Father Mick made his way to his chapel, glancing around at the crowd, knowing there were more people outside, as there had been when the coffin arrived the evening before. He placed his prepared notes on a shelf in the pulpit and went through the familiar rites: what Chrissie called ‘the standing, kneeling and – in your case, Father Hooligan – falling-down bits.’ Automatic pilot so far, but with a knot of something else tightening inside him: nerves, apprehension, grief too, probably. Slowly he climbed the steps to the pulpit.
Chrissie and her daughters had decided against Sorley Mor’s merits being gone over by a succession of speakers. They wanted this to be a normal, intimate village send-off, or as near as was possible, so everything depended on the little gargoyle in the pulpit. He took out his glasses, cleaned them with the hem of his garment, put them on again, then looked up at the congregation. Then he looked down at his notes, took his glasses off again, cleaned them and put them on once more. From his position standing at the very back, Dougie knew he was playing for time and, as the silence went on and the congregation waited and watched, he wondered if Father Mick could pull this off. ‘What the hell do we do if he chickens out?’ he was thinking desperately, but just then Father Mick looked up, holding his notes in his left hand.
‘I was,’ he said, ‘going to read this prepared speech. God knows, I’ve sweated blood over it this last week, trying not to miss anything out. I was going to go over Sorley Mor’s strengths, his abilities, pay tribute to his discipline as a skipper, his place in this community. But you all know that every bit as well as I do, so to hell with it. It’s garbage, anyway. I can hear him now saying, “I’m damned well worthy of better than that!”, and he’d be right. Sorley Mor deserves the best, and what I have here isn’t it.’ He threw the pages of notes over his shoulder where they scattered on the floor beside Sorley Mor’s coffin, as a murmur that was almost a chuckle ran round the chapel. ‘I’ve never seen so many people at one of my services before,’ he smiled. ‘The skipper would be delighted. He’d never let me forget that he’d pulled a bigger crowd than all the congregations I’ve ever had put together.’
He stopped for a moment to gather his random thoughts into some sort of order.
‘I don’t have to tell anyone here what Sorley Mor is like.’ He stopped, eyes down. ‘Was like,’ he corrected himself, and hesitated for a moment, biting his lower lip and taking a deep breath before going on. ‘I’ve never met anyone who disliked him, and if there is someone, somewhere, it’s only because they didn’t know him. Everyone here knew him, everyone knows what kind of man he was, what kind of skipper he was; which makes this event all the more awful and incomprehensible. On occasions like this I’m supposed to tell you to keep the faith, but I’m not sure I have any left myself, and that’s the truth. The rulebook says I should give you the usual hogwash about not questioning God’s will, that he moves in mysterious ways, but if I did you would stone me to death and I’d probably throw a few myself. The truth is that if I had this God fellow here right now I’d want a few answers I don’t think he could give, then I’d tell him what a bloody fool he was and kick his arse out of my chapel. What happened to Sorley Mor and the lads, to everyone who loves them, to this village, well I refuse to mouthe platitudes, to cover the fact that no loving God would inflict such cruelty. Feel free to quote me on that by the way, the Vatican may well get my dog collar in the post before they can demand it anyway.’
He laughed gently. ‘All of us here have our memories of Sorley Mor, so forget the eulogies and just remember your memories, that’s what I’ve been doing these last terrible days. How he hated to be beaten at dominoes and refused to accept it; he always accused the winner of cheating. I always did, of course, but he never worked out how I was doing it, he was too busy trying to cheat himself. How he kept eating Dan’s “Ploughman efforts” long after the rest of us had thrown in the towel – thrown up, too, come to that; even Gannet. How he was with a drink in him, that way he got where he couldn’t stop laughing, he couldn’t have stopped to save himself, and you couldn’t help joining in though you had no idea what you were laughing at. The sight of him and Gannet arguing over nothing as they made their way up to MacEwan’s Row, Sorley Mor, as ever, a few steps behind. The laughs we all had over the years as he tried to keep Eric’s dancing from us. He thought we didn’t know because we didn’t tell him outright that we did; it was too much fun keeping him guessing. I asked him once why Eric looked so suntanned when he spent all his time in the engine room, and rather than admit it was out of a bottle and for cosmetic purposes, Sorley Mor told me it was because Eric’s real father was an Egyptian, but that I wasn’t to ask him about it, because he was such a wild big man that even his skipper had no control over him when he was angry. Eric angry: he had as much chance of selling us that one as Eric as a hellraising violent drunk; I never met a gentler soul than Eric.
