by Millie Vigor
‘Robbie should be home in a little while. I’m going to sit up there,’ she pointed to the hill, ‘and look for him.’
‘Do you not have a piece of knitting to do?’ asked Mina.
‘No,’ said Catherine, ‘I don’t knit and don’t want to learn.’
Jannie was just stepping out of her house when Catherine drew near; she stopped when she saw Catherine. Knitting in hand, she pulled at the ball of wool lying in the pocket of her apron, then without a word turned and went back inside.
What have I done now? Oh, I know, I wasn’t up at the crack of dawn, so I made Robbie late for work. It has to be my fault, of course.
Reaching her perch Catherine took in the day. It was June and the kind of day she would have taken for granted back home. But here it was definitely ‘a day between weathers’. The sun shone down out of an endlessly blue sky with never as much as a wisp of cloud to mar its face. The wind had died away which left the land unruffled and the sea calm. Catherine had never seen it in such a good mood since Robbie had first brought her home. Oh, there had been the odd day when the weather had promised to be kind, but as it often did it changed its mind and the wind whipped the sea till it was angry and the waves were high and white topped. She had seen the ocean rage and she’d seen it rough. She’d worried when Robbie had gone out when it heaved and rolled into peaks and troughs and appeared to swallow boats much bigger than his, but he had always come home to smile and say, ‘You don’t need to worry, lass.’
He’d taken a rod and line with him today and had said that when he had slipped the pots he would fish and bring home a fine fat one for their dinner. She looked at the watch on her wrist and counted the hours since he’d left. He’d been gone a long time and he’d said he wouldn’t, but maybe he’d been delayed at the town. She put a hand to her forehead, shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun on the sea and scanned its surface. Nothing … there was nothing but a few gulls circling over its broad expanse.
A frown creased her forehead. Even though he was late he should be in sight, for she could see a long way up the coast. Again she searched the ocean for sight of him but there was nothing, not even the smallest boat in that flat blue stretch of water. She was beginning to worry now.
Voices drifted up to her from below, and looking down she saw that Jannie had come out to join her sisters. Skinny black-clad legs ending in feet encased in sensible shoes stuck out from under her floral wrapround overall. It was what she wore every day, and apart from the coat and hat she had worn to the chapel Catherine had never seen her in anything else. Even in a crowd Jannie would be unmistakable, whereas the aunts in their black skirts and grey shawls reminded her of nothing else but the hooded crows that sat on fence posts and cawed.
The aunts were fussing about the chickens, making clucking noises and throwing down scraps while they gossiped, Jannie’s fingers were as always flying over the wool and needles in her hands.
A rattle of stones on the track made Catherine turn her head to look. She wasn’t surprised to see that it was Billie flying down it on his rackety old bike. His feet were stuck out at an angle, his coat tails flying, and she was afraid he was going to have an accident. But then his feet found and controlled the madly circling pedals, his hands pulled up the brakes, he skidded to a stop and laid the bike down on its side only a short distance from the three old women. She watched as he spoke to them, waving his arms about as he did so. The women looked at him, huddled together and leaned towards him, as if eager to hear what news he had to impart.
Sitting on a mossy patch, the sun warm on her back, Catherine smiled. She could imagine the excitement with which they would listen to any piece of gossip Billie was bringing; and gossip it would be for what else was there to tell? Although they treated her with such disdain she felt sorry for them, sorry for the apparent unending monotony of their lives, sorry for the perpetual round of cooking, cleaning and knitting, always the knitting, the day-to-day routine that seemed incapable of change. She was never going to let her life become as theirs.
Then they were falling apart, throwing up their hands and the screech and wail of them carried up to her. What was that all about? They came together again, clutched and clung to each other while poor Billie just stood and watched. Kay came out of her house to see what all the noise was about.
Gradually, the weeping and wailing subsided. When it had the women drew a little apart and turned their faces up to look at Catherine. In spite of the warmth of the day a chill ran down her spine and she shivered. Lowering her head she began to pleat the hem of her cotton skirt between her fingers. ‘Don’t look at them, don’t look at them,’ she whispered, ‘it’s nothing to do with you. Robbie’ll be home soon; he’ll tell you what it’s all about.’
