The Wind from the Sea

by Mark Neilson

  Dances were impromptu events, on Papa Stronsay. Fisher crews drifted up to the girls’ communal huts, bringing fiddles, maybe an accordion, or a simple mouth organ. Sooner or later, somebody would strike up, and the others join in – then the table and beds would be carried to the wooden walls of the hut, and the floor taken over for a dance and a ceilidh.

  ‘Probably,’ said Mary.

  ‘If you’re coming, I’m wearing clogs on my feet,’ warned Aggie.

  ‘I’m a fine dancer,’ Gus protested. ‘Always in demand.’

  ‘Stick to playing a comb wrapped in paper,’ Mary advised. ‘Leave the floor to us bright young things.’

  ‘What bright young things?’ Gus looked around. ‘Well, there’s Elsie, I suppose …’

  ‘I’m not dancing with you,’ she said. ‘I’m saving myself for younger men.’

  ‘I’ll tell your dad,’ he warned. Then his attention wandered. ‘Mhairi,’ he called over. ‘How’s the arm? Healing properly?’

  The young Highland gutter looked up from her work. ‘As good as new … see!’ and she waved it above her head. ‘Mary should set up as a seamstress – there’s scarcely any sign of the cut.’

  ‘That’s more than I can say about the hand you gripped,’ Gus replied. ‘You left me with three broken fingers.’

  ‘You’ve got seven left,’ said Aggie.

  ‘That’s sympathy for you,’ Gus mourned.

  He frowned, and settled down again on his barrel. ‘I came to speak to you both,’ he said, more quietly. ‘My quines will be moving down to Wick, with the boats. The fishing’s poor. I’m thinking of resting a couple of teams and sending them down to Aberdeen early. It would mean some extra time off.’

  Aggie turned quickly. ‘At home in Buckie?’

  ‘That’s right. Instead of one week between the fishings, you’d have maybe three. Depending on how the shoals move, and where the boats are finding them.’

  ‘I could spend more time with the bairn,’ Aggie muttered.

  ‘That’s what I thought. That’s why I wanted to speak to you first.’

  ‘It would suit me fine.’ Aggie turned to Mary. ‘How about you?’

  Mary hesitated. She herself was short of money. However, friendship was friendship. ‘I’m happy to stay at home for a bit,’ she said.

  ‘And you, Elsie?’ Aggie asked.

  The young packer was engulfed in a wave of homesickness. Already she had been away from Buckie for five weeks. Too long. She wanted home.

  ‘Suits me too,’ she said.

  ‘It’s unanimous.’ Aggie turned to Gus. ‘Thanks. We’ll do it.’

  ‘I’m too soft-hearted. It will be the death of me.’

  ‘We’ll give you a good funeral,’ Mary promised.

  The cooper came over. ‘Are you getting up from that barrel, or will I have to stamp you too?’ he demanded of his boss.

  ‘It would take more than a Crown stamp to cure him,’ Aggie said darkly.

  ‘Enough!’ cried Gus. ‘I’m away to practise my dancing.’

  ‘That will put the fish down, faster than thunder,’ Aggie sighed.

  *

  The glow of the ship’s lantern sparkled like diamonds on the wet deck. But the crew of the Endeavour were too fed up to appreciate it. Cleaning debris from the last few yards of the mile-and-a-half long net they had just hauled in with the steam winch, they were cursing steadily. Because the net was empty of herrings, and they would have to find another place and shoot the whole length again.

  Johnnie Cameron rubbed his stinging hands. ‘There’s only one thing worse than rope burns – and that’s jellyfish,’ he complained. There was a mutter of agreement from the other seven deckhands.

  Neil quietly coiled the last rope and its buoy, while the men watched Andy’s silhouette in the deckhouse windows. Waiting on the skipper’s call – what they did next, and where they steamed in their search for fish.

  ‘I’ll get some tea brewing,’ he said.

  The others scraped up the mess of jellyfish and seaweed, and shovelled the lot overboard into the black water. Herrings came to the surface in darkness, and the steam drifters were surface netters. So the men were used to working through the night. That didn’t mean to say they enjoyed it – least of all when there were no fish to show for five hours’ work. They knew without being told that the whole shift was about to be repeated. And might still bring about exactly the same result.

  Neil hesitated, then opened the deckhouse door.

