The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  As often happened during spring, the weather turned. One moment it was sunshine and clear skies. The next, a storm erupted. A rogue wave capsized the boat, taking with it not just Andy, but young James Crawford as well. The Crawfords held Sorcha responsible for their son’s death and had not spoken to her since.

  Sorcha rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and cupped her chin, staring at the fire.

  ‘When he blamed you for Andy’s death, hen, I thought I’d be the one to commit murder. Me and auld Janet.’

  Sorcha gave a wistful smile.

  ‘Reverend Cowper said if I’d carried Andy to the boat like other Weem fishwives do their men, he wouldn’t have gone under —’

  ‘Nae, lass,’ said Nettie with a weary sigh. ‘His clothes would have copped a drookin’ in the storm. It had naught to do with whether you lugged him out there or not. Cowper just wanted you to bear the guilt and we both ken why that was.’

  Mesmerised by the golden tongues of flame, it was a while before Sorcha spoke again. Then she whispered, ‘Well, whatever his intention, it worked. He also said it was because Andy drowned that Davan died. God was punishing me for my negligence, for disregarding the laws of the sea. He took my son so I would learn to be obedient.’

  Nettie made a noise of disgust and stood up, picking up the poker and jabbing at the fire. Sorcha wondered if, like her, she was imagining the peat was Cowper. Throwing the poker against the hearth, Nettie turned, hands on hips. ‘Many a man walks to his own craft, even if he has a woman to bear him. As for Davan, he died as some poor wee bairns do, because the angels summoned him back to their side. His death wasn’t your fault either, Sorcha. God wouldn’t be so cruel, despite what Cowper says. Anyone who thinks otherwise is wicked.’

  ‘That’s what he called me, you know — a wicked woman.’

  Nettie gave a broad smile. ‘That’s what he calls all us fishwives. We’re all wicked women to him.’

  Not just to him, thought Sorcha. An image of the soldiers, Private Donall and Jamie Dyson, calling her a bitch arose before a picture of the captain astride his horse set it aside.

  ‘Enough about the reverend,’ said Sorcha, sitting up. ‘Tell me more about this Captain Ross, Nettie. Who is he? Where does he hail from? He doesn’t sound like he’s from these parts.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Nettie, sinking back into her chair. ‘There be a man for you.’

  Sorcha’s chest tightened before she understood Nettie was talking in general terms. ‘I hear tell he’s a Skye lad. Since he’s been here, he’s stopped the soldiers in the village from running amok the way they used to.’

  ‘I was thinking he’s either a good man or very good at appearing to be one.’

  Nettie cast her a sly look. ‘Maybe you’ll just have to find out for yourself.’ She nodded towards the door. ‘We can still hope he’s your first-footer. You know what they say, if a handsome dark stranger is the first-foot come Hogmanay, then you’ll have good fortune for the whole year. There’s not many more handsome or dark than Captain Bonnie.’

  Sorcha shrugged. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  Nettie gave a bark of laughter. ‘Aye, and I be blind as well.’

  ‘Mind you,’ continued Sorcha, ignoring her, ‘I could do with some good luck.’ About to outline what she’d do with it, there was a loud noise outside. She stared at Nettie. ‘What was that?’

  Before Nettie could reply, the door flew open, bringing an icy gust of wind and a bedraggled, terrified young woman.

  Sorcha and Nettie leapt to their feet.

  It was the seamstress Isobel Adam, a poor lass who lived with her father on the eastern shore and made a meagre living making shirts and doing mending for the fishermen. Pretty, with a small upturned nose, pale freckled skin, and a mane of golden hair, she was much sought after by the lads.

  ‘Dear God, lassie,’ cried Nettie. ‘What’s happened? What are you doing in this part of town?’

  Sorcha wrapped an arm around the girl’s thin waist and grabbed her shaking hands, propelling her into the room. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Nettie closed the door, but not before she’d taken a good hard look outside.

  Sorcha pushed Isobel gently into her da’s chair and crouched at her feet. Looking over at Nettie, she raised a brow and mouthed the word ‘Soldiers?’ Nettie shrugged, poured another ale and knelt next to Sorcha.

  Taking Isobel’s fingers in her own warm ones, Sorcha was astonished how cold they were. She brushed a lock of hair from Isobel’s face and stroked her cheek.

