‘I’m fine,’ said Gannet.
Young Dr Johnstone looked at Sorley Mor’s concerned expression and laughed. ‘Skipper,’ he said, ‘he’ll be fine, I promise you. His shoulder’s out of the socket, we’ll just pop him off to sleep and put it back. He’ll be awake minutes later and he’ll be home in a few hours.’
‘Would that be his official or unofficial home you’re talking about, Gavin?’ Chrissie muttered tartly.
‘He’ll be OK?’ Sorley Mor asked in a weak voice.
Gavin looked at Sorley Og and the two of them laughed.
‘I promise,’ the young doctor said, climbing into his car. Chrissie placed herself on Gannet’s left side and Sorley Og on his right as the Range Rover began to move off, then Chrissie shouted from the open window; ‘Make that a “maybe”, Sorley Mor,’ and cackled at him. Then she glanced again at her husband’s worried face. ‘Ach, Rose, will you take the daft bugger in and revive him? What a state for a grown man to get into!’
From between her and her son, Gannet protested, ‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m not talking about you,’ Chrissie laughed. ‘I’m talking about the other ancient mariner there. He’s in a worse state than you are!’
20
When Gannet came out of hospital that evening he was still slightly becalmed by the effects of the anaesthetic. He wore a sling that supported his left elbow to take the weight off his shoulder joint, his arm was bent up towards his neck, and he was on painkillers that he refused to take until Chrissie threatened to slap his arm. The shoulder was back in its socket, Gavin had explained, but the real damage had been done by tearing of the muscles, tendons and ligaments.
‘The soft tissue has all been shredded,’ he said cheerfully, then smiled as Gannet’s face took on an ashen tinge, ‘and, Gannet, I have to warn you that there’s a high risk that it might dislocate again. You’ll have to be careful; you’ve got to understand that.’
‘Are you listening to this, stupid?’ Chrissie demanded. ‘And can you,’ she asked Gavin, ‘spell it out in words so small that not only Gannet here can understand, but also my husband: that there is no way Gannet’s going to sea tomorrow?’
‘Oh, that’s out of the question!’ said Gavin. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious to anyone.’
‘Huh!’ Chrissie exclaimed. ‘Your trouble, Gavin, is that being a nice lad you think fishermen are of average intelligence. Say it again: Gannet cannot go to sea tomorrow.’
Gannet, who had been exchanging horrified looks with his skipper said ‘That’s not fair!’ and Chrissie gave the young doctor an ‘I told you so’ look.
‘Look, Gannet, I know you’re being very macho here,’ Gavin said, sitting down on the marble hearth beside him. ‘Dear God,’ he muttered. ‘Next time you come into the surgery remind me to examine you for piles, Gannet. As I say, you’re being very macho here, but I know how much pain you’re in. This is a substantial injury, I saw a lot of shoulder dislocations among rugby players when I was at university, and the pain brought those big guys to their knees. It won’t ever again be the same as it was before and it won’t get better overnight, or for many nights to come, for that matter. In this case it’ll take longer because you’re not a fit, twenty-year-old rugby wing-half, you’re getting on a bit.’
Beside him Chrissie sniggered.
‘It was a bad dislocation, there’s nerve damage, that area on your upper arm below your shoulder will be numb for perhaps two or three years, maybe it won’t ever regain feeling. You’ll probably find sleeping difficult for months, because no matter what position you try, the torn tissue under the skin will open up. You cannot go to sea, is that clear?’
Gannet nodded glumly.
‘It’s time you were giving up going to sea anyway,’ Gavin laughed at him. ‘You’re well past your prime, even if you do think you’re still fifteen years old. And you,’ he looked at Sorley Mor, ‘should be doing the same, taking it easy.’
‘It’s the Wanderer’s last trip, man,’ Sorely Mor protested. ‘I’m Sorley Mor MacEwan – do you think I would ever go to sea in another boat?’
‘I hope not,’ Gavin replied. ‘The next time you go fishing it had better be with a rod in your hand at that wee lochan up the hill you keep going on about.’
‘You were right, Chrissie,’ Sorley Mor said, glaring at Gavin, ‘he gets more like his father every day. He liked to order folk about as well. And to think you used to look at me like I was a hero, too!’
