by Neil M. Gunn
The house they entered was a rather poor place, inhabited by an elderly couple, but the spirit in it was rich and soon overflowed. Finn recognized at once that it was a regular ceilidh-house, for the man had little peculiar mannerisms, the eyes of a boy, a tongue for anything that was going, and if it was fun he was happy. Many more came in and when the talk had had an innings, they started singing.
They always came back to singing.
There was one song in particular that Finn did not know and he was greatly moved by it.
They were crushed together, sitting where they could, and mostly on the uneven clay floor. And they sang. Their songs were often charged with sadness and beauty, but, whatever they were, a fond affection was around them somewhere.
From this affection, all the goodness of life flowed like the tide. The songs, indeed, had the sea-tide’s rhythm. Even a girl with a sharp mind and personal dislikes and not sitting in the place she wanted to be would be carried away, and presently, what with one thing or another and the way the unseen mind was seen, there would be a movement and a laugh, a skirmish and a change, and likely as not at the end of it she would be sitting in that place, with the man of the house maybe saying something to her and her retorting briskly. For the girls were quick in riposte, having learned the art of it from their mothers and their mothers’ mothers at the cloth waulking. And in any case if it was in the nature of a girl to be bold, she would, pushed to it, be bold outright and be done with it. Which was often a merry way for everyone concerned, except perhaps one or two.
And Finn saw that now they were all happy, that life was fulfilled, and if the door was shut it was on yesterday and to-morrow.
Catrine lived three cottages away. Finn and others accompanied her there. Finn thought he had perhaps better not be going farther but be getting back. Which was excuse enough, so it was a quick good night and dark figures swinging on.
“I’ll be seeing you,” said Catrine, making to move to her door.
“What’s your hurry?” asked Finn.
“Hush! “she whispered.
He caught her hand and they stepped back out of earshot of the house. “I must be going in,” she said, drawing her hand away. “It’s late. I must.” She seemed suddenly nervous.
“Why?” asked Finn, and the sound of the word was curious in his own mind.
“Because I must.”
“Catrine.”
All at once there was something wrong. She glanced at him. His face looked pale. She did not know what was coming, and impulsively said, “Good night,” and ran towards the house.
He made no effort to stop her, and stood still until she had gone inside. For some minutes he remained staring at the quiet house.
The sadness of the unknown song came over him in a mood that had something strange and bitter in it. He could have held her in his arms and kissed her; that would have suddenly swamped her nervousness. But at the very sign of the half-scared spirit moving in her, at the sound of his own voice calling her by the name Catrine, he found that he could not force himself upon her, and somehow did not greatly mind.
After a few random twists of self-mockery as he took the Stornoway road (Seumas would be no such fool!) he let the dark girl—brown in her darkness, a mouse-brightness—fade from his mind, pass away into the outer ring of eternal beauty and eternal sorrow, the dark outer ring of the song, where it is lonely to wander, with the wind a cold shiver on the skin of the face.
My sorrow! My sorrow! said the song.
What sorrow? Sorrow for death, said the words.
But, for the first time, Finn saw it went beyond death.
*
On the following night, he hunted Stornoway for the girl with ardent eagerness. His mood was now quite changed. He longed for her. There was a half-scared, expectant something in her that he preferred to any thing in any other girl. Not the self-assertive girl from Swordale now, but this withdrawing almost anonymous girl with her brown eyes watchful, wondering, quick. He felt towards her a great tenderness, felt her in his arms; he would kiss her eyes in grace—as one of the things he had never done in this life. His body grew warm with the thought of their growing warm together.
But he did not find her, though he searched everywhere. On the edge of the dark he walked out to Laxdale, and then slowly walked back, hoping thus to meet her coming from the town. He waited outside the town a long while, until hopelessness made his body listless and tired. This was the night that, it had been rumoured, some of the friends of Big Angus were going to lie in wait for Roddie. He did not care; did not want to be discovered. She had the same name as his mother. In this hopeless waiting, in his disappointment, there was a bitterness—a bitterness, too, beyond it—that he could crush away, crush out, if only he had the girl herself, the two of them, her eyes looking up as his arms closed and his mouth closed her eyes.
