by Neil M. Gunn
“Dear me,” she said, “dear—dear—me!”
She stood so helpless and entangled in the witchery that his delight swayed him, his blue-striped pyjama-jacket jerked from its moorings, and his navel had a quick bird’s-eye view of the whole scene.
“‘Now!” he said. “Here, give it to me!” She handed it carefully to him. “Clear away that table and sit down.”
When she had done this—for he had a very imperious manner when roused—he said, “Now I want you to sing the Silver Bough for me.”
“But——”
“No excuses! Just as you sing it to Sheena.” He had the Bough in his left hand and the soft striker ready.
She gathered herself, and cleared her throat, and gathered herself. Then she began.
“That’s it!” he cried, interrupting her. “Wait now!” When he got the right starting apple, he sounded it steadily, humming “Ah-h-h . . . Ready!”
She started to sing again, and now the notes went with her, missing the way occasionally but tripping quickly on to it again.
“Not bad!” he declared. “Once more!”
By the third time, she had lost self-consciousness and was as interested as himself that there should be a full and harmonious rendering. Moreover the clarity that rang out from the hard end of the striker inspired her to a performance that recalled the Kinlochoscar hall where she had sung as a young woman. Her mouth opened, and her eyes opened too, and she looked far through the window.
“Splendid!” he declared. “I think I’ve got it!” And he went right through the tune on his own to make sure.
“You have it indeed,” she said. “And beautiful you make it sound.”
“Now for the last verse!”
“Dear me!” she said, but she got her hands on her lap again, looked through the window, and, as if time itself were no more than the sheet of glass, she sang to her own childhood.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Just perfect. The next thing is to arrange about presenting it to Sheena.”
“Is it for Sheena it is?”
“Well of course!” His eyes flew merrily upon her. “Did you think it was for yourself?”
Her eyes fell to the hands on her lap and through her smile he saw tears glisten.
Embarrassed, his own eyes dropped and he tucked in his pyjama jacket. Sounds came from the world outside. Sheena cried to the cat.
“That’s them!” said Mrs Cameron. “And goodness me! I forgot the pot on the fire; it will be over!”
He laughed.
She stopped at the door. “I would like Anna to see it.”
“Send her up!”
Anna appeared and stood.
“Please sit down,” he said, pointing to the chair.
She came quietly and sat down, a faint warmth in her cheeks.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.
“Fine, thanks. I hope you are well?”
“Never better. Have you heard about the others?”
“Yes. Norman spoke to me. They’re all right.”
“Perhaps it’s more than we deserved to be!”
She smiled but said nothing. Her presence affected him deeply, so he began at once, laughing lightly, as if it were now a matter of no great moment, to tell how he used to listen to the Silver Bough and how he had ordered one. “This is it here,” he said, and added. “It’s the only one in the world. Press the button.”
She pressed the button and opened the lid, and it might have been jewels for her wedding from the way she looked and forgot him. Then her eyes rose.
“Take it out.”
She lifted it out, but he took it from her. “Listen!” With the muted end of the striker he played the melody flawlessly.
“That’s lovely,” she said; her body seemed to burgeon; a brightness came from her on the air; her tawny hair had deeps like the music; in her eyes the yielding tenderness, so perilously characteristic of her, shone like stained glass in an inner place; but the firm smooth bone, that had faced the storm, held it all quietly.
“Try it!”
She took the Bough and the striker, and struck. He saw the reserve, the slight awkwardness, the deference, fade away, melt, and the country girl who was Anna come through with the smile which opened on a delicious little laugh. Her colour deepened to match the brightness in her eyes.
“Start here,” he said. “Hit that one.” He leaned over to instruct her.
She did not rush at it, but she was apt; there was a certain slowness, as though tenderness and strength needed time to mix. He felt a draught amidships and pushed down his pyjama ends, realising with an upsurging fondness that his hands could hardly be trusted to keep to themselves, for it would be good to tell this young woman how highly he thought of her.
He could see how moved she was as she went out, and felt strangely excited as he lay back. When the grey matter began to stir, he said to himself: I am not deceived; this is not being romantic: this is the enduring goodness of life itself. But even the words were opaque. The vision itself was everything.
It was outside him, and went on through the grey wastes. There came upon him an access of extraordinary assurance. His body grew still and his eyes were lost beyond the green ridge.
Sheena’s reaction had something of this stillness when at story-time that evening he presented her with the Silver Bough. She could not move, and when her grandmother suggested that she should at least thank the gentleman she did not seem to hear and certainly did not speak. But the remarkable thing was that she apparently could not put a hand out, could not accept it; she even pushed herself away from it against her granny’s breast; but her eyes never left it. He closed the case, laid it on her lap, ruffled her hair and with a laugh went out.
