Back in Chrissie and Sorley Mor’s house, Rose and Sorley Og waited a moment as the giggling and protests continued. ‘Father,’ Sorley Og asked, sighing heavily, ‘are you up to some serious talk or would you like us to leave you alone?’
Chrissie jumped up and breathlessly went through the straightening routine Rose had come to know: smoothing her hair, making sure her pinny was over her knees, protesting that the man was always making a fool of himself and of her, that he had no shame.
‘Father, I’m thinking it’s time to give up the fishing,’ Sorley Og announced calmly.
There were no thunderclaps as Sorley Mor looked up. ‘Aye, well,’ the skipper said just as calmly, ‘that sounds like serious business right enough. Better wake Gannet and get him in here.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Chrissie said. ‘He’ll still have a bit in him, he’ll talk to us, and worse than that, he’ll sing at us!’
‘This is my house, woman,’ said Sorley Mor. ‘I’ll say who sits round my fireside.’ He tried to grab Chrissie again, but she body-swerved him.
‘It’s my house, Sorley Mor,’ she retorted. She held up a hand to stifle any argument. ‘Bought and paid for with my sweat over the years, bought and paid for by being sold into marriage with a MacEwan—’
‘A MacEwan? Sorely demanded. ‘A MacEwan? The MacEwan, woman, and don’t you forget it!’
‘—and I’ll lock that long streak in the porch—’
‘Conservatory!’
‘—if I have to.’
Sorley Mor proved to be considerably less under the influence than Chrissie had thought, and if he was even as surprised as Rose had been by his son’s decision, he didn’t show it.
‘It’s getting harder all the time since they cut the quotas again,’ he told his son solemnly. ‘I know that. I heard that Westering Home had to throw back about ninety-eight per cent of its catch the other day because they were immature haddock.’ He shook his head.
By law immature fish caught in the nets had to be thrown overboard, even though they were dead, and the fishermen’s protests that killing immature fish would lead to fewer mature fish to be caught in the future had fallen on deaf ears.
‘They sit there in their pinstripe suits and play chess with us, they always have. I used to leave on a Sunday and sometimes be back in harbour on a Thursday, the hold loaded to the gunnels. I came home because we couldn’t have carried any more. Now men with smaller boats are spending ten days at sea and, if they’re lucky, coming home with enough to cover costs. I know that, Sorley Og.’
‘And these days the lads have to ignore the weather and go to sea when every instinct tells them not to,’ said a voice in the porch.
‘Oh God, he’s awake,’ moaned Chrissie. ‘And he’s talking so he’s still drunk. Go back to sleep, Gannet, you’re having a dream.’
Gannet entered the room, stretching his long limbs, yawning, and, as Chrissie had predicted, talking.
‘Boats are going down and men lost because they have to go to sea in bad weather.’ He sat on the marble fire surround, shivering slightly from having just woken. ‘The problem is that we’re not farmers,’ he said. ‘Have I not always said that, Sorley Mor?’
‘You have indeed, Gannet,’ said Sorley Mor, ‘and right you were every time, too.’
‘There are no gentlemen fishermen sitting in that big pile down by the Thames,’ said Gannet, ‘braying like donkeys, but there are plenty of gentlemen farmers and landowners. That’s our trouble, we have no political muscle.’
‘You’re right, you’re right,’ nodded Sorley Mor. ‘There has never been a fisherman in any government. We’re too busy working.’
‘And fishermen have too much pride to become politicians,’ Gannet said firmly.
‘Look at the two of them,’ Chrissie said, ‘chests puffing out there fit to burst their shirt buttons.’
‘They get money for producing too much, money for not producing enough, money for not planting crops in their own fields when they can’t sell them anyway,’ Sorley Mor said.
‘Money for poisoning the food chain,’ Gannet added, ‘by feeding bits of other animals to grass-eating beasts. Just say you’re a farmer and that gives you a right to be one and be supported with public money, whether it’s economical or not; and damn the rest of us, steelworkers, shipbuilders, car-makers or fishermen.’
