The Silver Darlings (49 page)

One afternoon, as Finn and Roddie were walking
together
towards the shore, with their food-satchels under their arms, they saw Lexy cross the path in front of them on her way home. They stopped and, pretending they had not seen her, turned back. Roddie muttered under his breath. Finn felt a strangeness go over him and looked at stones and grass and the running water with a queer, arrested smile. The body grew very sensitive, as if the air were suddenly charged with invisible forces.

They walked back over half a mile, saying little, then separated, each going to his own home.

When Catrine saw Finn enter the door, her face went pale.

“It’s all right,” said Finn, laying the satchel on the table. “Lexy crossed our path.”

“Did she!” exclaimed Catrine.

For the witch to cross their path on their way to sea portended bad luck if not disaster.

Finn sat down on a chair and lifted his feet off the ground. Catrine, after standing still a moment, bustled about and brought him some milk and a piece of oatcake. “I
wondered
what had happened to you,” she said solemnly, but with a relieved air, too, as if nothing could be so bad as what one did not know yet half-feared.

When he was ready to depart again, she went out and scouted around to make sure Lexy was not in the vicinity. “Roddie is coming,” she said; then looked at him. “Take care of yourself, Finn.”

Finn laughed at her concentrated, concerned expression and went on his way.

They were lucky so far, too, in the absence of storms. Rarely a season passed but men and women lined the beach or the cliffs watching the boats fighting their way home. The weather was mixed and not always comfortable, but when the wind did suddenly blow up from the sou’-east it was on a Sunday.

Boats were hauled clean up over the edge of the beach on
which the waves smashed, flinging spume over the curing stations. The fishermen were grouped about their boats, or mending nets and attending to damaged gear, and in the evenings there would be a crowd in and round Hendry’s inn. Here George could be heard rolling out his figures of last season’s cure from Wick to Fraserburgh, and talking authoritatively of the Baltic trade.

Finn never spent an evening in Roddie’s company, going about with lads of his own age, like Donnie or Angie. Jim Dewar had a special liking for Finn and always got into his company if he could. One evening Jim and Donnie and Finn were standing by the river path, not far from the inn, when Jim cried, “What’s this I see before me?” Finn turned. Una and Meg and Betz, the gutting crew, were coming
towards
them at a short distance, obviously on their way home.

“I’m going,” said Finn.

“Don’t be a fool,” replied Jim. “We’ll have some fun.” He caught Finn by the arm. All in a blinding moment Finn wanted to strike him. But Donnie was in his way, laughing, asking him not to leave. “They’ll think you’re running away!” And now it was too late.

“Finn was wanting to make off when he saw you
coming
!” Jim greeted the girls. “Look at him! He’s blushing!”

Finn, feeling murderous, tried to smile. A whelming desire came upon him to walk away. His mouth said, “I’m not blushing.”

They roared with laughter, the girls excitedly. It made the meeting easy and amusing for them.

Finn’s brows gathered over his unnatural smile. His eyes were glancing stormily and he was on the point of saying, “I must see Roddie,” and stalking off, when Meg
remarked
, “Never you mind, Finn. He’s always being very clever, by his own way of it.”

“Mind who?” asked Finn.

Jim leaned back, laughing, and cleared his throat which was afflicted with phlegm.

“Him,” answered Meg, with a sarcastic glance at Jim.

“Oh, him!” said Finn. “Hmf!”

They all laughed again. Finn felt himself trembling. He had not even glanced at Una.

“So you’re still feeling sore?” Jim challenged Meg. He was in his element at this sort of badinage.

“Me feeling sore? You fairly fancy yourself!” declared Meg.

Jim stepped away as if she were about to attack him.

All the time they laughed and played in this way, Finn was held in an extreme awkwardness.

“It’s time we were home,” said Una.

“Right!” cried Jim. “Come on!” and catching Una by the arm he swung her forward. There was a slight struggle until she had got her arm free, and then they walked on, chaffing each other.

“When is Barbara going back to Dale?” Betz asked Finn.

“Not till the end of the fishing.”

“We’re off,” declared Donnie, and he walked away with Meg, who had turned round and cried gaily, “Come on, Finn.”

