The Silver Darlings (30 page)

The door opened and she entered with a smile.

“Here is a packet of sandwiches for the road, seeing you cannot stay for a meal. I quite understand your hurry to be home.”

He accepted the sandwiches but remained in an intense awkwardness, making no effort to move. “I forgot,” he said in a low voice, “that—that—I forgot—I have no money.” Then he raised his face and looked past her. She saw that his teeth were shut against the movement of his features. “We have money,” he said, “at home. I—I'll come back to-morrow.”

She looked as if she might walk out abruptly again, but the doctor appeared in the doorway and glanced at his wife's eyes. Her mouth gave a humoured twist that he knew, and she remarked, “He forgot all about money. He says he will walk back to-morrow with it.”

There was a moment's silence. “Good God,” he said. “Haven't I told you the soft disease your folk will die of? Tell him,” he added, with a wry humour, “that we usually send a bill.” He turned to Finn and stretched out his hand. “Good-bye. If you save your mother, it'll cost you
nothing
.” And away he went.

Then she ctretched out her hand. Finn called on his last resources, looked at her eyes, and thanked her. After that he did not see anything very distinctly, until Wick was behind him.

CHAPTER XIII

ORDEAL BY PLAGUE

W
hen Catrine heard the ghost-voice calling “Mother”, she turned her head and saw her son’s face, ghostly enough, in the dim
night-light
. He came to within a few yards of her and stopped.

“I have come back from Wick,” he said. “I saw the doctor. Two doctors. I have got the stuff here, Mother, and I want you to understand how to use it.” His voice was eager. She leaned against the door-jamb. Something in her attitude struck him. “How is Granny?”

“She has just died.”

There was a silence. “How are you yourself?” he asked at last.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t give in, Mother.” His low voice rose like an urgent cry. “Don’t you give in. Listen to me.” He came nearer, but she gestured him off.

The urgency in his voice caught an edge of distress, almost of anger. He began to explain the use of the
powders
. He emphasized the instruction “at the very first signs” of “the dysentery”. He repeated it. As he carried himself beyond the knowledge of his Granny’s death, his tone grew commanding. “Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t give in, Mother.” Now he was fighting for her. He knew she could not speak. “The powders will cure
anyone
, the doctor said. You must think of yourself now, Mother. There’s nothing else to do. It’s no good giving in. I’ll lay them here. Come and take them.”

She stepped slowly from the door and lifted the two packets. He explained that one had Granny written on it. That packet was for “the advanced stage”. She would not need to use that.

She wept as she turned to the door and gripped the jamb, her back to him. The tears started streaming down his own face, but he stood still and silent.

When her mind was cleared she faced him again. A
profound
intimacy flowed between them. An eagerness as of happiness went mounting into his head.

“Do you know what they told me besides?”

She waited.

“We won’t have to burn down the house!”

It was while he was explaining what had to be done to the house “when it was all over” that she found her voice, and the intimacy between them developed quickly into an air of conspiracy, of hope. They grew eager. Their voices trembled. They smiled.

He told her of the kindness of the doctor’s wife and the sandwiches of white bread with meat in them. “The bread was white as snow. Oh, it was good! I went in over a dyke just this side of Bruan and began to eat it, and I couldn’t stop until I had eaten it all. Then I’m thinking I fell asleep, though it didn’t seem a minute.”

He had never spoken to her like this since they herded the cows together on the braes, and when he gave a small chuckle, she responded, urging him on, drinking in his words, like parched land a warm rain.

Presently he said, “Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mother: I’ll sleep in the little barn to-night and then if you need me I’ll be at hand.”

“No, no, you’ll go to Roddie’s and get a great sleep. You need that, and I’ll see you in the morning. I’m not frightened to be with Granny now. After all, Finn, she was kind to us. And wait till I tell you.” And she told him of the letter and the money that she had put behind a loose stone just round the barn door on the right. “It’s about as
high as your shoulder and the second stone. Wasn’t that kind of Granny?”

“It was, indeed,” said Finn.

“It’s not only mine. It’s yours. And no-one else’s. You understand that?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Well, now, you must away. Poor lad, you must be sleeping on your feet. But, oh, you’ll never know what good you did to me! I’ll do everything you told me. I promise that. Now go, and good night to you, Finn.”