Chapter Thirty Five
That night he was feverish and troubled with fantastic bits of thought and dream. Then all grew quiet and he was aware that a little girl of Sheena’s age was sitting on the mat in front of the fireplace. She had black hair, wore a diminutive white linen nightdress, and was completely preoccupied taking pebbles from a painted bowl and placing them on the floor before her. She leaned forward to the bowl and then back, and had the air of communing deeply with herself though she was quite silent. Somehow this preoccupation was more arresting than if she had been doing something full of mystery. He knew quite well nothing was going to happen. He knew it did not matter which pebbles she picked or how or where she arranged them on the floor. It was the concentration on the doing that was remarkable; it was beyond or behind everything that could happen; it was so complete that he himself with a feeling of infinite ease got lost in it, and his eyes moved behind the child—and saw the feet. They were the naked feet of a grown woman. Instantly his whole being was gripped, and he could not move his eyes from the feet. He knew he had to look up at the woman but he could not. In the struggle with himself, he awoke. The grey morning was in the window.
As he lay back, the thought came to him full-blown: why did they drive me out to the cairn—the cave—the storm with death in it? For it was no good denying that he had felt a compulsion to go out. He had been pushed out by the “influence” in the room.
He was wide awake now, with the sea-shiver tremulous in his skin. It was not a true fever. He knew that. And he argued that the “influence” could be only in his own mind. He made this quite clear to himself, but the logic of it could not blot out what had happened, could not destroy even now, at this moment, his apprehension of an invisible traffic between the long narrow box and the mat before the fireplace. His sensitivity became so acute that he got up, opened the door of his “dark room”, felt queerly vulnerable as he stretched up and unpinned an edge of the black cloth which covered the skylight, looked down at the long box and around, closed the door, and got back into bed.
Inside his own mind: that’s where it all happened. But logic now became uncanny and asked him: why did your mind produce the feet?
He saw the feet again, solidly moulded, clear in every toenail. He had b
een at ease, lost in the child’s concentration and then—the feet, the clutch of fear.
Logic began to mock him, shifted its footing with every Why? until it became more evasive, more mysterious, than the “influence”. He grew very hot, and when the blood-pulse became audible in his head took a sleeping tablet.
That afternoon he felt pleasantry languid and was amused at Mrs Cameron’s whispered references to Sheena who was still silent but utterly wedded to the case that contained the Silver Bough. It was as if something incredible and august had happened to the little girl. From hidden corners came an occasional note or two and once the voice had sung the melody with a pure solemnity, but during her movements through the ordinary world the box was shut.
Anna had gone to Kinlochoscar, and Mrs Cameron was explaining with exaggerated humour that she dare not even make a call on a neighbour who was ill, when he offered to take Sheena out for a stroll.
To their astonishment, Sheena silently went to him and took his outstretched hand.
“Well! Well!” said her granny. “But surely you are not going to carry the box with you, too? It might fall down and break.”
Sheena looked at Mr Grant.
“It would be safer at home,” he said seriously. “I’ll tell you what—we’ll lock it up in my box and I’ll carry the key away with me.”
“Nobody would ever get near it in that case,” said Mrs Cameron.
“And we’ll go away to the little shore and gather some pretty shells for your housie.”
They had much conversation on the way, for Sheena, relieved of the sweet tyranny of possession yet with the knowledge that the Silver Bough would be safely waiting for her, came right out of herself. She expended so much energy that he saw her flagging going up the slope and asked if she would like a lift. She raised her arms so naturally that she finished her question with one arm round his neck. The warmth and smell of her little body, the whisk of her hair on his cheek, stirred him so profoundly that it stirred him to his brightest humour. He was sweating before he set her down and sat down himself, wiping his forehead and laughing. In time they reached the little shore, where she had been with her mother when Norman had come to them and Martin in the boat.
He was sitting on a low rock, watching her gathering shells, when he happened to look to sea and saw a rowboat coming down the coast towards Clachar. It was Martin and as he drew abreast Grant stood up and lifted an arm in salute. Martin lay on his oars for a moment or two then turned the bow to the rock, where Grant met him.
“Like some fish?”
“Nothing I like better. You’ve been lucky.”
“There’s a good patch opposite the White Shore,” said Martin indifferently.
“Is that the white strip of beach you can see from the headland up there?”
“Yes. Can I heave them out for you or—I think I’ll stretch my legs. You get cramped sitting.” He took the painter with him. Then he stood, arrested. A small face was showing beyond the low rock.
Grant, who had completely forgotten Sheena, said at random: “I’m acting nursemaid today!” He laughed. “This is Sheena. We’re great friends.” Then he called, “It’s all right, Sheena!” and went a couple of paces towards her. He did not know what to do, so went right up to Sheena. “How many shells have you got now?” He stooped; he inspected what she had gathered. “We’ll need more yet for the path up to your housie.” But her attention was distracted; yet he refused to turn round; and did not do so until she had been persuaded to gather more. Martin was sitting on the rock, smoking a cigarette, his face impassive.
“I have come to the conclusion that seawater doesn’t do anyone any harm,” said Grant as lightly as he could.
“Depends on how much you get of it,” said Martin.
“I got a fair amount,” said Grant, holding to his smiling air.
But Martin was watching the child. Grant looked into the boat. “What are the fish with the red spots?”
“Plaice.”
Grant studied the shape of the flounders and plaice carefully, the gear in the boat, a pipe, a tin of mussels, brown handlines on wooden frames. He suddenly remembered the boat that had been wrecked. This was a rougher, heavier one. “Was she a total wreck, the other boat?”
