The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  By then, famine, the scourge of the countryside, had swept the coast. It was as if the sea was in sympathy with the land and as the staple crops that sustained the locals died in the ground, so too the sea failed to offer its rich harvest.

  Unable to feed what was left of the family — Dagny having long since wed and left — Sorcha’s remaining brother, Robbie, knowing how much his mother feared him going to sea, leased their father’s boat to a man in Anster Easter and joined the army. Shipped to France, where England had joined her Dutch allies to fight the French, he had written as often as he was able.

  When news came that Robbie had been taken prisoner and was most likely dead, her mother completely unravelled. Ignoring her youngest daughter, she took to her bed and never rose again.

  The once crowded house was finally empty of all but one: Sorcha. It felt wrong; like a sin she couldn’t help committing. Perhaps that was why she married Andrew Watson. She’d been desperate to refill the empty rooms, the vast chamber her heart had become, to replace the bodies and blether she so missed. There was also a part of her anxious not to be excluded, afraid that if she waited too long and remained alone, she’d be regarded as an outcast like her mother. No one could shun her if she wed a Watson, one of the oldest families in the Kingdom of Fife.

  She reached for Andrew’s pipe, which still rested upon the mantle, and twirled it in her fingers. Funny, she hadn’t really thought about him for a long time. A fisherman contracted to a Crail merchant’s boat, to her he’d been just another Pittenweem lad, frantic for work, hungry. Set in his ways, a man who bided no deviation from routine, he was like a barnacle that fixed itself to a rock and nothing, not even a gale, could move it. He attached himself to Sorcha whether she wanted him to or not.

  Had she ever loved Andy? Not in the way she used to imagine she might love a man, the way a woman would a selkie lover, abandoning kith, kin and her human life for one beneath the waves, a complete and utter sacrifice. Nor was it, she was honest enough to admit, the way he wanted her to love him. Rather, she’d cared about him and loved the way he made her feel. Safe. Not alone. A real part of the Weem. To folk’s way of thinking, if a Watson thought her good enough to wed and bed, then perhaps the bad luck her incomer mor had brought hadn’t been passed on to her.

  Perhaps with her mor’s death, they’d whisper, it was over.

  They’d been wrong…

  As she shook herself out of her reverie, she was surprised to find that morning had broken. Dim light streamed through the windows, illuminating the furniture, the remnants of last night’s festivities. The downpour had all but ceased.

  A noise made Sorcha turn around, but not before she’d replaced the pipe and dried her eyes with her sleeve.

  ‘You let me sleep when you should have been tossing me out of bed, hen!’ exclaimed Nettie, dressed and madly trying to tame her sable hair by tying it under a neepyin. ‘Come on, we promised we’d meet the lasses down by the harbour.’

  Isobel appeared, rubbing her eyes. ‘But it’s New Year’s Day. The men wouldn’t have taken the boats out today, would they?’ She yawned and stretched.

  ‘What sort of mad question is that?’ asked Nettie.

  ‘One that someone who sews and spins for a living asks,’ said Sorcha. ‘If there’s fish a-biting, then aye, they’ll be out. But how about you, lass? Did you sleep all right?’

  ‘I did. Thank you, Sorcha, thanks to both of you.’ Isobel rolled her shoulders. ‘It’s almost as if what happened with Mr McGregor was just a bad dream.’

  ‘That’s the way to think about it,’ said Sorcha.

  ‘If you really want to show your thanks,’ said Nettie, staring in dismay at the unwashed quaichs and the platter where crumbs of cheese and some half-eaten bannocks hardened, ‘you can clean up and maybe find something left to bring down to us later.’

  About to protest that Isobel could leave it, Sorcha was pushed towards the bedroom. ‘Get dressed,’ Nettie hissed, throwing clothes at her. She returned to the kitchen. ‘If you could do that for us, Isobel, then we’ll consider the debt paid.’

  Sorcha smiled as she put on her clothes and arranged her hair. Nettie had always been direct.

  Within minutes, Sorcha and Nettie were ready to leave. Isobel promised to bring vittles to them as soon as she could.

  At the front door Sorcha took a deep breath, releasing it in a stream of white. As they headed down Marygate, Nettie looped her arm through Sorcha’s, humming. It was easy to believe she’d never left, Sorcha thought as they strode down the road, dodging puddles and being careful not to slip on the ice that clung to the compacted dirt and stones.