Finn got up—and stood silent. Then he said, “I want to sleep in the little barn.”

It was the old moody voice of the child. She could have laughed. “I have been out and in there too much. No, no, we mustn’t spoil everything now. So off you go. And I’ll be looking for you in the morning.”

“Are you sure—you won’t be frightened?”

“No, no. Off you go.”

“All right, then.”

“Finn!”

The moodiness went from his voice, as he said again, “All right. Good night, Mother.”

“Goodnight, Finn.”

She watched him disappear, and stole down to the
byre-end
to see if she could get one more glimpse of him.

Now that the tension had relaxed, Finn felt extremely tired and could hardly drag his feet up the steep slope by the wood. Once he had to stop, his heart was beating so strongly, more than after any race he had ever run. When he drew near Roddie’s house, he paused and sat down on a heap of stones, withdrawn into the dark of the night. If he went into the house, he would only wake them all up. Instead, he could slip into the barn and curl up in the straw; then he could tell them what had happened in the morning.

His Granny was dead. He should tell them now; should tell Roddie, anyway. There was such a great reluctance on him to do this, that he sat on the stones until he began to
shiver and his head to droop. As he came by the house the dog growled inside and gave a suppressed bark. He was a young dog and not well trained.

Impelled by a strange numbness, he lifted the latch of the door and entered quietly. At once Mrs. Sinclair’s voice, low but clear, came from the kitchen: “Is that you, Finn?”

She was back in the kitchen bed with her husband, and a part of Finn’s mind wondered if they had left it so that Roddie could raise the neid-fire. It was very dark, and he could not see the bed. “How did you get on?” she asked anxiously.

“Fine. Granny is no more.”

“O sorrow on us!” she cried in a broken voice, and uttered other sad words.

“When did the change come?” asked the old man.

“A little ago,” answered Finn.

Then he heard Roddie stirring in the next room. Mrs. Sinclair was for getting up to make something hot for Finn, but he said he had eaten plenty and would not hear of it. Roddie came behind him in the dark and said, “It’s all right, Mother. I’ll go over.”

Back in the darkness of the inner room, Roddie asked Finn questions, and got quiet answers, as he drew on his clothes. “Now, boy,” he said in a kind but sensible voice, “you slip into my warm place and I’ll go over and watch the house through the darkness and see that everything is all right.”

“I’m not tired,” said Finn.

“You must be,” said Roddie. “That was a terrific
journey
in the time. You’ve done all you could, if any boy ever did it.”

When Roddie went out, Finn began taking off his clothes. There was now so terrible a lethargy upon him that he could hardly move his arms. His mother should have let him sleep in the little barn. He shouldn’t have come back here to Roddie’s. He should have kept watch
himself. Roddie would be over yonder now, talking to his mother.

All the anxiety, the keenness, the hope that led him on—all went blank in his mind, like a blown-out flame. He felt lonely and outcast. He was terribly tired. His eyes filled and the tears spilled over. His mouth smothered a sob in the bolster and, letting his world go, he sank slowly into the sleep of exhaustion.

In the evening six men brought a black coffin and left it on the bier by the doorstep; then they withdrew a few yards and, led by Sandy Ware, engaged in worship. From where he lay hidden in the bushes, Finn recognized the men, including Roddie. There were some old women, with black shawls round their heads, at a little distance. When the voices rose in the metrical version of Psalm cxxi: “I to the hills will lift mine eyes,” Catrine appeared. Eyes glanced at her and the singing died down. As she stooped and, lifting one end of the coffin, began drawing it into the house, the singing swelled. Finn heard the high keening cries of the dark women. The sight of his mother, clear in her purpose, fine in her courage, affected him so strongly that he gripped the withies and bit on the grass.

During the morning he had felt quiet and kept to
himself
. This seemed natural enough and, anyway, Roddie was making arrangements for a hurried funeral and was absent most of the day. In the afternoon, he had curled up on top of the knoll in the House of Peace, There was a weary, drugged feeling in his body, as if tiredness from the journey was only now overtaking him.