‘You were,’ Gavin laughed, ‘when I was ten years old. It was the way you used to swagger down through the harbour at the end of a good trip.’
‘Every trip on my boat was a good trip,’ Sorley Mor protested in a shocked tone. ‘Would you listen to the cheek of the boy? And I never swaggered.’
At that everyone in the room laughed loudly, including – Sorley Mor was less than pleased to observe – Gannet.
‘Get out of here, boy,’ he said to Gavin, ‘before I put you over my knee and give you a good thrashing for cheeking your elders!’
Chrissie saw Gavin to the door, leaving Gannet and Sorley Mor together in silence. ‘And how’s Tess?’ she asked. ‘You two don’t seem to be rushing it exactly, do you?’
‘Oh, she’s gone down to Glasgow for a couple of weeks,’ he smiled. ‘We’re not, you know, joined at the hip.’
‘But you’d like to be, right?’
Gavin looked sheepish. ‘Well, who knows?’ he said. ‘One thing’s for sure, nobody here will be satisfied till I’m safely married with a bunch of kids!’
‘Neither will you, Gavin,’ Chrissie smiled, reaching up on her toes to kiss his cheek. ‘Men always pretend they’ve been caught, but what are they without a wife and family? Look at the Gannet there. He’s part of this family, but don’t you think he would’ve been happier with his own wife and bairns to come home to? Sure, isn’t the reason he spends so little time at his wee house in Keppaig that it’s empty?’
‘You’re probably right, Chrissie,’ Gavin replied. ‘Make sure he takes those painkillers. He needs them. ‘Bye.’
Inside the house, all was gloom.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Sorley Mor said resignedly, ‘if Gannet can’t go tomorrow, I’m not going either.’
‘Don’t be bloody stupid!’ Chrissie told him. ‘Who are you playing now – Sorley Mor the Martyr? He’s dislocated his shoulder, the last thing he needs is you loading him with guilt to carry.’
‘I’ve never been to sea without Gannet in my entire life,’ Sorley Mor said quietly, ‘I’m damned if I’ll do it now.’
‘Skipper, Chrissie’s right,’ Gannet told him. ‘This is the last trip, there’ll never be another one, you’ll only make me feel bad if I’m the reason you miss it. You have to go.’
‘No, no, it wouldn’t be the same.’
‘Skipper, I’ve been trying to get you to take an order, any order, since we were boys together, and you never have, but this one you must take. Go with the lads. You’ll regret it if you don’t, and you’ll make me regret it even more.’
The two men looked at each other solemnly.
‘I’ll be with you in spirit,’ Gannet said and laughed. ‘Go.’
Chrissie watched them, wanting to say something funny, but feeling moved by the bond between them. She had known both of them all her life, had taken, as she never tired of saying, both of them on when she married Sorley Mor, but she had never felt jealous of their relationship. She saw every day how much they relied on each other, how much they thought of each other, how much, dammit, they loved each other, and knew both would react with horror if she said so out loud. She knew, therefore, how much it would affect Sorley Mor that on this trip of all trips Gannet wouldn’t be there, and she knew, too, how lost Gannet would be without Sorley Mor a couple of steps behind him, fending off the usual banter. Sorley Mor really didn’t want to go without Gannet, and Gannet didn’t want to stay behind without Sorley Mor, so they would both be making a genuine sacrifice for the sake of the other.
‘He’s right, Sorley Mor,’ she told her husband gently. ‘He’s giving you this gift, he’s your friend, you have to take it. And there’s your son to consider, old man. This is the last chance he’ll ever get to go to sea with you. It’s something he’ll want to tell his own bairns about when he has them, how he and his father went on the Wanderer’s last trip together.’
Sorley Mor made no reply, but bowed his head as the silence stretched.
‘Right,’ Chrissie said, ‘enough of the glooms. And you,’ she looked at Gannet, ‘have said more sober words tonight than I have ever heard, you must be exhausted. Let’s try and make you comfortable, the table in the porch is out tonight.’
‘Conservatory, woman,’ Sorley Mor said quietly, smiling up at her. ‘Will you never get it right?’
