The Silver Darlings (57 page)

Catrine, however, hung on to the mood, playing for time. She must keep Roddie and Finn apart, and allowed this to become an obsession, obscuring her own personal problem, keeping it under, where she need not see it. All day she was in terror lest Roddie appear, and made work in places where she could command his approach.

At their midday meal, they spoke little to each other, but reasonably. Catrine said she would do some herding in the afternoon down by the burn, and Finn thought he would go along to see Henry. They were glad to get away from each other, from the strain of being calm and reasonable.

When Finn disappeared, Catrine lay beside a whin bush and closed her eyes. She would have these few minutes to herself. Blessed minutes, they lapped her about from the grass and the heather, from the spaces beyond men. They came pressing upon her in a soft darkening, pressing on her eyeballs through the lids. When Roddie awoke her, she grew agitated and confused and glanced about half-
terrified
, pulling her clothes straight.

“Who are you frightened of?” he asked, with that faint humour that could come into his steady eyes.

“I fell asleep,” she answered, flushed in astonishment.

“Didn’t you sleep well last night?”

“Not very.” She hadn’t slept a wink.

“Anything wrong?”

“No oh no.” She was restless, ill at ease in his company, as if she wanted him gone.

“Was Finn a bit difficult?”

She kept looking away. Lack of sleep and involved
torturing
indecisions made her eyes brilliant, her fair skin very delicate. She bit her lip.

“Catrine,” he said gently, sitting down, “you must tell me.” He was deeply moved by the vivid troubling spirit of life in her.

“I am afraid of Finn,” she said, swallowing.

“How afraid?”

She looked down at her restless hand plucking the grass. “I don’t want you—I want you to keep clear of him. If there was any trouble between you—it would kill me.”

“But why should there be any trouble?”

“He’s young. I’m his mother. Oh, Roddie, promise me!” And she looked swiftly at him.

“All right, Catrine. I won’t cause any trouble.”

“Yes, but—do
you understand?” She searched his eyes with a feverish penetration.

“Yes, I understand. Don’t worry about that.” Into his voice had come a cool amusement.

“I don’t want you near the house for—for a little time.”

“You’re wrong. It would be better to get it over. I’ll speak to him myself.”

“No, no; you mustn’t! Promise me!”

“Oh, all right. I don’t mind.” His smile was hardening. “So I’m not to come near the house?”

She could not speak.

“Don’t you want me to come?”

“I don’t think I do!” she cried, and suddenly buried her face in the grass.

“That’s bad,” said Roddie thoughtfully. “You’re upset, I’m afraid. However, there’s one thing you needn’t be
frightened of. I have too great a respect for you ever to do anything to Finn. You can keep your mind easy on that score.”

“Oh, I’m glad!” she muttered, and, after she had wiped her eyes, sat up again, deeply confused but brighter and happier than she had yet appeared.

“He’s a lot in your mind, I can see,” said Roddie.

“It’s—it’s difficult to tell you.”

“You needn’t,” said Roddie. “I was on my way to the shore when I saw you lying here, so I thought I’d waken you up for fun. But I must be off.” There was now a
penetrating
coolness in his light pleasant tone. “I may see you sometime, then. So long!” And he walked off.

Catrine sat quite still for a little while, then suddenly shivered.

She had wanted to cry to Roddie, to get up and call him back so that he would understand, but had been unable to stir a hand. Roddie could not discuss and recriminate. In the pleasantness of his tone had been a bitter anger.

A feeling of intense shame came upon her, of awful, of obliterating shame. Visions would come back. She crushed them into the grass. Everything was wrong. Life was ugly and miserable. She had been so happy with Finn alone.

But behind this emotion her mind was gathering its
cunning
, which knew neither shame nor bitterness, only the real knowledge of life as it was, of the day as it came. And for the first time she felt in touch with Roddie’s inner mind, with the pride that would stand provocation and not break. She admired it—and was glad to take advantage of it, to save Finn.

