On the Island (4 page)

7

I
AIN AND
K
ENNETH
stood at the plank waiting for the bus to appear over the brae. It was nine in the morning and there was a blue haze over the ground though the grass was still wet. They were both dressed in brown woollen suits which their mother had knitted for them and there were tie pins at their throats. Their stomachs were uneasy with excitement which they relieved by kicking at the little stones of the road with their highly polished black shoes.

Suddenly Iain saw the big red lumbering bus appearing over the top of the brae and he ran up the path to the house shouting to his mother to come, for he was desperately frightened that the bus might leave without them. She appeared slowly, dressed in black and carrying her black handbag in her gloved right hand, while Kenneth was shouting from the foot of the path, “Hurry up hurry up,” and dancing on the road with frustration. Their mother shut the door behind her, though she did not bother to lock it (for no one ever stole anything from the village houses), and then was walking down the path, Iain running ahead of her, as if escorting her, and now and then turning his head to see if she was still there. She had arrived at the plank when the bus stopped with a great creaking of brakes, the driver looking down from his seat, his foot still on the clutch. Their mother climbed into the bus first, followed by Kenneth and Iain, and then the bus set off, leaving the village behind it.

Iain sat in a seat by himself while in front of him his mother and Kenneth sat together. He was watching through the window everything that he could see, the scarred peat banks near the road, the houses which were still quiet and sleepy, the people waiting at the side of the road at the bus stops, the fields of corn which were golden under the sun now beginning to break through the haze. Now and again he would put his hand in his pocket to make sure that the money which had been given him was still there. He also had two shillings which had been given him by Mrs Macleod who stayed next door to them and for whom he often ran messages.

The bus lumbered on, the driver now and again leaning sideways from his seat to accept parcels from people who appeared at the side of the road, spoke to him a little and then disappeared as quickly as they had come. Iain thought that the driver was like a god looking down at them from his throne, dressed in his navy blue uniform. He always eased the clutch with such royal confidence, not looking down at all, but merely gazing ahead of him through the window. Iain wished more than anything to be like the driver but knew somehow that he would never have that confidence, that careless smiling poise. An old woman with parcels appeared beside him and he moved closer to the window, through which he could see Kenneth peering. Their mother, however, clutching her handbag, stared straight ahead of her without moving, only now and then telling Kenneth to be still.

Hurry up, hurry up, Iain was telling the bus in an undertone, almost as if it were a huge awkward animal that could understand what he was saying. But the bus kept to its stately pace, often stopping while more and more people climbed on, and through the window Iain could see men with scythes making their way down to the fields. Sometimes they would turn and wave and their scythes would flash in the sun which was now glittering on the window panes.

Finally, Iain knew that they were approaching the town, for there were more houses, there were fewer fields, and he could see tall dirty buildings belching smoke, and smell odd smells which he could not identify but which were very strong. They were like the rotten smells from old fish which were decaying in the middle of the smoke. They passed what looked like a school though the playground was empty as it was a Saturday; and then the bus had turned a corner past the cinema and it was moving slowly and steadily to its resting place on the pier. And there was the town in front of them, with seagulls flying above it, and the multitude of shops, and the sea with its fishing boats.

Soon the three of them were standing on the stone pier and Iain and Kenneth, their mother close behind them, went and looked at the fishing boats whose masts were like a forest of trees climbing out of the sea. They read the names of the boats rapturously, the
Sea Eagle
, the
Swallow
, the
Good Hope
, the
Water Baby
and saw these reflected swayingly in the water as in a continuously moving mirror. They saw too the slim masts and the ropes reflected, and on the decks they saw the orange buoys and the green nets. On the pier were boxes of fish and standing beside them, now and again pecking lazily and absent-mindedly at the bones of herring lying on the quay, were the seagulls, some of them with red spots on their beaks like drops of blood. Across the water they could see the castle standing among the woods with its white stony towers.

“Come on,” said their mother, and they set off for the town.