  Still trembling, Isobel could barely lift the ale to her mouth. Nettie undid her own shawl and threw it around Isobel’s shoulders, rubbing her arms, trying to restore warmth.

  As the heat returned to her body, Isobel looked around and her eyes alighted on Sorcha. ‘Bless me darned tights. The rumours are true. You’re back.’

  Sorcha tucked the girl’s skirts around her. ‘’Tis me. But what are you doing wandering down Marygate so late? It’s not safe.’

  Isobel’s eyes darted to the door. ‘Nae. It ain’t.’

  Sorcha rose then and drew the bolt across. ‘Was it soldiers?’

  ‘It wasn’t them.’

  ‘When you’re ready, tell us what afeared you,’ said Nettie.

  Isobel took a long drink, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and began.

  She’d been visiting the widowed fisherman Alexander McGregor. He lived on the crest of Lady’s Wynd and had asked Isobel to stitch some shirts for him, promising extra money and a dram or two if she could come on Hogmanay.

  Nettie gave Sorcha a pointed look. No doubt McGregor hoped for more than some mended clothes.

  ‘When I got there,’ continued Isobel, unaware of the exchange between the women, ‘there was no answer. It was dark and there was a plout o’ rain. I didn’t want to get wet again, so I opened the door and let myself in. Mr McGregor was sound asleep. But I could see what needed doing, so I drew a chair up by the fire and began to sew.’ She gulped and glanced towards the door again.

  ‘It’s all right, Isobel, I latched it. What happened after that?’ asked Sorcha.

  Isobel shrugged. ‘I must’ve lost track of time. I might’ve dozed off myself. You see, I helped myself to the promised dram.’ She gave an apologetic smile. Sorcha squeezed her leg. ‘When I woke up, I noticed that Mr McGregor was stirring. I put down the shirts and went to greet him. He opened his eyes, sat up, and pointed at me. Before I could say anything, he began screaming that the devil had come into his home. It gave me a terrible fright, but no more than I did him. I tried to calm him, but when I stepped closer, he grabbed me by the throat —’ Her hands fluttered at her neck. Sorcha saw there were red marks on her skin.

  ‘I was afraid for my life and began to scream. I said, “Nae, Mr McGregor, ’tis me, ’tis me, Isobel Adam.” I pointed to the work I’d done, but he couldn’t see me even though his eyes were open. ’Twas like he was bewitched or a spirit or something had a hold of him —’

  ‘The spirit of whisky would be my guess,’ said Nettie. Sorcha swallowed a grin.

  ‘I managed to get away from him, but he chased me about the room. I reached the door and ran as if the hounds of hell were on my heels. Then I remembered that your house was at the bottom of the hill. I knew Nettie was living here. I prayed someone would be home and thank the good Lord you were.’

  Sorcha gave the lass a hug, then found a bannock and some cheese to feed her. She looked half-starved as well as frightened.

  ‘What about McGregor’s neighbours? Didn’t they come to your aid when you screamed?’ asked Nettie indignantly.

  Taking the offered bannock and cheese, between mouthfuls Isobel explained. ‘Och, aye, but they didn’t come in. They just laughed and said it was auld drunk McGregor seeing things again.’

  Sorcha shared a look of disgust with Nettie.

  ‘They were probably right. McGregor’s too fond of the whisky and anything else he can pour down his throat. He likely meant you no real harm.’


  Isobel gave a tremulous smile. ‘I ken that now, but when he had me by the neck and was screaming about demons, I thought I was done for.’

  Sorcha patted the girl’s knee. ‘It’s over, Isobel. You can stay here with us tonight. I’ll not have you walking back through town, not this late.’ She thought of Captain Ross and his sword. Where was he when they needed him? He would have put McGregor straight. If only he’d walked through her door at midnight, she’d send him straight up Lady’s Wynd to deal with McGregor. Him and his sergeant. She glanced at the door, then at Isobel.

  ‘Isobel,’ she asked. ‘Why didn’t McGregor’s neighbours come in and help you? Why’d they stay outside?’

  ‘I suppose it was because the clocks had struck midnight and they didn’t want to be a first-footer…’ A hand flew to cover her mouth and she leapt to her feet, sending bits of bannock and cheese tumbling to the floor.