But then the wailing began again and she lifted her head to look. Mina and Laura had wrapped their arms round one another. Jannie sat on an upturned pail, clutched her face and rocked back and forth. Kay was wringing her hands. Billie was climbing the hill towards her;
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘You’ll have to come,’ he called. ‘You’re needed.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘They’ll tell you,’ Billie replied as he turned away.
Down the hillside they went, Billie always a bit in front of her. It was no use trying to talk, she needed her wits about her not to slip on the dry wiry grass. When they reached the yard in front of the house and Billie’s boots clattered on the stones Jannie leapt up, seized Catherine by the arms, shook her violently and cried, ‘I kenned fine it was an ill day you walked through my door.’
Shocked at Jannie’s blotched and tear-stained face Catherine cried, ‘Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it, is it Dad? What is it? Tell me.’ She pushed herself free of Jannie’s grasp, looked from one to the other of the women clustered round her. ‘Tell me what’s happened, please.’
Mina had covered her face with her hands; slowly she pulled them down her cheeks. ‘It’s Robbie … he’ll not be coming home,’ she moaned.
A great stillness filled Catherine, the calmness of disbelief. ‘Not … coming home … Why not?’ No one answered and all eyes except Billie’s, looked away from her. Why were they doing this to her? ‘He’s taken the catch to Lerwick, hasn’t he?’
Still no one answered. They were hiding something from her. She grabbed Billie by the arms, dug her fingers in till she could feel flesh through the stuff of his jacket. ‘Speak to me,’ she demanded. ‘You tell me.’ Billie leaned away from her, but continued to look her in the eye.
‘He … he …’ twisting up his arm he covered his mouth with his hand then, letting it fall said, with a sob, ‘he’s drowned, the sea took him.’
For long moments she held him, fingers flexing, biting into his arms, but still Billie held her gaze. Billie wouldn’t lie, not about something like this, would he? Would he? No, she wasn’t going to believe him.
‘No,’ she said at last, ‘how could it, look at it.’ Her voice was calm. She twisted him till he was facing the sea. ‘It’s peaceful, not angry. You’re wrong.’
‘I’m right … he was slippin’ pots,’ sobbed Billie.
Letting go of him Catherine covered her ears with her hands; an angry roaring sound filled them. ‘No, no, I don’t want to hear,’ she shouted, but through the roar she heard some of Billie’s words: ‘ropes … foot … overboard.’ She stared at him, her face twisting and twitching. ‘Noooh,’ she screamed and slapped his face right and left. ‘You lie. I don’t believe you, I don’t believe you.’
The women had been forgotten; now she turned to them. Perhaps they would tell her the truth. Her heart sank. Jannie sat on the bucket again, mouth open, eyes staring, hands rolling one over the other as she rocked slowly back and forth. Laura hung her head and wept, but Mina looked back at her stony faced. Kay, her face stricken, reached out to her, but then mutely pulled back her hands.
None came to comfort her.
With a roar of g
rief and anger at their lack of compassion, Catherine screamed at them. ‘God blast all of you, you’re nothing but evil old witches.’ Then she ran, blindly, heart pounding, across the yard and the back green and away up the hill towards the cliff. Billie, afraid of what she might do, followed.
Sobbing, feet slipping, grabbing at the wiry stalks of heather Catherine climbed until at last she reached the fence that stood at the top of the cliff, a flimsy barrier between her and the water hundreds of feet below. She clutched at the fence, at the cruel barbs of the top wire.
Billie, seeing that she had stopped running and was standing still, sank down to watch and wait.
Catherine looked out to where sea met sky and the two blended into one, then brought back her gaze to the foot of the cliff. Looking down she watched as the water churned and ate the rocks, fell back then reached up to swallow them again. The sea was not to be trusted. It was greedy. The wicked sea had stolen Robbie when German bombers and U-boats had failed.