‘He was a terrible liar, Sorley Mor – inventive, but terrible. And he was determined to keep me off his boat. I made a half-hearted attempt to get on board one day when I’d had a drop of the falling-down stuff, and those buggers from Ivy Ann and the other boats had taken advantage and egged me on. He stood in front of me, arms crossed, and told me he’d knock me unconscious before he’d let me set foot on the Wanderer – for my own good, you understand, not because of any daft superstition. He would have done it, too. There are so many pictures in my mind. Watching him chasing Chrissie around as though he was seventeen, hearing the cheerful insults between them that were a sign of their deep affection. Watching him walk through the harbour exchanging wisecracks, planning trips on helicopters to fish in lochans, until Chrissie found out, of course, and blamed me entirely. It never ceased to amaze me that she knew him so well, she could thwart any ploy before he got it going, but she still managed to believe that someone had led him astray – usually me, for some reason, though I never argued, because she has always scared the hell out of me. He used to call her “a sweet, gentle, wee angel”, and I really thought he’d lost it, but then he had had a few, and I’m a firm believer in giving a man who’s had a few a bit of leeway. I would ask you to take note of that because I intend to get more legless later than I have ever been, and I’m sure to mortally offend everyone.
‘So I’m not going to offer moral guidance here today, I’m not going to insult anyone by telling them that time heals. I don’t believe that, though I hope we may all come eventually to a place where we can cope with the grief we’re feeling, because I for one am hurting more than I would’ve thought humanly possible. I have no consoling words, nothing like that to offer, because I can’t imagine going through the rest of my life without him either. He was my friend, my fellow-conspirator with Gannet, always with Gannet, in trying to outwit Chrissie, something we never managed. He was my brother in every meaningful sense and I loved him – I still love him, love never dies, and I know his toes will be curling inside that box at this very moment. I can give no comfort on this occasion, if someone has any to spare I’d be glad to receive it. All I can tell you is that we have lost the dearest, the kindest, the best and silliest character any of us will ever encounter.
‘Priests and the like are supposed to tell people there’s a purpose to everything, but there’s no damned purpose to this. Sorley Mor deserved more time and we deserved more time with him, but I have been honoured to have known him and have his friendship, to be cared for by him, even if it far too often amounted to waking up in the back of that bashed old Land Rover of his, covered with a tarpaulin and with no idea where the hell I was. I will miss him every day of whatever time I have left. In that I believe I speak for everyone here today and everyone who ever met him.’
Father Mick stopped and bowed his head, then turned to go. From the back of the chapel came the sound of Dougie clapping, then another pair of hands joined in, and another, till the whole congregation was on its feet applauding. Father Mick looked up, surprised, then smiled and executed a perfect curtsey, and a burst of laughter threatened t
o raise the roof.
From there Sorley Mor was carried to the cemetery high above Acarsaid, Gannet at the front, his skipper resting on his right shoulder as the entire village followed on foot. From some distance away they were conscious of the press, cameras whirring, watching, but the villagers instinctively arranged themselves to shield the relatives from their gaze and that was all the notice anyone took of them. Chrissie spotted Haffa, Sorley Mor’s shovel-leaning cousin, standing to one side, his infamous shovel hidden out sight. He had dug Sorley Mor’s grave, as he would the graves for the others, and he knew that relatives didn’t always feel comfortable seeing him there as they left in their cars, knowing that he was waiting to perform the final task of throwing shovelfuls of earth onto their loved ones. This day was different because it was Sorley Mor, but all Haffa knew to do was what he always did, avoid eye contact and try to be invisible. Chrissie noticed him straightaway, though, and went up to him, taking him by the arm and making him walk with her.