He did not want to go back to their lodging, tired of the thought of fighting. Let Roddie fight if he wished, and Henry lash out. He was tired of them, of everyone, and of himself. It was late when he got back and the small room was heavy with the breathing of the four men. He lay down beside Callum and gave in to sleep at once.
By Monday morning his mood was clear and bright, and life was full of expectancy again. The dark girl occupied his thoughts, and when they came in on Tuesday with four crans, he greeted her cheerfully. “Where were you on Saturday night?” he asked through the sound of the pouring herring. “I looked for you all night,”
She murmured quickly, “I was away,” her gutting knife never pausing.
“Don’t be away next time,” he muttered.
“What’s that he was saying?” asked the fair one suspiciously when Finn had gone.
“He said that he was over at Swordale on Sunday but never saw anyone,” replied Catrine.
“Is that so?” she asked sceptically.
“That’s the last of them,” said Finn presently, still in a private voice to Catrine, but loud enough for others to hear. “It seems they’re a very holy people at Swordale—on the Sunday whatever.”
“You would hardly believe it,” agreed Catrine, with solemn merriment and relief. She glanced quickly at Finn, her eyes alive. In that glance they had a long talk, and Catrine suddenly knew, amongst other things, that he had never been near Swordale.
Finn now dreamed of her in the boat in the morning in a more intimate way than ever he had of Una. Catrine was like a sweet revenge and he felt very fond of her.
But Wednesday and Thursday were almost blank days. It was the end of the fishing. Henry said he thought they should go home if they got nothing that night, for there wasn’t much point in staying over the Sunday. Roddie and himself had a long talk with Bain and so it was agreed.
Finn prayed for herring, but by eight o’clock in the morning they were spreading their nets in the sun, having caught nothing. The morning was all bustle and hurry, and even Callum forgot sleep in the thought of buying presents for his wife and two children. Bain was in good form and very friendly, for he had achieved nearly a full cargo. Their money was paid over, with drams all round and handshaking, though Roddie would not give Bain a definite promise for next year. But Bain saw that Roddie was not the sort of man to give a promise lightly.
When all expenses were paid, Finn had over seven pounds to his share. It seemed to him a very great sum of money and as he walked away his feet hit the ground with a solid lightness.
For he had to say good-bye to the girls. But the women had gone home, there had been little to do. However, he ran into the two of them on the street and went up to shake hands, the crew following, and smiling.
“You watch him,” cried Callum to the fair one.
“We’re not blind,” said she.
“Go on, Finn,” prompted Callum, “stand them a fairing.”
“I will that,” said Finn, and looked round for the sweetshop. “Come along,” he called, and they followed him into the shop, laughing. He stood each of them a pound of sweets, and outside ag
ain, shook hands.
“Even if you might have been kinder,” he said to the fair one.
“You gave a person every chance, didn’t you?” she asked, her eyes flashing through the flush on her face. She was a high wind on the sparkling ocean, with all canvas set.
“Are you going to-day?” asked Catrine, her eyes like stars in the night sea.
“Yes, we’re off,” said Finn. “Good-bye. Will you be here when I come back?”
“I hope so,” she said, and suddenly, as if her heart had contracted, her fingers squeezed his hand.
Callum and Rob were waiting for him and, as he turned and waved to the girls, Rob said, “Och! och!” and shook his head.
“Och! och! yourself,” cried Finn, in high feather. He stopped. “Have you given the widow woman her mite?”
“Begod!” cried Callum, and for five minutes Rob had a difficult passage, for they could see he was tempted.
“No, I’m not frightened. I might do many a thing, but not in your company.”
“We know that,” said Callum; “but we never said you did it. And even if you did——”
“Did what?”
“Look here, Rob,” said Callum seriously. “You’re a man, after all. But we never accused you of it. All the same——”
“Of what?”
“I don’t like to use the word, because it’s in the Bible, and it’s a long word.”
