Saskia's Journey

by Theresa Breslin

  Saskia ran back along the beach. Halfway up the stairs she met Alessandra coming down, field glasses in her hands.

  ‘What is it, child? What is wrong? What have you seen?’

  ‘A seal,’ said Saskia. ‘And I think it is dying. It looks in a terrible state, gasping for breath.’

  ‘What, what?’ cried Alessandra.

  ‘A seal,’ Saskia repeated. ‘At first I thought it was a person, but it is a seal. A very ill seal.’

  ‘A seal!’ Alessandra almost shrieked. ‘You are sure it is a seal?’

  Saskia took a breath. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s not a shark or anything dangerous. It is definitely a seal, and it might be dying.’

  Alessandra stared at Saskia as though she still did not understand. ‘What can we do? What can we do?’

  ‘Cover it with a rug or a blanket and phone someone,’ suggested Saskia. ‘Is there an animal rescue centre nearby?’ And as Alessandra did not reply she said, ‘The local police station would know. We could ask them.’

  Alessandra spoke in an odd voice. ‘The police,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s not really an emergency,’ said Saskia. ‘We could contact the RSPCA or the coastguard, or someone.’

  ‘What?’ Alessandra’s face had lost all colour. She stared at Saskia and did not move.

  ‘Do you have a phone book?’ said Saskia. ‘I could look up the number.’

  ‘No. That is, yes.’ Alessandra twisted her fingers together. ‘Let me . . . let me . . .’ she stammered, ‘j-just ask N-Neil Buchan. He’ll take care of it. Yes,’ she repeated, ‘Neil will see to it.’

  Saskia had a sudden image of Neil putting the seal in a taxi, but then she supposed that if he brought the pick-up truck then it was not too ridiculous. She followed Alessandra as she hurried up the beach stairs and into the house. Why should her great-aunt be so startled by the idea of a seal on the beach?

  As if Saskia had voiced her thoughts Alessandra said, ‘Fisherfolk have no great love of seals, you know. They tear the nets, and . . . and . . . things like that.’

  Once in the house Alessandra found an old tartan travelling rug. ‘Be careful.’ She held the rug for a moment before handing it to Saskia. ‘Be careful on the rocks.’

  Saskia took the rug, went back on the beach and draped it over the seal. It hardly moved, only fastened huge blurry eyes on her face and twisted its head this way and that. It seemed to know that she was trying to help it, and became still as she reached up and wrapped the blanket around it and tucked it underneath its body.

  ‘There,’ she said, patting it. How did one comfort a seal? She hoped Alessandra had phoned Neil Buchan and he was able to get some kind of help.

  They had lunch while they waited. Again Saskia watched as her great-aunt set out the dishes, but Alessandra’s careful constrained manner of the morning was shaken.

  Her great-aunt stared at the cupboards, concentrating, before opening one and slowly, hesitatingly, bringing out dishes and food. As they sat down to eat Alessandra switched on the radio. The routine of preparing lunch seemed to have calmed her, and her voice was almost even as she said, ‘Do you mind my turning this on?’ Alessandra pointed to the radio. ‘I like to hear the shipping forecast. I suppose you find it a bit boring?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Saskia. ‘I’ve never paid it much attention before. In London if I want to know what the weather is like I just look out of the window.’

  The steady beat of the announcer’s voice swelled into the kitchen. ‘Frontal trough moving steadily south . . . Cromarty, Forth, Tyne: northerly, backing northwest, four or five, occasionally six, showers; mainly good. Dogger: northerly, bearing northeasterly, five or six, decreasing four or five, showers; good. German Bight, Humber, Thames, Dover: northeast, backing north, five or six, wintry showers; moderate or good. Wight, Portland, Plymouth: northeasterly, five to seven, occasionally gale eight, wintry showers; good, occasionally poor. Lundy, Fastnet . . . Shannon . . . Rockall, Malin . . . Hebrides . . . Bailey . . . Faeroes . . . Fair Isle. South-east Iceland: west four or five, showers; moderate or good.’

