The Silver Darlings (58 page)

In the star-lit darkness, he could walk anywhere without
fear of being met, for most people were afraid of what might be encountered in the dark.

There were two ceilidh-houses where folk gathered at night. Outside one of them, Finn listened to the singing of a traditional song, until he could no longer bear it. Then he drifted away. At various places he appeared, and had
anyone
seen him drifting away voiceless they would have said it was his wraith. Out of the moor, miles distant, he came down on Una’s house and from a hundred paces stood
looking
at the glimmer of light in its little window.

He went up to the window on quiet feet. The slip of blind had not been drawn, for busy folk used all the
daylight
they could get, and in the slow change to the peat light would sometimes forget the blind altogether. There was a young woman with her back to him, sitting on a small stool just beyond the fire, making a net. Her right hand was extremely dexterous and the white bone needle flew out and in. The mother was spinning and humming. Duncan, Una’s brother, was helping his father to make a heather rope. There were others, but Finn could not take his eyes off this stranger, this dark young woman with her hair up. All at once, she turned her head over her shoulder and looked at the window. It was Una. He saw her eyes open, her expression grow rigid in terror, and at once he tip-toed away. A dog barked.

Surely she could not have seen him! But he knew by her expression that she had seen something.

When a young woman hears her name called from
outside
at night and no-one else hears it—and there is no-one outside—it is a sign of her near death.

But he had not called her name. She would think it was his wraith!

From the land, he turned at last to the sea and appeared among the looming bows of the boats drawn up over the ridge of the beach. He leaned against one of them for a while, then, going down into the mouth of the river, unfastened a small boat, slid her as noiselessly as he
could into the water, and began to row out towards the schooner.

When he drew quite near, the man on watch cried, “Hullo, there!”

“Hullo,” answered Finn.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me. I heard——”

“Who are ye?”

“I’m a fisherman. I heard you were wanting a sailor.”

“Oh, is that it? Well, ye’re too late, my lad. A young fellow signed on this evening.”

Finn sat quite still. The man spoke again, but he did not answer.

“Hullo down there?”

“Hullo,” answered Finn. “You don’t want anybody then?”

“No. Ye’re a bit slow, my lad.”

“Thank you,” said Finn, and he rowed away.

The small boat was old and heavy and altogether beyond Finn’s power to haul up the steep slope. He hunted about for wooden rollers and when he had got her three-quarters out of the water he fastened her short painter to a boulder. The tide was making but had still some three hours to flow. After he had stood for a while in the windless night by the sea, he began to shiver with the cold, and, going up among the boats, climbed into one and huddled up on the planking between two timbers.

That the schooner had been unable to take him deepened his misery, but somehow now he did not greatly care and closed his eyes in a weariness beyond thought. Every now and then, however, he found himself regarding figures with an extreme clarity. His mother’s heavy elderly body—so it struck him—in Roddie’s arms, with Roddie’s laugh, the laugh that could harden into a cackle, like a gull’s, the whole action had for him elements of the obscene. The revulsion blotted out the picture. Una did not trouble him much. She was Jim’s “armful”. Obscene enough, too.
Suddenly there were footsteps and low voices—of two men, who came and stood on the other side of the planking. They talked for half an hour and revealed to Finn a
harrowing
story of secret family trouble. Finn knew the family, and wouldn’t have believed the story possible. “For God’s sake, never by word or look …” The footsteps died away.

After a time, Finn went to the small boat and found her afloat and wet his arms to the shoulders getting the painter off the boulder. When at last the tide was full in and he had made her fast, he turned for home. As he approached the house, the old trepidation beset him, but now his mother would be in bed for it must be three o’clock. All at once he stood still, unable to move, for he imagined Roddie and his mother sitting by the fire, waiting for him. It was an
extremely
strong visualization, and may have been prompted by an instinctive knowledge of how Roddie would act. And indeed Catrine had had great difficulty some hours before in getting Roddie to see the wisdom of his going home. Finn approached the blinded window quietly and listened. The fire was not smoored and there were no voices. The silence affected him in an appalling way, and he had the desperate sensation of pushing noisily against it, slowly, in at the door, and into the kitchen.

