by Neil M. Gunn
Finn was now completely at home and amused them with a description of Callum’s trying to think of something for his wife. “He was a holy mannie and showed Callum some queer things. Then he showed him a skirt and Callum thought that would do fine. ‘What’s her waist measurement?’ asked the mannie. ‘You have me there,’ said Callum.” Catrine and Barbara laughed as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
“And did he take the skirt?” asked Catrine.
“No, he took a shawl instead. He thought it would be safer.”
They laughed at that, too.
“I thought of a shawl myself,” said Finn, “but didn’t I see a woollen jacket, with green in it and blue, that would be the very thing for you on a cold day. Isn’t it bonny? Look!” And he handed the jacket to his mother.
She did her best, drawing down her top lip stiffly, but fortunately at that moment the potato-pot boiled over and she dashed for the fire.
Finn laughed and, lifting the kist, walked with it into his own room.
*
Late that evening, in the deep twilight down by the little barn, Catrine said, “I have something to tell you, Finn.”
He did not look at her, but suddenly remembered the stranger on the shore.
“Just when you were leaving, an old friend of your father’s came here to see me. He was with him—in the boat—when they were taken.”
The overstress in her mind, the profound affection, he now understood finally.
“When they were taken, your father fought very hard. But—they hit him on the head—and hauled him up on the ship. Five days after that—he died.”
Finn kept looking away, his face drawn and hard.
“Was it the blow on the head?” he asked.
“Yes. He—never properly recovered. Ronnie and the others did not see him again. He was buried at sea.” Her breath came away quiveringly, but otherwise she made no sound, though the tears were running down her cheeks.
“Why didn’t they tell you?”
“They were put on another ship, on different ships. Ronnie said he did write, but——”
“I mean the authorities?”
“Ronnie thought it was perhaps the man he knocked into the sea——”
“Who knocked into the sea?”
“Your father knocked the leader of the press-gang into the sea——”
“Did he?” said Finn. His skin went all cold, and out of a profound pride for his father, tears came into his eyes.
“Yes. Ronnie said he fought like a lion, but they were too many.”
“Did he?” He could hardly control his voice.
“Yes.” She looked at him, and remained silent. Suddenly he walked away from her and, when he had gone over the crest of the brae, sat down by a bush and, lying over, face into the ground, began to sob bitterly. It was not death, it was not his father’s death, it was the odds against him. “It was a damned shame!” he cried and clawed the ground violently.
Presently he became aware of his mother standing near, and sat up, looking straight across the burn whose little pools glimmered in the deep twilight.
She sat down beside him. “I always knew,” she said quietly. “He came to me—the night he died.”
They sat silent for a long time.
“Come in, Finn. You must be tired.”
He got up and as they walked back to the house a deep feeling came over him of being himself and his own father, responsible for this woman walking by his side, who was his mother; deeper even it was than the resentment against the odds which had murdered his father, and within it, too, sustaining it, was a strange new element, quiet as this dim half-light, of peace that was like happiness.
*
In the succeeding days, Finn found life good. He spent his time between the croft and the shore and he was busy the whole time, with preparations for the summer fishing, cleaning up a new piece of ground on the edge of the moor, and attending to the new year’s supply of peat fuel. Not even a visit by the ground officer depressed his spirit unduly. “You have a good place here,” said that reserved and ominous man. “We’re trying to improve it,” replied Finn quietly, leaning on his spade. “It’s as well,” said the man, and walked down through the croft, aloof and noting all things. Finn tore into the ground to ease his apprehension.
“I wonder what he’s after?” Catrine came and asked Finn when the man had gone. She still had the feeling that they were strangers here and might be driven out. “You needn’t worry,” said Finn. “It’s money he’s after.” “I always feel afraid when I see him,” she murmured. “Everyone does,” said Finn.