They left the next evening amid a great deal of noise: boat whistles screeching, car and lorry horns sounding, people shouting and clapping. Everyone, it seemed, was down at the harbour to watch them depart, including Gannet and Father Mick, who would now never get to set foot on any Ocean Wanderer. Their destination was the fishing grounds of the Wee Bankie, near the entrance to the Firth of Forth, where in June there was a short season for sand eel fishing. Catches would be landed at Esbjerg in Denmark, a centre for the processing of sand eels into fishmeal/fertiliser. Once the boat’s quota had been filled, probably in two or three weeks’ time, they would head home for the last time and the MacEwans would be officially finished with the fishing.
Even before they left, plans were already being made in Acarsaid for Sorley Mor’s return, with a large banner under construction with ‘The Wanderer returns – for GOOD!’ emblazoned on it. It would be hung across the harbour when they came back. Up on MacEwan’s Row, Rose had a stone ready to place on the cairn outside her house when Sorley Og returned, a fine big lump of pure white quartz she had found on the shore and kept back for a while. She and Chrissie watched the boat leave harbour from MacEwan’s Row, as they always did, waving to the distant figures aboard as they waved back, until it was so far away that they could no longer be seen with the naked eye. This time Chrissie rushed indoors and Rose found her at the sink, furiously washing dishes and blinking away tears.
‘Why are you crying?’ Rose asked.
‘How should I know?’ Chrissie answered. ‘Relief that that daft old bugger finally went, or that he won’t go again, or my son either. I don’t know!’
She threw her arms around Rose and cried some more and Rose joined in.
‘So why are you crying?’ Chrissie demanded, laughing at the same time.
‘Well, if you don’t know,’ Rose laughed back, trying to wipe away the tears, ‘how on earth do you expect me to know?’
They had been away two weeks when Sorley Mor phoned Chrissie for something approaching the tenth time to say they had caught enough and would be home in about two days, and was there anything happening? Sorley Mor’s opinion was always split about what happened to Acarsaid when he was at sea; either nothing of note happened at all because he wasn’t there, or bizarre, wonderful and interesting events took place in his absence. Chrissie told him the place had completely stood still without him, as it always did. She passed him on to Gannet and listened while they had a fishermen’s conversation, all about crans, tonnes, the weather. The reason behind Sandy Bay’s shopping expeditions she decided to keep till the end of the conversation.
‘So?’ he asked, peeved. ‘Nothing happening? Nothing at all? Ach well, we’ll be home on Monday or Tuesday.’
‘Fine. Oh, there is one bit of news, Sorley Mor,’ Chrissie said casually.
‘What? What is it?’
‘Ach, it’s nothing, it’ll keep.’
‘Woman, I’m busy; either tell me or don’t!’
‘Well, as you’re busy I’ll tell you when you come home. It’s just idle gossip, really. It’s about Sandy Bay. Goodbye now.’
‘Wait a minute! Damn and blast, she’s hung up. Chrissie MacEwan, are you there?’
Chrissie put a hand over the mouthpiece and laughed, then, ‘Aye, Sorley Mor, what is it you’re wanting?’ she asked sweetly.
‘What was that about Sandy Bay?’
‘It’s not worth taking up your time with,’ she grinned to herself …
‘Now I know fine it’s something, will you damned well tell me, woman?’
‘Going to sea does you no good these days,’ she said. ‘You get so cranky, it’s just as well you’re giving it up.’
‘What about Sandy Bay?’
‘Sandy Bay?’ she asked vaguely. ‘Oh, he never went to sea, you know that fine.’
‘Chrissie MacEwan, as sure as God is my maker, when I hit port you’re for the divorce courts.’
‘Well, funnily enough, he’s got married. ‘Bye!’
Gannet, witnessing the kind of Chrissie wind-up he normally experienced from the other end, had a mental image of the screeching rage that was coming over the phone as Chrissie laughed at the skipper.
‘Chrissie, Chrissie!’
‘What?’
‘Did you say Sandy Bay had got married?’
‘Aye.’
‘Ach, away with you.’
‘Suit yourself. You asked if anything had happened and I told you the only thing that had happened.’
‘Well, I mean, who would he get married to?’
‘To Tess, the schoolteacher lassie who was seeing young Gavin,’ Chrissie said simply.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Sorley Mor laughed loudly. ‘I’ll admit it, you had me going for a minute there. That was a good one, Chrissie, but you went too far. Now if you’d said he’d married Batty at Black Rock, I’d have believed that sooner than the wee blonde lassie! Ha ha ha.’