  Raising her chin, she studied the cottages as they passed. The houses might be old and worn, harled in grey and brown with more mould growing than the front doors had paint, but they were familiar. She could see the village gossip busy wiping frost from a pane. Mrs Porter dropped her cloth and pressed her face against the glass before disappearing. Sorcha heard her calling out to someone in the house. News of her return hadn’t reached everyone, then.

  Banks of dirty snow lay against the graveyard wall, resistant to the earlier rains. On the other side of the road a grey-muzzled dog sat outside a front door and raised his head to look at them, considering if they were worth a bark. It was Crabby, so-named because as a pup he was forever chasing crabs along the sand. That was, until one pinched his nose in its claws. Sorcha always used to save some fish for him. The door opened as they passed and a woman waved.

  Sorcha waved back. Nettie called out, ‘Good morning to you, Mrs Fraser. Happy New Year.’

  ‘And to you, Nettie, and Sorcha. Good to see you again, lass.’

  ‘You too, Mrs Fraser,’ said Sorcha. ‘I’ll be sure to bring some fish for Crabby.’

  Moira Fraser smiled and with another wave, shooed the dog inside and shut the door.

  Feeling more positive and with a skip in her step, Sorcha urged Nettie to go faster. Lost in her thoughts, as they turned into Cove Wynd she failed to see a dark-robed figure come out of the Tolbooth until they almost collided.

  ‘Watch where you’re going,’ a voice snapped.

  It was Reverend Patrick Cowper. Sorcha stopped in her tracks, forcing Nettie to a halt as well.

  The reverend’s eyes widened and his mouth thinned. ‘So, the rumours are true. It be yourself, Sorcha McIntyre. I thought you were gone till at least summer.’

  Caught by surprise, Sorcha felt anger flare at the reverend’s tone and her old spirit returned. ‘And a happy New Year to you too, reverend.’ Her heart beat worse than a drum and heat travelled up her neck. ‘Seems I couldn’t keep away.’

  Nettie released her hold on Sorcha and stepped forward until she was but inches from the minister. They were of a height. ‘Aye, reverend,’ she said. ‘Sorcha’s back; praise be to God.’ She paused, daring him to say otherwise.

  A few people wandering up Cove Wynd from the water slowed to hear the exchange. Still more approached from where they’d been loitering on the High Street and gathered in a large circle, whispering. Among them were bailies Robert Cook and Robert Vernour, members of the town council and Cowper’s friends. Cook started and his pale eyes narrowed as he spied Sorcha. He nudged Bailie Vernour in the ribs, bending to whisper in one of the man’s rather prominent ears. Before he’d even finished, Vernour turned to leer at her, scratching his receding chin.

  A small figure with a large basket over her arm pushed her way through the assembled crowd, shouldering aside whoever stood in her way. It was Janet Cornfoot. Her reputation for a sharp tongue and sharper elbows caused many to give her a wide berth.

  ‘There you be, Sorcha. You too, Nettie,’ she called. Ignoring the reverend, Janet barged past and, standing on tiptoe, embraced them both, smiling. When she did, her face transformed, folding into a maze of lines that criss-crossed her cheeks, somehow managing to emphasise the brightness of her mischievous eyes. Sorcha remembered the first time she met her. She’d been a wee lass, no more than f
our, and Janet had shouted at her for daring to steal an oyster set aside for bait. Instead of doing what most bairns (and grown-ups) did when confronted by an angry Janet Cornfoot, Sorcha had giggled, bit the oyster in half and offered the rest to the woman. ‘I’m not stealing,’ she’d said. ‘I’m sharing.’ Janet’s eyes had narrowed and then she’d burst out laughing. From that day forward, she became one of Sorcha’s, and by extension her family’s, staunchest allies.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ said Janet warmly. ‘Was waiting down by the harbour, wondering where you both had got to and now I know. You were just reacquainting yourself with the good minister.’ She acknowledged him briefly.

  Reverend Cowper folded his arms and frowned. ‘Mrs McIntyre has no need to reacquaint herself with me or anyone in this town, Mrs Cornfoot.’ He paused and his eyes travelled over all who stood there. ‘We all know a brazen besom when we see one.’

  There were gasps. One or two of the women shook their heads. Others lowered their chins. A couple of the men smirked, but no one dared correct him.

