The Stories of William Sansom

by William Sansom

  *

  Those militant fanciers of cake, the navy and the nigger, had already confessed to an empty feeling in their tum-tums, and now stood at the head of a small queue forming far down in the ship outside the glass-doored dining-saloon. Inside the doors stewards stood, themselves a scattered queue, also waiting. No one moved. The clock only slowly wound the minutes forward across its marine and brass-bound face.

  Since no teas were then served, the young man had thankfully been able to guide his changeling to a port and lemon. They sat in the small bar, as far away as possible from the man in black. That was not far.

  The fat man, deep in Johnson’s tour of the Hebrides, with these in fact passing unseen through the dark bulwarks, had no wish to speak to them. But being there he spoiled the young man’s hopes of privacy, and so this one kept the steward behind the bar in conversation. Talk to impress his changeling, talk of two men together. On he talked. The steward only nodded.

  — Wouldn’t suit me, this job. I like to get going. How much do you pull in a week? Chicken-feed. Me, I’m the best man on the road. Give me a good line and I’ll sell it to anybody. Mind you it’s got to be a good line, you can’t sell a dud. Not even me, I can’t.

  He paused and looked round with wonder at himself to the steward. The steward gave him back a grim look. He went on quickly, now thumping the bar:

  — Know what I do? I take night trains. So I get there early. None of your nine o’clocks. Seven, that’s me. Like this I can go to my hotel and then I have a bath and then I change and then I’m there for my first call at ten minutes past nine. On the dot. And fresh. What’s that?

  Somewhere distantly in the ship a gong droned, approached and retreated and was lost. The steward sighed taciturn, seamanly relief. Looking hard at the young man he said:

  — That’s your dinner.

  *

  As the young man and the pleased girl rose, as the fat man reminded drew from his pocket still reading a bag of sandwiches, as those two motherly ones at the head of their queue victorious and satisfied swept through the glass door into the dining-saloon, as all over the ship others—the check-cap, and his brood, the old gentleman and his new old lady, the healthy cold girls purpling in their short pants and everyone else aboard who had paid eighteen shillings for this most enjoyable round trip—as everybody turned from their places to the companion-way and the blind bowels of the dining-saloon, so Eigg and Rum came magnificently at last into full view.

  And the ship, naked of sightseers, ploughed past them.

  Empty decks as empty as the great rock-mass of near Eigg, empty as the mineral cold sea, empty as the wide northern sky whistling forlorn over this part whose life showed no warm profusion and few things chose to live. On the long scarred face of grey Eigg a little grass grew. The wind-dried salt emptiness of those seas was not changed since the dragon-headed longboats ran through, since that desolate day when the raiding Macleods of Skye came in their fierce craft to board the island and light at the cave-mouth a suffocating fire that smothered to death all the women, children and men of Eigg driven there to shelter. Similar winds must have driven across in those days, similarly the mountains to either side must have loomed. And the faraway white sun must have shone its pale light on similar clouds scudding like wet canvas. All around, mountains and misted horizon and metal-green sea would have lain as empty in those days as now, as when that lonely steamship, the only moving thing in view, dogged its midget course past drama into greater drama. Gigantic mountainous Rum came to port—and at last the Cuillins topped in vertiginous cloud towered terribly to starboard.

  Yet no one saw. Even the gulls, questing open-eyed round, had swooped to the sea and were pecking the first plate-emptyings thrown out in the ship’s wake.

  The ship turned in past shark-curing Soay and entered more sheltered water, the sea-loch Scavaig. Dinner was finished and most of the passengers had come on deck again. A sharp new wind had risen that brought sudden whirls of spray spiralling like furious little waterspouts: these, coming from nowhere, bidden it seemed by an unseen presence, heightened the uneasy feeling of that strange precipitous place. They had entered into the first reaches of the dark Cuillins.

