by Neil M. Gunn
Peace might have come were it not for the image which involuntarily created itself inside his head against darkness. This was the appalling trick it had. The inner eye never even focused the swaying body, the sting of colour in the face, the light in the black eyes, the black hair (which, somehow, it saw, although at the gutting her hair was covered). It refused the vision. Yet it was suddenly there, out of direct focus, but there, as if it were thought more than vision. The dark body, with a red flame of life inside it, showing in the face, swaying with the grace of a tongue of fire.
He was past groaning at this affliction. And he would not even allow himself to think that it meant anything. The mere approach of the idea of any such thing as love angered him, maddened him. He was reaping the penalty of having thought so much about her on the sea alone. And he had thought about her because one does think about someone. Surely love, if there was any such thing, should be ease and tenderness, like the tenderness he had felt for the dark girl in Stornoway. He had confidence there, knew his body’s strength, and could have shouldered his way to her past any number of fellows.
But he would get over this disease. And when he did, and had cool command of himself, then—with a laughing, stinging tongue—wouldn’t he make them sit up?
He groaned and turned over and lay still. At once he began to sink again and, desiring the sweet luxury of a moment’s forgetfulness, fell sound asleep.
His eyes opened wide and stared at the circle of stones. There was something on his face. Rain. He sat up, looking about him. In the second it had taken him to realize where he was, he saw the grass and moss and grey stone and birch tree in a strangely static way, yet with a touch of almost panic intimacy, before their place in the normal world came upon him. He knew he had been asleep for hours, knew it by the very freshness of his body and, picking up his packet of bannocks and milk, went bounding down the knoll. They would be waiting for him. He had never yet been late. Perhaps they had gone to sea without him? Turning a bend, he saw Roddie going on alone a little way ahead. He stopped, panting. He could have been asleep only for a few minutes!
He laughed to himself and, giving Roddie a shout, soon joined him. “I had a grand sleep,” he said.
“Good,” answered Roddie. “I’m afraid we’re in for a night of rain.”
And Finn suddenly felt that the long, wet misery of a night of rain would be the finest thing in the world. “As long as it doesn’t blow,” he suggested.
Roddie gave him a glance and smiled. Finn felt more friendly to him at that moment than he had done for many a day.
*
There was, in truth, very little time during the rush of that successful fishing season for indulging the luxury of private worries. And with the hard work went a contagious cheerfulness.
In the morning a woman would cry to man or boy, “Are the boats in?” or “What luck to-day?” The questions flew over the land. When the boats were well-fished, hearts were uplifted and the daily tasks accomplished with cheerfulness and spirit. Figures could be seen moving here and there, up the braes, along the paths, dangling a string of herring. There was work for everyone. Along the road from Wick, carriers brought goods at all hours. Crofts would be stocked; a new house built; and, above all, orders placed for new boats, not only in the flourishing yards at Wick but in many a creek along the coast. Young men like Finn dreamed of having their own boats. There was a warmth of communal life in which private worries could be comfortably smothered.
In the evening, when scores of boats headed for the fishing ground, men and women would marvel, looking on that pretty scene, at the change that had come over their coast. No enchanter in the oldest legend had ever waved a more magical wand. In the grey dawn light of a Saturday morning, when the fishermen themselves, heavy from lack of sleep and overwork, saw herring in the net, all their faculties came alive and brought the fish in with avid care, as though after long and ceaseless wandering they had for the first time come upon a silver mine.
For the idea of magic, of possible enchantment, did persist. A crew had good luck or bad luck. There was no certainty. Every night was a new night and every morning a fresh surprise. Lexy had now taken the place of her sister, Margad, the witch, and when she appeared early with slightly stooped body and head wrapped in a black shawl, she had not to ask a skipper for a fry of herring. She was given it freely, and on one morning had sold three crans to a curer at the full price. She was having a very successful season, and who could say but that she deserved all she got? There were herring on the ground, anyway.
One afternoon, as Finn and Roddie were walking together towards the shore, with their food-satchels under their arms, they saw Lexy cross the path in front of them on her way home. They stopped and, pretending they had not seen her, turned back. Roddie muttered under his breath. Finn felt a strangeness go over him and looked at stones and grass and the running water with a queer, arrested smile. The body grew very sensitive, as if the air were suddenly charged with invisible forces.
They walked back over half a mile, saying little, then separated, each going to his own home.
When Catrine saw Finn enter the door, her face went pale.
“It’s all right,” said Finn, laying the satchel on the table. “Lexy crossed our path.”
“Did she!” exclaimed Catrine.
For the witch to cross their path on their way to sea portended bad luck if not disaster.
Finn sat down on a chair and lifted his feet off the ground. Catrine, after standing still a moment, bustled about and brought him some milk and a piece of oatcake. “I wondered what had happened to you,” she said solemnly, but with a relieved air, too, as if nothing could be so bad as what one did not know yet half-feared.
When he was ready to depart again, she went out and scouted around to make sure Lexy was not in the vicinity. “Roddie is coming,” she said; then looked at him. “Take care of yourself, Finn.”