  ‘I’m brewing tea. Want a mug?’ he asked.

  Andy stared moodily through black windows. ‘It’s the heat, and the thunder,’ he grumbled. ‘Drives the fish deep. Even if you’re drifting right over their shoals, they can swim below your nets and you’re none the wiser.’

  Neil closed the door and leaned against it. ‘The main shoals have gone east and south,’ he said. ‘We’re searching for the stragglers.’

  ‘Mmphm. Where would you try next?’ Andy asked suddenly.

  Neil was surprised: his brother must be at his wits’ end to seek help. He stepped inside, opened the well-used sea chart in the lantern light, and put a finger on the jumble of depth soundings.

  ‘We’re here?’ he said, as Andy nodded. ‘Like you, I think the fish are running deep. But look sou’-sou’-west. Two hours’ steaming away. There’s a rising shelf and a reef. That should drive them up in the water. I’d shoot my nets there, on this side of the reef, across the tide.’

  They studied the chart. ‘It might just work,’ said Andy. Being a skipper and expected to magic fish out of thin air was a burden more often than a pleasure. He straightened up. ‘Tell the boys they can get their heads down for an hour or so, till we reach the mark. And bring a mug of tea to the deckhouse.’

  ‘Right,’ said Neil. Ten minutes later, he brought back a steaming mug.

  ‘Thanks.’ Andy accepted it, yawning.

  ‘I’ll take the wheel. What course?’

  Andy hesitated. ‘Steady as she goes … sou’ by southwest,’ he said. ‘That’s allowing for the tide.’ He wedged himself in a corner, slurping hot tea. ‘We need a catch,’ he muttered. ‘The prices are good, but we need a decent haul to get the benefit. It’s been too up and down, this fishing … good one day, bad the next.’

  He yawned again. He had been on his feet for hours – and it would be many hours yet before he got his chance to catch up on sleep. A skipper’s life.

  ‘Why not get your head down, with the lads?’ suggested Neil. ‘I’ll take the watch, until we’re nearer the mark.’

  Andy frowned at him.

  ‘Haven’t had the shakes in days,’ said Neil.

  ‘You should be sleeping, with the rest of them.’

  ‘I’m better awake,’ Neil said quietly.

  ‘Nightmares?’

  Neil didn’t reply.

  Andy yawned again. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You have the wheel. I’ll grab an hour’s sleep. You’re doing fine,’ he said grudgingly. It was clear that the comment cost him dear. ‘A lot better than I thought. But nothing’s changed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect it to change.’

  Andy grunted and left the deckhouse.

  Neil checked the course, bringing the wheel a little to port. The boat rose easily to the slight swell. He sensed, rather than heard, the creaming of the water breaking round its bows and sliding past the deck. It came back to him, the feeling that he was part of the boat, as much a part as its deckhouse, or the steam winch, or the old McKie and Baxter engine which pounded steadily. He could feel its beat through the soles of his boots. As if he had rolled back time.

  The quiet noise surprised him. Then he pulled a face.

  For the first time in years, he had found the urge to whistle.

  Dawn comes early in the north. The crew waited, watching Neil coil the lead ropes for the net, as the steam winch chattered. The first sign that they were into fish was when gulls came swooping overhead and hovered, barely above the sea.

 
The winch slowed down, adjusting to its load. Padraig rubbed his hands: ‘If there’s stings, they’ll be worth it this time,’ he said.

  As the net came in, it drew the first herrings over the side. With practised ease, the men flicked the net to dislodge the enmeshed fish. Leaping bars of silver, they slid around the crews’ feet and slipped down into the main bunker in the hold.

  The air around them was suddenly full of seagulls, wheeling and swooping, taking suicidal risks. It is a miracle how an empty stretch of sea, its sky broken by only a handful of gulls following the boat, can suddenly become a blizzard of white.

  The weight of the half-full net drew the port side of the vessel low, and green water from the waves sluiced along the slanting deck boards. The men never noticed: in these northern waters, it usually did. You learned fast to stick like a limpet to the deck. Swaying against the boat’s movement became such second nature that, after time at sea, it was dry land that moved beneath your feet.

  There was little talk, just steady concentration on freeing the fish and stacking the heavy wet net – back-breaking work if you weren’t hardened to it. As he bent over, stacking the net and its ropes, Neil felt a light punch on his arm.