‘Aye, Gannet,’ said Sorley Mor, ‘you’ve never said a truer word. Farmers get all the money, while we get no respect and damned all consideration! Remember the women from Peterhead? They had to raise the money to bring their men home when the Sapphire sank after that Blair fellow refused to pay for it, and him and his pals down there spending our money like it’s water. That crony of his, that great ugly fellow – what d’you call him? – spent more on wallpaper and nonsense than would’ve paid for the Sapphire operation ten times over!’
‘The Lord Chancellor,’ Gannet supplied with a distasteful expression.
‘Lord Chancer, more like!’ Sorley Mor snorted.
‘Fishing communities just don’t matter, that’s the truth of it,’ said Gannet. ‘We are of no importance to those people.’
‘That’s it, Gannet, that’s it,’ said Sorely Mor. ‘Our big mistake was in not selling our boats and buying land, then waiting for the subsidies to roll in.’
‘You know, I was reading something the other day—’ said Gannet, in philosophical mood.
‘Oh, dear God, no,’ Chrissie muttered. She looked at Rose and Sorley Og. ‘If you had any plans for the next fortnight, cancel them,’ she said, looking skywards. ‘He’s been reading again, there’s no escape, trust me.’
‘—and it seems that in the last five years seventy-one Scottish fishing vessels and forty-six men have been lost, and I was thinking, if it wasn’t for us taking safety and survival so seriously, there would be more men than that lost. Do you not think so, Skipper?’
‘I do indeed, Gannet,’ said Sorley Mor, his voice taking on a heroic tone. ‘And the lads of the emergency services, we can’t ever forget them, the finest body of men—’
‘Outside fishermen,’ Gannet supplied, standing up and raising an imaginary glass.
‘Outside fishermen, as you say, Gannet. Both undervalued and the salt of the earth, but do we care? Unbowed we are by it, Gannet, integrity intact! One day they’ll look back and feel black-hearted shame for having such a low opinion of fine men such as ourselves.’ Sorley Mor got to his feet and raised an empty hand too.
‘I couldn’t have put it better, Skipper,’ said Gannet.
‘Ach, you could, you could, Gannet, but it’s a measure of the man you are that you’ll give another credit. And it’s a credit you are, too, to our fellow fishermen.’
Chrissie mimed playing a violin. ‘How many years have I been listening to this?’ she demanded.
‘But it’s true, woman!’ Sorley Mor replied.
‘I know it’s true, but all you’ve ever done is talk. It’s taken Sorley Og here to do anything about it. My son.’
For a moment there was silence.
‘But what will you do?’ Sorley Mor asked.
‘Well, financially we’ll all be fine: the licence is worth a lot now. It will probably go abroad. None of us will starve, but I don’t think I could sit at home twiddling my thumbs,’ Sorley Og replied. ‘I was thinking I could set myself up as an agent, buying and selling prawns.’
Sorley Mor nodded. ‘Poacher turned gamekeeper?’ he smiled.
‘I’m sorry, Father, that I have to be the one to finish things. If you want to keep the boat and hire a skipper and crew, I’ll go along with that. It’s your boat after all,’ his son told him uncertainly. ‘But I’ve made the decision for Rose and myself. My days at sea are coming to an end.’
‘No, no, lad, that thought hadn’t even crossed my mind,’ Sorley Mor replied, looking genuinely surprised. ‘I went to sea to make a living, not to keep any tradition going. Your great-great-grandfather was a crofter, he didn’t want to go
to the fishing, he only went when the croft failed and it was the only way to provide for his family. To hell with tradition, lad, but if there are no MacEwans on board the Wanderer, then I’d rather sell her too, cut the tie altogether. Do you not agree, Gannet?’
Beside him Gannet nodded, staring into the fire. Another silent moment passed.
‘No, it wasn’t that. I was just thinking, maybe I should’ve given up the fishing before this myself. The old woman here’s right,’ Sorley Mor glanced at Chrissie, ‘for the first time in her life.’
Chrissie, sitting on the couch beside him, arms crossed, returned his glance with a sharp one of her own through narrowed eyes.
‘I could see how things were going for many a year now. I liked the life, though, maybe I was just being selfish.’
Sorley Og looked at him. ‘How do you make that out?’ he demanded.
‘Well, I was never here, was I? When you and your sisters were growing up I was at sea. Your mother had to bring you up alone.’