‘How’s the knee today, Haffa?’ she asked brightly.
‘Fine, Chrissie,’ he mumbled, ‘fine.’
‘Good,’ she replied, smiling at him. ‘So that means you did a good job for Sorley Mor, does it? No ancestors behind the dyke? You know what he always said would happen if you didn’t give him his money’s worth, don’t you?’
At that Haffa broke down and Chrissie hugged him, feeling guilty; she had been trying to make him feel less self-conscious but had upset him instead.
‘You come with me,’ she said kindly, holding onto his arm. ‘I need someone strong to help me. We can help each other.’
23
And so it went on, that awful week. They buried Sorley Mor on Monday, Stamp and Pete on Tuesday, Eric and Stevie on Wednesday, their windows taking centre stage in turn, like some awful grisly dance they were being forced to perform. The relief crew, anxious at first to carry their crewmates, were wearying, their exhaustion not caused by the physical effort but by the emotion of it all. But they wouldn’t give up; it was doubly terrible, after all, for the families. On Thursday afternoon Sorley Og came home alone and was taken to Father Mick’s chapel.
‘I want to see him,’ Rose told Dougie.
‘You can’t,’ he told her sharply.
‘I want to see him!’ she repeated.
‘Rose, listen to me,’ he said sternly. ‘You’re a grown woman, old enough to be married and to be widowed, but this is a choice I will not let you make. You will not see him, and that’s an end to it.’
‘I want to say goodbye to him.’
‘Then say it,’ Dougie replied. ‘Are you telling me that whatever existed between you and Sorley Og depended on your seeing each other?’
Rose looked at him, confused, trying to think of an argument.
‘All those times he was away,’ Dougie continued, ‘you never felt any connection with him? That only happened when you were looking into his eyes?’
‘No … no … I mean …’
‘Rose, you are a fisherman’s wife. Conduct yourself like one. None of the others asked to look at their men; they showed some dignity. You should be doing the same. There are reasons you shouldn’t see him; he’s been in the water for the best part of a week. Do I have to draw you a picture?’
Rose winced.
‘So behave yourself, behave as he would’ve wanted you to. I know he wouldn’t have wanted you to see him.’
‘I still—’ she protested.
She wanted to see him because she was still clinging to the illogical hope that it wasn’t him. In her mind she had done a deal with fate, she had decided to accept that the others had gone – even Sorley Mor, whom she had adored all of her life – if only there had been a mistake about Sorley Og. It could be someone else, someone they had picked up in Denmark. A stranded fisherman, perhaps, needing a lift home; anyone, as long as it wasn’t Sorley Og. She wanted to look into the coffin and say triumphantly, ‘It’s not him! It’s not Sorley Og! Didn’t I tell you that all along?’ She felt on the edges of madness, all her scenarios bordered on hallucination. She knew Dougie had already seen him and identified him, but if there was any chance, however slight, she wanted to take it. Dougie knew what was going on in her mind, but he also knew it was a stage of grief his sister had to go through. Seeing Sorley Og’s body would not help: she would still deny that it was him.
‘Rose,’ he said, ‘when it comes down to it the widow’s wish is final, but if you are determined to see him then find a screwdriver and prise the lid off yourself, because I can assure you that no one in this village will do it for you. We all knew him, we all liked him, and on his behalf we will not let you do this to yourself, or to him.’
After Sorley Og had been received into the chapel that Thursday night, Dougie had driven Margo to Rose’s house at MacEwan’s Row. Margo looked neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, but Rose was sure the visit was Dougie’s idea.
‘So how are you?’ Margo asked briskly. She might have been speaking to an old friend who had been gone from the village for a while – if she’d had any old friends, that was.
‘As well as I can be with my husband lying in the chapel up the Brae,’ she replied calmly.
Margo looked round. She had always disliked this house, thought it far too grand, as indeed it was. And she had never taken to Sorley Og; everyone knew that.
‘This house will be far too big for you now,’ she said.
