by Neil M. Gunn
“Get out of my house! Get out of my house!” She laid hands on Finn and pushed him towards the door. He caught her wrists. “Stop that!” he called sharply. The others crowded around Mag and began saying it was all right. “We promise there will be no more trouble, Mag.” They herded her away. But she swore she would give them no more drink that night, not one of them. There was placatory talk. Everyone spoke. Mag muttered about a decent woman’s house. The place grew thick with mumbling and conspiracy. “Give me a bottle of whisky,” said Finn clearly.
“I don’t sell whisky,” she cried, the features of her sixty-year-old face sharp against Finn.
“Very well,” said Finn, putting the shilling back in his pocket. “You can keep it.”
That fairly roused her ire, but through her screeching Finn said, “Oh, shut up!” and walked out.
The Buckie lads and two or three others followed him. It turned out that one of them had a bottle and it was offered to Finn first with pressing politeness. “Have a swig, Finn lad. I’m glad you sorted that wee bastard.” The raw spirit burnt its way down his throat, but he hardly coughed. “Oh, he’s all right,” he said. “But sometimes he annoys me.”
They had seen the flash and movement of the sea in him. They all felt heightened and full of imperious deeds. The bottle didn’t last long. The quiet Buckie lad who drained the last of it threw it from him and in the darkness it exploded into many bits.
*
On the way home Finn chuckled when he side-stepped, for he was pretty drunk. He had never felt drunk like this before, and as a state of mind and body it had its points! For he knew he wasn’t drunk really. His mind wasn’t drunk at all. It was as sober as the parish minister. Far soberer, begod! It was pleasant to laugh. His mind could go away up into the sky and over the world as though it was light instead of dark. He felt like one who had arisen, had pierced through a sticky covering and was cleaning the stuff from his legs and head. All the tremors and indecisions; all the rank immaturities. Even having said “Shut up!” to Meg didn’t worry him, though respect for age was in the essence of living. She had deserved it, screeching like yon!
Behold the House of Peace, lifting its dark head against the faint light in the sky. It was the hour when ghosts walked. A coldness crept over his skin. Very good! He would accept the challenge. He stumbled once or twice and when he got to the top he was sweating.
The place was terribly still. The morning was coming. Devil take it, it was a ghostly enough place. He thought of the headless man. His skin crept and crawled, the sweat icy cold. Something was holding him, stiff as death. No matter. He would not give in. He felt the death-shudder go over his body as the challenge rose in him. Climbing ten thousand cliffs was nothing to this. He drew all his strength into his throat to shout, “Come forth!”
But his throat clove against sound.
Suddenly, however, as though his intention were being answered, there was a grey-white movement and the icy coldness went to Finn’s heart. He saw the grey head and the grey beard and went unconscious on his feet. But he did not fall because his staring eyes had seen on their own account that it was Maria’s new goat.
He swung from one slim trunk to another and rolled the last few yards. He ran and fell. But he ran, and got over the broad, ruined wall and up by the burnside, before he collapsed. But even then he did not let his mind go from him. Soon he arose and went on to the brae below his own home, where he threw himself on his back and breathed heavily for a long time.
The dawn came and the land was quiet and still under it. Going on to the house he felt disembodied as a ghost, with little that was solid in his legs and feet. A couple of peewits came swooping and crying, bereft spirits that never slept. The storm was gone. His mother would not be asleep either. The thought of her lying awake, waiting, angered him. However, he would slip in quietly. The door was on the latch. As he turned round to close it noiselessly he stumbled and it shut with a tremendous rattle. He swore under his breath. He heard her coming. Groping rapidly into his own room, he shut the door with a bang.
“Finn, are you all right?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Why wouldn’t I?” His voice was impatient with anger—and fear lest she come in.