Chrissie, wordlessly and without looking at him, slipped her hand over his.
Rose watched Sorley Og closely as he shrugged his shoulders. ‘That was your work,’ he said. ‘It’s the same with all fishing families, always has been.’
‘Aye, but still, I saw more of Gannet here than I did of my wife and bairns.’
‘I’ll give you that one,’ said Chrissie, glaring at Gannet. ‘You pulled the short straw there. At least I got peace from him when you were at sea.’
‘Gannet never married; maybe he was more decent than I was,’ said Sorley Mor, ignoring the interruption.
‘No, I won’t have that, Sorley Mor,’ exclaimed Gannet, rising unsteadily to his feet and throwing his long arms about. ‘There’s never been a man alive more decent than yourself!’
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ Chrissie mocked. ‘Listen to this couple of old drunks: their very own mutual admiration society!’
‘There’s no need to take anyone’s name in vain, Chrissie,’ Sorley Mor said in a pained voice.
‘Bollocks!’ Chrissie responded cheerfully.
‘Ach, would you listen to the terrible coarseness of the woman? Just you shut your ears to her, Gannet.’
Gannet looked unfazed as he sat down on the marble plinth again. ‘The fact is, I never met anybody I wanted to marry,’ he grinned quietly, ‘and I’ve always envied those who did.’
‘Away with you,’ Chrissie said dismissively. ‘Don’t bother trying for sympathy. There were plenty of lassies about. The trouble was that you could never talk to them when you were sober, and when you were drunk they couldn’t get a word in edgewise, that’s the truth.’ Around the fireside everyone laughed gently, looking at Gannet.
‘And besides,’ Chrissie jabbed his arm with a finger and tried to sound angry, ‘what do you need with a family when you’ve always had this one at your beck and call, you great skinny thing? I’ll tell you this, when I got married all those years ago, I certainly never heard anyone asking, “Will you take these men”, but that’s how it turned out!’
‘Ach, I don’t know,’ Gannet teased her, rubbing his arm. ‘If I’d had a family of my own they might have been nice to me: that would’ve been a change, at any rate.’
‘Only if they didn’t know you,’ Chrissie replied tartly.
Sorley Mor stared into the fire. ‘I loved it all, those bright clear mornings when you could see to the other end of the world, and the quiet, and the sun on the sea. I even loved the dangerous stuff,’ he said quietly.
‘Are you still on about that?’ Chrissie asked.
He looked up at Gannet. ‘Do you remember that time off Shetland, Gannet?’
‘There were a few times off Shetland, Skipper,’ he smiled, ‘and a few times on Shetland, as I recall.’
‘That time when we hit a northeasterly, just blew up from nowhere, and we had the nets down. I said, “Never mind, lads, a northeasterly always blows itself out by dark”, and dark at that time of year was about three in the afternoon.’
‘Aye, I remember that one all right,’ Gannet smiled. ‘Seas of forty feet. We could only get the nets in when we were going downhill, and the skipper here’s telling the crew that everything would be fine. Then we heard on the six o’clock forecast that it was building up to hit Force Ten!’
‘All the lads were crammed in the new wheelhouse – we’d just had it fitted, d’you remember, Gannet? – and it wasn’t quite finished, and we picked up a mayday from another boat and found we were the nearest to her. Well, the electrics went, but we had the radar. Remember?’
‘Only the radar packed up!’ Gannet laughed.
Chrissie looked at Rose and shook her head. ‘You can see how that might be funny, can’t you?’ she asked, and Rose laughed back in reply.
‘I couldn’t see a damned thing,’ chuckled Sorley Mor, ‘but these huge seas and the driving snow, like a thick curtain in front of us. The only way I knew where we were was by the feel of the sea. I knew if we caught the mother wave – what is it the Shetlanders call it, Gannet?’
‘The moderdai,’ said Gannet. ‘They say it’s like your mother; it leads you to safety. If you catch it it’ll take you to shore, no matter which way the wind’s blowing.’
