by Karen Brooks
‘How about you put those away, lasses,’ said the Englishman calmly, nodding towards their knives. He gave a bold wink. ‘And we take this party inside.’ Quick as a gull snatching a fish, he disarmed Nettie and levelled his weapon at her breast. Beatrix and Nicolas raised their own knives higher.
There was a loud cough. The men froze. The women twisted to see where it came from.
‘I don’t remember sanctioning a party, Private Donall,’ said a deep, deadly voice.
Emerging slowly out of the shadows of Lady Wynd came a man on horseback. He carried a sword, which he deftly spun. Behind him rode another, older man. Sorcha hadn’t been imagining the horse’s hooves after all. But how they had ridden down the wynd without making a sound until now was a feat worthy of a phantasm.
‘Captain Ross,’ said the one called Private Donall, sheathing his knife and standing to attention. ‘I didn’t see you, sir. Nor you, Sergeant Thatcher.’
The soldiers quickly put distance between themselves and the women, replacing their dirks, the gun disappearing. The man with the torn mouth tried to staunch the blood with his sleeve and hide the damage.
‘That much is apparent,’ said Captain Ross. ‘But since we are here, I’m ordering you to return to your quarters. Once you get there, I want you all to think on an appropriate way to celebrate Hogmanay — one that doesn’t involve unwilling women.’
‘Unwilling?’ squawked the man with the torn lip. ‘They were willing to start with, sir.’
‘I can see that by the blood bubbling from your mouth, Private Dyson.’
Dyson? Sorcha tried to place the name. Surely that wasn’t young Jamie Dyson from Anster Wester?
‘In my experience,’ said Captain Ross, ‘and no doubt the good sergeant’s here, willing women don’t oft express their consent in such a manner.’ He paused.
Sergeant Thatcher nodded grimly. ‘Nor in mine,’ he growled.
‘I want you to think long and hard about the type of celebration I’m going to insist you enjoy.’ Before the men could exchange even a puzzled look, the captain continued. ‘Here’s your choice, lads. You can either spend the next two days in the stocks or, if you’d rather, aboard a frigate bound for Flanders. What do you say to that?’
The men stared at him in disbelief. ‘But… sir, you said we’d be celebrating.’
‘Aye. I did. You’ll either be celebrating the cold here in Fife or celebrating the same in the Low Countries. Take your pick.’
Sorcha couldn’t help it, she laughed. Nettie and the others did as well.
The men’s shoulders sagged.
Captain Ross cast an amused look towards the women. ‘Would you call that fair, lasses?’
‘I would, captain,’ said Sorcha, enjoying the men’s discomfort. Jamie Dyson shot her a poisonous look. Here she was, home five minutes, and already she’d added another enemy to her tally.
‘And me,’ chorused her friends.
Captain Ross quietly gave orders to his sergeant. His blade gleamed in the light from the doorway, a reminder that he would enforce his orders if he had to. Sorcha thought he looked rather grand astride his silvery steed, high above them, wreaking vengeance upon these drunken sots who would call themselves soldiers. He was like a character from a tale. Only, he wasn’t. He was as real as the blood upon her lips and cheeks.
She swiftly found a kerchief and began to clean her face, her mouth. She longed for a dram to rinse out the taste of Jamie Dyson.
At the sergeant’s prompting, the men lined up in single file and, when he barked a command, began to run down the street. He followed on horseback.
Their equipment jangled as they jogged, their hats bounced until Private Donall staggered towards the graveyard wall. Leaning against it with one hand, he loudly lost the contents of his stomach. The sergeant waved for him to continue, and the man straightened, spat and stumbled after his friends, who hadn’t stopped to help him.
Once they had rounded the corner, the captain sheathed his sword and drew off his hat, allowing Sorcha to see his face for the first time. It was a hard face, a worn one framed by black hair; large, deep-set eyes took in everything around him, including her. Self-conscious suddenly, Sorcha put a hand to her head. She’d lost her scarf in the tussle, her hair had come unbound. She tried to gather it in her fingers, twist it into a semblance of a bun.
