A Handful of Ash

by Marsali Taylor

  It was I who was on test now, but Granny Bridget’s mother had followed the herring as a gutter girl. I cut the heads off, scraped the guts into the water, and gave Cat the tail ends to get him out of the way.

  We had grilled mackerel sprinkled with oatmeal for lunch, Cat too, and an apple each. I’d just thrown my core overboard when Gavin stretched his hand over to my arm. ‘Look.’

  A great bird had flown up from the cliffs of Little Bousta, and was coming towards us, filling the sky. The huge wings seemed too long for the body between, and the flight feathers were spread like fingers. It came closer, closer, on one long glide, gave two slow flaps of its wings then rose higher. Its underfeathers were speckled with white, but the sun turned the rest of its body to bronze and gleamed gold on the clenched claws. It was huge. I reckoned each of those clawed feet would be the size of my hand.

  ‘An erne,’ Gavin breathed. His eyes were like a child’s on Christmas morning.

  The sea eagle spread its wings to glide downwards, reached out those claws, and grabbed a fish from the water, then flapped upwards, the fish twisting in its grasp, and flew back to the cliffs. Gavin raised his binoculars to follow it. ‘Could it be nesting here?’

  I realised I’d been holding my breath. I let it out in a long rush. ‘I haven’t seen a nest mentioned in the paper, but there’s been one flying about these last weeks. A Norwegian one, they said, from the colours of the rings, not one of the Scottish releases.’ The last Shetland sea eagle had been shot over sixty years ago, in a deliberate act of extermination. Now man was trying to restore what he’d destroyed, in a reintroduction of young Norwegian eagles all up the Scottish east coast. In time, they’d make their way back to Shetland, and once more these magnificent birds would be common on our cliffs.

  Gavin passed me his binoculars. They were very good ones, I realised as I raised them to my eyes, the instrument of a serious nature-watcher. The bird had landed on a ledge of the cliff. I could see the yellow foot holding the fish, the hooked beak tearing the still-flapping creature. It lifted its head to look around as it ate.

  I handed the binoculars back. We looked at each other and smiled, and I was tempted to say yes to Christmas there and then. Except that I’d be a stranger, and if it didn’t work it would be too awkward, and would he expect me to sleep with him?

  I leaned over and released the jib, letting Khalida free again. We were in my sailing territory now. I’d grown up here; the red cliffs of Muckle Roe ahead on port, the green island of Vementry to starboard, were the gateway to my home waters.

  The sky had been clouding over through the morning. Now the sun slipped behind the clouds and the rain came back. Khalida heeled to the stronger wind until her lee side touched the water, and waves washed the cabin windows. Cat disappeared to wash his whiskers properly in the safety of my bunk. I rolled part of the jib away, and Khalida came upright once more. The raindrops pitter-pattered on the sails before we felt their touch on our faces and bare fingers. The white clouds darkened to grey, the water gathered on the white fibreglass deck and ran in the hollow along the gunwales. Gavin hauled on his green oilskin jacket. I’d been right about the bulge in the pocket; it was a green deerstalker that looked as if it might have belonged to his grandfather. There were several salmon flies stuck in the band. I felt positively modern in my scarlet Helly Hansen.

  By the time we reached Vementry, with the twenty-foot barrels of its World War I guns still projecting against the sky, visibility was down to half a mile, and Papa Stour behind us was lost in grey mist. It didn’t matter; I could see the heather hills of Muckle Roe, still tinged with purple, on our left, and the white water around the Coo’s Head rocks on our right. The entrance to Aith Voe was opening before us now, with the little cottage of Skeattelie half way up the hill. Another damp hour, solaced by drinking chocolate, and we were around the point, dodging the sea-serpent mussel floats which seemed to have doubled in the two months I’d been away. Home was Brae, up to the left; we turned down to the right and into the ‘white city’, the Brae name for Aith.

  The population of Aith was only three hundred people, but its central location on the west side had given it the junior high school, attended by all the west side teenagers, with the attendent leisure centre. Now the JHS was fighting for its survival against the council’s wish to centralise education – money again. It was the station for Shetland’s west lifeboat; the high orange flying bridge jutted up above its massive pier. The buildings behind it included the red-roofed leisure centre, with a swimming pool and hot showers (I hoped it would still be open when we arrived), three clusters of housing estates as well as single houses in their own gardens, the old school, now become a charity shop, the church, a garage, and the community shop, housed in the old knitwear factory. Magnie had assured me that the designers of that grey, rectangular box went on to create Sydney Opera House. I wasn’t sure I believed him.

