The House Between Tides

by Sarah Maine

“This one is mine.” John had put an arm around the other boy. “His brother is inside with his sister, and their mother.”

  And next day he had seen her, surrounded by a gaggle of children, the older ones running, criss-crossing the sun-dappled sand, erratic as a flock of dunlin, splashing through shallow pools, and there was Màili herself, leading a smaller child by the hand. And he had watched her approach, leaden with resentment, compelled to watch her, compelled to drink in her appearance as a desperate mariner gulps seawater, knowing it will only intensify the thirst. The years had left her unchanged, her hair caught up in the familiar loose knot in the nape of her neck, and sunlight still caught glints in the brown. Her feet and ankles were bare below her dark skirt, and she had radiated such idyllic contentment that it had been an affront. Their eyes had met and blood had pounded in his temples, and only then had he seen her thickened shape, camouflaged by the shawl which crossed over her stomach.

  It had been the last time he had seen her—

  Laughter from across the water broke through his thoughts, and he stood a moment, looking out across the same stretch of sand where he saw her shade still, then he turned to watch the two boats pulling away from him, and Beatrice waved, as if in farewell.

  Chapter 23

  1910, Beatrice

  Beatrice sat on the thwart and lifted her arms to pin back her cascading hair, watching Theo from under her elbow, and considered whether to ask Cameron to turn back and insist that he come. She really ought to. He looked such a lonely figure standing there on the shore, but he had resisted all her attempts at persuasion and now she was reluctant. Somehow he would cause a restraint on the party.

  She waved, but perhaps he didn’t see.

  When she looked back again, he was walking towards the house, and his departure seemed to trigger a release. Oars were shipped in both boats and sails raised. Beatrice watched as Cameron set about tightening and loosening the rigging, moving with agility, whistling tunelessly, then laughing over his shoulder, pouring scorn on Kit’s attempts to bring the other boat up to wind. Donald called something back in their own tongue and Cameron laughed again. He was dressed like any of the island men, wearing his dark woollens and loose trousers with the same careless disregard as he had worn Theo’s cast-off suit, at ease with himself. He offered Rupert the helm, and Beatrice trailed her hand over the side, watching Theo disappear into the house. Cameron, now satisfied with the sail, sat on the gunwale opposite her while Emily moved to the bow and sat like a figurehead, shaking her hair loose and lifting her face to the sun.

  And Beatrice forgot about Theo.

  Being at sea in a small boat was a new experience, and at first she found the broken motion unsettling. She gripped the side of the boat to steady herself and watched tresses of dark weed flowing out from submerged reefs, wafted by the current, disappearing as the water deepened and grew darker.

  “Come on, my love. Take the helm,” Rupert called to Emily. “Show your brother how it’s done.”

  “But I can’t.” She turned to him, smiling her elfin smile.

  “Give it a shot. You won’t do worse.”

  Cameron moved forward and Emily made her way to the stern where, with Rupert’s guiding hand on hers, she managed to hold a steady course. They left the shelter of the headland, where the pull of tide and current competed with the wind, and then a rogue wave lifted the bow and Emily gave a little shriek. “Take it, Cameron! Before I sink us all.”

  He took the tiller with a laugh, glanced astern, and then changed course. “We’ll get just beyond that far point and then drift back with the tide. Try our luck.” The wind tightened the sails as the boat settled onto the new course, water bubbling under the bow, but it was smoother now, and Beatrice loosened her grip on the side.

  “What about Beatrice, Cameron?” Emily called over her shoulder. “She ought to have a chance to steer. Bea, you really must.”

  “Will you try your hand, madam?” There was a glint of challenge in his eyes, so she laughed and edged back to sit beside him in the stern. He clasped his hand over hers as Rupert had done with Emily, demonstrating the boat’s responses, then sat back to watch her.

  He had set her a course on a silver path laid down by the sun, heading for islands on the far horizon, but the trick that sunlight plays over water seemed to bring the islands close, almost reachable. She fixed her eyes on them, still feeling the imprint of his dry palm on the back of her hand, her senses strangely alive as the water creamed beneath the hull, slapping against the bow as it rode the larger waves. She was filled with a heady joy and felt herself relax, becoming one with the vessel, in tune with its motion and rhythm, acutely conscious of Cameron close by, his eye flicking between the sails, the horizon, and the helm.