When the folk had cured their supply of herring for home use through winter and spring, the next excitement was the appearance of schooners to carry the thousands of barrels to the foreign market, mostly the Baltic. They were vessels of about a hundred tons burden, and the sight of one
of them anchored in the bay made a truant of every
adventurous
boy.

Transporting the barrels in the local boats from the beach to the schooner’s side was a merry job, and Finn had lads of his own age with whom to raise a laugh or crack a joke. Occasionally, too, a schooner was well-found in brandy, and brandy was a novelty. When Rob rubbed his beard and admitted judiciously, “Yes, it was a good drop,” and then, on walking away, side-stepped, Callum and Finn rocked with laugher.

“By God, you’re drunk, Rob. What’ll your sister say to you when you get home?”

“Me drunk?” inquired Rob, turning upon Callum with slow care. “It would take more than that to-to-to make me turn a hair.”

“It’s not your hair, Rob; it’s your feet.”

Rob looked down at his feet.

Callum and Finn swayed.

“I know you,” said Rob, offended. “You think you’re a wh-whale of a fellow. Both of you think you’re wh-
wh-whales
. But I could tell a different story.” He nodded and walked on with a serious air.

Finn could hardly tear himself away from the beach. Because he hated going home, he hung about avid for any amusement or hilarity. Sometimes he grew quite reckless, and was the leader in any ploy where brandy was
concerned
. He reckoned he knew something about brandy! Three other lads and himself did a bit of secret trading at night, and succeeded in concealing on shore a gallon of fiery cognac.

The sea was his element. “The sea is our salvation,” said George.

“Our worldly salvation,” corrected Finn solemnly.

“It’ll be the only salvation most of you young devils will ever know unless you mend your ways,” retorted George.

“I doubt if it can last,” said one man in a dubious tone.

“Last!” exclaimed George. “I’ve just had the figures
from the Fishery officer, for this parish alone, although it’s not all in his
jurisdiction
.”

That was a cracker of an English word! Their eyes gleamed.

“What figures?”

“The figures for the season just ended. We had 73 boats fishing out of here. We had 94 boats out of Lybster, 30 boats out of Forse, we had 49 boats out of Clyth and 15 out of East Clyth. Altogether we had 305 boats for this parish coast alone. What do you think of that? We had 1,257 fishermen actively engaged; we had about 900 women, and 160 labourers of one kind or another.”

“You wouldn’t count the coopers?”

“And,” continued George, “we had 99 coopers—the only skilled men in the whole business for without them there would be no business at all. A total of 2,400 persons—not counting the 45 fishcurers.”

“Why don’t you count them?”

“Altogether there was cured about 40,000 barrels of herring—and that doesn’t include the 3,000 barrels that must have been cured by all of us for our own use nor the hundreds of barrels that were sold fresh. The average price of the cran here was nine shillings, and the price of the cured barrel was one pound.”

“But what price did the curer get when he sold abroad?”

“That’s his business. Do you grudge it to him?”

“No, och no. We only want to know.”

“And what do you want to know for?” demanded George.

“Just to make sure that the poor man was not out of pocket.”

“Some of you are not worth talking to, upon my word,” cried George against their laughter. “You cannot
understand
the bigness of what’s happening before your eyes. Even if the curer got two or three pounds a barrel—what would that mean? It would mean that from the coast of this poverty-ridden parish, with its calfie or its stirkie—its
calfie or its stirkie,” he repeated derisively, “it would mean that there has been exported—
exported
,
do you
understand
?” he boomed, “about
₤
100,000 worth of fish. About
₤
100,000!”

It was an astonishing figure. Its size warmed them. They felt friendly to George. Thier eyes travelled out to sea, while they moved restlessly, prepared for more wonder of the kind. But George now seemed to be on his high horse.

“Ay, but will it last?” asked the man, who had asked it before. He was a small round-shouldered man, inclining to pessimism, with a large wife and a large family of
daughters
.

“By the look of things, it will last as long as you
whatever
,” retorted George. There was a smile all round at this thrust, for they wanted a large optimism, not the crofter’s niggardly fear.

“You cannot tell that.”