  He looked up. It was Andy, passing down the line of busy men.

  Neil smiled, and settled to his work again.

  The eightsome reel was going great guns, with laughter filling the wooden hut. The band – two accordions and three fiddles – were red-faced and perspiring. If this was their seasonal goodbye to Papa Stronsay, they were determined to finish on a high.

  Mary stopped, panting, glad to have somehow survived Andy’s last spin – wild enough to launch her into the harbour, if she missed her footing. He stood across from her, chest heaving, a devil-may-care sparkle in his eyes and his dark hair a-tumble over his brow. Elsie was right, she thought: he was a good-looking figure of a man, vital and confident.

  ‘I’ll have the next dance too,’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m already promised,’ she lied.

  ‘Then break your promise.’

  ‘To my boss?’

  ‘Then give me the next dance after that.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she replied.

  The couples broke up, and headed back to their own groups, while the band gulped down their mugs of tea – no drink was allowed inside the hut. Mary saw Aggie coming towards her, real colour in her face.

  ‘You’ve left your clogs at home,’ she teased.

  ‘I can run away faster from Gus without them.’

  They slumped into wooden chairs, glad to catch their breath.

  ‘You look great,’ Mary said quietly. ‘Just how you used to look.’

  Aggie flushed. ‘It must be the light – or the lack of it.’

  Or the thought of going home, to see Tommy again, Mary guessed. She dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. ‘I don’t have another dance left in me,’ she mourned. ‘I’m out of practice.’

  ‘That Andy – he’s been chasing you all night. Elsie’s fair jealous.’

  ‘He can dance. He’s light on his feet, and he leads well,’ Mary admitted. She dabbed her face again. ‘But I’ve had enough.’

  The band confabbed, found another reel they could all play, then set their mugs aside and struck up again. Through the rush of men heading forward, Mary glimpsed Gus’s determined face.

  ‘My lie has caught up with me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m nipping out for a breath of fresh air.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Aggie asked, as Gus closed in. ‘Give me five minutes,’ she pleaded. ‘Let me get my clogs on.’

  ‘No need,’ he said. ‘My mother was a Highland dance champion.’

  ‘Aye, but your father was a coalman,’ Aggie sighed.

  Outside, the long summer evening was beautifully still. Mary drew in deep breaths of fresh island air, smelling of the sea, and seaweed. There was no urge to dance left in her: just a wish to savour the coolness and quiet. The sun was low in the sky – it barely went below the horizon at this time of year. She strolled down to the harbour, to watch it setting from there.

  Away from the din of the dance, there was only the call of the seagulls and the gentle slap of ropes against masts from the boats moored in the harbour. She strolled past the scrubbed gutting tables, down to the edge of the quay.

  A solitary figure hunched there. A man, absorbed in his work. Sitting on a rusting bollard, bent over something on his lap. A sheet of paper. As she quietly approached him, she saw there was a pencil in his hand, and he was sketching.

  ‘Neil!’ she exclaimed.

  He looked up, with eyes that didn’t see her.

  ‘How do you draw sunlight, sparkling on the water?’ he asked intensely. ‘In fact, how do you draw light at all?’ Then he blinked. A slow smile lit his sombre face, as he stood up and hid the papers he had been working on behind him.

  ‘Mary Cowie,’ he said quietly. ‘Wearing the sunset like a crown.’

  Mary felt her face redden. ‘What were you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he shrugged.

  ‘You were sketching,’ she said. ‘Can I see what you’ve drawn? Please?’

  ‘It’s rubbish. Beginner’s stuff.’

  ‘Let me judge that.’ She reached gently behind him, drawing out the papers he had been working on. A school exercise book. She opened it at random, in the light from the dying sun. Seagulls: standing, flying. Herring gulls, young gulls in immature plumage.

  ‘Why, these are beautiful,’ she said, turning the pages.

  Men’s faces, caught sleeping. A tangle of ropes and nets, drawing across the stern. Then a series of sketches of the harbour scene he had been working on. A rough outline of ships and quays: three separate attempts to sketch in waves and light. She could sense his growing exasperation.

  ‘Where did you learn to draw?’ she asked.

  ‘In the convalescent hospital. A doctor there got me started – he said it might help me to find my mind again.’

  ‘And has it?’