Rob looked at him suspiciously. Callum nodded. “You’re quite right,” he said, “it begins with an f. But as I was saying——”
Rob walked away from them in the direction of their lodging. He was a confirmed bachelor, and supported, and was in large measure governed by, his mother and a sister ten years older than himself.
People passing on the street smiled at the happy laughter that shook Callum and Finn. They bought their presents quickly, for Finn knew exactly what he wanted for his mother; and a brightly painted rubber ball, a jack-in-the-box, a small doll, and six cups and saucers, with gilt lines round the rims, settled Callum’s problem in a few glorious minutes—until, out of his deep pleasure, he wanted something special for his wife, for she was a good wife to him, none better in the world. But what? Some nice hats. Other articles of feminine apparel. All sorts of feminine garments. The elderly pale-skinned shopkeeper was quite solemn. They tried to be solemn, too. He had a new line in skirts. Quite new, all ready to wear. Fine and thin. Different from the heavy home tweed. Feel them for yourself. Callum felt them. Yes, perhaps a skirt was as good as anything. “Fashions in skirts don’t change,” said the man; “a skirt is safe.” “I’m glad to hear that,” replied Callum. “What’s her waist measurement?” “Ah well now, there’s a difficulty,” said Callum. “Perhaps I’d better get something that never changes at all.” Finn pointed to a shawl, feather-light and intricately patterned. “It’s like her hair,” he said. Callum looked quickly at him, mouth open. “God bless me,” he said in wonder. The shopkeeper frowned. They saw he was a religious man and retired politely, shawl and all, thanking him.
Callum was now full of unbounded energy and cried, “Let’s go round and draw out the widow about Rob.”
As they entered, the bar was empty—except for Rob, leaning against the counter with an owl’s solemnity, listening to the confidential talk of the widow woman.
*
After their midday meal, Roddie said casually, “I think we should lift the nets and go now.” They all looked at him, for it had been understood that they were to leave at three o’clock in the morning.
Some. sleep first, then the maximum daylight for the passage to the mainland.
“Why not?” said Henry. “It will be the same tide in an hour or two as at three in the morning.”
“But we would have the night on us,” said Rob, doubtfully.
“Come on!” cried Callum, and all their hearts lifted. They would be off at once, night or no night!
By half-past three, they had kists and nets on board and everything shipshape. Many of the other fishermen were now appearing. Roddie saw Maciver going into his office and went and bade him good-bye. “And thank you very much,” he said. “Are you going now?” asked Maciver. “We might as well,” said Roddie. Maciver looked at him for a searching moment and smiled. “There’s no holding you.” He added, “Anything I can ever do for you, I’ll do it.”
They pushed off and raised sail in a favourable wind, then saluted the watchers on the quay.
“But why didn’t they wait until the morning?” asked Maciver.
“Because,” said Bain, pointing, “that’s what’s going to conquer the sea.”
*
It was Monday afternoon before they set past the Old Man of Wick in a sparkling breeze with a fair sea running, They had been becalmed, had had to wait for the tide, had seen the sun rise in splendour behind the Orkneys, had had a thrilling fight to clear the Pentland, with Callum shouting, “Will I throw your kist over now, Rob?” But here at last were the rocks of home.
Finn, lying back, saw the stem lifting now in a racing eagerness. It was going home, back to the old river mouth. It had no thought of them at all, lost in its dream, its eyes beyond the pitch and the roll, rising, ever rising, gallant and undefeatable.
They had been seen coming from the top of the Head, and when at last they opened out the bay, there was a dark crowd beyond the white crescent of surf, for the wind was on-shore.
No-one had known what had happened to them during their long absence, and their women had prayed passionately in the night, when the wind was screaming round the gable-end, that God would spare them.
Week after week—no news. That was good. They did not want news. They should be coming soon. Suddenly they would appear out of the sea—and be there. Like a miracle. Would they? Everyone in the district was concerned in some measure, for this was a venture into the unknown, a new experience brought into their lives.
