The Wind from the Sea

by Mark Neilson

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not ready to see my dad just yet. Or Andy.’

  ‘Where are you going to sleep tonight?’

  ‘The boat’s back there. I’ll use the crew’s quarters.’

  She looked doubtfully at the moored fishing boats in the harbour.

  He read her mind. ‘The key has been hanging in the same place on the galley wall, ever since my dad took over as skipper. This isn’t London, with its light-fingered folk. This is Buckie. The local grocer uses that same key to drop in our provisions. Everybody knows where it’s kept. In fact, the key is probably hung in the same place on every steam drifter round this harbour. I’ll be fine.’

  She rose slowly. ‘I could come home with you. Make sure you got there.’

  ‘Oh I remember the way home,’ he said. ‘That’s not the problem. Not even the start of it … You’re Mary Cowie, aren’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I knew your eyes,’ he said. ‘Straight off, I knew it was you.’

  What a strange thing to say. She found herself blushing furiously.

  ‘You were a bonny quine,’ he murmured. As if a thought had found words and escaped him.

  ‘Your brother seems to think that I still am.’

  A nurse quickly learns that a fast tongue is the best way out of trouble.

  It brought a real grin. ‘Andy hasn’t changed, then. Of course you are – but inside, you are as lost and empty as I am. Aren’t you?’

  Mary hesitated. Then nodded. ‘How do you know?’

  The slow smile started in his eyes, and spread to the pale face.

  ‘Because I was there too,’ he said. ‘In hospital. Just like you.’

  Jonathon Bradley threw his doctor’s bag into the small black car. Diabetes: he had known it from the first whiff of the man’s apple-sweet breath. But how could you persuade a wife who had looked after him for nearly fifty years to change the cooking habits of a lifetime? And where would fisherfolk who were too old for the sea get the money to buy the fresh vegetables and fruit he needed?

  The worst thing about being a doctor was when you knew what was wrong, but couldn’t cure it. Could only wait for the later symptoms to come marching in, as a life wound down. One day, maybe, chemists would find a pill or an injection which fought this killer of the old. By then, it would be too late for Donnie.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ he mumbled, then glanced up.

  His face brightened. ‘Aggie!’ he called over. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She turned slowly, the young child clutching her hand. He saw her frown disappear, and watched a smile break out over a face that had been locked into lines of worry. ‘Jonathon!’ she said. ‘So who are you killing now?’

  He laughed outright. Aggie could always lift him from his cares. They had been friends from school, two kids from the opposite ends of the town. In her ready wit he had found someone who compensated his more sombre moods. Friends, long after their paths diverged, when he went on to study medicine, and she went off with the rest of the itinerant young women to work as a gutter quine. Following the herring shoals, from May to December.

  ‘Most folk here treat me with respect,’ he protested.

  ‘Aye. But I know you too well for that.’

  She came over, her brown eyes dancing. ‘That’s a fair stomach you are putting on, Jonathon. Are you stealing food from the poor as well?’

  He grimaced. ‘Most of them don’t have the money to pay for my calls. So they pay me in garden vegetables instead.’

  ‘And you hand most of it back,’ she said. ‘I know. The whole town knows.’

  ‘Well, there’s a limit to the number of carrots a man can eat.’

  They stood, silent for the moment, enjoying each other’s presence.

  ‘Want a lift back home?’ he asked. It was a fair way back to Buckpool, down on the west of the town.

  Before his mother could answer, the four-year-old was inside the car.

  ‘The wee devil!’ Aggie exclaimed. ‘He’s mad on cars and horses.’

  ‘So was I, at his age.’

  ‘Get away! They hadn’t invented the wheel, when you were a loon. Let alone a car to run on them.’

  ‘Remember, if I’m that old, I was in the same class at school as you,’ he countered. ‘Getting belted by the same teachers.’

  ‘I never got belted,’ she smiled.

  ‘That’s because I always took the blame, for you.’

  ‘You never did!’

  ‘I did so,’ he lied shamelessly. ‘And the memory of it should be keeping you sleepless at night.’ He cursed himself, as the laughter died in her face.

  ‘Sleepless? Aye, I get plenty of that,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Aggie. I’m so sorry.’