Catrine stayed beside Finn for some time. In the end he had her laughing over his sarcasms. “You’ll have old Annie up wringing her hands,” he prophesied. “But you should hear Henry on him!” As she was turning away, reluctant to leave him, she cried, “Look! There’s Annie coming!” He laughed. Old Annie had a very small holding, but the neighbours helped her to cultivate it, and with a small black cow and some hens she managed along. It was not a very tidy place, and there were many who might be glad of the chance to improve it. We have money! thought Finn to himself, with a grim but easeful humour.
The Stornoway trip became in retrospect not merely an affair full of odd adventure but also a half-secret code of private amusement. “Why did you send her to me?” demanded Rob. “Well,” answered Callum solemnly, “she’s a widow woman, and if there was a bit offish going I knew you’d give it to her.” In this atmosphere a net seemed to get mended of itself.
Then one day Finn got a slight shock. A boy of twelve had fallen over a rock and broken his leg. That he had not fallen a further fifty feet to his death seemed a miracle. Two boys of fourteen had brought off a daring rescue. And all this, Finn discovered, was a direct result of his own exploits on the Seven Hunters, though he himself had never made any reference to them. He had observed that boys liked to be in his company and were willing to do anything for him.
Catrine had persuaded Barbara to stay on with them over the summer fishing. In this way, Catrine was never alone and Finn was glad of it. Roddie came over once or twice in the evening, but if he had heard of Tormad’s death, he made no reference to it and, with Barbara and Finn about, there was a household.
Meantime every day was working up to the climax—that broke over the whole district in the shape of the summer fishing. Life grew hectic. George, the foreman, was full of figures. Everywhere the fishing was growing, was sweeping the villages, the great ports, in a torrent of new boats, nets, curers, men, and banknotes. Ten and even fifteen-pound bounties from the curers were the order of the day. A skipper got his bounty—whether he caught herring or not. Hendry was commonly reputed now to be a wealthy man. Good luck to him! They showed him all the more respect on that acount. His whisky was ever ready, and if he took a note of quantities against their accounts, what else would any natural man expect?
In Wick, the provision of liquor, at a price, was part of a skipper’s agreement. It made life seem large and gay and spendthrift. Why not? Wasn’t it a grand thing that life should be warm and full of generosity and not for ever dogged by care of the morrow? To walk down the quays in your seaboots, from a refreshment house, after landing a fair shot, and see the women busy as wrens, the foremen shouting, the salt swishing in showers, the coopers hammering, the fishery officer testing the herring for the Crown brand, was a pleasant experience. You had given them something to work on! Let the world be happy and the hand generous. It’s a poor mouth that never sings. Give with lordliness and grudge nothing. Only the mean heart and the mean hand are an abomination in the day of fullness.
Their nets shot, they lay back, eating in the peace of the evening, at sea once more. Not the inlets, the low shores, the islands, the soft wonder of the west, but the grey, unending cliffs of home.
It was the height of summer, and the night never grew quite dark. Finn loved to feel the gentle movement of the boat under him again. It produced, too, the old dreaming effect and
passing of images. But the images were altogether from the west now. He had not seen Una since he came home and had no special desire to see her. His cousin Barbara was a friendly, bright girl, and treated him like a brother. He was growing fond of her. But the dark Lewis girl, Catrine, came into his mind now on a few notes of that song which he could not whistle entirely and which haunted him often. In a curious way, however, the influence of the song was stronger than she was. In a few seconds it would grow into a hypnotic tyranny that he could not rouse himself to throw off, and the girl would recede, shadowy, and bodiless.
He saw Roddie trying the net in the grey of the morning and the old excitement crept over him. The net fell back with an empty splash. But he was not very disappointed. The herring were not yet on the ground.
The boats were in early, and while walking with Callum across the flat towards the gutting stations, Finn saw Una. He saw her in the moment that she stepped back from four others, swayed, and bent forward slightly in laughter. Her laugh was not merry and quick; it was slow-noted and rich and rather awkward. Her body swayed, too, in a poised living motion all its own. “Hey, Finn!” called Jim, the clerk, who had obviously made the joke. Donnie was there and the two other girls of Una’s crew. “Busy!” called Finn, with a smiling salute, and went on.