‘You have my apologies for the behaviour of my men,’ said the captain, watching Sorcha’s efforts. ‘The sergeant and I saw them following you up the High Street and guessed they were up to no good.’ He sighed. ‘Rest assured, you’ll not be bothered by the likes of them again. As for the others stationed hereabouts… While they ken not to touch the local lasses, it’s the incomers I cannot always protect — as much as I try.’
‘Sorcha be no incomer,’ said Beatrix, a wide grin revealing her missing teeth. ‘She’s a born and bred Weem lass like the rest of us.’
‘That be her place,’ said Nicolas, pointing to the open door behind them.
‘Is that so?’ asked the captain, studying Sorcha with interest before examining the house. ‘Why have I not seen you before?’ He gave a half bow over the horse’s withers. It was a surprisingly elegant effort.
Laughter issued from a nearby house. A pipe began to play, followed by voices raised in song. Underpinning it all, the ocean breathed.
Sorcha looked around her. The encroaching night was cold, the street bleak, despite the singing, the candlelight, the roiling mist. All she could recall was the feel of the men’s bodies pressed against hers, the taste of blood in her mouth. She’d foolishly hoped for a different kind of welcome; a different kind of Hogmanay. Perhaps this was what she deserved. But that didn’t mean the others did.
Suddenly, the events of the day, the reason for her leave-taking and early homecoming and the threat and fear that greeted her on her very own doorstep became too much. Men became too much, even this gallant who not only showed such courtesy, but looked to their safety.
‘Thank you for what you did, sir. But if you don’t mind, it’s growing late and I would like to get inside before the new year passes.’ And have a wee drink with my friends.
Before he could protest, Sorcha gave the captain a nod of dismissal and ushered the women, who added their thanks to hers, back towards the cottage and through the open door.
She was about to close it, when the captain put his boot between the door and the jamb. His fingers curled over hers where they rested. He’d dismounted both quickly and quietly and moved with a speed that unnerved her. Taller than she expected, she was forced to tip her head to see his face. Up close and by the mellow light of the fire, it didn’t seem as hard, but rather one shaped by experience and, if his twinkling eyes were any guide, humour and kindness as well. God damn if her heart didn’t flutter and heat that had nothing to do with the growing warmth at her back flooded her cheeks. Had she learned nothing?
‘I said,’ Sorcha looked pointedly at his boot obstructing the door and then at his hand covering hers, ‘I want to get inside.’
The captain removed his fingers slowly. ‘Aye, and I heard you. But I thought you might also like to have these.’ He heaved her burlap and shawl into her arms.
Before she could thank him, he strode to his horse and threw his leg over its back. Tipping his hat to Sorcha one last time, he disappeared down the street, swallowed by the mist as if he were one of the fae folk and had never really been.
THREE
She’s a toon’s crack.
(Everyone’s speaking about her.)
The only sounds Sorcha could hear were the wind rattling the windows and the crackle of the fire. Wriggling her stockinged feet before the flames, she rested her head against the back of her da’s old armchair and looked fondly at Nettie curled in her mor’s. Initially, she’d worried that returning home would reawaken the ghosts of those who used to live there, those she’d tried so hard over the years to make peace with, but once indoors and surrounded by friends, she realised sadness hadn
’t leached into the walls, nor had death left its pungent scent. At least, not while she had a cleckin’ o’ women to distract her.
Once the captain departed, Sorcha and her friends had fallen into each other’s arms, talking over the top of one another as drams of whisky were poured, downed and poured again. Only then did the women, who’d entered through the back door and barged straight through the house when they understood Sorcha was being threatened, set about making the cottage warmer and shedding more light on their doings. As Nettie prepared food, Beatrix shovelled more peat onto the fire while Nicolas lit extra candles, placing them where they’d illuminate the cosy room best.
‘Go, lass,’ said Nettie, waving a knife in Sorcha’s direction. ‘We’ll take care of this. Put your things away. Get settled.’ She nodded towards her burlap. ‘That is, unless you’re planning on leaving us again soon?’ There was a note of apprehension in the question.
Sorcha shook her head. ‘I might be back earlier than anticipated, but I’m here to stay.’
With a look of relief, Nettie returned to cutting the smoked fish.
Sorcha carried her burlap and a candle into the rooms beyond, stroking the worn furniture as she passed — the rough table, the unsteady stools — pressing her cheek against the tattered but clean curtains, picking up and replacing a book, an ornament.