She did not speak again. She’s got the smell of the drink! he thought in a bitter humour. It was the first time her son had come home to her in that condition! She wouldn’t sleep now the rest of the night. Alan Macdonald caught in the thicket by his two sisters. Women! Misery and wisdom came down upon him, and in their grey air he saw with a great clarity the meaning and movement of life. However, begod, he would finish the night as he began. He would go to sleep and be damned. And he went.
*
The next day the movement of life was not so clear. His mother tried to behave exactly as if nothing had happened, but her voice was distinct, her actions too definite. Barbara and she were going into the moss to lift the last of the peats. He spoke readily to Barbara, but didn’t look much at his mother. He had to go to the shore, he said, to get things ready for the sea, and left the house as soon as he could, his mother’s face going with him, pale as a new moon in-the dusk, filling up the round of his mind and his conscience.
In the afternoon he came back for food and his satchel. His mother had returned from the moss to give him both. They were alone. She did not intrude on him, however, but moved lightly about, speaking naturally. “Well, are you off, then? So long!” “So long!” he answered, his back to her, and off he went Through the remnants of his anger at her delicate manner, he felt deeply moved by it. It was so fine and reticent. A surge of emotion at the fineness of his mother came over him; so swift and keen that it stung his eyes and made them stare ahead.
As he drew near the beach, he saw Jim approaching. Finn began to feel uncomfortable and awkward. Jim seemed uncertain also until he glanced at Finn’s face. Then he said, “You’re a dam’ fine fellow.”
“I’m sorry,” said Finn, “at the trouble there was.”
“I should think you bloody well should be,” replied Jim, clearly prepared to be propitiated. “What came over you?”
“I don’t know,” said Finn. “Special had refused me drink and I was rattled. I don’t know. I’m sorry about it.”
“Look at the mark you left,” said Jim. “Was I angry when I saw it this morning? If you’d even warned me you were thinking of doing anything of the sort.”
Finn smiled strangely. “You shouldn’t have said what you did just then. That started it off.”
“But I didn’t mean anything.”
“I know,” said Finn. “All the same, it annoys a fellow to tell him that he ran away.”
Jim laughed as if he had scored. “All right,” he said. “But why did you clear off?”
“Ach,” replied Finn, “I don’t care for girls. They’re a waste of time.”
This amused Jim very much. “If you had my armful,” he said, “you wouldn’t think it a waste of time!”
“You’re welcome to it,” replied Finn. “But I must be going. They’re waiting.”
That was one point about Jim, thought Finn as he went on: he’s a good-natured fellow; there’s no real harm in him. The only thing Finn didn’t care so much for was his blow about girls, his superior knowledge. He had great stories about two whores in Wick. He liked to impress country lads, to chuckle at their innocence over methods of sexual approach and fulfilment. Then he would step back and laugh and clear his throat of thick spittle. When Rob and Callum had a passage over a widow, how natural everything was, how rich the humour! Two different worlds altogether. Yes, quite different. Finn went on steadily. “If you had my armful.” O God! he groaned. But when his brain cleared, he thought that Una herself must have something of the whorish streak about her or she wouldn’t let his arms … Yes, she must be like that. She was like that. Well, it finished everything so far as he was concerned. He wouldn’t look at her now, not though she was crawling on her knees——
“Hullo, Finn!” shouted
Callum. “Glad to see you. We heard you had got locked up.”
“You’ll hear many a thing,” said Finn, forcing his spirit high over a deep surge of dismay. Roddie had not yet arrived.
“I’ll have a bottle of special, Special!” cried Callum, with a lordly air.
Finn looked at him. “I never said that.”
“You never hit Boots in the eye?”
“Well, I pushed him aside——”
They laughed, obviously delighted that he had dealt with Boots; but he could see he was in for some fun now, and if he was, he would not let his side down!
All the same he was flustered, and glad to see the boats setting out over the green water above the sand and the blue-brown over the tangle.