  Nettie stood slowly, staring in horror at Isobel; Sorcha was looking at Nettie and Isobel was glancing from one to the other muttering, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

  They’d been so wrapped up in remembering, they hadn’t heard the bells toll the midnight hour.

  Sorcha glanced over to the clock standing on the mantel. Like the mirror, it was covered with a cloth. Time had eluded them.

  While a dark-haired male first-footer brought good luck to a household for the new year, a fair-haired woman brought ill-fortune down upon all who dwelled beneath its roof. Sorcha could see disaster and doom writ upon Isobel’s features. And upon Nettie’s, as she understood the bad omen Isobel represented.

  It would not do.

  ‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ she said, emphasising her order with her hands. ‘It’s all superstitious nonsense. First or last foot, it doesn’t matter. Stop apologising, Isobel, you’ve nothing to be sorry about. Put what happened with Mr McGregor behind you, and, like his neighbours, laugh it off. It means nothing and will be forgotten by dawn. Instead, let’s have one last drink to celebrate the new year. You’re safe, and that’s all that counts. Praise God, we all are.’

  Before they could argue, she poured them an ale each and, as they sat in silence either drinking or staring gloomily into their quaichs, she glanced at the covered clock and wondered whether the cold in her bones was because the fire had guttered or if, despite her assurances, it was a premonition of what Isobel’s status as a first-footer might mean for her.

  Mean for them all.

  FIVE

  Keep a stoot he’rt tae a stay brae.

  (Don’t lose heart when faced with a steep slope.)

  It was still dark when Sorcha woke in her old bed on the first day of the new year. It was hard to believe that only yesterday she’d been in a little room in her sister’s cottage on Laird Browning’s estate, dreaming of Pittenweem.

  She lay still and listened to the wind howling outside, slapping sheets of rain against the windows and roof. If she concentrated, she could hear her neighbours stirring; the clash of a kettle as it struck the hearth, the squawk of chickens being disturbed, the wail of a babe. The last noise plucked at her heart and she released a soundless sigh.

  Beside her, curled into a ball and fast asleep, was Nettie. In the bedroom beyond, Isobel Adam slept. At least, Sorcha hoped she did. The poor thing had taken a while to settle last night. The ale they’d given her and the many reassurances — not only about McGregor, but about being their first-footer — seemed to have done the trick.

  Faint but ever-present was the refrain of the ocean. It was calling to her. She shut her eyes and allowed its beguiling song to fill her. God, how she’d missed it.

  Nettie stirred, straightening slightly before her knees retreated back towards her chest. She slept like a child, Sorcha thought, envying her. As if she’d not a care in the world, though she knew that wasn’t the case. Nettie just buried her worries, as all the fishwives did.

  Sorcha supposed she’d have to rise soon, tend the fire, seek out something to break their fast before they headed down to the harbour and a reunion she both longed for and dreaded lest it not meet her expectations — expectations stoked by having Beatrix, Nicolas and Nettie with her last night.

  Funny how the fear of being treated as an incomer, as her mor had been, never deserted her. It was only as she grew older and was embraced by the fishwives that she understood her mor had brought her isolation upon herself. Recognising it wasn’t simply the Weem folk rejecting her mother, but Astrid herself spurning their attempts to make her one of them, she also understood why Dagny behaved the way she did, why she refused to show an interest in fishing or the tasks the women were expected to master. She was merely imitating their mother. Their poor unhappy mor, who loved their father but never ceased to regret leaving Norway and coming to Scotland, especially once she understood her fisher-husband would leave her for months at a time. Not even her children compensated for his absences, or for what she’d left behind. It didn’t matter what they said or did, or how some of the community went out of their way to include her, she refused all overtures and as a consequence earned little but the mutual suspicion and resentment of the Weem women, and many of the men, too. Astrid tried to share this attitude with her daughters, hoping to make them cleave to her, but only Dagny did so. Thank God I did not, thought Sorcha, feeling a rush of first guilt, before it was overcome by a swell of sentiment for the woman beside her.

  Sorcha remained where she was, enjoying the warmth and the comfort of having a body next to hers, and reflected on the whispered conversation she and Nettie had shared until well after midnight when they’d finally come to bed. With her face only inches from hers on the pillow, Nettie had asked, ‘So, are you all right, hen?’