  I checked the number in the Shetland Marinas Guide and called to book a berth. The number turned out to be one of Magnie’s cronies, and he was waiting for us: ‘Aye aye, Magnie said you’d be. Now mind there’s no starboard bow visible at the entrance, the salmon boys geed wi’ the top o’t. You can take the end berth on the seaward side. Just leave the gate open when you come up to the pairty.’

  The marina here was much smaller than the Brae one I’d lived in all summer, only thirty berths, but well sheltered, with the rock arm cradling the boats from northerly waves rolling down the voe, and the high wall of the leisure centre breaking the south wind. We lowered the sodden sails and covered them loosely, to be dried as soon as the weather would let us, then puttered between the two cans and into the visitor’s berth. Gavin stepped ashore with the lines as if he’d been doing it all his life. We secured her with a bow and stern rope and spring, then laid our jackets wet side out under the shelter of the cabin awning, and tumbled below into the cabin. Gavin took off his deerstalker and shook wet drops of hair out of his eyes. ‘Did you mention a swimming pool? Have we time?’

  It was just after half past four. ‘I reckon so,’ I agreed.

  I put out a saucer of mackerel for Cat, wedged his escape hatch open, and patted my bunk invitingly, stroking him when he jumped up and curled into a ball. He couldn’t come to the leisure centre, and I didn’t think he’d enjoy the party much either. We dragged our wet jackets on again, took our party clothes and dashed up the road, dodging puddles and slithering in the wet. The roadside grass was sodden, and the gutters were running with water.

  The leisure centre was impressive. Each junior high school had one built beside it, with a full-sized games hall, a fitness suite with enough black iron machines to stock any medieval torture chamber, and a swimming pool. This one was slightly shorter than the Brae one I’d used in the summer, three lengths to 50 m, and had a toddler pool and deep hot tub (with waterfall) beside it. There were pots of palm trees and tables for anxious parents to sit at, and a poster-colours mural of fish and seaweed on the end wall. The warmth was blissful. I left Gavin going up and down in a serviceable crawl, and sat in the steam room for five minutes, revelling in the heat, then swam twenty lengths very fast, not looking in his direction. I was breathless by the time I hauled myself out.

  We were the only people in the pool, and I was grateful for Gavin’s tact. It would have been uncomfortable to have him in the steam room with me, or stopping to chat with only the transparent turquoise water between us, or to be under the shower side by side, when we were both wearing only swimming gear. That would have been more intimate than I was ready for.

  I supposed it was the party which made it so quiet, but I wasn’t sure of that. There were only a thousand people on the west side, not a lot to sustain a centre like this. It had to cost a packet to run. There was the heated pool, for a start, and the white-uniformed staff. I wondered what would happen to them if the school closed, taking away their main weekday customers. Budgeting was all very well, but in a little place like Aith the school and leisure centre wo
uld be the principal employers, not just of teachers and gymnasts, but also of the folk who made ends meet by cleaning for a couple of hours a night. For a job like that, if you had to go to Lerwick to do it, you’d spend your pay in petrol. This little township, with its new housing estate and trim hall and well-stocked shop, wouldn’t thrive without its school.

  I gave my hair a thorough wash in the Shetland Soap Company’s best heather-smelling shampoo to get the smell of chlorine out, wuppled it in a towel, and headed into changing room. There were had hair dryers, fuelled by 20p pieces, and a mirror. After drying my hair, I wriggled myself into my only dress, a black and flowered affair of a material Maman called ‘georgette’ which clung to my waist and swirled around my ankles. The strappy heeled sandals weren’t going on till the very last minute, and I’d splashed out £1.50 on a pair of tights, instead of Maman’s no doubt very feminine but horribly uncomfortable stockings and suspenders. I wasn’t going to even think which Gavin would prefer.

