And yet, she must’ve known that all their hopes rested on her. Wasn’t there a feeling somewhere deep inside that she had pushed to the back, quietly accepting without openly acknowledging it? She came from a family with little money, and a big family at that. Quintin’s death had coincided with the dip in the industry that had led to the closure of the Hamilton smokery, and though as a child Rose had known there was little to spare, she had known nothing different. Looking back, she remembered all the jobs her brothers and sisters had done to bring in money: painting sea shells and selling them to the tourists; collecting wood into bundles and selling them as kindlers; delivering milk and newspapers; doing odd jobs for Hamish Dubh at the store. And all the while Rose had been doing homework. She had accepted it as the perk of being the youngest, but hadn’t there been a suspicion in her mind that there had to be more to it than that? There was a collective family pride that she was doing well at school and that she harboured an ambition to go to university. No one had laughed and told her it wasn’t on, as she knew had happened to other clever bairns; her family had been supportive throughout. Even when she said she wanted to study something as peculiar as Marine Archaeology, when most chose the safe path of becoming teachers so that they could earn as soon as possible, there hadn’t been as much as a smirk from the Nicolsons.
When she was away at university she had never been seriously strapped for cash. Not that she asked for it unless she had to – she had done all the usual underpaid jobs that all students took to make ends meet – but there was never the slightest hint that the others might be doing without to give to her, they had never cast it up at her. And all the time they were. She felt sick – mainly, she suspected because she must’ve known all along and chosen not to see it. In the light of all that she could understand Dougie’s anger, but only up to a point. Was she supposed to live a life dictated by her family to make up for their generosity, their ambitions for her? Had she ever asked them for that? She just wanted to be happy, what was wrong with that? The thought of exploring ancient wrecks, of roaming the world discovering lost, long-forgotten ships, of finding things that had disappeared hundreds of years ago and piecing together what had befallen the ships and their crews: that had fired her imagination. But all that had changed; she had changed. The balance of her life had shifted. Her life was now Sorley Og and standing at the big window watching for the sight of Ocean Wanderer heading for port. Now here she was, more than three years later, still standing there.
19
When the phone rang in the chapel house that Saturday, Father Mick was lying down on a couch in his living room, a glass of the falling-down stuff clutched in his hand. He had been up since 6 a.m., had said three masses and visited six houses to hear the pointless confessions of several parishioners who were too frail to make it to the chapel, including Auntie Tam at Black Rock. Black Rock always exhausted him; in his more weary moments he often wondered if the sisters Batty and Maddy were making a fool of him, if it was perhaps their only diversion in life to have him running around ‘like a blue-arsed fly’, blessing their collection of religious bits and bobs. Sometimes he was almost sure that he had blessed them many times before, and only stopped himself mentioning this in case the two eccentric sisters burst into fits of laughter at driving him over the edge. He would come home, pour himself a snifter or two, and try not to go over in his mind precisely what he had blessed, because if they were making a fool of him for a laugh, that would be exactly what they wanted him to do.
There was a time when he had – he was ashamed to admit it to himself – kept a notebook in which he entered descriptions of every Black Rock statue, medal, rosary and picture he had muttered over, then he thought it would look bad if he should be found dead one morning with the notebook clutched to his bosom. People would think he was mad and the tale would be told for generations. He closed his eyes and conjured up conversations in the Inn in years to come. ‘Do you mind that priest?’ they’d say to each other, laughing. ‘The one that kept a note of things he’d blessed up at Black Rock? My, but they fair ran him ragged!’ and they’d laugh even more. So he had put the notebook in the fire: that way it would never be discovered. But even after it had gone up in smoke, he still found it difficult not to keep a mental note. For that reason and no other, he told himself, he indulged in a dram after visits, to keep his mind befuzzled enough to remain in control by remembering as little as possible. On this night, however, his luck was right out. He was clutching his fourth snifter when the phone rang. Picking it up he found Black Rock himself on the other end.
‘Hello, Father,’ said the eldest son pleasantly, ‘and how are things with yourself?’
‘Fine, Black Rock,’ replied Father Mick, despite himself desperately itemising everything he had blessed at the house earlier in the day, ‘just fine. And how are things with you?’
‘Ach, fine, fine.’
‘How’s work? Kept busy?’