His mother rose from her stool and saw him glance about the kitchen.

“You’re late,” she said quietly.

“Am I?”

“Would you like something?”

He did not look at her and turned for his own room.

“Finn!”

He stopped.

“This can’t go on,” she said. “I can’t——” She had meant to be calm, but now her voice had suddenly risen and threatened to break.

“Good night.”

“Finn! You must listen to me. You must. I—I have something to tell you. We can’t go on like this.”

“What is it?” He half-turned his head but did not look at her.

“Why are you—why do you make it so difficult? Cannot you understand——”

“What is it?”

There was a moment’s silence. Then she said, “Roddie and I are going to get married.”

There was a further and complete silence.

“Finn,” she said appealingly, desperately, “why are you against me? If you are to be against me, life will be
unbearable
.” Her voice went on, suddenly released, and then abruptly stopped, as if she were on the verge of a
breakdown
and a storm of tears.

“It’s got nothing to do with me what you do,” he said, and walked away into his room and shut the door.

She could weep herself to death for all he cared. He did not even listen. “I don’t give a damn,” he muttered, and pulled the blankets around him. If she came to the door, he would drive her out—as Alan had driven his sister. She did not come to his door, however, and when at last he had to listen he heard a silence intense and desolate.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE WRECK

R
oddie and Catrine were married within a month. The wedding was popular and exceptionally gay, for Roddie was looked upon as the leader of the herring fishers and his old saying that he had “wedded the sea” was used against him with sly fun. In fact the best of it was that Roddie, who normally had a reserve one did not
introde
upon wantonly, now seemed open to any attack, so delighted with himself did he appear to be. And his pride in Catrine was no less obvious than his happiness. It was he himself who said, “There’s no fool like an old fool,” with the smile curling from his teeth. And no-one thought him old, not even the young, because of his great strength and fabulous fighting powers.

The wedding took place after the grain had been
harvested
and, with everyone free and in the mood for
merriment
, it lasted several days. Roddie’s house was open to all Dunster and a large party came from Dale. They danced in the barn, they danced in the kitchen, and the Dale folk slept in the barn, together with others who were not in the mood to go home, men on one side and women on the other, upon new straw. The presents of dressed fowls, butter, cheese, eggs, bannocks and other foods were sufficient to support a small army. Hendry sent twenty bottles of “special”, and old Wull, the smuggler, brought a two-gallon cask of his finest “run”. Roddie was now reckoned to have “a good bit of money behind him”. And if he had, they added, he knew how to spend it.

“This is a real wedding,” declared Wull, his eyes lit up at the merry sounds and the whirl of the young bodies.

“How do you make that out?” asked an elderly solemn and argumentative man.

“Because”, said Wull, “I hold that a wedding is a public affair. They should be married not only in the sight of Him above, but also in the sight of us below. And when I say married, I mean married.”

The solemn man nodded. “I think I see what you mean.”

“How do you see it?” asked Wull.

“And then we know and it’s settled for good,” nodded the solemn man, following his own thought. “Quite so. At the same time——”

Wull laughed. “You’re drunk,” he said.

“What’s that?”

Wull gave his neighbour a dig with his elbow and cried to the solemn man, “You’re drunk. You’re as full as the Baltic.”

They all laughed.

“Me drunk? I’m not in the least drunk.”

“Can you stand on one leg?”

“Yes, and on two legs.”

“Ay, but can you stand on one?”

“Why couldn’t I?”

“Ay, but can you? Let’s see you try.”

The solemn man paused to think this out, as there might be a catch in it somewhere. He was only sixty and regarded Wull as a wily old fellow who was worth the watching. He did not mind standing on one leg, which he knew he could do easily, but if so, then Wull would have to stand also. Only thus could he be sure of getting the better of Wull. But in the contest his one leg proved less biddable than usual and he was getting ready for a second effort when Wull overbalanced against him. They continued the argument on the floor. “You pushed me,” alleged the solemn man.