  So that now—whether from a certain uneasiness that hung in that place, or from a sense of satiety and arrival, or from a bewildering wonder as to what should happen next—now all those different ones stood about the decks and stared at the grey rock that surrounded them. The ship’s engines stopped. Then they started again: but churning backwards. One did not know quite what was happening. Yet all the time the ship slewed nearer the rock. And they had reached the end of the loch, they drifted dangerously in the small cove-like end which was no bigger in radius than some five lengths of the ship. Could one then control a ship so unwieldy in such short space? But the captain must know. And one saw that though not exactly a harbour, there was some sort of a stone jetty built out from low-lying rock. Could one then land here?

  Really, in all that sharp rock? But it was on the schedule to land.

  Already a motor launch had put off from the jetty and was spitting over the hundred yards or so to the ship. Yet how was one to get into that boat? So low down? There must be some difficult seamanship here—would not each passenger be involved? That father in the checked cap thought for a terrible moment: ‘Breeches-buoy?’ And thought: ‘Women and children.’ And thought of his wife swinging helpless and fat out in the cradle over horrible water.

  The iron sides of the ship invited sharp rock. One felt that a sound would echo for years round and round that hard place. If one shouted. Nobody shouted.

  And above, as though the cold and friendless near cliffs were not menacing enough a great dark jagged Cuillin blasphemed black against the highest sky. So they stood not knowing. And then perceptibly, having come up, there began a movement down. Soon all the passengers had sheeped onto the inside stairs and were standing queued and pressed on those steep steps inside. Brass-bound and embellished with the framed monochromes of life-belts and statistics of draught, those stairs led to where a door had been opened miraculously in the ship’s very side just above the waterline. Pressed together, not knowing what was coming but herded and willing, they waited.

  Somewhere up above, from the upper deck perhaps to that extraordinary door below, sailors were shouting to one another. There came a shuffling at the front of the queue—an oilskinned man from the launch had stepped up into the ship, he was making his way along to where a short fat bluff double-breasted officer stood. Together these two, talking closely, disappeared through a door into some most watertight-looking part. The people waited. They grew silent. There was no more to be said.

  Waited and waited. The ship rolled slightly. Nobody knew quite how near those rocks they were now.

  Then up above, quite suddenly, and for some reason that will never be known, one of the circling seagulls swooped into a wild ellipse and headed off. Low on the water it flew straight as a line back across the lonely miles to Mallaig.

  After waiting minutes, those who formed the last half of the queue gradually dispersed. Having no valuable precedence, being far up the staircase by the deck, they thinned and straggled up for air and to see.

  It had been promised in the itinerary that a landing would be made here at the end of the loch. For with a short walk inland one could really see the Cuillins, feel the Cuillins—and lying just out of sight was the inland Loch Coruisk, a still water closed in forever by frowning cliffs. This was reputed to be the most desolate and terrifying place in the British Isles. Something one should see. And now—to their surprise—those who climbed again on deck saw that in fact the launch was putting off again, empty but for one passenger, a rough-looking man in broadcloth. The ship still lay safely in the, centre of that cold claustrophobic cup of water. But now there was more commotion on the stairs, the people parted and climbing up came that great figure in black. Impassively he passed, gripping his book, and his stomach carried him off the staircase and straig
ht back to the bar. The cold-eyed young man, letting him pass, thought: ‘Well, that’s that’. For the whole twenty minutes he had been trying to persuade his changeling to stay behind in the empty ship. He had described in detail the trivial nature of a Loch Coruisk he had never seen. But the changeling allowed nothing to alter her mind. She liked nature. Especially in her new white mack.

  Yet a further commotion followed the fat man up the stairs. The whole queue had turned and now were slowly remounting the stairs, grumbling with surprise, laughing with surprise, unsurprised and silent. There was to be no landing—the water was too low from the level of the jetty. Last of all came those who had made certain to be first, the nigger and the navy caps—now for the moment undone.

  — And all this way too!

  — They ought to know. Telling us and then not.

  — I was never so surprised.