In the main bedroom Nettie’s belongings were arranged neatly upon the dresser. Sorcha sat on the bed she once shared with her husband Andy, the same bed that had belonged to her mor and da. Dropping the burlap at her feet, she brought a pillow to her nose and inhaled deeply. Convinced it no longer smelled of Andy or her parents, as she used to believe, but bore the cherished fragrance of Nettie, she replaced it carefully, smoothing it out. Lying back on the covers, she folded her arms behind her head and studied the ceiling. Little light found its way into this part of the house come nightfall, but she could still remember the shapes the damp had imprinted above her. When she was a wee bairn, she’d climb into bed when her mor was sad or ill and try to identify them. Years later, Andy had indulged her by playing the game too, and together they’d discovered seals, urchins, the sail of a boat, a mangy cat and even, one time after a few drinks, the face of an old woman.
‘A witch,’ Andy had chuckled.
‘Nae, a wise woman,’ she’d countered.
It was a game she once imagined she’d play with her own child.
A sudden sorrow threatened to engulf her and she sat up and found a shawl she hadn’t realised she’d left behind draped on the end of the bed. Marvelling it was still where she’d evidently left it, she wrapped it around her shoulders. Hanging on the opposite wall was a mirror, still covered with a swathe of fabric from when Andy died. There hadn’t even been time to remove it before wee Davan’s soul was also taken. God bless Nettie, she’d kept it there. Perhaps now she could, should, take it down. After all, it had been almost two years.
She rose and drew the cloth away slowly. Her shadowy reflection stared back at her in the spotted glass. The light from the main room behind her made her hair glint, threads of fire that formed a halo about her head. Waiting until her eyes adjusted, she could see her face was fuller than she remembered; her mouth looked wider as well. Her eyes were great dark pools, their vibrant colour surrendered to the gloom. Touching her cheek, she ran a finger down her face, pushing into the soft flesh, watching the way it resumed its former shape. Would she?
In returning home, what was she doing but revisiting herself as she used to be? Before… before everything changed and so had she. Nae. She would never return to the way she was. How could she? She was no longer a daughter. How could one be, without parents? Nor did she have any siblings — none that wanted to acknowledge her, or even could. She was not a wife or mother either. Her heart shrank painfully. She was defined by loss: an orphan, a widow, a grieving mother.
Leaning closer, she examined her face in detail, plucked her lip to check for blood stains, stared hard until the blue-green of her eyes became apparent. Beatrix had always said how much she resembled her mor. Unable to see it when she was younger, now, apart from her bronze hair, she had to admit she did look like her mother. This is what age, loss and guilt do to a child: turn them into younger versions of their unhappy parents.
The chatter of her friends rose and fell in the background and she released a deep breath and stared at the woman in the glass once more before her eyes studied the room around her, reversed and subdued into a palette of greys and browns. It was important to focus on the life that had blossomed within these walls, not the sorrow. That wasn’t the way of things here. Everyone she knew had lost someone to the sea — husbands, fathers, brothers, lovers, sons. Nettie had lost a beloved brother; Beatrix so many: sons, brothers, a father. Nicolas had never met her father, the North Sea claiming him before she was born. Some had given even more. It was an expectation that when you took from the sea, there were dues to be paid. Some paid more than others, but somehow, between them, the balance was maintained. You buried your loved ones if you could, mourned for a period, and life went on. To talk about them, dwell upon their absence, wasn’t fair; it only reminded everyone what they’d lost. Sorcha wouldn’t do that. Not any more. The period for grieving had passed.
Even before she’d reached the braes of Pittenweem, she’d made a pact with herself that it was time to put all her dead behind her, including the bitter memories her mor and her marriage to Andy conjured. It was time to live once more. She’d known that being back in the house would stir memories of them and her da and brothers as well, but what she hadn’t anticipated was that they would still have the capacity to hurt her so much. Though not enough to do what young Anna Warren up in South Loan had done when her husband Hamish drowned, filling her pockets with bullets and chuckie-stanes and walking into the Forth in the dark. Then there was Agnes Black; after her three sons died on a voyage to Stornaway, she threw herself off the braes. Her broken body was found washed up on the shore. Sorcha would never cause her friends that kind of pain. Not if she could help it. That wasn’t to say she hadn’t been tempted, especially after Davan died. Her throat caught and her hand covered her stomach.