There were so many people on the pavements that at first Iain and Kenneth stayed very close to their mother, but as time passed she would have to stop now and then in order to tell them to hurry up. They found themselves in shops where the smell of apples was almost overpowering as they nestled redly, in their boxes, among straw. They were each given an ice-cream cone whose coldness froze their teeth with the most delicious pain. They stood impatiently beside their mother as she stopped and talked at what seemed interminable length to friends of hers whom she had not seen for years, themselves in from the country for a day, and all of them wearing black coats and black hats. They peered in at the windows of the toy shops and once Iain found himself in a bookshop where he would have stayed for a long time reading
Answers
and
Titbits
, if his mother hadn't pulled him away to a clothes shop where they had to stand for hours among mirrors while she studied a black hat which at the end of it all she didn't even buy; and all the time as she turned the black hat over and over in her hand Iain could see through the shop door the people passing, the seagulls flying, and the castle towering and white in the distance across the river.

It was about midday when Kenneth saw the toy horse in the window. It was large, shiny and brown, with brown tassels for reins running along it. It stood lightly in the window as if it were ready to set off somewhere, completely on its own, riderless and free, its head raised proudly, even though the bit was in its mouth. The light of the sun shining directly on it made it appear fluid and animated, as if it were composed not of wood but of a powerful energetic substance akin to light itself; and its hooves hardly seemed to touch the wood on which it rested among the dolls, the teddy bears, the squirrels, all dominated by its playful hauteur.

“I want it,” said Kenneth, standing at the window and dancing up and down. “I want it. I want the horse.”

His mother tugged at his hand, looking round her in embarrassment and then leaning down to speak to him in a fierce whisper.

But Kenneth was pressing his nose against the window, his little body trembling with rage and greed, while some of the passers-by looked at him in amusement, and his mother felt more and more conspicuous.

“You can't have it,” she told him in the same fierce whisper. “It's too expensive. We can't afford it.”

But Kenneth kept on shouting, “I want it, I want it. It's mine,” while his face grew redder and redder with rage. It was as if he could see himself already riding the horse to some secret destination of his own, while his mother was unfairly holding him back with her black gloved hands.

“You can't have it,” she insisted, trying to drag him away, but he was so fierce and strong that she could hardly move him, and when her effort to pull him raised him slightly in the air he was kicking his heels as if he were a fish struggling at the end of a rod.

And at that moment Iain had a strange vision. He saw his mother dressed in black wrestling with his brother and he realised as if for the very first time that they were poor, that they were really poor, and as if with horror and embarrassment he saw his mother's worn black gloves, with a darn on the right one, and he wished that he could run away and hide. But also as he looked at his mother's agonised embarrassed face, its thinness and its pallor, he was moved by such intense pity that he turned to Kenneth and said angrily, “You shut up. You can't have it. Don't be such a fool.” Kenneth looked at him open-mouthed as if the criticism of his behaviour were coming from a quarter that he couldn't at first identify, and then he burst into tears of rage and madness which were only relieved by a man stopping and giving him sixpence. Then the three of them walked on in silence, their mother now and again saying, “This is the last time I'll take you to town. I've a good mind to take you home on the one o'clock bus.” But they didn't go home on the one o'clock bus though the threat seemed powerful enough to quieten Kenneth at least for that time.

In fact after they had had their lunch in an Italian café, the two of them went to the cinema, leaving their mother to wander round the shops. They paid their money at the desk and walked together into the blackness which was only illuminated by the usherette's torch. Finally they found themselves side by side among others of their own age gazing at the screen which was showing the title of the film as they entered, written as if on a certificate.

It was a Western and they watched in wonder as the cowboy rode over the hill into the town, hitched his horse to a post on the street, and entered the saloon where someone was thumping a piano, and girls in their flounced dresses were dancing or putting their arms around unshaven men. They saw the crooked sheriff in the pay of the saloon-keeper order the cowboy out of town and tell him that his brother had deserved everything he had got. They knew that the cowboy wouldn't leave, though he pretended to, and when he was ambushed by the saloon-keeper's employees among the rocks and cactus trees on his way to what had apparently been his brother's ranch, they knew that he wouldn't be killed. Imprisoned by the crooked marshal, he broke out, with the help of one of the saloon girls. Framed for a murder which he hadn't committed, it seemed that at last the forces ranged against him were too strong.