‘Aye, that’s the one. Your grandfather taught me that, Sorley,’ Sorley Mor said to his son. ‘He knew all about that kind of thing. He could look about him at the cloud formations, the colour of the sky, even the calls of certain birds, and tell you what the weather was going to do without bothering with the forecast. He would look up at a heavy motion on the water and say, “There’s a bound, better turn for port before the storm hits us,” and he could tell by the wee ripples and squalls between the waves that a southerly was on the way. The call of the great northern diver meant a southerly, too, and he’d haul the gear and head for home. He was never wrong either.’
‘They were all the same, that generation,’ said Gannet solemnly. ‘They could read the sea: they had to. We’ve lost all that; we’re so bound up with technology these days that we don’t need any sea knowledge. These modern boats are equipped for bad weather and they’re more efficient, I’ll grant you that, but these days the skipper here doesn’t need to set foot on the deck; he doesn’t even need to leave the wheelhouse. He can sit in his slippers, flicking switches, pressing buttons, and playing at turning circles in his big swivel chair for the whole trip if he wants to.’
‘Only some, Gannet,’ Sorley Mor responded tautly, ‘there are still leaders of men among us, myself for one.’
‘And none better, Skipper!’ Gannet exclaimed loudly, attempting to stand up without falling over. He put out his hand and shook Sorley Mor’s warmly. ‘You are the finest skipper on the high seas and a gentleman to boot. I would lay down my life for you!’
‘Have you ever heard such … ?’ Chrissie rolled her eyes, words failing her. ‘Sit down, you,’ she said, pushing Gannet, ‘and behave yourself, or I’ll kick your arse till it turns blue.’
‘Och, Chrissie,’ Sorley Mor groaned. ‘Do you have to use the language?’
‘I didn’t have the language till I got in tow with you,’ Chrissie replied. ‘Marriage to you drove me to it – you and that,’ she looked at Gannet, ‘that great lump.’
‘So what happened off Shetland, then?’ Sorley Og reminded them.
‘Well, once we’d caught this wave I knew we were OK,’ said his father.
‘Aye, but the wind was still howling and tossing us about,’ Gannet grinned, ‘and we couldn’t see a thing through the snow.’
‘Then Gannet here spots a tiny wee light and says, “Look, a space ship!” ’
The others looked on as Gannet and Sorley Mor laughed and slapped each other joyfully, lost in their memory.
‘I suppose it’s one of those stories where you had to be there,’ Chrissie said wearily.
‘So we made for the wee light in the distance, and the next thing this damned great bow appeared right in front of us. It was the boat that had sent ou
t the mayday, a French trawler. She was taking in water and all she had on was this tiny wee light – in those seas, too! I barely managed to turn the boat away before she hit us, must’ve been feet in it!’
‘Inches, Skipper,’ Gannet insisted emotionally. ‘No more than inches! You saved every life aboard that day. You are a true hero.’ Once again he stuck out a hand to shake the skipper’s, and this time Chrissie slapped it hard.
‘I tell you, Gannet, I was glad I had a change of trousers that night, I fair needed them!’
‘We all did,’ Gannet chuckled. ‘I can still see it clear as day: the big, black shape of her coming at us through that thick snow, and hearing this great gasp of air as we all breathed in at the same time.’
The two of them held their sides and laughed, then Sorley Mor wiped his eyes. ‘But you know,’ he said, quietly again, ‘even though I was frightened, I enjoyed it, too: the feeling of having the lives of the crew in my hands and getting through it.’
Gannet put a hand out and slapped Sorley Mor’s knee. ‘There are some who can handle the heat of battle, Skipper,’ he said admiringly, ‘and you were the best of them, you are the best of them.’
‘Oh, God give me strength,’ Chrissie muttered. ‘You’ll get used to this, Rose,’ she told her daughter-in-law. ‘It’s men’s talk only. It’s called being surplus to requirements or, in this case, not wanted on voyage.’
‘But I could never have managed without you, Gannet,’ Sorley Mor replied. ‘You were the best first mate, the best friend, a man could ever have.’
‘We shall now,’ Chrissie announced primly, holding an imaginary microphone in her hand, ‘have a drunken rendition of “Dear Old Pals”,’ and with that she began to sing raucously.
Sorley Mor and Gannet ignored her completely. ‘That’s what I mean, you see,’ Sorley Mor said. ‘I liked the life and the companionship, but was it fair on my family?’
The Last Wanderer Page 24