  She’d also insisted on leaving what she called ‘maquillage essentiel’ with me. I tipped the little pouch open and surveyed the contents. Foundation. I already had a healthy outdoor glow, as much wind burn as sun tan, which let me off the blusher as well. A fine guy I’d look with candy pink spots on my cheeks. I dabbed the brush in the powder, tapped it off as she’d shown me, and swirled it over my freckles. It didn’t make any difference to them. The little palette of colours was more daunting. I went for the greys she’d used, and managed to add mascara without stabbing myself in the eye. I finished off with lipstick. I wasn’t sure any of it was an improvement, and the bullet-straight scar across my cheek was as visible as ever, but at least Gavin would know I’d tried.

  He was waiting in the foyer when I came out. I was glad I’d dressed up, for he looked magnificent in his scarlet kilt. He was wearing a long-haired sporran, in place of his plain leather one, and a black jacket with a double row of square silver buttons. The one at the top was different, round, and slightly larger. He saw me looking, and touched it. ‘It’s our house heirloom, given to my grandfather’s great-grandfather’s great-grandfather by Bonnie Prince Charlie himself. I’ll tell you the story later.’ He offered me his arm. ‘Where’s your party?’

  Chapter Eleven

  The Hall was a large building, harled with white chips, and with picture windows in a side extension. Inside, there was cheerful green wallpaper, set off by wooden skirting and halfway trim, and the original wooden ceiling. The photos in the foyer showed it was well used: the Girls’ Brigade in a smiling row, a team of carpet bowlers, tables of five-hundred players intent on the cards in their hands, a birthday party, and the top table of a wedding, with silver hearts strung across the back of the stage, and the bride and groom smiling in the middle.

  The Hallowe’en and Christmas Party of each village were run by a committee of volunteers, drawn from the parents of children who’d be coming. Aith, Magnie told me, had four sets of parents each year, two who had done it before, and two rookies. A fiendishly thick book with instructions, bills, and ideas from previous years was handed over, and the parents were left to get on with it, supported by their entire family rallying round to help.

  Preparations were in full swing. There was the chink of plates and chatter of cheerful voices from the kitchen, and the smell of sausage rolls. Chairs were set out round the perimeter of the hall, and the walls were festooned with black and orange paper chains and cut-out pumpkins. A waist-high devil, complete with pitchfork, was chasing an equally small vampire and up and down the middle of the hall. A man in a knitted toorie cap and grey padded jacket was erecting a keyboard on the green-curtained stage, and a woman in a black eighteenth-century gown, hoop and all, was putting up posters for the corners game: a spook, a skull, a witch, a cat. Up in the rafters hung a badminton net filled with black and orange balloons. Memory rushed back: the balloons falling at the end of the party, and older bairns stamping them in a fusilade of bangs, while the younger ones rushed to rescue as many as they could. I’d been among the stampers, enjoying the balloons expanding to one side until at last I got that satisfying bang.

  A young man with dark hair was halfway up a stepladder pinning up an adult-sized skeleton on one side of the proscenium arch. I recognised him, Lawrence Ratter. He worked at the college, on the practical side, something to do with grading fish. If I hadn’t known he was a dyed-in-the-wool Shetlander, I’d have guessed he was Scots. He had high cheekbones and that taking-life-earnestly mouth. His flyaway eyebrows were dark over clear blue eyes, and his fine, dark hair flopped from a side parting. There was something imaginative about the cast of his face, as if he was meant to be a writer or a painter rather than a scientist. He wore an ironed white shirt, black trousers, and real shoes. If we’d not been at a party, I’d have guessed he was on his way to a funeral.

  That old-fashioned look fitted in with what I’d learned about him from the chats we’d had in passing. He’d come and spoken to me a few times, asking about how I was getting on, and sliding the talk to voyages I’d done. He had an odd way of giving me advice about how to tie up the boat properly for a gale from a particular quarter, as if he couldn’t quite believe that a woman could really do anything by herself. I could take it in passing, but if I’d been his wife I’d have thrown china at him until he gave it up.

  Lawrence fixed his skeleton, then came down from his step-ladder and up to us. ‘Aye aye, Cass. Thanks for coming.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I said, and introduced Gavin.

  Lawrence nodded. ‘I’m already met the inspector, It’s fine to see you here.’ His voice was pure Burra. ‘Did you come round wi’ the yacht? Fine day for it – until the rain came over.’