  Rupert had moved forward with Emily, and they were engrossed with each other in the bow, pointing out seabirds which flew splay-legged low across the waves, wings beating fast. A fulmar accompanied the boat, riding the wind, dipping its straight wing tips down to the waves before wheeling and rising high above the mast, revelling in the mastery of its skill. Beatrice’s eyes followed it, forgetful of her course, until she felt Cameron’s hand on hers as he reached over to correct the helm. “You’re straying, madam.” He smiled, and the boat’s progress stalled a moment in a trough between two waves. And, for a moment, her eyes held his.

  Cameron was the first to look away. “We’ll drop sail now and get the rods out, I think,” he said. “Can you keep her on course?”

  Beatrice nodded quickly, and Cameron moved forward, calling out to the other boat. Rupert helped him bring down the sail and yard, glancing shrewdly at Beatrice as he took the helm. “And for bait, Cameron?” he asked.

  Cameron lifted the lid from a small creel of fish heads and began to prepare the rods while Beatrice moved quickly forward to be beside Emily, making inconsequential remarks, and then took a rod that Rupert passed to her.

  The boat rocked gently on the swell, and almost immediately she felt a tug at the end of her line, but then nothing. Emily’s rod bent next, and Cameron came across to assist, laughing at her glee as an iridescent fish was pulled from the water, scattering silver droplets. He deftly removed the hook and replaced the bait. “You’ve got one hooked too, Mrs. Blake,” he said, and nodded at her rod.

  After an hour of drifting, several mackerel, ling, and a small cod lay gasping in the basket at their feet, and by then they were only a short distance to the seal island. The men rowed the last few yards and pulled the boats up onto the sand. Rupert lifted the women clear of the shallow waves while Donald placed the fish in a shadowed rock pool, where one or two of them revived and began splashing, desperate to escape.

  Emily stood looking down at them. “Poor things. Wouldn’t it be kinder to let them go?”

  “Rubbish. That’s lunch.” Kit started up the beach. “Where are these seals, Donald?”

  They followed Donald up over the rocks, scrambling to the top from where they could see the seals were hauled out, basking in the sun, keening and moaning softly while others played in the waves nearby, watching with whiskered curiosity as the visitors settled themselves on the rounded summit.

  “Do you remember the stories your mother used to tell us, Donald?” said Emily. “How seals would come ashore at midsummer and take human form.”

  “Oh, she was full of such stories, that’s a fact.”

  “How did it go? They’d shed their skins and dance on the beaches—”

  “And the fishermen would steal the skins to stop them returning.”

  “That’s it. And the seal women would search until they found them again, then take their human children back to the sea, leaving the fishermen tormented by their siren songs.” She gave a long theatrical sigh.

  “My mother’s family are all a bit fey,” Cameron remarked to Rupert.

  “She was lovely.”

  “Aye, and she swore the stories were true. Her cousin was born with webbed fingers, which she said proved the point.”


  Emily pouted. “She and I always felt sorry for the poor fishermen.”

  “Speaking for myself,” said Kit, passing the field glasses to Beatrice and rolling onto his back, “I can’t see the allure.”

  “Philistine,” said his sister. “Seal women are lithe and sensuous, very beautiful and wild. They’ve a special name . . . ?” She turned to Cameron in enquiry.

  “Selkies,” he supplied.

  “That’s it. Selkies. Seal women.”

  “And men. Selkies are male too. And as it’s midsummer tonight, Major,” he added, “you’d better lock up your woman in case a lusty male down there has taken a fancy to her.”

  “Ha! Poor devil. He’ll get more than he bargained for.”

  Emily laughed and they stayed a little longer, until the seals slipped from the rocks, their heads bobbing in the sea, and hunger drove the party back to the beach. “Why did we ever leave these islands, Kit?” She sighed as Rupert assisted her over the rocks.

  “No shops, no theatre, no concert halls, no dances, no parties, no dressmakers, no milliners . . .” Rupert murmured as he waited for Beatrice and landed her safely beside Emily.