  They listened in silence to this solemn recitation of the wind and weather conditions on the seas encircling them. ‘I like it,’ said Saskia eventually. ‘I find it sort of . . . comforting.’

  Alessandra looked pleased. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said. ‘To know that someone somewhere is keeping watch for them, even if it is via satellite or a machine or a computer. It’s a long time since I’ve been involved with bringing in the fish, but everyone in a fishing community is bonded to each other and to the sea.’

  ‘I can appreciate that,’ said Saskia. ‘I expect that whole villages and towns depend on the boats having good catches.’

  ‘It’s not just the economics of it,’ said Alessandra. ‘It’s much more than that. I think it’s about us being a seafaring people. It’s what we are . . . No, it’s who we are.’

  ‘You think we’re linked to our landscape?’ asked Saskia. She thought of the people she had met during her time in the remote parts of Asia, how integrated they seemed to be with their country, even down to how they looked and dressed.

  ‘Do you think we are?’ Alessandra smiled. ‘Where do our stories and customs come from? There are so many inspired by this area alone that they would fill more books than one person could ever write.’

  ‘My dad says that fisherfolk are very superstitious.’

  ‘He’s right, although much more so in the past than now. There were so many things that you should or should not do, especially when the boats were about to sail. My own mother died when I was quite young but I do remember her baiting the hooks for the line fishing. She always began the work on a Tuesday and no one was allowed to enter the house without them baiting a few of the hooks. At New Year we took salt water from the sea and sprinkled it on our hearth. We gathered seaweed from the shore and placed it over the doors.’

  They were so caught up in the conversation, Alessandra retelling the old ways that she could remember, Saskia listening intently, that both of them were startled when the heavy brass knocker sounded on the front door.

  Saskia went to open the door with Alessandra following anxiously behind her. Despite being fairly tall herself, Saskia found she had to look up to meet the eyes of the young man who stood there.

  ‘Ben Nicholson,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m from the local Marine Research Station. You reported a seal in trouble on the beach?’

  ‘Right,’ Saskia replied, suddenly aware that her hair was messy, her clothes were scruffy, she had no make-up on, and that as well as being tall, this man was extremely good looking. Dark hair, dark eyes, and the kind of tanned skin that indicated a life spent working outside. ‘Right,’ she repeated.

  Ben grinned and looked from Alessandra to Saskia. ‘You wouldn’t like to point out where exactly?’

  Saskia felt her face colour. ‘Of course,’ she said. She led him to the top of the beach stairs and indicated the other end of the beach.

  ‘I’ve got a stretcher in my van.’ Ben looked at the stairs and then turned and looked Saskia up and down. ‘I’m wondering if you’d be able to manage to carry the animal up these stairs with me?’

  Saskia’s face began to colour up again, and as it did, Ben spoke at once. ‘Look, no offence, but seals can be quite heavy animals. Was it a full-grown male?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ said Saskia. She met his eyes and this time held his gaze. ‘I’m prepared to give it a try though.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s get the gear out of the van. I parked it on the top road.’

  As she followed Ben, Saskia pulled a scrunchie from her pocket and quickly tied her hair back.

  ‘This is a fantastic little cove,’ said Ben, ‘and the house is brilliant. Have you lived here long?’

  ‘I’m on holiday for a bit, but my great-aunt has lived here all her life.’

  Ben grinned again. ‘Actually I could tell by your accent that you’re not
local. I was just being nosy.’

  ‘So, where are you from?’ asked Saskia. ‘I can tell by your accent that you are local.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ben. ‘The locals in this part of the world wouldn’t agree with you. This part of the Northeast from below Peterhead and up beyond Fraserburgh is known as Buchan country and I’m from further south, St Andrews. The accent and even the language are different here.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Saskia. ‘My great-aunt said they speak Doric here.’

  ‘The Doric,’ said Ben. ‘Far’r ye fae?’