‘Aye, aye, busy enough,’ said Black Rock slowly. ‘Had a helluva time making a set of stairs there for Sandy Bay. I tell you, Father, doing work for relatives isn’t easy.’
‘Oh?’ said the priest, wondering how a MacEwan could avoid working for relatives in and around Acarsaid.
‘But at least the weather wasn’t wet. I got to do them outside.’
‘Must have been cold, though, Black Rock.’
‘Aye, but dry, Father, and that makes all the difference. I always say you can put up with the cold as long as it doesn’t rain. Aye, aye, it’s not so bad as long as it’s not wet, so it is.’
Father Mick could feel himself being sucked into one of Black Rock’s mind-numbing conversations and tried to divert it. ‘So why was Sandy Bay after new stairs, then?’
‘He was for having an extension built, two more bedrooms on top. I thought you knew.’
‘His greed will be his downfall, Black Rock,’ said Father Mick. ‘He’s only doing it to squeeze in more holidaymakers, and what does he want with more money? Sure he’s never married, and he’s got more than enough pieces of gold will do him for two lifetimes as it is.’
‘Well, who knows, Father?’ said Black Rock philosophically. ‘I always say you don’t know anybody as well as you think you do.’
‘True, true,’ said Father Mick.
‘I always say we’re doing well if we know ourselves.’
Father Mick closed his eyes and tried not to sob; he had been hearing the fruits of Black Rock’s deeper thoughts for more decades than he cared to think about, and they were always the same.
‘For all we know the man might have plans we know nothing about. Who’s to say?’
‘Indeed, indeed, Black Rock. And you managed to finish the stairs, then, did you?’
‘I did indeed, Father, took a lot of time to get them right but it was a fine job, if I do say so myself, and now the bugger’s complaining about the price!’
‘Aye, well, that’s Sandy Bay for you,’ Father Mick said. ‘It’s always money with him, and he can’t take it with him.’ Immediately he bit his lip. They’d been over that. What a mistake! Black Rock couldn’t pass up the chance, but if there really was a God—
‘Very true, Father,’ said Black Rock. ‘As I always say—’
There is no God!
‘—we bring nothing into this world, and we take nothing out.’
Black Rock was right: he did always say exactly that. Always. Their paths crossed frequently, not least because they were both involved in the dying business to varying degrees, and Father Mick had heard this homily so many times that he thought he might scream next time, and this might well be it. He drank down the whisky-in his glass with one gulp, then tried to pull the small table closer with his foot to get at the bottle he had just replaced on it. Instead the table fell over on to the floor, the whisky, thankfully with the top securely in place, rolling out of reach.
‘What was that, Father?’ Black Rock asked in his measured tones.
‘I think it was someone at the door,
Black Rock,’ he lied. ‘I’m sorry, but it sounds urgent, so I’ll have to be going now, unless there’s anything else … ?’
‘It was just the same when I made those new doors for him, if you remember, Father. No one does crafsmanship like that these days, and him being family I used only the best of wood and took my time over them. He fought me over every penny then, too. I ended up making them at a loss because I was so embarrassed for the man, showing himself up by going on like that.’
‘That says a lot for you, Black Rock,’ said Father Mick. ‘I think I hear whoever it is at the window now. Did you call about anything important, or … ?’
‘There was one thing, Father.’
‘And what would that be, Black Rock?’
‘My mother’s just died, Father. Dr Gavin’s just gone and I was wondering if you might have time to come up and give her the Last Rites?’
When Sorley Og more or less took over as skipper of the Ocean Wanderer, it gave his father the choice of whether to stay at home or go to sea, so he and Gannet settled into a routine of going when they felt like it. This left them at home more often and in a position to experience the day-to-day events of MacEwan family life that Chrissie had been dealing with since she married the skipper. Throughout his sea-going years he had missed births, marriages and deaths, none of which he objected to missing on the whole; Chrissie was, in his own words, ‘a fine wee second lieutenent’, even if she did use overly colourful language at times. He was at home, however, the night his old Auntie Tam died, the news being broken to him by Father Mick over the phone.
‘It’s that bugger of a priest for you,’ Chrissie shouted down the receiver, to make sure Father Mick heard every word, before handing it to her husband, or trying to.