  Emily pulled a face. “That’ll all keep for the winter, but we must spend the summers up here. Bea will be pleased of the company, won’t you? Then our children and theirs can run wild like children should, like we did, and hear the old stories.” She threw herself down on the sand, kicked off her shoes, and tossed her hat to one side. “Cameron and Donald can teach them to swim and to fish and to sail just like John Forbes did with us, and they’ll grow up nut brown and healthy out of the city smoke.” Rupert stretched out his long legs on the sand and slipped an arm behind her.

  “Of course, my love.”

  Donald had begun collecting driftwood and dry seaweed while Cameron crouched beside the rocks, cleaning the fish and tossing the entrails to a group of waiting gulls who contested them noisily a few yards away. “That’ll have to be Donald’s job,” he said.

  Emily sat forward, clasping her knees. “Gosh, yes. I keep forgetting. The island won’t seem the same without you.” And Beatrice found the words chimed painfully with her own thoughts as she watched his long fingers filleting the fish; the island without Cameron was suddenly unimaginable.

  “We’ll all wish we lived up here in a year or two.” Rupert joined Donald at the high-tide line, calling over his shoulder, “Either the Kaiser will take us into war or the discontented masses will bring the country to its knees.”

  “No politics today, Rupert,” Emily commanded as he dragged a bleached plank towards them. Cameron glanced up and caught Beatrice watching him. She looked quickly away and began smoothing the sand beside her.

  “You soldiers are always spoiling for a fight.” Kit had stretched out on his back and was making no effort to do anything useful. “And it’s too hot for the proletariat to turn savage.” Donald dumped an armful of driftwood beside him and began gathering stones to make a fireplace. Cameron raised his head as if to respond, then caught his brother’s expression and shrugged, returning to his task.

  Rupert’s sharp eyes missed little. “What about you, Cameron? What do you think?”

  “Don’t ask him, sir, for pity’s sake.”

  Beatrice silently echoed Donald’s plea. Politics, where Cameron was concerned, were best avoided. He spoke freely to her now and was passionate about the running sore of land hunger, nursing a deep resentment for injustices past and present. But he merely grinned at his brother and continued to cut open the fish, pulling out the guts and scraping them clean.

  “I have an agreement with my family, sir, not to offend guests with my opinions.”

  “Guests?” retorted Kit.

  “Hardly guests, but nonetheless, no politics, Rupert.” Emily frowned at her fiancé, who returned her a bland smile.

  “But I’m interested to hear these opinions, my love.”

  Cameron kept his attention on the fish. After a moment he said, “Let’s just say that if our titled politicians lived as dock hands for a month, they’d soon be joining the reformers they’re so afraid of.”

  Rupert pulled out a packet of cigarettes and patted his pocket for matches. “Joining the rabble-rousers, eh?” He struck a match and held it. “Who—having forced the issue in ’89—are now back for more. Inevitably.” The wind blew out the flame and he took a second match.

  “Perhaps they need more, sir. Perhaps they haven’t enough.” Cameron reached for another mackerel, and Beatrice prayed that they would leave it there.

  But Rupert had cupped his hand to shield a new flame. “Socialist, are you, Cameron?” he asked, narrowing his eyes to draw on the cigarette, proffering the packet, which Cameron ignored. “And I had you down as a man of sense.” Beatrice saw Cameron’s face darken and felt a flutter of alarm. “If there is a general strike, it’ll be the poor who go hungry, you know. What would you say to the strike leaders then?” He blew smoke into the air above them.

  “I’d say more strength to their arm. Sir.” His reply was calmly spoken, but the appellation was added with deliberate insolence and their eyes met, stags locking antlers, testing the other’s intent.

  “Stad an sin,” hissed Donald.

  “Stop picking a fight, Rupert.” Emily’s voice was sharp with the sudden tension, and Kit sat up, much entertained. He shook a cigarette from Rupert’s discarded packet, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and looked about for a light.

  “Does old Theo know he’s harbouring a dangerous radical, Bea?”