And in the morning all were well fished. There was tremendous activity on the beach and round the gutting stations. “Hullo, Finn!” cried Meg, her eyes merry with knowledge. He gave Betz a special salute. Una did not lift her head to look his way. If he had any misgiving over what he had done to Jim, he let it sink. In fact, there moved in him a devil-may-care swagger. This was freedom and made him feel fine. When the shot was out and he was putting away his empty creel, Meg said quickly in what was meant for an aside, “What’s all this I hear about last night?”
“What?” asked Finn.
Betz stood looking at him, having none of the quickness of Meg. Finn gave her a friendly smile.
Meg whispered. But Finn answered aloud: “He has someone to poultice it for him, so he’ll be all right,” and away he went laughing.
After a quick side-glance at the busy Una, Meg went on with her work, but not before giving Betz a wink.
From that moment, Finn began to feel much better. There was more than one herring in the sea and more than one place to fish them from. Girls were a disease that affected young fellows, and often enough a dirty disease at that. Anyway, it was a grand thing to be rid of—especially with money piling up and his own boat in the offing.
*
More and more now this idea of getting a boat of his own began to take possession of him. Not a second-hand boat, but a brand new one, longer than the Seafoam, in fact—why not?—the biggest boat yet built for a Dunster skipper, with bright paint on her gunnels and a lovely line to her that would take the seas like a bird. Before the fishing was over this had become a secret obsession. It could blot out personal images of the early morning; it was an inspiration far beyond troubles over girls; it made him an expert fisherman with the excitement and niggardly care that hated to see herring fall back into the sea. He was swift in his movements and tireless, and would shout sharply and cheerfully with the best. Herring, the silver darlings, get them in! If the weather was doubtful, Finn was all for chancing it. To be one of a handful of boats that risked going to sea and then to return with a shot—what pride and delight could exist beyond that?
He came to love the sea. It was a great element. He saw now how great and strong it was, with the strength of great men and daring and courage. It was a man’s element. Never before had he seen it quite in this way. It was beyond even making money out of. It was a stupendous thing in itself. The mere handling of a boat against it was a thrill that nothing on land, in man or in woman, could equal. And the knowledge of all that lifted him above earthly misfortunes.
One early morning he could have laughed, for when he saw the image of Una it was no longer swaying in front of his mind, but had receded a long way, so that it was diminished in size and retiring from him into a small local place of no importance. It might look back if it liked, but he held the world in front, which was spacious, and into it, over all its sparkling seas, he would adventure. He had the feeling of having escaped narrowly. How fellows like to get tied to girls, their freedom taken from them, shut up in a little house, was a great mystery. It was true, thought Finn, marvelling, that if a man lived long enough he learned a lot!
And Jim, who would one day be a fish curer, a cut above them all; and George, shouting his figures and spreading his salt—what were they when it came to the sea itself, the handling of a boat in a storm, the phosphorescent fires, the living dance of the silver darlings? They only saw the herring dead, and lived on them like gulls!
A great accession of strength and assurance came to Finn in those days. His company was sought after by lads of his own age and old men liked to draw a laughing retort out of him. As for sleep, he only needed it when his body was stupid with fatigue.
On the day of settlement, Dunster became a vast beehive in swarm. The fishermen were dressed in their best kit and the gutting girls and women made high holiday. The shops had laid in special stores from Wick, and the buying of presents and all sorts of personal and household gear set money and laughter flowing like the water in the river. And little of importance could be settled without a drink. Responsible God-fearing men beamed with the innocence of their childhood and the instinctive gesture was to put the hand in the pocket and take out money. It was a day new-minted, and those who hadn’t been seen for twenty-four hours were strangers to be welcomed. To have money thus for the spending was a lovely miracle, and as it came under God’s free hand with the tides of the sea, who would question the order of its going?
With the darkness came gatherings in scores of houses, leave-takings and songs, and leave-takings over again. “We must be going.” “What’s all your hurry? It’s not every day we have a good fishing!” “No, but it’s getting late….” And so out—and to another house.