Before he’d taken a breath, the Lord took him away. And now not even her sister wanted to be with her.
It was just Sorcha. Alone. Again.
And Robbie. She hadn’t given up on her older brother even if Dagny had. The last she’d heard he was a prisoner of war and, until she was informed otherwise, as far as she was concerned he was alive. No matter how long his absence, she’d care for their house, make it a home for him to return to as well.
There was a loud cackle followed by a joyous shriek from the outer room.
A smile spread across her face and into her heart. As long as she was a fishwife, she wasn’t really alone.
Sorcha threw the cloth that had covered the mirror on the bed and went back to the others. Grateful for their blatter, as well as the care Nettie had taken of the house while she’d been gone, she slowly began to relax as they ate, talked and drank.
Settled into her da’s chair, Sorcha watched the women as she sipped whisky, relishing the taste, enjoying the slow build of warmth from the fireplace.
‘How’d you know I was back?’ she asked finally to no one in particular.
Nicolas sank into the chair opposite. ‘Nettie said she saw you up on the braes. We didn’t believe her at first, but she was all doolally and insisted we come and see for ourselves.’
‘Will you listen to them?’ said Nettie, hands on hips. ‘You’d think I was half-mad Mona the way they’re carrying on. Should be ashamed of themselves; they didn’t count on me recognising my best friend.’ She laid out some bannocks on a griddle, passing it over to Beatrix who put them over the fire. ‘Would you believe, I had to bribe them to come up here with me?’ She held up the bottle of whisky to show what she’d used to persuade them.
Sorcha burst out laughing.
Beatrix chuckled. ‘It’s well known I’d do prett
y much anything for a dram. Including take on a group of drunken soldiers — and at my age!’ Leaning back on her heels, she stretched out her bony arm, holding up her wooden drinking cup, the quaich, by the handle for a refill.
Nicolas swooped on it, holding it steady while Nettie topped it up.
‘Just as well we came by, hey?’ said Nicolas, passing the cup back to Beatrix. ‘Those men meant business.’
‘I’ll give young Jamie business next time I see him,’ said Beatrix, shaking her head and frowning. ‘The lad deserves a thrashing, and if the captain doesn’t do it, I’ll be happy to oblige.’
Nicolas lifted her dram. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘Wait!’ cried Nettie and, depositing a plate filled with cheese, pieces of smoked fish and some chunks of mutton on a stool between them, knelt beside Sorcha, one hand on her knee, the other holding her quaich aloft. ‘I want to propose a toast.’ The women raised their cups expectantly. ‘Now, I ken you weren’t due home yet,’ said Nettie, one brow raised, which Sorcha understood meant there’d be questions aplenty. ‘But I’m glad to have you back.’
‘We’re all glad,’ added Nicolas, and Beatrix nodded vigorously in agreement.
‘Here’s to Sorcha,’ said Nettie. They knocked their cups together and tossed back the contents.
Sorcha looked at the women. Nettie’s mother had been one of the very few to try and befriend her mor, which had brought Nettie into her sphere. Despite the dozen years between them, Nettie had been her friend for as long as she could remember — nay, not just a friend. Over time, Nettie had become the older sister Dagny had never been and Sorcha had always wanted. Not even Nettie’s marriage to Thom and the birth of their daughter Rebecca had changed that. There wasn’t much they didn’t know about each other and hadn’t shared. Likewise old Beatrix, a wool-spinner married to William Brown, a fine tailor, had been a great friend of her da’s mother. When Grandma McIntyre died, Beatrix had stepped in and been like a mother and grandma to all the McIntyres, even though she had her own daughter and granddaughter to think about. Astrid had rejected her efforts, but it didn’t stop Beatrix. Then there was Nicolas. An incomer from nearby Crail, she was married to Alexander Young, a farmer who leased a small block of land between the Weem and Anster. Raised to be a fishwife, whenever Alexander was called away to help with harvesting on his laird’s land, Nicolas would come and stay in the Weem and resume the work she knew best. A bit older than Sorcha, she’d been a boon to her when Andy died, not to mention everything afterwards.