“Can’t I?” said George. “Believe me, I can tell you a few more things besides. What goes on in your own house through the winter and spring? Do your family spin hemp and make nets or do they not? And if they do, is it found money?”

“I’m not denying that. I never said——”

“No, you wouldn’t. And yours is not the only family nor score of families. What do I do myself, and the whole squad of coopers on the station from now on? We make barrels—and get paid for it. All the thousands of barrels we need are made on this same strip of coast. Last! Will it last? Huh!” barked George. “You can take it from me—it will last as long as we have the spirit to make it last. The spirit!”

A droll voice made the inevitable reference to spirit in a bottle and the pleasant fun increased.

Finn always felt invigorated by George. The sight of the sea brought him out of himself. He did not want to think of his mother and Roddie. He hated to think of them. Going back home was like retreating into a dark silent hole.

So he recounted George’s talk to Henry, “They’re
wanting
a deck hand on the schooner,” he added lightly.

Henry looked at him. “Thinking of going?” he asked in a quizzing tone.

“You would never think of going, Finn? Surely not!” exclaimed Henry’s wife, with a touch of dismay.

Finn had become very friendly with Henry lately, finding relief in his dry satiric manner and the real ability and generosity underneath it. Henry had three children, with another not far off, and the second boy, Andrew, was Finn’s favourite. His wife was fond of company and Finn could be so gay that he seemed not to have a care in the world. She was always glad to see him about the house.

“Why not?” Finn smiled at her. “It would be fine to see a bit of the world. I would like to go up the Baltic.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I am—unless Henry here falls in with my plans for the cod-fishing.”

“Oh, you and your schemes!” she cried, relieved. “Henry is worse than yourself, I do declare.” She laughed.

And so, in good humour, Firm started out for home. But as he approached the Steep Wood in the gathering dusk, the usual nervous tremoring began to affect him.

It was now nearly a fortnight since the incident that had estranged his mother and himself. For a few days she had left him alone, and he could see she was hoping that time would heal the difference between them. But something was hidden in her mind, something more than the
resignation
the difficulty demanded, an inner troubling, and now and then she did not seem to care whether he spoke or not.

Sometimes his heart cried out to her, but in a moment there would follow a relentless feeling, a deliberate
vindictive
pleasure in the thought that she was being hurt. It usually eased the stress on the knot in his mind, but left his mouth bitter.

What he really feared as he came by the Steep Wood was that he might meet Roddie, or might meet both Roddie and
his mother in some moment of secret communion, and he did not know how he himself would behave. There was that occasion in the public house in Stornoway when he had lost his head. He did not care to remember its hysteric
weakness
.

These last few days, too, a change had come over his mother. Her preoccupation with herself had increased.
Instead
of the gradual re-establishment of the old
relationship
, there was suddenly a deepening of the existing trouble. He had seen this in Roddie too; a gathering of him inwardly into a relentless strength.

As he came up to the dry-stone wall, he heard his mother’s voice cry out, beyond, amid the salleys by the stream. It was a strange, sharp, heart-wrung cry. Roddie’s head and back appeared. He had Catrine in his arms, bearing her lightly, and he was laughing.

Over Roddie’s shoulder, Catrine saw Finn. She was borne several steps in Roddie’s triumph, before she could cry to him to let her down. She struggled violently. “It’s Finn.” He set her on her feet and turned round.

Finn was standing motionless behind the wall, his face white. There must have been something uncanny about his head and shoulders, of the nature of an apparition, to Catrine, for her voice, breaking in distress, emitted
half-whining
sounds.

“All right,” said Roddie coolly. “We’ll tell him now.”

Finn’s face turned away, and in a few steps his head sank below the top of the wall, and he was walking down the burnside. Roddie’s voice cried to him sharply, but he did not rightly hear it and continued on his way.

In a wood of small birches, he lay until it was quite dark. Occasional spasms of violence forced his fingers into the earth and contorted his body, but they were formless and without any conscious cause. For the most part he lay in a quiescent state, and more than once a queer ultimate
sensation
of solitariness touched him.