‘Ask him what he wants,’ said Sorley Mor, motioning it away with his hands and looking at it with distaste. Sorley Mor didn’t like telephones. He said he was always conscious that he was talking into a lump of plastic, to which observation Chrissie always retorted, ‘So?’
‘Ask him yourself,’ Chrissie shouted down the receiver again. ‘Sure, why would you expect me to talk to a reprobate like him, anyway?’ Then she lifted the entire phone and threw it into the skipper’s lap as he sat in his corner.
‘For God’s sake, Chrissie,’ he protested, ‘you could’ve damaged some vital function there!’
‘Only if there was one to damage,’ Chrissie replied sarcastically.
‘Chrissie!’ Sorley Mor said severely. ‘I know you’re only joking when you cast aspersions like that, but I’ve told you before, some people might think you’re being serious.’ Then he spoke sweetly into the phone. ‘Hello? Hello? Is there anybody there, please?’
‘Listen to him,’ Chrissie said to herself. ‘One knock for “yes”, two for “no”!’
‘Of course there’s somebody there,’ said Father Mick. ‘Why the hell would the phone ring unless there was somebody there?’
‘Ach, you never know,’ said Sorley Mor mysteriously. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Like what?’ the priest demanded.
‘That’s why you’re taking up my time, is it?’ Sorley Mor asked. ‘To ask damn fool questions like that?’
Father Mick sighed heavily down the phone. ‘Sorley Mor, has no one told you yet that your Auntie Tam up at Black Rock has died?’
‘Is that so?’ said Sorley Mor kindly. ‘Ach well, poor old Auntie Tam. Mind you, she was a good age. I gave up counting after she passed ninety, didn’t see the point. She wouldn’t have wanted to hang around much longer, anyway. She’s been threatening to go every day since old Black Rock himself went, and that must be more than thirty years now. Well, thank you for telling me, Father Mick, goodbye.’
‘Wait a minute,’ the priest shrieked at the other end, ‘I’m not finished yet!’
‘Well, what more is there to say?’ Sorley Mor asked. ‘If she’s dead, she’s dead.’
‘I need you to run me up there.’
‘Run yourself up there!’
‘I can’t. I’ve had a few and that new policeman they’ve sent up from Inverness is still at the stage where he takes things seriously. He’s been watching me for weeks now, trying to catch me out. I got so fed up with him following me about that I decided to do the same to him the other day. Spotted him in Keppaig on his way here, so I followed him, right on his bumper all the way, up to the police office. He got out of his wee car, walked back to mine and said “Can I help you with something, Father?” and I said “No, I’m just seeing how you like being tailed around everywhere, that’s all.” I swear to God, if someone doesn’t come up with something we can blackmail him with soon I’ll have a breakdown with the stress of it all. Great ugly thing he is, too. He must have a brother who wears a dress or something of the kind, somebody should be finding out!’
‘Bugger the new policeman—’ Sorley Mor replied.
‘My sentiments exactly,’ Father Mick replied with feeling.
‘—but are you saying you’re too drunk to see to your duties, man?’ Sorley Mor continued in a shocked tone.
‘Well, how was I to know the old woman was about to go?’ Father Mick demanded. ‘I saw her just a few hours back and she seemed, well, not in good form exactly, but in as good form as she ever is: breathing and that. As you say yourself, she’s been promising every day was her last for years now, how was I to know she meant it this time? And nobody reported Black Rock himself tapping away, and surely if anyone should’ve known it should’ve been him?’
‘Aye, well, what you’re asking is a great inconvenience,’ Sorley Mor lied loftily, ‘and I must say, it’s a sad day when a man of the cloth is too drunk to visit a fallen member of his flock and bring a little comfort to the bereaved like myself at a time like this.’
‘Is a man not allowed a drop of the falling-down stuff?’ Father Mick asked plaintively. ‘It’s Saturday night; is a man supposed to be on duty twenty-four hours every day in case some old dear pops her clogs? Does that seem reasonable or fair to you?’
‘Is that any way to be talking to a man in mourning, Father? “Popped her clogs”? I find that most upsetting, I have to tell you.’
‘Ach, be quiet, Sorley Mor, it’s not a tourist you’re talking to here, it’s me.’
Chrissie had been listening to the one side of the conversation she could hear and, unable to bear it any longer, she grabbed the receiver back.