This little incident was used as a text by Sandy Ware. But no-one bothered about Sandy at the wedding. A dry
harvest was gathered in. The fishing had been good. The long winter nights were before them. And here was a
wedding
, wherein the happiness of their lives was gathered in warmth, with creation beyond it.

“Why don’t you give Una a dance?” Meg asked Finn.

“Why should I? Isn’t she getting plenty?”

“Yes. But you might give her one.”

“Do you think she would like it?”

“I’m sure she would.”

“She’ll be feeling lonely now that Boots has gone back to Wick? Very hard on her.”

“Hard on my granny!” said Meg.

Finn laughed. “It’s difficult to get near her—there’s such a run on her.” He added, “There’s the same run on yourself—but that’s different,” and he gripped her firmly. “How’s Donnie doing?”

“I can’t make you out,” said Meg.

“That’s pretty cool—seeing all the chance you give me.”

In the whirl and intermingling of the fast set dances there was little opportunity for talk. Twice Finn went to take Una up, but was forestalled by quicker feet. He did not try again.

Once he heard Una sing, for all the company contributed to the evening’s entertainment in song or chorus. A remark by Wull stuck in his mind, worrying him: “She has the richness of the blackbird.” He was sorry he had heard her.

It was a great relief to him when the wedding was over and he had no longer to argue himself each evening out of secret rebellions, and appear among the company, laughing and prepared to take part for appearance’s sake. He was now completely detached from his mother and Roddie; felt he had no interest in them, never wanted to have anything more to do with them, had for them a cold distaste.

In this last month he was conscious of having aged a lot. He was barely twenty, but it was as if the very flesh on his bones had lost its softness and drawn taut and sinewy. There was a similar change in his mind, and where formerly
he would have been deeply moved to sympathy or emotion he now could harden his eyes and know only an impulse of intolerance.

Barbara and her mother remained with him for a
fortnight
and then an aunt, a widowed woman of over fifty, came to stay and help him run the croft. Her husband had been drowned on the Guillaim off Cromarty and her son and daughter were both married. Elspet was a
medium-sized
woman, with grey hair and a slight stoop of the shoulders from being perpetually busy. She had by nature a pleasant disposition and was an excellent housekeeper.

At first Finn had refused to take the croft from Catrine. Roddie’s mother had died some years before, but his father was still alive. Finn derisively understood Roddie’s pride. He had not married Catrine for her croft! He was taking her to his own croft, his own home, and Catrine would look after his father as was the custom in such a situation.

Finn had told his mother they could have this croft, too, for all he cared. His mother had produced the purse of twenty-one sovereigns. Finn had refused it. She had dropped it on the table. “It’s yours, not mine.”

“I don’t want it.”

“I can’t help that,” said his mother calmly.

The money lay there for nearly a day.

“I don’t want this money,” he said angrily, shoving it aside.

“You can put it in the fire, for all I care,” she answered.

He returned late that night, and in the light of the
morning
saw the purse with the money on the shelf by his bed.

Night after night he kept away from the house, but from the moment his mother had said she was to marry Roddie a steadying sense of finality had come upon his mind. At first the general greeting: “I hear you’re getting a new father, Finn!” had been bitter as gall, and if his laugh had been awkward, well, folk realized it was an odd joke for Finn right enough! What grown son or daughter liked a mother to get married? Naturally they couldn’t see the
force of it! But Finn had played up well enough and now it was all over.

There had come a decisive turning point at a critical moment when Finn had all but made up his mind to clear out of Dunster and might readily enough, in a chance
encounter
with Roddie, have fatally lost his head. It came in the form of a question. There was Kirsty’s money; there was the croft. It was one of the best crofts in a district where the smallest plots of land were coveted. For the population had greatly increased since Finn had been born. Many who had been evicted in recent years—for these
evictions
were still going on—from the Heights of Kildonan had come to Dunster. Finn saw all this in a sudden clear light; his mind hardened in acquisitiveness; and he asked himself, “Why not?”

Why not? There was a coldness of revenge in the
question
. He would take these possessions. They would be his. His own croft, his own house, his own boat. He felt them surround him and give him power. At that moment, a cool shiver cleansing his skin and his mind, Finn entered with clear consciousness upon the estate of manhood.