“Your mother will miss her when she goes,” said Betz sensibly as they followed the others.

“Yes,” said Finn. He did not want to see Betz home. They would pass people on the way. He was wildly angry at having been drawn into this position. Betz was a rather ungainly girl, with big bones and lank dark hair. Her efforts at being amusing were always heavy and out of key; and the thought of Finn’s being landed with her now would be a special joy to Jim. At that moment Finn hated her.

And Betz went on talking as if her head were thick and unfeeling as a turnip. Did his mother miss not being able to come to the gutting? Couldn’t she have come this year, with Barbara at home? … The questions maddened Finn, while he answered them at random. Then an odd little thing happened. He caught in her voice a slight gulp, a
catch of the breath, and he knew in an instant that she was sensitive and timid and unsure of herself; realized the effort she was making and the courage that, though hopeless, could still keep going.

He felt mean, ashamed of his own state of mind, yet could not alter it. But he answered her now more fully and even introduced topics of his own. A certain detachment came upon him, covering the mood that went on boiling underneath. Betz made no claims and he suddenly saw her not as a girl, with all the emotions that were supposed to surround a girl, but as a human being apart from him and walking by his side. Presently he was almost friendly, and when she asked, “Did you like Stornoway?” he did not think the question heavy and tiresome. On the contrary, it flashed Stornoway on his memory.

Assurance began to seep back into his mind, and it was not altogether the desire for revenge against present
circumstance
that drove him on to describe the town and one or two incidents in an amusing way. As this was perhaps beyond what Betz had hoped for, she listened with the greatest interest and the skin of her face took on a faint colour.

The others were not far ahead, for Finn had an urge to keep them in sight, and Jim and Una seemed in a gay mood. When, at last, they stepped off the main road
towards
the path that led up through the Birch Wood, Jim put his arm round Una’s waist as if to help her over the ditch and up the yard of bank. Una drew herself free in a swaying whirl and Jim laughed, glancing back at the others.

“He’s-showing off,” muttered Betz.

“Is he?” said Finn, smiling. “She seems to like it.”

Betz crossed the ditch and Finn followed her and they went up the narrow, winding path. The houses lay beyond the wood and presently they saw the four in front standing among the last of the trees. Finn stopped. “I must get back,” he said. “These fellows will talk on and on.”

“Especially Jim,” said Betz.

“You seem to know him pretty well!”

“He is always trying to be clever.”

Finn laughed, throwing his head back. “So long as
someone
likes his cleverness.”

“They think,” said Betz, with a sullen humour, “that he’s a good catch.”

Finn laughed almost naturally. “A cut above the
fisherman
?”

“So some of them think. I don’t.”

Finn saw light in her dumb humour, in her dark eyes. “Rob called him ‘that gomeril from Wick with the boots’.”

Betz laughed abruptly and deep-throated.

“You might share the joke,” shouted Jim.

They paid no attention but went on talking together,
until
Finn said, “Well, I must be off. I enjoyed the walk.”

“So did I,” said Betz, Her face was now suffused with colour and her eyes deep with a dumb pleasure that
suddenly
touched his heart and he shook hands with her.

“We won’t look!” cried Jim. But when Finn swung away, he yelled for him to wait. Finn waved and
disappeared
, taking the path before him blindly, his mind in an instant emptied of everything but a blazing self-anger. You fool! he muttered. You damn fool!

Nor did he wait to ask himself why he was a fool. He hated what was behind him. He hated intolerantly his own mind, and to avoid it made straight for the inn.

There were knots of men here and there around the inn, arguing, disputing, laughing, engaged in the favourite
pastime
of leg-pulling. A penetrating retort was their great delight. For some men took drink as they took heavy seas, with a certain gallantry, swaying, but holding to it and, when they moved, their feet crunched the gravel in a lordly way. A voice called to Finn: “You didn’t take long over her!”

“Long enough,” cried Finn, and elbowed his way through the door into the packed room.

George’s voice was high above the rumble: “That’s
the law. The barrel must hold thirty-two English
gallons
——”

“Gallons of what?”

“Gallons of wine. That’s the measure.”

“Why not gallons of whisky?”

“We’re talking of herrings,” said George. “We’re
talking
of a fixed measure—the size of the barrel, as defined by law.”