They sang and they danced all night, and the humour was robust enough many a time, with the whirl of a girl, a quick retort, and laughter. Angry voices in a ditch; money lost and money re-found. And if there was a fight, voices would placate the combatants through long, intricate argument with slappings on the back and profound expressions of personal understanding. Any drop of bad blood now found its letting. There was a ritual for it, with voices ever ready to serve, for who would leave a bitter man with the poison of his grievance? And for pledge and healing, behold the absolving wine in a bottle, the wine of the country.
Finn bade good-bye in the early hours to a bunch of lads and headed for home, laughing often to himself at one or other of the queer things that had happened that night. For one thing sang in his mind. As young men, they had talked of boats and fishings, and the oldest Buckie lad had said that he was thinking of getting a boat of his own.
“So am I,” said Finn, before he could stop the words.
“Are you?” asked Donnie.
“Yes,” answered Finn, “and you and Ian here are coming with me.”
For a moment there was silence, then enthusiasm swept Ian and Donnie. They swore they would put up their share; they would put it up now. Finn saw that he was their leader and felt lifted off his feet. “I know the way to Stornoway. I have been in the Western Ocean. Keep your thumb on it meantime,” said Finn, “but by God we’ll show them how to fish before we’re done!”
Ian had got so moved that he had thrown up his liquor.
Finn could not help laughing to himself. His mother had been extremely hospitable to the lads, and Andie, from Banff, aged seventeen, had been struck by Barbara so powerfully that, out of politeness, they took no notice. Life was a queer, entrancing thing.
CHAPTER XX
FINN GOES TO HELMSDALE
The following week, Finn set off with Barbara for Dale. It was a fine September day with yellow here and there on the dark green of the birches and an air that was fresh and invigorating. The earth looked calm and lovely, and folk had pleasant greetings, with a smile on their faces. It was good to go striding down the lands, to be off on a journey under the morning sun, with a high heart in a tireless body.
“I’m silly,” said Barbara, wiping her eyes.
Finn laughed at her, and from the tears of parting her face cleared in a bright smile.
“Will you promise me to come back next year?” asked Finn.
“Yes,” said Barbara.
“That’s grand,” declared Finn. “That relieves my
mind. But remember—it’s a promise.”
“All right,” said Barbara, taking a quick step or two as his mother did sometimes.
“Did you really like being here?”
“I loved it,” said Barbara. “Your mother—she’s so kind.”
“And what about me?”
“Ach,” she said, “you’re—you’ll do!”
They both laughed. Barbara was very excited, her dark eyes bright as sun on peaty water. He teased her and had her arguing and disputing, but her heart was merry. “You’re glad to be going home,” said Finn, “and that’s the truth.”
“I am,” said Barbara. “I’m longing to see them.” Her voice was urgent with longing.
“And yet you pretend you’re sorry to go!” He gave a sarcastic chuckle
She stopped speaking, her face in front. He gave her a side-glance. Her top lip was drawing down. This amused him. But when she remained silent, he decided to put her at ease again and said sensibly, “I’m only teasing you. It’s natural that you should be wanting to go home. It would be a queer thing if you weren’t.”
But instead of her young face clearing, it tautened still more, and then a gulp of a sob came through. At a complete loss, Finn glanced about him to make sure that no one was about. In a minute she was herself again, and Finn let out a deep breath of relief. He would have to watch what he said.
“You think I’m silly,” she said.
“No, I don’t,” declared Finn. “Honestly.”
“You’re a great ass,” she said, with emphasis.
He laughed, delighted. “That’s better!”
But he kept all further teasings in check until they were resting near the far top of the Langwell glen. Then he got talking of the fishings and the gutting, and she said that next season she would be nearly seventeen, and his mother had suggested to her that if she wanted to make a little money for herself, she could do so at Dunster.
“Why, that would be grand!” cried Finn. And she looked as if he had given her a secret present. This amused him. “Ha! Quite!” He nodded enigmatically.