‘Yes, well, I think, if you don’t mind, Mother, I’ll bury my husband before I start thinking of selling the house he built for me. If it’s all the same to you, that is,’ Rose said curtly. She had found that she was being sharper with people, she didn’t know why. Maybe she was being a child, knowing that no one would answer back. She smiled wryly and, looking at her brother, saw an expression of stern disapproval in his eyes. Except Dougie, of course, Dougie would answer back. There was a long silence.
‘And money?’ Margo asked eventually. ‘Things are going to be settled soon?’
Rose turned away and stared silently out of the big window.
‘She’ll be fine, Mother,’ she heard Dougie say in an embarrassed voice. ‘I don’t think that’s something she’s given any thought to yet.’
Rose couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Dougie, how’s Granny Ina?’ she asked, ignoring her mother.
‘A bit confused, Rose. You know, the way she has been, but a bit more so.’
‘Does she know?’
‘Aye, she knows.’ Dougie smiled sadly. ‘She was relieved Gannet hadn’t been aboard. You know how she likes him.’
Rose nodded and smiled back. ‘Take me up to see her when you drop Mother home,’ she said, walking towards the door.
‘Unless you’d like to spend a minute with Chrissie first?’
Margo shook her head and Dougie and Rose shared a look, of what Rose couldn’t really say. It wasn’t surprise or shock, though paying her respects to Sorley Mor’s widow would’ve been the most natural thing for anyone else to do. It was a look of confirmation, Rose decided, an acknowledgement between brother and sister that their mother wasn’t like other people, that she lacked something they had.
Granny Ina was sitting by the lit fire. She was always cold these days, even in the warmth of late June, but she wore no slippers on her feet; her cold ‘baries’ were preferable to enclosed warm feet. When the old woman saw Rose she suddenly remembered what it was she had forgotten, the something that connected Rose to Dolina. It was the sadness in her eyes – and just as suddenly she remembered why it was there. Once it had been filled with Ella’s romanticism, but not now. She made to rise from her chair but Rose stopped her, kneeling beside her and taking the old woman’s hands in hers. Tears immediately filled Ina’s eyes as she freed a twisted hand and reached forward to stroke her granddaughter’s cheek.
‘Don’t,’ Rose said gently. ‘It’s all right, Granny Ina, I’m all right.’
‘But look at you lass. So young and in your widow’s weeds!’
Ros
e put her head in Granny Ina’s lap, as she had done so many times during her childhood; it was never her mother she sought out in times of trouble or sadness, she remembered, always her grandmother.
‘Why them?’ the old woman asked, gently stroking Rose’s hair. ‘Here I am, no good to anyone, not even myself. I’ve lived far too long as it is. Why wasn’t I taken instead? I’d have gone instead of any one of them, especially your Sorley Og, Rose!’
‘I know, I know, Granny Ina,’ Rose said, blinking away tears of her own. ‘But it doesn’t work like that.’
‘And young Alison, too, about to have her baby! It’s too hard, that’s what it is, it’s all just too hard to bear! A wee baby just like yourself, Rose, born without a father!’ The old woman was weeping, the tears rolling unchecked across the deeply wrinkled, translucent skin of her cheeks. ‘And I haven’t been to any of the funerals, haven’t been to see them and give them a word. What must they be thinking of me? It’s these old legs, you see, they won’t work.’
‘It’s all right, Granny Ina, everybody knows things are difficult for you. They know you’d be there if you could,’ Rose reassured her. ‘No one expects you to be there.’
Granny Ina nodded. ‘When it’s all over, Rose, will you help me to write a wee note to them all?’
‘If that’s what you’d like,’ Rose smiled, ‘but you don’t have to. I’ll tell them all how you feel.’
‘No, no, I’d like to send a note.’
Again Margo was bypassed, Rose noticed; Margo wasn’t the kind of person you’d ask these things of.
‘And Sorley Mor,’ said Granny Ina. ‘I just can’t take it in. He was the life of the place. How will the village go on without him? How will poor Gannet manage on his own?’
The Last Wanderer Page 34