The ending was all that they could have wished, the cowboy alone against the crooked marshal, the saloon-keeper and two of his men, shooting it out in a barn and finally on the street itself. Then there came the final music on the swell of which the cowboy, tall in the saddle, rode out of town having avenged his brother's murder. Either of them would have done that for the other and they each thought how they might do it, strong and firm and righteous, guns strapped to their sides, rolling slightly from side to side on their high-heeled boots in Wyoming or Texas.

They were curiously silent as they walked out of the cinema into the dazzling daylight, passing people on the pavement as if they were still in the Western town, and prepared to see horses being tied to posts and wagons rocking down the street.

As they walked along to meet their mother, the world was sparkling with images from the film they had just seen. Kenneth had forgotten all about his toy horse and was engaged with larger horses of his imagination. Then from a distance they saw their mother in her black coat waiting patiently on a bench by the sea, her few purchases by her side. Strolling towards her in the Western sun which shone red beyond her above the sea, Iain again experienced the same feeling of sorrow, for his mother looked so subdued and solitary sitting there, not as yet seeing them but gazing out at the water as if she had always been there and would always remain there in the same position. She looked so frail and black and lonely amongst all the passing traffic of the town that he suddenly said in a rough voice to Kenneth, “Come on, she's expecting us,” and the two of them raced towards their mother who suddenly looked up and saw them and rose from her seat as if transformed.

“You've been a long time,” she said reproachfully.

“The picture only finished just now,” said Kenneth angrily as if ready to start a quarrel again.

Iain didn't say anything. But when later as they were going home on the bus she told him to straighten his tie, he felt bad-tempered as if he didn't think she had any right to be giving him orders.

He sat in silence during most of the journey home, thinking of the film and especially of the part where the cowboy had left the town for the last time, and the music had grown louder and louder. In his mind's eye he watched the horse and rider disappearing over the hill into the distance and wished he could do the same.

“I bought you two chocolate mice,” said his mother later as she was unwrapping her few parcels.

“You and Kenneth have them,” said Iain, “you have them.” And though he would dearly have liked one of the chocolate mice himself he was happy to watch them eating them, happier than he had been in town. But still, another whole year, and he would go again.

8

O
NE DAY
I
AIN
and Daial went into an empty thatched house that was in the village, the rusty-hinged wooden door creaking as they entered. They stood silently in the main room in which there was an old bench that had fallen over and smelt the tang of musty straw which prickled their nostrils.

“Hey,” said Daial, “look up there.” When Iain looked up he was gazing straight at the sky, for much of the roof had gone and all they could see were ancient planks and rafters that seemed half burnt.

In the sky he could see the white clouds moving. The old house with its smell of smoke and straw felt weird as if part of it remained alive though it appeared dead and desolate, and once Daial had a great fright for when he thrust his head through a paneless window he found himself staring straight at a cow which was placidly gazing into the room, while chewing grass in its brown jaws.

“Whoosh,” he shouted in a high voice. “Whoosh,” and the cow withdrew its head and ambled away, its tail swinging lazily.

They found a jam jar, an old blue plate, and a box in which there was a variety of nuts and bolts in which Iain wasn't interested, though Daial was, for he had got himself a new bicycle which he had left leaning against the stone wall of the house. After a while Iain got bored and left him kneeling in the room, his small black head bent over the box, rummaging among the nuts, while he himself pushed aside the torn drape that separated the two rooms of the house and entered the bedroom.

In this room there was an old bed with clothes on it that had once been white but which were now damp and mouldy, shining faintly in the twilight created by the torn curtains.