  ‘Me?’ said Sorcha, propping herself up on an elbow and facing her friend, glad the night wasn’t to end just yet. ‘Of course. Isobel just gave me a fright, that’s all. As for what I told you about Dagny and Kennocht, well.’ She shrugged. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  Sorcha tried to keep her expression neutral. She’d known what Nettie meant and hoped to deflect her. It hadn’t worked.

  ‘You look well,’ said Nettie. ‘Better than you have for a long time.’ She picked up one of Sorcha’s long, tawny tresses and twined it around her finger, tugging gently. ‘You’ve roses in your cheeks and your dress doesn’t hang off you any more. Seems the countryside agreed with you, even if you didn’t agree with it.’ She grinned, releasing the strand. ‘But I’m not referring to Isobel or your sister and her swither of a man, and you know it. I want to ken how you really feel. In here.’ She pressed her hand against Sorcha’s heart.

  Sorcha curled her hand over Nettie’s.

  ‘You won’t want to hear this, but you’ve suffered more than most the last few years — what with your parents, Erik, Robbie going missing and then Andy and the wee bairn being taken.’ Nettie gazed into her eyes with such empathy, it took Sorcha’s breath away. ‘While most will be glad to have you back, there’s some will seek to disturb any peace you may have found.’ She nodded towards the front door. They both knew to whom she referred.

  When Reverend Cowper dared to use the death of her Davan as a warning for all Pittenweem folk who strayed from God’s path — as if Sorcha had deliberately done so and brought the consequences upon herself — she couldn’t, wouldn’t stand for it. No one, not even a man of God, had any right to use her dead son as a lesson — even a godly one, whether it was meant for her alone or not. Anyhow, she knew what Cowper was up to. Had he not told her the day he came to the house after her son died? Others might not have heard what he whispered to her, but she’d never forget. His words were seared in her mind.

  Looking for all the world like he was offering comfort, his breath was hot and sour on her face. ‘This is God’s punishment, Sorcha McIntyre, for failing to do your duty. Like all the fishwives, you be an ungodly woman, one who doesn’t ken her place.’

  She’d looked long and hard into his pale face with it
s one sharp and one bleary eye and did the worst thing she could have done: she laughed. Sorcha knew what really drove his rage towards her and it was naught to do with her beliefs or anyone else’s. It was because she’d seen what he attempted to do to her mother after her da died. He’d tried to force himself upon Astrid and would have succeeded had Sorcha not discovered what he was about and beaten him hard on the back and shoulders until he drew away and threatened to tell everyone if he so much as glanced at her mor again. She’d only ever told Nettie what had happened, but he didn’t know that and foolishly thought if he could control her, quash her spirit, shame and discredit her, his dirty secret would be safe. He wasn’t the paragon of virtue he pretended to be but a flawed man with salacious wants.

  As she laughed at him, fury had twisted his features and she felt sure he’d been about to strike her, but Nettie had appeared and he’d quickly assumed his other face before walking away.

  Unable to lie still any longer, memories prodding her like a hot poker, she quietly rose, pulled the covers back over Nettie and went to the outer room to stoke the fire.

  Staring into the smoke and the burning centre of gold as the peat sparked and crackled, she thought back on her family — her brothers, her mor, Dagny, but mostly her father.

  She settled back into the armchair that she still considered his and ran her palms along the arms, allowing the action to conjure thoughts of him. Her father was a rare man and not just because he wed outside the Weem. As the owner of a fishing boat, it was unusual for him to also crew. Most owners paid others to do the dangerous work — a pittance at that, the men would grumble. Not her da. Ever since the wars against France and Holland in his father’s time had reduced the population of men in Pittenweem to a mere few hundred, never mind the losses sustained during the civil war when entire crews were killed, leaving fishing boats devoid of anyone to work them, he’d known how important it was to keep the fleet going. The days when a dozen vessels would leave the harbour sailing to different parts of Scotland and the northern isles of Europe were long gone, but as far as Charlie McIntyre was concerned, that didn’t give him permission to wait safe at home while others risked their lives. Loved by his men but not the town council — two of the bailies owned the town’s remaining ships and were shamed by his courage — when he and his son Erik drowned at sea, there were those who attributed it to the bad luck his incomer wife brought him. The other boat owners took it as a sign to keep their feet dry.