible thing,” Bea said, gently outflanking him. Her
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