Iain stood uncertainly in the middle of the room and gazed at the faint white pillows and faint white sheets in a silence that lapped like water round the cracked mirror and the one chair and the ancient dressing table which was sunk into a hollow of the floor. It was as if he had found himself in an underwater cave far from the traffic of the world, noiseless and eerie. As he turned and looked in the mirror which was on a wall facing the bed, a strange thing happened. In the cracked glass he saw a face which was not his own, and this face, broken and grained, was the face of an old woman with no teeth. Iain swung round, unable to speak or scream, and there, sitting upright in the bed, in a veil of cobwebs, her grained hands on the sheet in front of her, was a very old woman, so old that her face seemed hardly human. She wasn't looking at Iain at all, but down at the bed as if she was holding in her hands a plate which was invisible to the frightened gazing boy.

And then out of the silence she began to speak, her mouth making hissing sounds because she had no teeth, her bald head thrust out of her ragged nightgown.

“My food,” she was saying, “my food. Where is my food? No one brings me any food. You want me to die. That's why you don't bring me any food. I want my food. I used to bring you your food but you don't bring me any. Do you remember when you were young I would bring you your food. Why don't you?” And it seemed that tears coursed down her face, as she wove her hands together. “I wouldn't do this to you. When you were young I brought you your food but you want me to die. Well, it won't be long now. And you'll suffer for it. I hope you suffer and rot in hell.” And her hands came together as if she were squeezing something to death, a network of blue veins standing out on them, hard and coarse.

“I hate you,” she said in the same hissing voice. “I hate all of you. I told you not to marry him. I told you he was a drunkard and a waster. But no, you wouldn't listen, would you. You knew best, didn't you? And now he won't give me any food, he says he has no money. You should make him. But he's stronger than you. He's stronger than us.” And her voice changed and became pleading like that of a child, monotonous and peevish. “Please give me my food, my tea. He won't know. Don't be frightened of him. God will look after you. You're my daughter, aren't you. What are you doing? I gave you your food when you were young, when you were a baby. I did.” And her eyes became small and cunning. “I did. I fed you. You had the best food there was. You shouldn't have married him. I hate him. Stay with me. Why don't you stay with me?” And she rose slowly in the bed and stretched out her hands towards the invisible daughter and her mouth was a wide hole without teeth and her hands were veined with hard blue veins that stood out from the flesh, and her throat was as scraggy as that of an old hen.

In the twilight of the room Iain backed away against the dressing table, against the mirror, so that the dressing table toppled over and he fell down on top of it.

And then the woman's hands were on him as if she wished to strangle him, and in her eyes there was a crazy triumphant light, and it was as if she was emerging out of an old rotten net of cobwebs, and at that moment Iain screamed and screamed, and there was Daial standing at the torn drape looking down at Iain lying on the floor.

“What happened?” he said to Iain. “What happened? Did you fall?” Iain staggered out of the mad dream, seeing above him Daial's white healthy teeth and above them the sky with the white clouds racing past over the scorched rafters and the scanty straw.

“I'm all right,” he said. “I'm all right. I just fell.” The bed was again uninhabited, the pillows unwrinkled, the mirror without reflection.

As if he had forgotten all about the scream, Daial said, “Look what I found. It's a nut for a bicycle,” and held it out in his hand as if he were offering it as a gift to Iain. “See it? I can use that.”

“Very good,” said Iain, “very good.”

He made his way over the toppled dressing table and past the cracked mirror to the other room and then out into the fresh air, breathing it deeply into his lungs, and glancing briefly at the window of the bedroom lest he should see an old face at it. When he turned away again the village lay before him, quiet and normal, smoke rising from the chimneys of the houses, men and women working in the fields.

“Come on, then,” he said to Daial. The two of them walked to the main road, Daial pushing his bicycle along beside him. When they reached the road Iain said, “Can you give me a spin on your bike?”

When Daial said that he could Iain raced away at full speed, feeling the wind blowing his hair about, pedalling furiously as if he were escaping from something which had a smell of burnt straw, smoking timbers, and a deeper smell even than that, the smell of old rotten clothes and old rotten flesh, the smell of the grave itself.