Finn laughed at her concentrated, concerned expression and went on his way.
They were lucky so far, too, in the absence of storms. Rarely a season passed but men and women lined the beach or the cliffs watching the boats fighting their way home. The weather was mixed and not always comfortable, but when the wind did suddenly blow up from the sou’-east it was on a Sunday.
Boats were hauled clean up over the edge of the beach on which the waves smashed, flinging spume over the curing stations. The fishermen were grouped about their boats, or mending nets and attending to damaged gear, and in the evenings there would be a crowd in and round Hendry’s inn. Here George could be heard rolling out his figures of last season’s cure from Wick to Fraserburgh, and talking authoritatively of the Baltic trade.
Finn never spent an evening in Roddie’s company, going about with lads of his own age, like Donnie or Angie. Jim Dewar had a special liking for Finn and always got into his company if he could. One evening Jim and Donnie and Finn were standing by the river path, not far from the inn, when Jim cried, “What’s this I see before me?” Finn turned. Una and Meg and Betz, the gutting crew, were coming towards them at a short distance, obviously on their way home.
“I’m going,” said Finn.
“Don’t be a fool,” replied Jim. “We’ll have some fun.” He caught Finn by the arm. All in a blinding moment Finn wanted to strike him. But Donnie was in his way, laughing, asking him not to leave. “They’ll think you’re running away!” And now it was too late.
“Finn was wanting to make off when he saw you coming!” Jim greeted the girls. “Look at him! He’s blushing!”
Finn, feeling murderous, tried to smile. A whelming desire came upon him to walk away. His mouth said, “I’m not blushing.”
They roared with laughter, the girls excitedly. It made the meeting easy and amusing for them.
Finn’s brows gathered over his unnatural smile. His eyes were glancing stormily and he was on the point of saying, “I must see Roddie,” and stalking off, when Meg remarked, “Never you mind, Finn. He’s always being ve
ry clever, by his own way of it.”
“Mind who?” asked Finn.
Jim leaned back, laughing, and cleared his throat which was afflicted with phlegm.
“Him,” answered Meg, with a sarcastic glance at Jim.
“Oh, him!” said Finn. “Hmf!”
They all laughed again. Finn felt himself trembling. He had not even glanced at Una.
“So you’re still feeling sore?” Jim challenged Meg. He was in his element at this sort of badinage.
“Me feeling sore? You fairly fancy yourself!” declared Meg.
Jim stepped away as if she were about to attack him.
All the time they laughed and played in this way, Finn was held in an extreme awkwardness.
“It’s time we were home,” said Una.
“Right!” cried Jim. “Come on!” and catching Una by the arm he swung her forward. There was a slight struggle until she had got her arm free, and then they walked on, chaffing each other.
“When is Barbara going back to Dale?” Betz asked Finn.
“Not till the end of the fishing.”
“We’re off,” declared Donnie, and he walked away with Meg, who had turned round and cried gaily, “Come on, Finn.”
“Your mother will miss her when she goes,” said Betz sensibly as they followed the others.
“Yes,” said Finn. He did not want to see Betz home. They would pass people on the way. He was wildly angry at having been drawn into this position. Betz was a rather ungainly girl, with big bones and lank dark hair. Her efforts at being amusing were always heavy and out of key; and the thought of Finn’s being landed with her now would be a special joy to Jim. At that moment Finn hated her.
And Betz went on talking as if her head were thick and unfeeling as a turnip. Did his mother miss not being able to come to the gutting? Couldn’t she have come this year, with Barbara at home? … The questions maddened Finn, while he answered them at random. Then an odd little thing happened. He caught in her voice a slight gulp, a catch of the breath, and he knew in an instant that she was sensitive and timid and unsure of herself; realized the effort she was making and the courage that, though hopeless, could still keep going.
He felt mean, ashamed of his own state of mind, yet could not alter it. But he answered her now more fully and even introduced topics of his own. A certain detachment came upon him, covering the mood that went on boiling underneath. Betz made no claims and he suddenly saw her not as a girl, with all the emotions that were supposed to surround a girl, but as a human being apart from him and walking by his side. Presently he was almost friendly, and when she asked, “Did you like Stornoway?” he did not think the question heavy and tiresome. On the contrary, it flashed Stornoway on his memory.
Assurance began to seep back into his mind, and it was not altogether the desire for revenge against present circumstance that drove him on to describe the town and one or two incidents in an amusing way. As this was perhaps beyond what Betz had hoped for, she listened with the greatest interest and the skin of her face took on a faint colour.
The others were not far ahead, for Finn had an urge to keep them in sight, and Jim and Una seemed in a gay mood. When, at last, they stepped off the main road towards the path that led up through the Birch Wood, Jim put his arm round Una’s waist as if to help her over the ditch and up the yard of bank. Una drew herself free in a swaying whirl and Jim laughed, glancing back at the others.
“He’s-showing off,” muttered Betz.
“Is he?” said Finn, smiling. “She seems to like it.”