  — What I mean is they ought to know. The captain ought, really. What I mean is it’s his job. It’s his job, isn’t it, Cora?

  — I was never so surprised.

  But not for long. A few stairs higher, and it was all over. The future had to be looked to. Already the boat was moving homeward.

  — There, we’re moving! It won’t be long now.

  Already visions of home presented themselves. After the first dismay, all minds had turned to thoughts of home. Watches were consulted. Ideas of the length of the homeward trip were exchanged. The father with the checked cap, eagerly always pacing the deck and admiring the mechanical prowess of the ship, had found again that old lady and gentleman:

  — We’ll be ashore by four o’clock! She’s making a pretty turn. Twelve knots, I’m reckoning. We’ve the wind behind us and all.

  The old gentleman made no reply. This was unfair, such a statement called for argument. So the checked cap repeated, intruding his chin:

  — Twelve knots, I said.

  The old gentleman nodded:

  — I expect you’re right. Yes. Twelve knots.

  So the other said:

  — Well. Well then could you tell me the time, the time it is now, the right time?

  — I’m afraid I haven’t a watch.

  — What about the missus?

  The old man turned and smiled. His eyes twinkled. The old lady pressed her chin into her fur, blushing, though her pale cheeks showed no colour.

  — She’s not my missus.

  He looked down twinkling at her small beaming face:

  — In fact—my dear—I don’t even know your name, do I?

  He turned back to the checked-cap man and said slowly, emphatically and softly, as though telling a story from a long time ago:

  — You see, this has been my lucky day.

  *

  So the ship went churning back past Soay and Rum and Eigg and distant Muck. The sun paled low, silvering the western waters, giving to all those islands lying Atlanticwards a romance of lost lands. Islands reaching out towards some place irrevocable, a place that only might have been, and now in a visionary moment at end of day shown somehow as a real possibility. Perhaps for the first time many of those people began to look at what was passing with moved hearts, with curious regret.

  They stood about the decks in groups, or sat sheltered on the long wooden seats to leeward by the funnel. They had fallen silent and their eyes were on the sea. The homeward journey rests the soul, nothing to be done but to arrive. A shorter journey—no danger of surprise, no new climates to assail.

  And in this very relaxation the senses may at last blossom. For the first time the journey is seen as it is, for the first time it is felt to be sliding away forever from grasp. Never again, nevermore. Evanescent as the water at the ship’s keel, the white ephemeral wake, water that marks the passage, white and wide, that melts and vanishes in personless flat green. A journey made, no more. Soon forgotten. Thus the deep iron sides of the ship sailed on relentless homewards—leaving behind the magic of the westering sun, flying on what felt a following wind, sailing ever faster home.

  Even that cold-eyed young man seemed to feel some of this melancholy beauty of a journey ending. He stood by the ship’s rail half hidden by the curved white prow of a life-boat, his changeling tucked in his arm. He never tried to kiss her. His eyes rested, a shade softer, on the horizon and the last of those great receding island shapes. He had planned, complacently, to make no kiss until they were ashore. He had told himself that by holding off he would impress her with trust of himself—and provoke her at the same time with a wish to entice him. This decided, he could relax the better, he could give himself to the scene.

  But the man in black still sat in the bar. He read on with comfort and seclusion of the Doctor’s journey two centuries before: within the square of his book it was warmer, more defined too, than the great and gusty outside.

  Gulls circled and swooped high round the wind-proud mast, swooped low to kiss the water—but among these too there were thoughts of home, some suddenly took off ahead of the ship and flew swiftly arcing to where now Mallaig began to show its colour and indeed its own white smoke of gulls.

  They drew in, the Pride of the Isles and her wool-wrapped passengers. Steam of gulls and smoke from the curing-sheds greeted them. The black iron touched the hard stone quay, great ropes flung out to the bollards and winches, small dock machines began to grind, the first burnt smell of kippering blew over all. So stationary things looked! Here the hotels and the houses and the long-legged sheds had stood all that while waiting, not moving up and down but settled and dry and, most of all, stationary. Suddenly it came over many how dull all these things were. Homely and welcoming—but dull, dull, dull.