‘If there’s one thing worse than talking to a drunk man, it’s a drunk man talking to another drunk man,’ she said, pushing Sorley Mor back in his chair. ‘Listen, Cardinal Hooligan,’ she said, ‘from what I’ve heard, old Auntie Tam at Black Rock has died and you’re too pissed to drive yourself a couple of hundred yards to her house, is that right?’
‘To a T, Chrissie. I might quibble with the terminology, but we’ll let that pass for now. Otherwise, to a T as usual. My, but I’m always saying to Sorley Mor himself, he’s a lucky man for having married a woman with such a firm grasp of the—’
‘Cut the crap! What makes you think he’s any more sober than you are?’ she demanded.
‘Oh, I never thought of that.’
‘Aye, well, that’s what drink does to the brain. Leave it a minute and I’ll see if Rose is in, and she can drive us all up in the Land Rover.’
‘You’ve done it again, Chrissie MacEwan! I’m always saying to Sorley Mor, “Sorley Mor, you couldn’t have married a more capable—”
‘Ach, bugger off!’ Chrissie said, and hung up.
And so, with her husband at sea, Rose became embroiled in her first MacEwan event. Winter should have been over, but it was a cold night and the roads were icy, especially up the Brae, which no longer mattered in terms of traffic and so wasn’t a priority in terms of gritting. Sorley Mor sat beside Rose, giving unwanted advice on her driving and attempting to change gears for her, with Chrissie squashed between him and the door, slapping his hands every time he did so. Gannet, who had been asleep on the big table in the porch as usual, had
been roused and was singing gently to himself in the back of the Land Rover; when he was well-enough oiled he had taken to singing every song with ‘Rose’ in the title whenever he saw Rose, so he was swaying about in the back, singing ‘The Rose of Tralee’. When they stopped at the chapel house up the Brae, Father Mick tried to get in the front and was firmly rebuffed by Chrissie.
‘Do you think you’re going to sit on my knee?’ she asked. ‘Get in the back with Pavarotti there.’
‘Wait now,’ said Sorley Mor. ‘Have you got all your stage props? It’s bad enough having to come out on a cold night like this without having to come back again because you’ve forgotten a candle or something.’
Father Mick went through his jacket pockets, a determinedly businesslike expression on his little gargoyle face. He found his purple silk stole – the little strip of fringed material that looked more like a tie – in the left pocket, and placed it in the right one. ‘Oil,’ he muttered to himself, ‘Where the hell have I put the oil?’
‘It’s in your hand, Father,’ Rose said helpfully.
‘And the wee book thing,’ said Gannet, breaking off from his song, ‘the one that has the words in it. Have you got that?’
Father Mick rummaged in an inside pocket and brought out a half-bottle of Islay Mist.
‘But you can be bloody sure he’s got that,’ said Chrissie dryly.
‘Now Chrissie,’ said the priest, ‘I always carry it on these occasions. It can help the bereaved to have a wee nip, and it can help me even more. You have no idea the emotional stress I’m under at times like this. I can get so upset that I’m in tears sometimes.’
‘Not to mention legless,’ said Chrissie dismissively. ‘Ach, just climb aboard. If you’ve forgotten anything you can just make it up as you go along, as you usually do.’
They were met at the door of Black Rock by Batty, dressed in her usual manner with the colour-scheme tastefully changed to black, or as tasteful as her get-up ever got. They had to go through the normal amount of genuflections and Signs of the Cross with Holy Water. Chrissie caught Rose’s eye and shook her head as Batty knelt in front of them, exposing an indelicate amount of sagging, black-knicker-clad rear-end, and an inadvisable expanse of elderly thigh, even if it was covered with black tights. ‘I swear to God, if those shanks were hanging up in a butcher’s shop you’d report him to the Sanitary Inspectors,’ Chrissie whispered to Rose. ‘Just keep your eyes closed and go along with it. Believe me, it takes less time than refusing. She does it for you if you refuse.’ Then they were shown into the sitting room that was always kept locked, except for special occasions. Sorley Mor muttered that the last time he had been in there was when his uncle had died many years before. In the middle of the room, on top of an Irish coffin table, lay Auntie Tam, already in her coffin.
The Last Wanderer Page 27