  Sorcha gave an internal sigh. This is what she feared. ‘I hope the year will be a blessed one for you, reverend; for you all,’ she added, incorporating everyone. She took a step towards Cowper. ‘I’d hoped it being a new year, we’d make a fresh start.’

  The reverend’s smile widened, as if a prelude to sharing a pleasantry. ‘You ken how we can make a fresh start, Sorcha McIntyre, and it has naught to do with a new year.’

  Sorcha understood: surrender herself to a man and marry again. Like so many, the reverend couldn’t bear to see an independent woman, especially a widow with property. It was an observation he oft shared with his parishioners, even if they didn’t all agree. From the looks on the faces of those standing about, many more did than before. The very idea made Sorcha’s heart sink, at the same time making her more determined than ever to resist him… Nae, not resist, to prove him wrong.

  There was nothing to fear from an independent woman, only a broken one — especially one who’d pieced herself back together.

  Satisfied he’d made his point, and pleased Sorcha didn’t argue, the reverend raised his voice, addressing the growing assembly. ‘Happy New Year to one and all,’ he said. The greeting was returned. ‘Blessed be those who follow the ways of the Lord, who understand what it is to be a righteous man or woman. They do dwell in His light always.’ He lowered his arms and faced Sorcha. ‘Make sure you are righteous, Sorcha McIntyre, and that you understand your place. I tell you this as a warning because He and I will be watching and the moment you step from His path, I’ll be there to set you aright… After all, we can’t afford to lose any more good men… or bairns.’

  Sorcha bit her tongue and forced herself to appear impassive as a storm raged in her chest.

  Upon receiving no visible reaction, the reverend tore his eyes from her and regarded Nettie and Janet. ‘That goes for both of you, too.’

  Without another word, he swept past them towards the High Street. With some muttering and backward glances, the bailies and a few others followed.

  Janet Cornfoot made a sign at his back with her fingers. ‘What an auld clash-bag.’

  ‘Don’t let him or any of his followers see you doing that,’ said Nettie sharply, slapping Janet’s hands.

  ‘Och, he be a whillywha. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Nettie quietly.

  Sorcha looked at her friends, then the reverend. ‘Me either.’

  Once he was out of sight, a few folk came forward to welcome Sorcha home and ask after Dagny. For all that Sorcha was touched by their words, it was obvious they feared to show her friendship before the reverend. She may have been gone for months, but the man held great sway in the village.

  He also held a grudge.

  Sensing her thoughts, Nettie gave her a nudge. ‘Come along. We’ve fish to gut.’ She dragged her away, Janet trotting by their side.

  It was only as they passed the kirk that Sorcha saw someone else who’d been watching and listening from the opposite side of the wynd.

  Captain Ross lifted his hat and gave her a half bow. As their eyes locked, she saw something in them that both disturbed her and made her mind gallop. Black as coal, within his gaze was a mixture of anger and defiance. Whether directed towards her or the reverend’s words, she wasn’t sure. But her heart pulsed in the most peculiar way. She lowered her head, hoping he didn’t see the colour that filled her cheeks. When she raised a hand to return his courtesy and wish him a happy New Year, he’d gone.

  She wanted to ask Nettie if she’d seen him, but the question was soon forgotten as they reached the East Shore. She halted where the wynd met the water. The Firth of Forth opened before her, the heaving seas and jagged coastline running as far as the eye could see. To the east, she could make out the colourful houses of Anster and its long harbour wall. To the west, the land cut away up to St Monan’s, the steeple of its church rising above the braes. Out on the silver expanse, waves tossed the few clinker boats. She could see nets and lines cast, the men constantly moving shapes upon the decks. The wind was strong and icy, sharp fingers prodding and poking her face, making her eyes water and her breathing sharp. It caught her skirt, tried to tear the neepyin from her head. Shutting her eyes, Sorcha immersed herself in the moment, resting her head briefly on Nettie’s shoulder, unaware of the whimsical smile Nettie and Janet shared. They understood how she felt.

  It was only after they’d walked a distance, chins tucked into chests against the wind, that Sorcha heard voices. Coming towards them through the fine veil of sea spray was a group of fishwives.

  Upon sighting Sorcha, the women let out a scream that made the dog on the harbour wall leap to his feet and release a volley of barks. The children playing with a hoop darted for the protection of their mothers and the men sitting on their stoops smoking pipes jumped up before shaking their heads in jovial disapproval.