  I nodded. ‘Grand. We were in the Rona when the rain set in, so we’d had the best o’ the day.’

  ‘Come you and have a cup o’ tay, to warm up.’

  My stomach liked the idea of a ‘chittery bite’ after the swim. I ignored it. ‘I won’t disturb the folk in the kitchen. I just wanted to check on what we have to do.’

  ‘You need Janette for that, me sister. I’m just helping out.’ Ah. If for some reason your man was elsewhere, then you took along a brother or cousin in his place, to help with the men’s tasks: setting out chairs and tables, hanging decorations, and serving drink. Either Janette’s man was at sea, or they’d split up. The divorce rate in Shetland was probably lower than down south, but I was still cautious about asking after anyone’s partner. It was easy to put your foot in it.

  He motioned us into the peerie hall, the side wing of the main room. It was set up with long tables around the edge, each labelled: Nursery – Primary 1-3 – Primary 4&5, with help – Primary 4&5 without help – Primary 5-7, with help – Primary 5-7, without help – Secondary. There were already a few pumpkin lanterns set on the tables, emergency-sail orange, with grinning teeth and slanted eyes. Lawrence gave them a dour look. ‘Janette’s man’s away, so I said I’d step in. I dinna hold wi’ encouraging all this witchy gear. It’s gettin worse and worse – do you mind, now, when we were bairns, you dressed as all sorts of things, no just vampires and dat. An the neepie lanterns were all sorts too, no just devil faces.’

  ‘I made a UFO,’ I reminisced, ‘with the apple peeler to cut holes all round it, then I put the round bits on cocktail sticks, and painted it neon colours.’

  Gavin nodded. ‘I made a stag’s head with a particularly long turnip, and branches for antlers. I was very pleased with it.’

  ‘Ye,’ Lawrence agreed, ‘and I did a Cheshire cat one year, wi’ the grin. None o’ this witchy nonsense.’

  ‘And it was turnips, too,’ I said, ‘not pumpkins.’ I’d never seen a pumpkin in Britain when I was young, only on market stalls in France in the October holidays. It had been turnips that we’d carved. Dad had scooped the inside out with his clasp knife and a spoon, then I’d carved the face and borrowed the augur from his toolkit to bore the holes for the string handle. I’d choose my costume from a book Maman had, Jan
e Asher’s Fancy Dress – I could see the cover of it clear as print in my memory – and then we’d go into Home Furnishing in Lerwick to get the material, and Maman’d make it for me, bringing out her electric sewing maching from the hoover cupboard, and getting me to stand still while she pinned, then sewed, the way her own mother had made her clothes, as a girl on a farm near Poitiers. I’d won several boxes of sweeties which I’d taken home to share with Inga and Martin before Advent arrived, and sweets were banned. Maman had been very fussy about sweets: ‘Ils sont mauvais pour les dents.’ It must have worked, because I’d had neither fillings nor a brace, unlike poor Inga, who’d suffered a mouthful of metal all through secondary.

  The kitchen seemed full of people. It was a sizeable room, with a stainless steel table down the middle. There was a rank of fridges and freezers along the wall side, and a door leading to backstage; on the other side, below the windows, were a commercial-size gas cooker and a dish-washer like a stainless steel box. There was an assembly line of women around the table, their party dresses protected by pinnies. I could recognise the sandwich fillings at a glance: egg mayonnaise, tuna mayonnaise, cheese and pickle, corned beef and brown sauce. At the far end, a woman with a dark bun was taking a tray of sausage rolls out of one oven, and replacing them with pizza squares. When she lifted her head I recognised Rachel Halcrow. What, I wondered, what she was doing so far out of Scalloway? Three teenage girls dressed as witches were emptying packets of sweets into a cauldron. The work surfaces at the door were covered with filled trays of fancies: cake, chocolate squares, and angel cakes mixed with Hallowe’en specials shaped like spooks, cobwebs, or pumpkins, and iced accordingly. My stomach rumbled in anticipation.

  ‘Janette,’ Lawrence said. A younger woman with brown hair pulled back in a pony tail looked around from scooping egg onto buttered bread slices. ‘This is Cass and Gavin.’