  Cameron took a glowing stick from the fire and held it out for Kit to light his cigarette, and as his dark head bent close to Kit’s fair one, Beatrice glimpsed the boyhood companions they had been before their different worlds divided them. “Hardly dangerous, madam,” Cameron said, addressing her directly, his eyes alive and unsettling. Then he began placing pieces of fish on the hot stones, where they sizzled as the heat brought the oil to the surface, and he flashed a look towards Rupert. “I’m better suited to the colonies, you see.”

  Rupert grunted agreement and smoked on, watching him.

  “But”—Cameron scanned their faces with some amusement—“I do know what to do with a piece of mackerel. Fetch the basket from the boat, will you, Donald? I raided Mrs. Henderson’s pantry this morning.” He glanced towards Beatrice with an ironic expression which seemed to ask for recognition of his restraint, and she dropped her eyes to hide a smile.

  The cries of circling gulls added to the din as bottles of wine and beer were unpacked from the basket and Cameron was congratulated on his raid. And tensions evaporated amidst laughter as fingers and razor shells lifted flaky pieces of fish from the greasy stones, and Emily wiped her chin with the back of her hand, declaring that she had never tasted finer food.

  “What will you have, Miss Emily?” asked Donald, proffering two bottles.

  “For goodness’ sake, stop Miss-ing me, Donald. Surely we can be Emily and Kit as we used to be—and Rupert too, for that matter, if military regulations allow,” she mocked with a gruff voice. “At least for today.” And she held out a glass for wine.

  “So what is it to be, Rupert?” Cameron asked cheerfully, and the major returned a dry smile.

  “Beer. But damn it, man.” He stubbed his cigarette out and flicked the butt into the fire. “Have you actually thought what a major strike would mean? It’ll be working families who’ll suffer, you know, the very people your self-serving radicals claim to champion.”

  “Rupert, for goodness’ sake!” Emily pushed at him, but he imprisoned her hands, ignoring her protest.

  “And how will they be heard otherwise?” Cameron took a swig of beer, his eyes grown hard again.

  “You ask that after all the reforms this accursed government has made? And the changes that are being—”

  “Being what? Considered? Debated? Promised?” Cameron sat up and thrust a stick into the fire, sending up a small whirlwind of sparks. Beatrice saw the muscles in his face tighten and
grew anxious again. “A man’s life can pass before such promises are honoured, while his family live like animals. It’s damnable. Shameful.” The flames leapt high as the breeze swung round. “And how will it ever change?”

  “Cameron—”

  He swept on, ignoring her. “The men who run this country will go to any lengths to shore up the institutions which give them power. You know that, and yet you talk of self-interest! Good God! Tell me, Rupert, what options have working people got, other than bringing down those institutions?”

  “Cameron, for goodness’ sake!” Donald got to his feet.

  Rupert released Emily’s hands to reach up and pull him down again. “Don’t worry, Donald. Your brother has a right to speak his mind, just as I have to disagree.” He glanced towards Beatrice with raised eyebrows and took a slow drink. “But such a radical, up here of all places,” he drawled, watching Cameron narrowly. “And so very well-informed.”

  Cameron went to fetch more fuel, and Beatrice watched him struggling for self-control as he threw it on the fire, the dried wood crackling in the heat. “You forget. I’ve been in Canada, which is full of exiled Scots with tales of injustice, and I saw for myself how people live in Glasgow. Island families, some of them.” He looked across at Beatrice, and her eyes fell, remembering what he had told her of the overcrowded tenement where Duncan MacPhail’s wife had fallen ill.

  Donald rose abruptly. “I’m off for a swim. Cameron, cùm do bheul dùinte. Lean thus’ ort a’ ròstadh èisg.” He gave his brother a despairing look over his shoulder as he set off up the beach.

  Cameron watched him go, then looked back at the fire. “He says I should shut up and stick to frying fish.”

  “What about old Theo, Bea?” said Kit, pulling on his cigarette and grinning at Cameron, seemingly oblivious to the words’ underlying bitterness. “Does he really not know there’s an enemy in the camp?”

  “Not an enemy, Kit, never that.” There was a weariness to Cameron’s tone as he took another drink from the bottle, and then his expression changed. “Besides, he has another radical much closer to him than me”—he leant back on his elbow, the tension leaving him—“and one who is much more effective, working hard to improve the lives of her tenants . . .”