  She waved a hand. ‘I’m as well climbing in,’ she said. ‘The wee fella will bring the place down, if I drag him out of here.’

  He went round and swung the starting handle, then came back to climb into the car. ‘Why were you walking, so far from home?’

  ‘Trying to solve a problem that has no solution.’

  ‘Want to talk it over?’ They had always shared their worries. Why change the habit of a lifetime? He eased out on the road and drove off, in no great hurry.

  Aggie stayed silent, then puffed out her cheeks. ‘I’ve been talking to Mary Cowie. She’s back from working down south in an army hospital.’

  ‘Is she? And?’

  ‘She wants me to go back on the fish with her. Following the herring, like we did in the past. Like me, she needs the money. And the only way to get money in a fishing town, is to work on the fish, if you’re a woman.’

  ‘It’s a hard life. Working out on the open quays. Staying in ramshackle huts.’

  ‘It brings in money. There’s no man to work for me now.’

  Her voice was flat; all feeling ironed out of it.

  ‘I heard,’ he said evenly. ‘And me saying “sorry” isn’t going to help. So are you going to go off with Mary and follow the herring?’

  ‘Don’t know. Because I’m a mother now. Gutter quines are all single lassies – you can’t go away for weeks on end when you’ve a family to look after. If I head off to Orkney, who will mind the bairn?’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘A bairn who has no father should be able to look up and see me when he needs me there. Not his grannie instead.’

  Jonathon understood her dilemma. Edging his dusty car round a narrow bend between the fishing cottages, he racked his brain for a solution that might help his old friend. But she was right: there was no work for a woman, other than acting as a housemaid or working on the fish. And nobody ran to housemaids in Buckie.

  ‘Something will turn up, Aggie,’ he encouraged.

  ‘If it does, it’s more likely to be a bill than a ten-shilling note.’

  Her voice was angry, bitter. Not the Aggie he remembered.

  He drew up outside Chrissie’s cottage. ‘I’ll keep my ears open,’ he promised, ‘and if I hear about anybody looking for a decent woman to keep their house …’

  She looked across at him. Sometimes, it seemed as if he came from a different world, where reality didn’t matter. Maybe life was like that, when you had money. The need to earn cash was gnawing away at her, worse than any hunger. It was that, or swallow her pride and live in penury, on others’ charity.

  ‘Somebody looking for a housekeeper, here in Buckie?’ she repeated with irony. ‘If there ever was, there would be a queue along the coast, from here to Cullen.’

  His face burned. ‘Aggie, let me try to help.’

  Impulsively she reached over, patting the hand that held the steering wheel.

  ‘You already have, Jonnie,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your concern. Now, Thomas, if you’re not out of this car when I count to three … One … two …’

  Jonathon watched them heading towards the cottage. Aggie and himself came from different cultures, from lowly sea town and posh new town. But she was his oldest friend, a
nd these differences didn’t matter a jot.

  He must find a way to help.

  He put his car into gear, and drove off in a cloud of smoke. In his mirror, he glimpsed the child wave after him. Sticking his arm out of the window, he waved back. Watching the road ahead, he didn’t see Aggie’s hand flutter in return.

  ‘Well, are you sure about this?’ demanded Mary.

  Aggie scrubbed her face with a restless hand. ‘I’m anything but sure. Only, what other choice have I got?’

  Mary squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘The Wee Man will be fine,’ she said. ‘If your mum could bring up a whole family on her own, she will manage Tommy.’

  ‘I need the money. But I feel so bad, going away for weeks at a time.’

  ‘If you don’t work, it will be even worse for him.’

  ‘I know,’ Aggie said wretchedly. ‘It’s just … it’s one thing leaving him with her for an hour, even an afternoon. But for a month, or six weeks at a time …’

  ‘I need to know, for sure. Before we agree the contract.’

  Aggie nodded irritably. ‘I’m being stupid. I haven’t slept for nights, but there’s no other choice. Let’s get it over with.’

  Mary pushed open the door from the quayside into the fish merchant’s shed, where the office was a cold partitioned space separated from an even colder storage area. Wooden fish boxes were stacked everywhere with Walker Bros stamped on them – although nobody had ever seen the brother. The local legend was that Gus Walker had bought them cheap, when another dealer went bankrupt down in Yarmouth. Why not? His name was on them. Well, sort of.