  ‘Sorcha!’ the women shouted.

  ‘If it ain’t young McIntyre herself!’

  ‘Come to speir the guts oot o’ us again, chick? Drive us to distraction with questions like ye did as a wee one?’

  ‘Where’ve you been? There be fish to sort, lass!’

  Sorcha’s heart soared. There was Jean Durkie, Lillie Wallace, Therese Larnarch, and again, Nicolas Lawson, all of whom she’d worked alongside since she was a bairn. With them was Beatrix, who so often left her spinning to come and gossip at the seafront. These were the women who had stood by her as they had each other through so many deaths and the grief that followed. The women who, like Nettie and Janet, had pleaded with her not to go when Dagny begged her to.

  How she wished she’d listened.

  Only now they were here, she was able to forget Dagny’s cruel words, the soldiers of last night, even the reverend, and relish this very morning. With a shining face she turned to Nettie, who gave her a shove.

  Uncaring how she appeared, Sorcha lifted her skirts and with wild, happy whoops ran as if she were a bairn and not a fishwife or a widow, tears streaming down her cheeks. Catapulting herself forwards, she was caught and folded into strong arms, before being twirled about and showered with laughter and kisses.

  A slight distance away, two men watched the reunion with very different reactions. From the bottom of Cove Wynd, Captain Ross saw how Sorcha was greeted and was unable to prevent the smile that split his face.

  In the shadows further away, at the corner of Water Wynd, the reverend witnessed how the women careened around, unconcerned by the spectacle they created, their ungodly shrieks echoing as if they were witches in some devil-spawned coven.

  And standing in the centre, whipping them into a frenzy that had no place on the streets of his quiet village, was none other than Sorcha McIntyre.

  SIX

  Speirin’ makes ye wyce.

  (You’ll never know if you don’t ask.)

  Just over a week later, Sorcha was wearily wandering back from Ninian Fields. She’d sold the last of t
he fish in her creel to Mrs Oliver at the farmhouse, and stayed to enjoy a dram with the lonely widow. Before she went away to St Andrew’s, she’d surrendered her usual customers to Nettie, Nicolas, and the others. Though Nettie had offered to return them, Sorcha refused, content to roam the countryside seeking folk to buy her fish. But it also meant she had to walk further to find them. It hadn’t been as hard as she feared. Before long there’d be some people in town willing to buy from her as well. Till then, she’d make do; after all, she was in the enviable position of having the monies from the Mistral to tide her over.

  As her boots crunched through the thin covering of snow, she passed a herd of cows studiously indifferent to the honking geese in their midst. Like her, they were enjoying the weak afternoon sun. There would be rain again tonight, she thought, glancing at the sky, noting how the low-slung bank of clouds on the horizon were becoming darker and more menacing. Likely there’d be the thick fog of a hoar as well. Quickening her step, she avoided a puddle, glad she’d left her skirt tucked into her waistband so it didn’t trail in the slunks.

  If you didn’t count the cows or the geese or even the sweet-faced sheep chewing on a patch of grass they’d managed to uncover, there was not a soul in sight. All she could see was the lapper of filthy snow pushed to the sides of the well-trodden track punctuated by deep ruts where carts had rumbled. Amid the fields, skeletal trees wrestled with the sky. Occasionally she’d see a cottage peeking above the scrappy hedgerows and dilapidated fences, coughing smoke and reminding her that folk weren’t that far away. Further ahead, the vast expanse of water glimmered. She began to think of what she might prepare for dinner, or whether Nettie had made a start. Thoughts of her friend lifted her spirits. Deciding Sorcha needed her more than her husband did, Nettie had told Thom she was remaining with Sorcha for the foreseeable future. Grateful for her presence, Sorcha had worried what Thom might think until he appeared at her door just the other day. He’d wrapped his arms around Nettie, beaming while he kissed his wife soundly on the mouth, and gave them his blessing. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for Nettie to live parts of the year in Anster, staying with her married daughter and keeping an eye on her house there which she leased out, only staying the odd night with Thom in the Weem. As the reverend would oft ask, what sort of wife lived apart from her husband? It wasn’t natural. Mind you, it didn’t take much to earn the reverend’s disapproval, especially if you were a fishwife. Grimacing, she pushed thoughts of the reverend aside and focussed on her friends instead.