Betz crossed the ditch and Finn followed her and they went up the narrow, winding path. The houses lay beyond the wood and presently they saw the four in front standing among the last of the trees. Finn stopped. “I must get back,” he said. “These fellows will talk on and on.”
“Especially Jim,” said Betz.
“You seem to know him pretty well!”
“He is always trying to be clever.”
Finn laughed, throwing his head back. “So long as someone likes his cleverness.”
“They think,” said Betz, with a sullen humour, “that he’s a good catch.”
Finn laughed almost naturally. “A cut above the fisherman?”
“So some of them think. I don’t.”
Finn saw light in her dumb humour, in her dark eyes. “Rob called him ‘that gomeril from Wick with the boots’.”
Betz laughed abruptly and deep-throated.
“You might share the joke,” shouted Jim.
They paid no attention but went on talking together, until Finn said, “Well, I must be off. I enjoyed the walk.”
“So did I,” said Betz, Her face was now suffused with colour and her eyes deep with a dumb pleasure that suddenly touched his heart and he shook hands with her.
“We won’t look!” cried Jim. But when Finn swung away, he yelled for him to wait. Finn waved and disappeared, taking the path before him blindly, his mind in an instant emptied of everything but a blazing self-anger. You fool! he muttered. You damn fool!
Nor did he wait to ask himself why he was a fool. He hated what was behind him. He hated intolerantly his own mind, and to avoid it made straight for the inn.
There were knots of men here and there around the inn, arguing, disputing, laughing, engaged in the favourite pastime of leg-pulling. A penetrating retort was their great delight. For some men took drink as they took heavy seas, with a certain gallantry, swaying, but holding to it and, when they moved, their feet crunched the gravel in a lordly way. A voice called to Finn: “You didn’t take long over her!”
“Long enough,” cried Finn, and elbowed his way through the door into the packed room.
George’s voice was high above the rumble: “That’s the law. The barrel must hold thirty-two English gallons——”
“Gallons of what?”
“Gallons of wine. That’s the measure.”
“Why not gallons of whisky?”
“We’re talking of herrings,” said George. “We’re talking of a fixed measure—the size of the barrel, as defined by law.”
“But why didn’t they fix the size by nips? We know nips better.”
“If you don’t look out,” cried George, “you’ll nip yourself until there’s nothing left.”
Two Buckie lads welcomed Finn and stood him a drink. Finn understood the south-side Doric now pretty well, and they liked to hear his clear Gaelic voice, which emerged, like his smile, out of a background of personality that was never immediately obvious, that always seemed to have reserves. He struck them as having a certain distinction, both in the cut of his face and in his manner; and none the less so when he was friendly and fluent and ordered another round. He was now in the highest spirits. When an altercation grew too noisy, Mr. Hendry would appear and with his sharp, small eyes and a “Now! Now!” quieten things down and draw questions upon himself. The men particularly liked to hear Special being dogmatic.
“Is that you I see, Finn?” asked Mr. Hendry, about to retire.
“I hope so,” said Finn.
“Well, my boy, I would rather not see you here too much.”
“In that case,” said Finn in a flash, “I should be obliged if you would give me a bottle of special and I’ll clear out.” From his trousers’ pocket he took a shilling and laid it on the counter.
Mr. Hendry’s brows gathered. He was nettled. But Finn seemed in the friendliest humour.
“I don’t think I should give it to you.”
“Why not?” asked Finn.
“You lads are too young.”
“We’re not too young to land herring,” declared Finn.
“Now! now!” said Mr. Hendry. “I think you’ve had enough.”
“Enough what?”
“Whisky,” said Mr. Hendry pointedly.
“I have only had two nips. Will you give me a bottle of special, please?” demanded Finn, still smiling.
“I don’t think I will.”
“In that case,” said Fi
nn, lifting his shilling amid the silence, “you can keep it,” and he turned his back on the landlord and made for the door.
Some tried to stop him, but he shouldered them out of his way roughly. The Buckie lads followed. Along the coast there had sprung up many refreshment houses that sold beer and porter, but at old Mag’s there was always an unofficial supply of more potent stuff. Thither they went.
An hour later they were making high carousal when Jim and Donnie walked in, having traced Finn from the inn.
“So here you are!” called Jim, all lit up. “Why on earth did you run away?”
Finn looked at him.
The flash in Finn’s face tickled Jim. He pointed to it, laughing. Finn took a swift step forward and smashed his fist into Jim’s face. The sound of the blow silenced everything. Jim would have fallen heavily but for the young fellows behind him.
Mag started screeching. “I’ll have no fighting here! Get out of my house! Get out of my house!”
“I’m not fighting,” said Finn, holding his ground.
“Get out!” she cried. “Get out! This is a respectable house.”
“It’s all right, Mag,” said Finn. “But I don’t run away from man or woman.” His voice was steady, but his eyes were blazing.
“That was a bloody rotten thing to do,” cried Jim, “to hit a fellow when he was not ready.”
“Are you ready now?” asked Finn.