‘Well, as I say, Sorley Mor, suit yourself.’
‘Let me speak to Gannet again.’
‘Can’t,’ Chrissie lied, ‘he’s gone to the Inn.’ With that she pressed the button to end the call, then released it and called Rose. When Sorley Og phoned she wasn’t, under any circumstances, to mention a word about Sandy Bay and Tess getting married. ‘That will confuse the old man even more,’ she laughed.
‘Too late. He called two minutes ago,’ Rose laughed, ‘but he didn’t believe me either!’
Off the coast of Denmark, father and son compared notes, and Sorley Mor came to the conclusion that Chrissie had put Rose up to it. Then he thought a bit more and decided that the only way to prove the matter either way was to call Father Mick, only there was the distinct possibility that Chrissie would have put him up to it, too. It was only when Stamp and Pete, the other locals on board, reported having identical conversations with their own wives that Sorley Mor called Father Mick, who reported that nothing untoward had happened and asked if Sorley Mor hadn’t better things to do.
‘So,’ Sorley Mor asked cautiously, ‘nothing’s happening?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you, man?’ Father Mick yelled. ‘Now it’s Saturday night, I’ve had one helluva day listening to the dullest confessions this end of a convent, so why don’t you leave a poor old man alone?’
‘Aye, fine, well.’ Sorley Mor hesitated, trying to get the words right, because if he got them wrong and just casually said, ‘So I hear Sandy Bay’s gone and married that nice wee teacher,’ Father Mick would tell the tale of how he’d been fooled for all it was worth.
‘And have you seen Sandy Bay at all?’ he asked instead.
‘Sandy Bay!’ Father Mick yelled down the phone. ‘Bloody Sandy Bay is it? I’ll tell you this, I’ll never talk to him ever again.’
‘What about him?’ Sorley Mor asked innocently. ‘Has he been up to something?’
‘Has he been up to something? He’s gone and got married, that what he’s been up to!’
‘Surely not?’ Sorley Mor said, even more cautiously. ‘Married you say. To a woman?’
‘To that wee lassie at the school, that’s who to!’ the priest exploded. ‘Sneaked off to Glasgow together, had it planned for months, app
arently. Came back already spliced. Sandy Bay said they hadn’t married in Acarsaid because he knew the lads up here would’ve done terrible things to him. In a registry office, if you please. What an insult to me, what a snub! Well, I’m finished with him, I’ll tell you that. If he wants a blessing he can go back to Glasgow for it! Kin of yours or not, Sorley Mor, he’s a miserable skinflint. That’s why he got married quietly in Glasgow, to avoid the expense of a decent wedding up here.’
‘Are you sure, Father Mick?’ Sorley Mor persisted.
‘Of course I’m sure! Hasn’t he always been a mean bugger who’d cross the road to pick up an old ha’penny long after it stopped being legal tender?’
‘No, I don’t mean are you sure he’s tight, we all know that,’ said Sorely Mor patiently. ‘Are you sure he’s married or did you just hear it from Chrissie? Or maybe you’ve been drinking and talked to Chrissie?’
But Father Mick’s pent up fury had been released. ‘And he’s sixty-five if he’s a day,’ he continued, ‘and she’s what? Fifteen?’ When Father Mick judged himself to have been insulted, he still had a habit of over-icing the cake. ‘Disgusting, that’s what it is! Not that there’s the slightest hope of it ever being consummated at his age, but it’s the vanity of the man, thinking he can take on a young lassie like that, and the thoughts are all there, the carnal thoughts! By God, I’ll tell you this, Sorley Mor, he’d better not come to me for confession and absolution. It’s not Hail Marys he’ll get, but a damned good hiding!’
Next day Sorley Mor was on lookout as the Wanderer made her way to land the last catch before returning home. It was just before five o’clock on one of those beautiful, clear, quiet June mornings he loved, the kind where you can see for miles and miles. He had been right about it not being the same without Gannet, he thought to himself as he sat in the wheelhouse. Not that his first mate said much, he thought with a smile – he was more like a silent partner – but he had missed the sight of him sitting in the corner, a stack of books at his side, absorbing information with which to amaze people once he was at home and had had a drink. He laughed out loud at the memory of the big man discussing psychology with old Ina Hamilton the year before.
The Last Wanderer Page 30