Late in the evening he was careful to see his mother alone. She was so pale and quiet in her manner that her smile was at once very friendly and yet detached.

“You’re not worrying about me, are you?” she asked.

“No.”

“That’s good, because there’s no need—not so far,” and she glanced at him. There was a humour in her glance,
personal
to them both, like a game of understanding. Finn felt deeply heartened.

When they had spoken for a little time, she said, “There may be one or two keeping the wake during the night, but I would like you to come by yourself in the early morning. I would like to have you near me. Could you do that?”

“Yes,” said Finn. “Of course.”

After that he met Roddie and was happier with him than he had been for a long time. Some of the old admiration came back.

“If your mother doesn’t object, you must come to sea with the skimmer. Would you like that?”

“I would,” answered Finn at once.

The dry, crinkling smile came to Roddie’s eyes. “Special is getting anxious!”

Finn suddenly remembered that Roddie should have been at sea and looked at him.

“I made the others go without me,” remarked Roddie.

Finn looked down. He was strangely moved. Roddie had stayed to help his mother.

Between three and four in the morning he relieved Roddie. “Your mother must be asleep, I think,” Roddie said, “so don’t make much noise. I’ll turn in for an hour or two.”

Finn was glad to be alone in the thin bright light of the early morning, and listened to a singing lark and looked now and then at the house. Presently his mother appeared. She had wakened from a few hours’ deep sleep and her hair was rumpled. There was a faint flush in her face. She was obviously pleased when she found he was all alone.

After they had talked awhile, she said, “I put Granny in her coffin last night. Poor Granny, she wasn’t heavy. Then I put the lid on and fitted in the nails. But I can’t turn them far. They’re sticking up.”

“Wait,” said Finn, thinking quickly. “What about
taking
the coffin out now? It’s a fine morning and certainly won’t rain before the funeral.”

“Yes,” Catrine agreed, “we might do that. I’ll try and drag it out. I have it on chairs beside the bed.”

“Wait,” said Finn. “You mustn’t strain yourself.” He ran down to the little barn and returned with a large round ball of heather rope. With Finn hauling on the rope and Catrine pushing on her knees, they brought the coffin finally through the door and on to the bier, which Finn had set all ready. “We’ll take it over the grass a short way,” said Finn, and bent to the rope on his shoulder like a young horse.

“Now I’ll tidy up and get everything ready,” said Catrine, and with a smile to her son hurried back into the house.

After looking at the nails, Finn wandered down to the barn and returned with Kirsty’s reaping hook. It was thin enough near the point to fit the slot in the nail, and Finn was giving a last turn to the last nail when the point bent a second time. As he straightened it between two stones it broke. He gazed at it in dismay. He had been happy because of the eager living look that had come into his mother’s face. The blade was worn almost to the backbone. It was done for now. He gazed at the black box and his fear, his hidden hatred, of it parted like a dark mist and he thought: poor Granny! and all but wept.

The burial-ground was over three miles away and men bore the coffin on its long-handled bier upon their
shoulders
, relieving one another at short intervals. Roddie had provided whisky and oatcake and cheese, and as he poured each man a dram after the interment, Finn came behind him with the bread and cheese. It was the old custom, and the bearers needed the refreshment. The parish minister who had conducted the service outside the house, needed it more than most, for he was hardly off his feet these black days. They spoke soberly, with the restraint that suggested they would go on burying the dead as long as two of them were left. No frightfulness of death would break their
strength. Finn felt this, the quiet communion of men. No women ever came to the graveyard.

As Roddie and Finn returned in the late afternoon—for they had helped with another funeral—they half expected to see some of the furniture outside Catrine’s door. There was, however, no sign of life. She appeared in the doorway as they approached, looking pinched and ill, but smiling, and warned them off. “I’ve been scrubbing and I’m tired. I’m going to bed to sleep without waking. Don’t disturb me till the morning. But I’ll tell you one thing I’ve taken a fancy for: dulse. I’m longing for something tonic like that. Bring it in salt-water.”

They laid a bucket full of dulse and sea-water quietly by the door in the late evening. They said to each other that the request was a hopeful sign, but Finn wondered why she had wanted salt-water.