  His eyes looked directly into hers. Grey and green, like the sea, she thought.

  ‘Sometimes.’ He teased the book from her fingers. ‘I’ve never tried to draw light before. I don’t know where to start. You can’t just leave the reflected light as white bits in the water … that gives no sense of movement, of life. Maybe, if I bought a book on art, it would teach me how to draw – how to catch the light.’

  ‘You don’t need a book,’ she said. ‘What you’ve got already is something nobody could ever teach.’

  He shook his head. ‘Just outlines. A bit of shading. There has to be more to drawing than that.’ He glanced up. ‘Are you going on to Wick, with the others?’

  ‘No. Back to Buckie. Gus has enough teams in Wick. He’s giving us a couple of weeks off, then we’ll start again, down in Aberdeen.’

  He nodded. ‘We’re going to Buckie too. The boiler’s acting up, and Padraig says we need to get an engineer to help him put it right. Maybe Gus will send you down with us?’

  ‘If it saves him train fares, we’re as good as on your ship already,’ Mary declared.

  The small, muddy car drew alongside them, and its window slid down. ‘Well, “home is the sailor, home from the sea”,’ quoted Jonathon.

  ‘“And the hunter home from the hill”,’ Mary completed the quotation.

  ‘Jonathon!’ Aggie’s face lit up, as she swung the kitbag from her shoulder to the ground. ‘So you haven’t been struck off yet?’

  ‘No – but the Medical Council are getting closer,’ he smiled. Then turned to Mary: ‘So you know the Robert Louis Stevenson poem?’

  ‘I do,’ said Mary, grimly. It was one that she’d read many times, to the blind in the convalescent hospital. A favourite, with the power to silence and console men whose lives had been torn apart by the war.

  Jonathon’s sharp ear picked up the nuance. He waited, but she didn’t elaborate. ‘Where’s the young girl?’ he asked Aggie.

  ‘Elsie? She’ll be home
already.’

  ‘And you’re walking back to Nether Buckie?’

  ‘I feel more like running. I feel so bad about my bairn,’ Aggie said.

  ‘Hop in. I’ll drive you home. I’m out on my round of visits, and I’m passing through there anyway.’

  Mary squeezed into the back seat, wedged in by the kitbags that held the two girls’ belongings: they were shifting camp, like soldiers. She looked up to see the doctor’s blue eyes, smiling over his shoulder.

  ‘Has Gus done his usual trick, sending you down cheap, in one of the local fishing boats?’ he asked.

  ‘We came back in the Endeavour. They’re here for repairs,’ said Aggie. ‘All his other teams are in Wick. But we’re home for a fortnight, then off again to Aberdeen.’ She was itching to see her boy’s face, watch his surprise when she came in. Aberdeen was in the future: and she would worry about that later.

  ‘Endeavour? That’s the Findlays’ boat?’ asked Jonathon.

  ‘It is. Andy had his crew waiting on us, hand and foot.’

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ said Jonathon. ‘How’s Neil?’

  Mary waited. ‘Better, I think,’ she said, when Aggie didn’t reply. ‘Life at sea suits him. And he’s taken up drawing – he’s pretty good.’

  Jonathon grunted: someone in the convalescent hospital must have been up to date in his reading of medical journals, where rehabilitation was an emerging and experimental field.

  ‘How are you getting on yourself?’ Aggie asked. ‘Still living on carrots?’

  ‘Just about,’ he grinned ruefully. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been run off my feet. My best nurse has just left, to go south and marry a serviceman. I have one local girl, to cover the whole cottage hospital. We’re struggling to cope.’ He drew up, in a squeal of brakes. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘I shall waive my tip.’

  ‘You can wave goodbye to the fare, as well,’ said Aggie. She opened the car door, stepped out, then looked back. ‘I’m scared,’ she said in a small voice. ‘What if wee Tommy doesn’t recognize me?’

  ‘He will,’ Jonathon reassured. ‘Nobody else in town has a face like that …’

  Aggie laughed. ‘I’ll get even with you,’ she promised.

  Behind her, the cottage door opened. Chrissie, her mum, stood there: round her skirts a small face peeped. The boy’s eyes opened wide. Then he was hurtling down to leap at his mum, all arms and legs. Aggie caught him and swung him high, round and round at the full stretch of her arms. He squealed.