She had to believe it. Billie would never make up a story like that. Robbie was gone from her and she would never see him again. She gripped the wire so tightly that the barbs pressed into her tender flesh, but the pain was as nothing compared to the pain in her heart.
‘Noo,’ she moaned. ‘Noo,’ as a flood of tears filled her eyes. She lifted her head and from somewhere deep in her gut, a raw primordial cry arose, a howl, a desperate animal sound, torn from the black abyss of her sorrow, a primitive outpouring of grief, thrown to the four winds, on and on and on.
When it was spent, desolate, her spirit broken, she sank to earth, her face twisted into a grimace as she wept the pain of loss. Little by little her agony subsided; when it had she folded her arms about her and whimpered softly as the tears continued to flow.
Lying on the ground, Billie listened to her voice borne on the air, heard it taken up by the plaintive cry of gulls, the sigh of a breeze through dry stalks. He wanted to comfort her, knew it was not his place to do so, but her pain was his pain, and burying his face in his hands he wept too.
ELEVEN
THE SOUND OF knocking slowly filtered through the haze that filled Catherine’s head. She looked at her bedside clock; no, that couldn’t be right: ten o’clock, the sun streaming through the window and she lying on the bed, still dressed.
Then she remembered.
There was the knocking again and someone calling her name, it sounded like Billie. She got off the bed. ‘I’m coming,’ she called.
‘Mam sent me over,’ said Billie when she opened the door.
‘That was kind of her.’ Catherine put a hand to her head and realized that her hair was in a tangle. ‘Sorry, Billie, I haven’t combed it. You’d better come in.’
Billie watched as she stirred the fire. It was out.
‘What did your mother think I might need?’
‘Someone to talk to … ken … she knows … Jannie would’na … Mam said would you come and stay wi’ us for a while. She’ll look after you.’
Unbidden, Catherine’s eyes filled with tears. ‘That’s very kind of her, but there will be things to do here and I’d rather be on my own.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Billie. Catherine nodded. ‘I’d best be getting home then, but … you only have to ask. I’d do anything for you, Catherine.’
When Billie had gone away Catherine sat down and ran a hand across her forehead; her head throbbed. She felt empty, devoid of feeling. She was a knitted toy and someone had pulled out the stuffing. But Lumsden had given her some sleeping pills. ‘You may feel drowsy next day, but do take them, they will help,’ he had said. So she would blame him. He had told her they would manage till she was ready to come back to work, but considering the harshness of island life and the fact that she was now alone, didn’t she think it might be better if she went home? No, she had said, this was her home.
She had been through all that yesterday, but, ‘accept what you can’t change and work at what you can’ had been her mother’s motto and now it could be hers. She would have to face Jannie’s accusations and Mina’s acid remarks, but she would not let either of them get to her, would not shed tears in their presence, they could think what they liked, she would grieve in the privacy of her own home, and grieve she would, for even now tears filled her eyes. She dashed them away; she needed to wash and dress, for there would surely be more visitors.
The room was cold for the fire was still unlit. Listless and unmotivated Catherine was sitting by the table when Daa walked in. Grief, cold and stark lay on his face. He gathered her into his arms. She clung to him and drew strength from his quiet comfort.
‘Oh, lass, that this should come upon you and you so far from home. Whatever you want, you only have to ask. And never mind the old wives,’ he said, ‘they’ll be along to see you.’ He loosed her and looked down at her. ‘They’ll surely want to tell you what to do.’
He left her then and as he went out Kay came in.
‘Has Jannie been along yet?’ asked Kay.
‘No.’
One quick glance round the room told Kay that Catherine had done nothing. ‘Then we’d better light the fire,’ she said, ‘because she’ll be here.’
While Kay busied herself Catherine walked to the window and looked out. ‘The dinghy’s there, but where’s the boat?’ she said. ‘It should be home.’
‘Do you have enough milk?’ Kay’s voice was sharp.
Turning to look at her, Catherine said, ‘Of course I’ve got enough, Daa gave me some yesterday. But I want to know where the boat is.’