“She might mend, if we had the timber.”
Grant could not look at him, as though something destructive or savage had come into the very air. When he did look he was surprised to find that Martin’s face was expressionless. His watching of Sheena was quite detached and Sheena at the moment was utterly absorbed with the mother-of-pearl shimmer in a shell. She was only a dozen yards away and they saw her try to scrape the shimmer off the shell with her fingernails but it wouldn’t come. This was so wonderful that her face lit up with brightness and she cried, “Look!” and came with it at arm’s length. Grant stepped down from the rock, took the shell and tried to wipe away the mother-of-pearl with the ball of his thumb; when he couldn’t do it she jumped with excitement.
“It’s a beauty,” he said, putting it back in her eager hands.
“I found it.” The tiny pink fingers with the transparent nails pressed against the mother-of pearl; the brightness shone again in her face as she looked quickly up—and saw Martin. The brightness faded and the small face grew solemn and thoughtful.
“Perhaps there are more,” suggested Grant.
Now she was looking up from under her brows and she came close to him; glanced at the shell and looked up again.
“Won’t you try to find some more?” The position was becoming very awkward. “Run away now!” He turned to Martin, smiling. “We are keeping you.”
Martin’s eyes came onto his face; they walked over it and stared in, without curiosity; they shifted to the child, held for a little while, then with a slow easy gesture he took a pull at his cigarette and said, “Well?”
Grant went along the rock to the boat. There was the question of how he should carry the fish. Martin went into the boat and threaded eight of them on a piece of string, shoving it under the covering flap of the gills and out through the mouth with a thumb.
“This is too many,” said Grant.
“Don’t think you can carry them?”
“No, I mean—it’s too much.”
“I could take you to the spit if you like.”
“That would be too kind, besides——”
“As you like.”
“Well——” Grant looked back and saw the child’s face staring at them over the rock. “If you’re sure it wouldn’t be a trouble?”
Martin didn’t trouble to reply.
Grant put the shells in his handkerchief and carried Sheena over the uneven rock. She was excited.
“You get in first,” said Martin; then he lifted Sheena in and Grant took her between his knees.
The sea was calm and the sun shining through a sky haze. Martin began to row away and Sheena’s eyes grew round and looked at Martin and at the receding shore.
She could not understand Martin’s face and turned sideways to it and Grant made conversation to her; but in a moment the lifting and falling of the boat over the slow impulse of the sea had her attention and she was looking at Martin again.
It was only then that Grant’s inner acute embarrassment passed from him, for he realised that in Martin there was no awkwardness at all and had not been from the first moment. No abrupt talk, no stress, only that gaze in which there was neither curiosity nor indifference. He pulled a slow steady stroke; the seaman’s oar. His face and shoulders had somehow an added distinction from the sea, an extra dimension of remoteness. When his eyes and Sheena’s met, it was Sheena’s that moved away. But he clearly did not frighten her. A slight wonder came upon her, a tendency to whisper: that was all; then she was looking at him again.
A small jetty pushed out from the northern shore of the spit and when Martin pulled alongside, Grant got out. Martin lifted Sheena out and then the fish.
“I can only thank you,” said Grant; but as they moved away
Sheena looked back, dragging a little at his hand, but he did not care to turn round. He had thought he glimpsed Mrs Sidbury in the pine plantation, and as they went along the avenue through the trees he saw her in the distance. She was standing in the middle of the avenue looking half over her shoulder and turned to them as they came up.
“Mr Martin was good enough to give us a lift from the little shore,” he said, smiling, “and present us with these fish.”
She was pleased her brother had had such good sense and he presented Sheena. But Sheena had her right thumb at her mouth and curious eyes. Mrs Sidbury had to take her hand and shake it politely. Sheena drew back and regarded her with a child’s complete gravity, and for the second time Grant saw Martin in her face. He spoke laughingly to Sheena, for he did not care to look at Mrs Sidbury.
As they went on again his embarrassment returned and he felt a fool. Mrs Sidbury might think he was introducing Sheena to the family. Good lord! he thought. He had caught the tail end of the piercing look she had given the child. He felt hot.
Chapter Thirty Six
The whole involved business worried him. As if he had been a nursemaid arranging a sentimental tryst!
And Sheena, of course, was full of the boat and the sea and questions to her mother and granny in the cottage; so there was also their aspect of the affair and heaven alone knew what thoughts. He had better clear out for a few days—but he couldn’t do that because of the famous crock of gold.
Late that evening he walked about his sitting room quietly, until the notion of escape produced its own plan. Each morning he would get his sandwiches and spend the day going far into the country behind Clachar; he would cover every glen and height in a vast arc from, say, the White Shore in the north to Kinlochoscar in the south.
With his large-scale map spread out on the table, he studied contour lines and place names. With compass and binoculars, he would get a sound general picture, and with luck he might happen on a particular find. As he narrowed the arc about Clachar, he had the notion that he was closing in on it, and this induced at once a feeling of clean satisfaction. It was the proper way to go about finding anything. These chance sallies in the night had always seemed futile, had gone against his scientific training.