  ‘Translate please,’ laughed Saskia.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘London,’ said Saskia. ‘Although my grandfather was my great-aunt’s brother and my father was born in Cliff House just after the Second World War.’

  ‘So you’re more of a local than I am,’ said Ben. ‘Here, grab an end of this.’ He pulled a large canvas and aluminium stretcher from the van, and then a rucksack.

  As they walked down the beach stairs carrying the stretcher together, Saskia saw what looked like a rifle poking out of the top. ‘You’re not going to kill it, are you?’

  ‘It might need sedating to get it onto the stretcher, but, yes’ – he turned and regarded her seriously – ‘it might be that it has to be put down.’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to save sick animals.’ Saskia could not keep the disappointment from her voice.

  ‘First of all, I’m not from the RSPCA. I’m from a Marine Research Institute,’ said Ben. ‘And also we think that there’s some kind of seal flu on its way here so we’re trying to contain it. We don’t know enough about it yet to have any treatment for them, but what we do know is that seals gather together in colonies and they also swim huge distances in search of food so it could easily become an epidemic. There’s a special crematorium being set up in Inverness. If we can bring them in and burn the bodies then we might be able to hold it up, at least until after the seal pups are born later in the year.’

  ‘It seems an awful thing to do,’ said Saskia as they began to walk along the beach.

  ‘It’s a sleep dart. The least cruel way we know. Honestly,’ Ben added. ‘It has to be better than leaving it to suffer.’

  Saskia took Ben to the place at the far end of the beach where she had found the stricken animal. They stood and looked up at the big flat rock where Saskia had found the seal.

  There was nothing there. Not even the rug. The rock was empty. The seal had gone.

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t in as much distress as you imagined,’ said Ben.

  ‘I didn’t imagine it,’ said Saskia. ‘I saw it lying right there, and it was very ill indeed.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Ben, looking around. ‘It’s not on the beach so it must have gone back into the sea.’ He took field glasses from his rucksack and began to scan the water near the shore.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought it capable of doing that,’ said Saskia.

  ‘If it was in the condition you described then you are right, it wouldn’t be able to dive properly,’ said Ben. ‘The very ill ones that have been picked up so far have had advanced emphysema and they don’t want to go into the water, but’ – he took his eyes from his field glasses and looked along the beach – ‘I don’t see where else it could have gone.’

  ‘I suppose it could have fallen off the rock,’ said Saskia.

  ‘And then been swept out to sea? It’s a possibility,’ Ben replied. He began to scan the water.

  Saskia looked more intently at the rocks. ‘It might have crawled off deeper into these rocks for shelter. Further round this bit of headland.’

  Ben clambered on top of the nearest one. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a way through here.’ He jumped back down onto the sand beside her.

  ‘My great-aunt says these rocks are dangerous.’ Saskia hesitated. ‘Do you think they are?’

  ‘Never ignore local knowledge,’ said Ben. ‘Your aunt will know more about the conditions here than you or I ever will. The water swirling around this little headland looks treacherous, and if a boat struck on them, there doesn’t seem to be anything a person could cling on to.’

  ‘Yes, but she doesn’t like me going anywhere near them even from the shore side. I mean, for a walker on the beach, they can’t be dangerous,’ Saskia persisted.

  ‘It might be that there was a fatal accident here in the dim and distant past, say a child killed or something similar. That can be why people tell you to avoid certain places. Over time it becomes a local story but no one can remember why there’s bad luck connected with a particular place, although originally there is a good reason for the warning.’

  Saskia looked at the headland again. Alessandra was uncomfortable about this part of the beach. Had Ben’s explanation any truth in it?

  ‘I’d say you’d need climbing gear to get over these rocks safely,’ Ben went on, ‘so I’m definitely not risking it. The current’s probably deadly when the tide turns. If you slipped you’d get caught, and nothing would save you from being dragged down.’

  As they went back along the beach Ben looked up at the house. ‘It’s very impressive,’ he said. ‘Quite a few houses by the sea in the Northeast are built like that, gable end to the sea and the doors facing inland, but I’ve never seen one so deeply set into the cliff.’