‘Jannie’ll be along later,’ said Kay, ‘and Mina and Laura will come with her. They’ll expect some tea; that’s why I asked if you had enough milk.’
‘What are they coming for?’
The fire was burning nicely. Kay set the kettle on the hob. ‘Come and sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought you some fresh bannocks; help me butter them, they’ll want something to go with the tea.’
Catherine sat down and, looking at her hands, began to trace the lines on her palm. Then with finger and thumb she took hold of the gold band she wore and began to turn it round. Round and round it went, round and round; there was no end to it, it went on for ever. Why then didn’t loving and being together go on for ever? She and Robbie had had so little time; why had it to end?
‘Catherine, my dear,’ said Kay, ‘I’m going to stay; you’ll need me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re going to have more visitors and there are plans to make.’
Catherine showed not the slightest hint of interest or care and Kay worried for her. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘you have to face up to this. I’m here to help.’
‘It’s all right, Kay. Lumsden gave me something to help me sleep; now my head feels fuzzy.’ Catherine got up and went to the window again. ‘But where’s the Deepdale Lass? I want to see the boat; it ought to be out in the bay.’
‘Oh, darling, I expect they took it away in case it upset you. We’ll have to ask Daa,’ said Kay. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find out where it is.’ Her tone was conciliatory, but knowing that Jannie Jameson would try to impose her will on the girl when it came to funeral arrangements her manner became brisk. ‘Now then,’ she said, ‘Jannie and the others will be here soon.’
‘Why? They never visit me.’
‘There are arrangements to be made. Can’t get away from it, so let’s get ready for the advance of the old wives.’
At that Catherine smiled. ‘All right then,’ she said.
The murmur of voices and the sound of feet on the flagstones outside the door announced the arrival of Jannie and her sisters a short time later.
‘Oh, you’re already here,’ said Jannie when she saw Kay.
‘I thought it would not be right to leave Catherine alone,’ said Kay. ‘Losing someone dear is hard to cope with, as I know only too well.’
‘Ay,’ said Jannie, ‘but we’re here now.’ Dismissing Kay with a nod she turned her attention to Catherine. ‘N
ow, lass, I’ll see to the funeral, you don’t need to give that any thought.’
No, thought Catherine, as the fuzz in her head began to clear, you’re not going to treat me like a child and push me into the background. ‘Would you please sit down, Mrs Jameson,’ she said, ‘and you Mina … Laura. Will you take tea?’ She took the teapot from Kay who had made tea when they heard the women coming in. ‘Kay has kindly brought me some bannocks.’
For a moment or two Jannie stood looking at Catherine, then she sat down. Catherine poured tea, asked if they took sugar and how much milk. When they had been served she turned to Jannie.
‘It is my husband who is to be buried,’ she said in a voice that was now calm and controlled, ‘and I think it is my duty to make the arrangements. It’s very kind of you to offer to do it for me, Mrs Jameson, but no thank you.’
The passage of teacups from table to mouth stopped abruptly. All eyes were fixed on Catherine, then Mina and Laura’s switched to Jannie. Jannie was looking at Catherine in astonishment. She put her teacup down, swallowed, and looked round the table at the others.
‘Well … well …’ she said, ‘I never—’
‘Can I say something?’ interrupted Kay.
‘If you must,’ said Jannie.
‘I’m sure Catherine wants to do right by Robbie.’ Standing by Catherine, Kay put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘But the rest of us know what happens at a Shetland funeral. She would probably welcome your help, Jannie, when she knows too.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Catherine. ‘How could it be different?’
‘Well, you would not be going to the kirk,’ said Mina.
‘Not to the church? You must be joking.’
‘No, it’s no joke, the women all bide at home,’ said Laura.
‘That can’t be true,’ said Catherine. ‘Surely you’re not telling me I can’t go to my own husband’s funeral?’
‘Ay, that’s right,’ said Jannie, ‘it’s the men that follow the coffin, we all bide at home to get the food and the drams ready for them when they come back.’