A cold flush had gone over his body, and when they reached the store he tried not to let Callum see his hands. The physical sensation was extremely unpleasant and for a little while his brain would not work. He thought of a natural excuse to leave Callum, but could not risk going across the green alone. As the weakening sensation slowly ebbed, anger against himself began to flow. Una had nothing to do with this, or Jim, or anyone else. It was entirely a personal weakness of which he was intolerantly and bitterly ashamed. And even all this he could have overcome, if it weren’t that he knew he could not face them and be natural. A horror came upon him that he would be weak and stammer and have the words choke in his throat.
A penetrating hatred of the girl Una assailed him, and the only wary thought in his head wondered how he could dodge her, now and always.
When Callum and himself came out the women were gone, and Finn knew a sweet relief. But as they turned the corner of the store, he saw the same five, well in front but over to the left, making for the foot of the green braes. And now a completely irrational desire came over him to hasten, for his path lay up the riverside, and thus he would not overtake them directly but yet might be seen by them. “What’s your hurry?” asked Callum. “I thought you’d be wanting your bed,” answered Finn. “And anyway, I have a good bit farther than you to go.” He made Callum step out and spoke in a loud voice gaily. When he saw out of the corner of his eye that they were observed by the others, he passed a remark about Rob that set Callum chuckling. He himself laughed outright. “You’re in good form to-day!” said Callum. At that moment he felt in extremely good form. But his mother thought he was looking tired and packed him off to bed at once. When sleep would not come, he ground his teeth. He turned and rolled. Sleep pierced his eyelids with its sharp needles, but his brain was sharper. It is a great misery for the body to be desperately in need of sleep and for sleep not to come. He loathed the thought of Una and all the appalling nonsense of the green. He heard his mother whisper to Barbara, anxious not to wake him. He had tried not to make any noise. When he could no longer endure the torture, he got up.
*
Una swayed back and laughed in the half-dream of the grey morning,
*
Finn knew days of misery, but he won through them to a dull, dogged state. All this time he had no strong desire for Una; he was not even aware of any jealousy or similar emotion against Jim; in fact he would have experienced a desperate relief had Una been definitely attached to Jim. She was like a sickness that he wanted to be rid of; because it was a shameful sickness; a weakness that he had a horror of someone’s discovering, and particularly Una and her crowd.
On the fourth morning at sea, Henry said, “They’re here, boys.” Finn shouted in Callum’s ear. “What? Where?” cried Callum, starting up. “So you’ve come to pay us a visit,” said Rob to the silver darlings as they danced in over the gunnel, blue and green and silver.
The old happy harmony came upon the crew. And Finn felt himself renewed, but with the difference that he wanted passively to absorb the fun rather than light-heartedly to increase it. This, however, had a riches of its own. It was like drinking from a cool well on a hot day and lying back. There was a profound satisfaction in it. Callum and Rob were sparring.
“Pull down your sleeve, man, Rob. Your shirt is getting dirty.”
Finn was skimming the big herring as they fell from the net, for the catch was not heavy, though of fine, full quality.
“If only the herring had been as big as this in Stornoway!” said Henry.
“I knew something in Stornoway,” said Callum, “that was fully bigger, even more developed, as you would say.”
“What was that?”
“Ask Rob.”
“I knew something bigger myself,” said Rob, in his slow, droll fashion.
“No man could have got his arms round anything bigger,” said Callum. “Impossible.”
“I wouldn’t say you could get your arms round it. No, nor your legs.”
“But what would you be using your legs for, anyway?”
“Some people use them one way, and some people another, and some people use them to run away on, if they can manage.”
“Boys, this is a conundrum!” said Callum.
“Maybe it is a conundrum,” said Rob, “and if it is, then it is a w-whale of a one.”