  Alessandra was waiting at the top of the stairs. Saskia suddenly recalled that when her great-aunt had run to meet her on the stairs Alessandra had been carrying her old-fashioned binoculars. She was carrying them now.

  ‘The seal is gone,’ said Saskia. ‘Did you see what happened to it?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Alessandra. ‘How would I see anything?’

  ‘Earlier, when I found the seal, you had your binoculars on me.’

  Alessandra’s face showed upset. ‘It was only to make sure that you were all right.’

  ‘But you were watching the beach.’

  ‘The . . . the . . . rocks are dangerous. I was afraid for you.’

  Saskia was becoming irritated and it was threatening to overcome her good manners. ‘Aunt Alessandra!’ she said sharply. ‘Were you watching just now? Did you see the seal move away as Ben and I approached it?’

  ‘Moved away,’ Alessandra repeated. ‘Yes. I-i-it moved – t-t-to the water. I think. There were other seals swimming there.’

  Saskia glanced at Ben and saw a curious look on his face and her annoyance began to extend to him. Impatiently she snapped, ‘I did see a seal, you know. And it was very ill.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Ben in a neutral tone of voice. ‘If it saw other seals out in the water it would give it the motivation to go and join them. Initially, they might have moved from the rocks into the water and away from it when they saw that it was unwell.’

  Saskia realized that she was sounding a bit neurotic. She’d have to calm down. Doucement, doucement, she told herself, and then was horribly aware that she was using the words her mother sometimes muttered under her breath when her father was about to lose his temper.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to both Ben and Alessandra. ‘I got a bit stressed. The poor animal looked as though it was dying.’

  ‘It’s very hard when you see a creature in distress and you can’t do anything to help it,’ said Ben. He held up his hands, which were covered in sand. ‘Is there anywhere I could wash my hands?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Saskia. ‘I’ll make us all some coffee while you do that.’

  Now Alessandra became even more flustered and Saskia suddenly felt bad about that. She had come barging into her great-aunt’s quiet and ordered life, urged on by her father for his own interests, and had managed within the space of a day to destroy Alessandra’s tranquillity.

  Neil Buchan arrived just as they were going indoors. He spoke directly to Alessandra. ‘I got here as soon as I could.’ He then introduced himself to Ben.

  Saskia had the impression that her great-aunt had not had so many people in her kitchen for a very long time. Alessandra was agitated
, pulling open cupboards at random, searching for extra mugs. ‘You sit down, Alessandra,’ said Saskia. ‘I’ll make the coffee.’

  Neil had his eyes on Alessandra’s face. ‘Yer all right.’

  Saskia glanced at him, surprised at the tone of his voice. He was not asking Alessandra how she was. He was telling her something.

  ‘There is nothing on the beach,’ he spoke quietly. ‘Everything is fine. Yer all right,’ he said again.

  ‘Yes?’ Alessandra looked into his face, and then down at her hands. She clenched them tightly in front of her. ‘Yes.’

  Ben was chatting away easily, unaware of any tension in the room, and Saskia found herself responding to him. He must be in his early twenties, she guessed. He had just finished a degree in marine biology, working at the famous Gatty Laboratory of St Andrews University, and was now doing post-graduate research at the Marine Institute in Aberdeen.

  ‘I happened to be at the Marine Research Station on the other side of Fhindhaven when your call came in so they asked me to come and investigate.’

  Neil gave him a searching look. ‘Are ye one o’ those laboratory scientists that ken more about fish than fishermen?’

  Ben sipped his coffee, then he raised his head and stared directly at Neil. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In some cases I think I do.’

  Saskia drew in her breath. Such a flash of arrogance to put her off, just when she thought he seemed quite nice to get to know.

  ‘I’ve fished as far north as Greenland and right up into the Barents Sea,’ Ben went on without rancour, ‘but I reckon I’ve learned a lot from books and scientific research that I wouldn’t have known from only being at sea.’