“But why didn’t they fix the size by nips? We know nips better.”

“If you don’t look out,” cried George, “you’ll nip
yourself
until there’s nothing left.”

Two Buckie lads welcomed Finn and stood him a drink. Finn understood the south-side Doric now pretty well, and they liked to hear his clear Gaelic voice, which emerged, like his smile, out of a background of personality that was never immediately obvious, that always seemed to have reserves. He struck them as having a certain distinction, both in the cut of his face and in his manner; and none the less so when he was friendly and fluent and ordered another round. He was now in the highest spirits. When an
altercation
grew too noisy, Mr. Hendry would appear and with his sharp, small eyes and a “Now! Now!” quieten things down and draw questions upon himself. The men
particularly
liked to hear Special being dogmatic.

“Is that you I see, Finn?” asked Mr. Hendry, about to retire.

“I hope so,” said Finn.

“Well, my boy, I would rather not see you here too much.”

“In that case,” said Finn in a flash, “I should be obliged if you would give me a bottle of special and I’ll clear out.” From his trousers’ pocket he took a shilling and laid it on the counter.

Mr. Hendry’s brows gathered. He was nettled. But Finn seemed in the friendliest humour.

“I don’t think I should give it to you.”

“Why not?” asked Finn.

“You lads are too young.”

“We’re not too young to land herring,” declared Finn.

“Now! now!” said Mr. Hendry. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Enough what?”

“Whisky,” said Mr. Hendry pointedly.

“I have only had two nips. Will you give me a bottle of special, please?” demanded Finn, still smiling.

“I don’t think I will.”

“In that case,” said Finn, lifting his shilling amid the silence, “you can keep it,” and he turned his back on the landlord and made for the door.

Some tried to stop him, but he shouldered them out of his way roughly. The Buckie lads followed. Along the coast there had sprung up many refreshment houses that sold beer and porter, but at old Mag’s there was always an unofficial supply of more potent stuff. Thither they went.

An hour later they were making high carousal when Jim and Donnie walked in, having traced Finn from the inn.

“So here you are!” called Jim, all lit up. “Why on earth did you run away?”

Finn looked at him.

The flash in Finn’s face tickled Jim. He pointed to it, laughing. Finn took a swift step forward and smashed his fist into Jim’s face. The sound of the blow silenced
everything
. Jim would have fallen heavily but for the young fellows behind him.

Mag started screeching. “I’ll have no fighting here! Get out of my house! Get out of my house!”

“I’m not fighting,” said Finn, holding his ground.

“Get out!” she cried. “Get out! This is a respectable house.”

“It’s all right, Mag,” said Finn. “But I don’t run away from man or woman.” His voice was steady, but his eyes were blazing.

“That was a bloody rotten thing to do,” cried Jim, “to hit a fellow when he was not ready.”

“Are you ready now?” asked Finn.

“Get out of my house! Get out of my house!” She laid hands on Finn and pushed him towards the door. He caught her wrists. “Stop that!” he called sharply. The others crowded around Mag and began saying it was all right. “We promise there will be no more trouble, Mag.” They herded her away. But she swore she would give them no more drink that night, not one of them. There was
placatory
talk. Everyone spoke. Mag muttered about a decent woman’s house. The place grew thick with mumbling and conspiracy. “Give me a bottle of whisky,” said Finn clearly.

“I don’t sell whisky,” she cried, the features of her sixty-year-old face sharp against Finn.

“Very well,” said Finn, putting the shilling back in his pocket. “You can keep it.”

That fairly roused her ire, but through her screeching Finn said, “Oh, shut up!” and walked out.

The Buckie lads and two or three others followed him. It turned out that one of them had a bottle and it was offered to Finn first with pressing politeness. “Have a swig, Finn lad. I’m glad you sorted that wee bastard.” The raw spirit burnt its way down his throat, but he hardly coughed. “Oh, he’s all right,” he said. “But sometimes he annoys me.”

They had seen the flash and movement of the sea in him. They all felt heightened and full of imperious deeds. The bottle didn’t last long. The quiet Buckie lad who drained the last of it threw it from him and in the darkness it exploded into many bits.