  She knocked on the half-open office door. Gus glanced up; tiny metal-rimmed spectacles balanced on a nose as long and sharp as a ship’s prow.

  ‘Mary Cowie!’ he exclaimed. ‘And Aggie Buchan too. Like the old days.’ He came over to shake their hands. ‘Are you wanting your old jobs back? Or have you just dropped in to buy some fish for the pot tonight?’

  Aggie wrinkled her nose. ‘Not if they smell like this,’ she said.

  Gus grinned. ‘That’s the boxes you’re smelling,’ he said. ‘But it’s barrels we’ll be needing, for Orkney and Shetland. I’m bribing skippers to carry up both them and my gutting quines. All payment cancelled, if they lose the barrels.’

  The same old Gus, with a heart of gold behind an outrageous tongue. Mary smiled. ‘Have you any work for a couple of experienced quines?’

  Gus pursed his lips. ‘More elderly than experienced,’ he judged. ‘If you were horses, I would be asking to see your teeth.’

  ‘The last man that tried went home on a stretcher,’ Aggie said darkly.

  ‘And deserved to,’ Gus laughed. ‘You need to ask me about work, as if it was a favour? Two of my best quines ever?’

  ‘We heard a rumour that times were bad. Poor catches,’ Mary said.

  ‘It’s more than a rumour, it’s the truth,’ Gus sighed. ‘Since the war, the Russians and the Germans have been catching their own herring. That’s lost us our biggest market. Now the Stornoway boys are saying that the spring west-coast fishing is poor again, like last year. Sure, I’m using fewer teams – but a lot of the young lassies got a taste for the towns in the war, and never came back. I’m two teams short. Your jobs are there, if you want them. Have you a packer yet?’

  ‘We’ve asked around. But everybody’s fixed up with teams. We wondered if you knew somebody …’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do. A niece of mine, Elsie Farquhar. Just a slip of a girl, but a hard worker. I’ve been wanting to put her with a couple of experienced lassies like yourselves, to take her under their wing.’

  ‘Does she have a long back?’ Aggie asked.

  Gus grinned. ‘She can reach the bottom of a barrel,’ he promised.

  Mary glanced at Aggie, got a fractional nod.

  ‘Then it’s a deal,’ she said. ‘Usual rates?’

  ‘Paid at the end of each fishing.’ Gus held out his hand. ‘I’ve known you and your families since you were school lassies,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after you, like I did before. Make sure you have a decent bed, and food. Handle any problems.’

  Mary shook his hand, then Aggie. The traditional unwritten contract, which neither party would ever dream of breaking. That handshake was the bond that tied the three of them until the season finished down in Yarmouth or Lowestoft in distant December, when the herrings would freeze to their fingers.

  ‘Right,’ Gus said briskly. ‘The local boys are leaving for Orkney tomorrow morning. I want you packed and here, for quarter to five. They’ll take you up to Papa Stronsay, where I was short a team. That gives me a couple of days to find some other quines.’

  ‘The daft ones are all spoken for,’ warned Aggie.

  He laughed, escorting them out, and patting Aggie’s shoulder. ‘Just like old times,’ he said again. ‘There will be plenty local lads, to keep an eye on you.’

  It was another north east tradition that fishing families asked local fishermen to ‘keep an eye on their quines’ when half the town was living in a foreign port. The Orkney Islands and Shetland in June and early July, then sliding down with the shoals to Peterhead and Aberdeen in July and August. Down through Eyemouth in the late autumn, and further down to canny Shields and Yarmouth for November and December. With only a few days’ leave at home between the fishings.

  Outside again, the wind from the sea gusted over the bare quayside. Aggie shivered. ‘We’ll soon be standing out in that,’ she muttered. ‘And neither of us are as hardy as we were.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Mary. ‘I’ve a few shillings left. Let me treat you to a cup of tea and a scone in the hotel.’ She grimaced. ‘After tomorrow, the way we’ll smell of herring, nobody will let us in.’

  They entered the hotel, and asked for tea and cakes.