The winter and spring fishing was entirely for white fish. There were “small lines” for catching haddock and “great lines” for cod and ling. A winter season for netting herring was still far in the future. Finn’s long discussion with Henry had been devoted to a thorough prosecution of the cod and ling fishing, for, as Finn had said, there was money in it if they went about it in the right way. While in the Lews, Henry himself had observed how large was the trade in dried cod and ling. The folk of the Western Isles had taken no great interest in herring except as bait for their great lines. And look at the Shetlanders! Herring on the West were uncertain, but cod and ling were constant, were sure money. That was what the Lewis people knew.

Now they had been catching cod and ling, splitting and drying them, in Dunster, but in Finn’s view the business
had been too easy-going, not taken seriously enough. They should use only their biggest boats, so that they could stand up to dirty weather, come to an arrangement with an
export
merchant in Wick at an agreed price, and then get going in real earnest. At an average price, say, of sixpence a head for each dried cod or ling, they might make
something
that would astonish a few people at the end of the season!

During the white fishing, the herring crews got broken up, because an ever increasing number, with no stake in a boat, engaged themselves only for the summer herring season. From the west of Sutherland and other distant coasts men appeared in early July prepared to hire
themselves
to skippers at
₤
4
to
₤
5
for six to eight weeks. When these “hired men”, including those from the local country districts, had dispersed at the close of the herring season, the real fishermen were left, and, to form crews for the white fishing, had to band together, so that two or more skippers might find themselves on the same boat.

In this way, Finn was able to break with Roddie without rousing any particular comment, for about the shore Finn and Henry had voiced their ideas whenever discussion got going, which was about as often as a group gathered to look at the sea.

It was cold, dangerous, and incessant work, but it suited Finn, though he was troubled with one or two bad cuts on his hands that never got time properly to heal. But they were making successful headway and other boats of the larger type began to follow their lead.

Roddie took no part in this leadership, and fished as one of a crew of five in the regular small type of winter boat. The four others were older than he, and prepared for reasonable work in reasonable weather. This suited Roddie who had never greatly cared for the white fishing, and whose home life now absorbed him. His marriage had had a deep effect upon him, far deeper than ever he had
conceived
possible; and whoever wanted to kill themselves
splitting cod were welcome to the job! Indeed, he might have left the sea largely alone that season were it not for the pleasure he found in coming home.

Once, well into the spring, on returning home in the forenoon, he discovered Catrine waiting for him by the Steep Wood. Her face was white and large-eyed and his wits scattered as if he had been struck a blow on the head.

“Are all the boats safe?”

He hardly heard her. “What’s wrong?”

She read his face and tried to smile. “Nothing. Are all the boats safe?”

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“No. The wind woke me early, and I was frightened. Oh, Roddie, I cannot tell how glad I was to see you!”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

“Isn’t it plenty?”

Roddie blew a slow breath. “You fairly gave me a fright!”

“Are all the boats in?”

“I think so,” he said. “Why?”

“It felt up here like a wild storm for a while.”

“It blew a bit. But nothing to be upset——” He stopped and looked at her closely. “There was something?”

The wind blew fair strands of hair over her brow. She looked in front with an awkward smile. “I awoke out of a dream where I saw a boat being smashed. I got frightened—it was so real. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Now, my girl, you mustn’t be getting these fancies. They’re not good for you. You know that. You’ll end up by making me frightened myself!”

“Are you ever frightened of the sea?”

“I wasn’t thinking of the sea. You can leave the sea to me.”

She smiled as they walked on, but her eyes were troubled. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but—I can’t help it. The old fear of the sea is coming back on me.”

“You’re just having fancies!” he said with meaning,

She flushed.

He dropped the string of fish outside the door and
followed
her into the kitchen. The old man was still in bed, for he had been weakened recently by a heavy cold and did not get up until the afternoon. The porridge pot was
plopping
over the fire. “So you’re having fancies!” muttered Roddie, as he hung up his heavy jacket. He was going to tease her still further when, as if unable to bear it, she
suddenly
gripped him and dug her fingers into the flesh of his back and buried her face in his breast.