Here was the miracle coming now! Yes, the whole crew were there! And Roddie making straight in. He would! Seamen got ready, for the swell was nasty enough. Down went the sails. He was taking no foolish chances, was Roddie! Out came the oars. Pulling back against a comber … pulling on…. Then, look out! She’s coming! And on the crest of it she came, while the coils of rope uncurled through the air from Henry’s hand. They took her on the run. She grounded. They took her again. They got round her, and she went with them.
CHAPTER XIX
SEA LOVE
At the stepping-stones beyond the Steep Wood they stopped, and Finn refused further help, saying he would take his chest himself, though Donnie was anxious to give him a hand. So he parted from Roddie and Donnie, the chest on his shoulders, and went up the slopes to his home.
His cousin Barbara saw him coming, and, though she was fifteen, she turned and ran to the house, shouting. There was his mother. His heart began to beat heavily.
“Finn!” she said and stopped.
“Hullo, Mother!” He stood, hanging on to the chest.
“Oh, Finn!” she cried, and took her eyes off him in a sudden swirl of action that had the chest on the ground in no time, with Barbara at one end of it and herself at the other. Her eyes were wet; her emotion was very strong; she was laughing.
He looked round the kitchen. “It’s the same old place.” He did not know what to say, but he had to say something, because of the strong emotion in his mother. It was in himself, too. It was as well Barbara was there, though her presence irked him at the moment. Suddenly Barbara went out.
His mother turned to him. “How are you, Finn?” she asked in a quiet voice, her face glimmering in the kitchen’s faint gloom.
“Fine,” he replied cheerfully. “You’re looking well yourself.”
“I’m fine.” She turned abruptly away. He didn’t know what to do and stood smiling.
Barbara came in with potatoes in the iron pot. She was thin and dark and moved awkwardly with the pot, which Finn took from her and hung on the crook, talking loudly to her, asking how she enjoyed being i
n Dunster and how everyone was in Dale. His mother, busy getting food ready, began to put her word in, and presently asked him how he had got on in Stornoway. “Not too badly,” he answered, “but the fishing itself had its ups and downs.” “You got on fine?” and she stopped again to look at him. “Yes, all right,” he said, with a careless nod. “I must have a turn round,” and out he went. The cows, and the stirks, and the few sheep, and the slopes of the brae going down to the burn. He felt he had been away years from them, surprised an intimacy that he could not quite catch, like days of long ago vanishing in the mind. There was something pleasant about this and also, somehow, sad; something in his mind that would not form, that he could not speak. The movement of his mother’s bustling body and how she felt was everywhere.
He should go back into the house, but a reluctance to do this came upon him strongly; so he clapped the cattle, and examined the tender corn, and went down past the door noisily towards the byre to examine that. Then he went into the little barn and got its old, stuffy smell with an overwhelming familiarity. He handled Kirsty’s reaping-hook, with its broken point, curiously. Standing still, listening, he had the feeling for a moment of immemorial refuge. Slowly he looked round at the odds and ends and saw them with an extreme distinctness. He was here and he was not here, as if there was one world behind the other. But all the time he knew he must go in. When he came out, his mother was at the door. “Everything is looking fine!” he called. She came quickly and took his arm and went walking on gaily. “Yes, everything is grand,” and she began to point out this and that. “Haven’t the lambs grown?”
By the time they came in he felt so relieved and happy that he began to open his small wooden kist.
“Did you get your things washed at all?” she asked, waiting to take the clothes from him.
“There’s nothing here but a mess,” he said, throwing the cord off and lifting the lid. Then he took out a pair of shoes and handed them to her. They were black and glistened, with stylish toe-caps neatly patterned. She obviously had been expecting nothing. Her head bent over the shoes. Her right hand moved over the smooth leather slowly. Her upper teeth gripped her lower lip. He laughed. “They’re good and strong,” he said. “I saw to that.” And from his box he took a red silk ribbon and two white handkerchiefs and handed them to Barbara: “How’s that?” Barbara’s eyes and mouth opened. She flushed with pleasure. “Oh!” she cried, “how lovely!” Catrine looked up, smiling, so pleased at Finn’s remembering Barbara that it eased her own emotion.