  When the tea was poured, Mary held out her cup towards Aggie. The older woman hesitated, then raised her own cup too. They gently clinked the rims together. ‘Here’s to us,’ said Mary. ‘A new start, all round.’

  Into her mind there flashed the image of a broken man hiding out on a pile of nets, because he was afraid to go home. A man jumping at shadows still. Another lost soul, come back to his roots to try and find himself again.

  She fought down an urge to raise her cup to him, as well.

  ‘A new start to us all,’ echoed Aggie. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  The old fisherman leaned on the harbour rail, puffing on his pipe. The last steam drifter had gone, her black smoke snatched by the wind and shredded in front of her, as she rose to the swell beyond the harbour. He had watched the scatter of local ships heading out, striking north. Watched until they were hull-down, below the horizon, each and every one of them.

  With all his heart, he wished he was aboard and working again.

  He took the pipe from his mouth, and spat expertly into the harbour below.

  ‘That’s a disgusting habit, Eric Findlay.’

  He turned slowly round and smiled at the woman, then winked at the boy who was holding her hand. ‘The spitting, or the smoking, Chrissie?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘Both of them.’

  ‘I was just getting rid of the taste in my mouth. The taste of growing old.’

  ‘And a bitter taste it is,’ she agreed. ‘But you’re as fit and healthy as most men half your age. You should still be skipper of the Endeavour. With your boys to do the heavy work for you, and pick your brains when they can’t find fish.’

  ‘I’m too slow now,’ he sighed. ‘I’d drive Andy mad. He’s always at the gallop, with his new ideas.’

  ‘He still hasn’t come near your own or Neil’s best catch of fish.’

  The old man pulled a face. ‘Less fish in the sea, these days.’

  ‘And less men to fish for them.’

  Eric Findlay nodded. ‘Has your Aggie gone then? Leaving the Wee Man tied to your apron strings?’

  ‘And wet with her tears.’

  Eric slowly fished in his trouser pocket for a silver thre
epenny bit. He held it up, made it disappear between two thick fingers. Then leaned forward and plucked it out of the child’s ear.

  ‘My, my! See what I’ve found!’ he exclaimed. ‘I wonder how many more of these you’ve got hidden down there.’

  Young fingers took the coin uncertainly. Felt it for solidity. It seemed fine, although it was clearly a magic coin. He itched to reach up and check his ear himself. But he hadn’t a hand to spare and, anyway, his mam was newly gone.

  Maybe she’d be back tomorrow. He sniffed.

  Chrissie put a comforting arm around him. ‘That war has a lot to answer for,’ she said bitterly. ‘Among the living as well as to the dead.’

  Eric nodded. ‘Aye. It’s finished off more people than it killed.’

  ‘Your Neil?’ she asked shrewdly, when he paused.

  Eric shrugged. In a fishertown, everybody’s business belonged to everybody else: there were no garden fences between families. A dozen neighbours had come round to tell him that his boy was back, before Neil showed up himself.

  He fought to keep his face expressionless. It wasn’t easy. It was the half light of dawn before the loon turned up. Not once had he met his father’s eye. Neil, his strong son, always the steady one. Now his shoulders slumped, his clothes were dusty – even dirty. A tramp in the making. He had ached to reach out and hug the lad, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he’d spat into the fire instead, and said: ‘You’ll be wanting your job back on the boat?’ Neil had stood silent, then answered: ‘I’m finished, Da, the war has done for me.’ And he had filled his pipe while he fought back tears, then said roughly: ‘You’ll be finished when I tell ye that you’re finished. Until then, you’ll be watching that boat for me, and keeping an eye on your harum-scarum brother.’ And had seen his reward, when the broad shoulders straightened.

  Nobody as good as his son had been could be totally destroyed.

  Or could he?

  A dusty black car drew up, with a squeal of brakes. It had barely stopped before the child squirmed inside. ‘Come out, ye wee devil!’ his grandmother exclaimed, embarrassed.

  ‘Leave him be,’ laughed Jonathon. ‘It’s a seat that he’s made his own already.’ He glanced up from the open window. ‘Eric, I spoke to my doctor friend down in Edinburgh, like you wanted. Can I see you on your own for a few minutes, when you have the time?’