All of ten crans. It was a good start and many of the boats were already hauled, like themselves, and making for home. Finn felt at ease, and knew again in his bones the peace and companionship of men in the toil of common adventure.
As he tipped the herring into the box an elderly, quick-fingered woman said, “Scales to-day on you, Finn.”
“A few to keep you going.”
“That’s what we like.” Scores of women were bobbing along the gutting stations, men were carrying quickly, criss-crossing over the green, in a babel of talk and cries.
Una was on the other side and to the left and the girl beside her gave Finn a shout. “You can’t see ordinary folk since you came back from abroad!”
“So long as you haven’t forgotten me,” he cried, quite naturally, and as he went back to the boat, with his heart beating, he felt the stirring of self-confidence. He had not looked at Una, though he had seen her glance at him. If only he could carry things off like that!
When they had spread their nets and were returning to the boat, he said to Rob, “I don’t think you should be so hard on Callum.”
“Me! I wouldn’t hurt boys, surely.”
“If only you would stick to the boys,” said Callum, “it would be all right. Or even the widow women. Look, Rob, man, at Una there. Wouldn’t she make a fine, warm armful for you now? And she’s fond of the boys.” He winked at Finn.
“She might do,” said Rob thoughtfully. “She has the looks.”
“She’s got more than looks.”
“Yes, she’s got that loud-voiced gomeril from Wick with the boots,” said Rob.
“But surely you could see the boots off him?”
At that moment, Donnie Grant and another young blade, Angie Ganson, created a slight diversion and Una stepped back with a yelp, wiping a smother of scales that Angie had deftly smeared on her chin.
“Now, now, young fellows-my-lads, none of that here,” bellowed George. “Leave honest folk to get on with their work.”
“Who’s stopping them?” demanded Angie.
“You keep that, my hero, for the Birch Wood. There’s a place for everything.”
In the laughter, Una happened to look straight at Finn’s face. The face was calm and set and she got back to her work amid chaff from the other women.
As they continued towards the boat, Callum rallied Rob again
, for Una had appeared very attractive, with her flush of colour and swaying body.
“Ach, she has too many sniffing after her for my fancy,” said Rob.
“But surely you don’t want an easy conquest? What do you say, Finn?”
With a terrific effort through his choked throat, Finn answered, “I don’t know,” and tried to smile.
He felt Callum’s eyes narrow on him and knew that the smile remained stuck in a sickly way on his face. But he fixed his eyes on a boy and called, “Well, Dan?”
“Hullo!” answered Dan, and he came to walk beside Finn. Men and boys were everywhere, and Callum was stopped.
*
On the way to sea that afternoon, Finn left the path, climbed over the thick, ruined wall, and came into the little quiet field that led to the knoll of the House of Peace. The grey stones were still and silent as they had always been, but now they seemed immemorially old and heedless, somehow tired and spent. There was no hidden spirit in them, no invisible eyes.
All things pass and die; useless stones sink into the dead earth. There was no sun. The sky was grey. A pace or two up the knoll, he paused to look back and around. He was alone, anyway. A stone moved from under the weight of his foot and two red worms, surprised by the light, quickly disappeared, leaving tracks like empty veins. The stone came to rest with the smeared side uppermost.
On top, he sat down at the old spot by the empty stone rings. He thought of the figure he had once imagined here, the figure of the old, quiet man, and his features grew faintly satiric, like Henry’s. But there was no bitterness in the satire, hardly feeling of any kind. Even misery was empty of feeling, like a vacant eye. Here, misery itself got drained, as so much folly, leaving nothing at its heart. But in this emptiness there was at least a heedless freedom. He lay back and slowly settled into the earth like one of the heavy grey stones. This was relief and in a few moments he came into the core of himself, where he was alone, and felt strangely companioned, not by anyone or anything, but by himself. The rejected self found refuge here, not a cowed refuge, but somehow a wandering ease; as if it were indestructible, and had its own final pride, its own secret eyes.