  Yet as soon as they had set foot on the quay this feeling vanished. The solidity of the land claimed them, here it was safe and sound, one could relax here as—with on the calmest seas always some gentle motion—one can never relax on a boat.

  First ashore were those two matrons. Only pausing to rebutton once more their coats, to set homewards their scarves and the peaks of those two hat-caps, they set off at once along the quay. Their direction had been planned long before.

  — It was a lovely, lovely day.

  — It was worth every shilling we paid. But I shall be glad to be home.

  — A nice sit-down, Cora. A nice cup of tea.

  Soon after the mother and her brood came stumbling down the gangway, clotted together like one large animal disturbed in the unloading process. Behind, with the nonchalance of a drover, came the father. He kept a wary eye on the mechanisms of landing—on hawsers, bollards, gangway and all practical arrangements. That eye never questioned ‘why’ a thing was—but always ‘how’ is it done? Then he took a last look up at the ship and was gone.

  The man in black, staggering a little from weight or alcohol, hurried at speed down the gangway, carried as always by his own great momentum. He took no last backward glance. He carried it in his hand, in the little black book.

  The old gentleman and the lady were among the last to leave, they had lingered as long as possible. Now they too came slowly, unsurely down that difficult slope. At the bottom the old gentleman turned, and with courtesy handed his new lady off. His eyes were watering in the cold, his shoulders bent, he breathed harder from even this slight effort: together they turned and passed along the quay.

  Suddenly the changeling, who still stood at the deck-rail, started to wave. The young man by her side started. He had been waiting casually, feeling he had so much time, pleasurably possessive. But now that plastic white arm was pumping up and down, that face was smiling excited! She was looking somewhere down along the quay. He said quickly, eyes hard, lips thin:

  — Hello what’s this? What’s up?

  — It’s him! I thought he’d never come!

  — Him? Oo?

  — My boy.

  — Wassat you said?

  — My boy that I’m engaged with.

  — Christ.

  — I beg your pardon.

  — Nothing, oh nothing. Oh nuts. So
long.

  — But I wanted you to meet …?

  He was already at the gangway, dancing down with long stiff strides, his mackintosh belted tight and hard round him.

  Those two girls with the high shorts had their oil-cloth capes on, and these capes reaching just to the bottom of the shorts at the top of their blue legs gave them a look of naked pixies. Together they stooped by the door of a kippering hut. Inside, the little dark kippers hung above a fire of cinders spread over the floor. Each kipper looked like a small ebony god in a temple full of incense braziers. The girls giggled: then turned away. The young man eyed them, considering. But they simply turned, hands in pockets. And with heads bent trudged off down the quay. Heads bent, two together walking intent only on themselves, talking, walled-in and unassailable as young and pretty girls can surely be.

  Soon, when the sun set, the gulls themselves stopped circling. The white-streaked quays grew quiet. The gliding gulls had gone to roost, the people going … gone.

  Time and Place

  ROSE paused by a girl whom he found not at all attractive—and who was as plainly not interested in him—and said casually:

  — Seems to have cleared up. I’m going out for a walk.

  Indifferently, looking first at him and then across the hotel lounge to where a pale sun was now watering raindrops on the window, she nodded. It should keep fine for his walk.

  They were about the only ones left in the hotel. Several elderly people still sat quietly in corners—in the empty hotel it was a shock to come across them, suddenly in mirrors or nearly indistinguishable among large furniture and ornament—but these two were the only rather young people left. The others had decided on various excursions—a steamer to the mainland, a coach trip to the crofts on Bunessan and the blue clarity of Iona. On the previous night Rose and the girl had been introduced. After a few disinterested words they had each turned back to their friends. They had not, until now, exchanged another word. And now he suddenly said: