Dougie gently pushed her back into the house, shaking his head. Rose’s right hand flew to her throat, still clutching the tea towel she had been using to dry her coffee cup when the knock had come. Dougie looked at the pattern of French scenes on the towel and remembered she and Sorley Og had gone to Paris for their honeymoon. As her brother moved towards her, something clicked in Rose’s mind and she put her other hand up to stop him.
‘Don’t!’ she cried aloud. ‘If you’re going to tell me it’s Sorley Og, just don’t! Get out of my house!’
She dropped the tea towel and pushed hard against Dougie with one hand, grabbing the door with the other and trying desperately to push him far enough to shut him out. Dougie tried to put his arms around her, pushing against her so that she went backwards in to the house, struggling all the way, her feet slipping and sliding, resisting every inch.
‘Don’t say anything!’ she screamed. ‘I won’t listen! You’re going to tell me something bad just because you don’t like him!’
Then Dougie got his arms around her, holding her against him, and hushed her like a baby.
‘Rose, my little one, you have to listen,’ he said quietly, ‘because it won’t go away.’
‘No! No!’
He motioned with his head for Gavin to help him, and between them they half-carried her, still struggling, to the couch.
‘Rose, the boat went down this morning. The whole crew is lost.’
Rose managed to free one arm, drew it back and gave her brother a hefty slap across the face.
‘Don’t tell me that!’ she screamed, her voice like a wounded animal. ‘It’s not true! You’d like it to be true, wouldn’t you? Ever since we got married that’s what you’ve wanted, but it isn’t true! I hate you for saying that, I’ll never talk to you again!’
He turned towards her again, the mark of her hand already showing red across his cheek. He was still holding her, but as she prepared to lash out again she suddenly noticed that tears were rolling silently down his face.
‘Oh, Dougie,’ she sobbed, burying her face in his chest and hugging him to her. ‘Oh, Dougie, Dougie, I’m sorry!’
Gavin stood beside them, trying to control himself, then he broke down in great gulping sobs and ran outside, where he found Father Mick standing crying at the door of Sorley Mor’s house.
‘I heard Rose crying and …,’ the priest said helplessly.
‘How’s Chrissie?’ Gavin asked, trying to steady himself.
Father Mick shook his head. ‘Not good. Gannet’s magnificent.’
‘So is Dougie,’ said Gavin.
‘Look at us,’ Father Mick said, ‘a doctor and a priest. The very ones who should be good at handling this kind of situation, and we’re no bloody use to anyone.’
21
It was summer, the height of the tourist season. In the days following the sinking of Ocean Wanderer, Acarsaid was full of holidaymakers, all in divisions and sub-divisions. There were those from over the Border, where the tragedy had merited no more than a paragraph in the newspapers, or from abroad, where it hadn’t been reported at all. Others came from nearer at hand, and had been exposed to the growing media frenzy. Then there were the media themselves. The village was in deep shock, no one was unaffected by the loss of the boat and the crew, and the villagers instinctively put up barriers around their grief. Those visitors who went to Acarsaid year upon year were still catered for; the sun still shone on familiar and favourite spots; the faces about the place were still recognized; but now they were aware of a heavy blanket of devastation hanging over the village that made them feel what they were: outsiders.
In Hamish Dubh’s store down by the harbour, remarks about the sinking, however sympathetic and sincere, were met with a polite but inpenetrable blankness and, if pursued, Hamish would say quietly that he was happy to be of service to them, to provide newspapers, ice cream, buckets and spades and postcards, but he did not wish to discuss the Wanderer, if that was all the same to whoever was asking. All the boats that had been at sea had cut their trips short and returned as soon as they had been told of the sinking, and over the next few days the harbour had filled up. None went out again, so there were plenty of boats for the tourists to look at, but little activity. Fishermen still carried out routine tasks, but in silence. They did not wish to engage in conversation; if tourists set foot on the harbour crewmen would disappear below deck till they had gone.
And then there were the reporters, photographers and TV crews. Not that they couldn’t be dealt with, but they were an added nuisance, an irritation. In the wider fishing community where other boats and crews had been lost over the years, lessons on the need to contain the media had been learned the hard way, so one of the first things that had been done was to appoint someone from the Seamen’s Mission to be the exclusive spokesman for the families. That, however, didn’t stop the reporters from trying for a word or a photo that no one else had; no amount of organisation and controlled information would ever do that. In a larger harbour, where a lost crew might be known only by sight, someone would undoubtedly have talked to the press, but Acarsaid was small enough for everyone to feel bereaved. Sorley Mor, Sorley Og, Stamp, Pete, Eric and Stevie were part of their lives, and those who weren’t family even ten times removed still felt their loss as keenly as if they were. So anyone approached for information simply looked the asker in the eye and lied. They denied that they had ever set eyes on the crew, couldn’t even say what colour the boat had been and had no idea where the families lived, a tactic that discouraged all but the most determined – though unfortunately there were more than enough of those.
At MacEwan’s Row on the day following the sinking, the talk was of what to do next. Dougie Nicolson had taken the lead. Normally agents tried very hard to stay out of these events, but this was different, not least because his sister was involved, but partly, too, because Dougie was able to do it when no one else could. He had organised for all the widows and families, apart from Stevie’s in Fife and Eric’s in Glasgow, to be brought together at Chrissie’s house with Father Mick and Gannet; he was anxious to get everything in order before the press hunted them down. The Wanderer, he explained to them, was lying near enough to shore and in water that divers could work in. The insurers had already had a team go down to find the boat and attach a line. The insurers had to carry out investigations anyway, and the divers had reported back that they thought it might be possible to retrieve the bodies. It would be difficult, but they were willing to try, and the insurers, to their credit, had agreed to underwrite the extra cost, if that’s what the families wanted. What they now had to decide was whether they left their men with the boat on the bottom of the sea, or brought them home and buried them in the little cemetery high above Acarsaid.
It had always been tradition to leave the men with their boats, but times were changing. Technology, developed particularly for the oil industry, was leaving the old ways in its wake, and bodies were increasingly being retrieved from downed boats. In 1990 the Carradale fishing boat Antares had been snagged by her trawl-warps by a submarine engaged in NATO exercises and dragged under off the Ayrshire Coast, something that was happening more and more, though Navy policy was to deny everything unless there was absolute evidence that their sub had been involved. In the case of the Antares the Navy had been caught red-handed and, as a gesture of regret, had sent down divers to find the bodies of the four crewmen and return them to their families for burial.
From then on the possibility of retrieval had raised questions about the tradition of leaving the men with their sunken boats, and in 1997 the widows of four men lost with the Sapphire off Peterhead decided that they wanted them brought home too. Parts of the fishing community were totally against it – many fishermen themselves were known to be opposed to it – but the Sapphire had gone down close enough to their home harbour for a lifting barge to reach her. When the Labour Government refused to cover the estimated cost of £250,000, the widows had launched a public appeal f
or donations. Bad weather caused delays, and the cost rose to £600,000, but the extra money was quickly raised from a public appalled by the treatment the widows had received, and their men were duly brought home. So it was not only technically possible for the Wanderer’s crew to be recovered, but feelings within communities were changing. Even so, as Dougie told the families that Monday morning, they had to make the decision quickly. He was aware that few wanted or were able to make it, and he wasn’t surprised that at first no one said anything. It was only twenty-four hours since the boat had gone down, and less since the families had heard the news. The silence continued.
‘What do you think, Gannet?’ Chrissie asked eventually.
Gannet didn’t reply.
‘You’re as much family here as anyone,’ Chrissie said gently. ‘As far as I’m concerned your opinion on bringing Sorley Mor home is as valid as mine or his daughters’. The girls haven’t arrived yet, so I’ll speak for them.’ Rose was sitting at the far end of the couch apart from the others, holding tightly to her brother’s hand. ‘And you too Rose, do you agree?’ Chrissie asked.
Rose nodded without looking up. The event had over-whelmed her and she still didn’t believe any of it was happening; she felt that just being here, discussing these things, was an act of betrayal.
‘It’s difficult,’ Gannet said at last. ‘I’ve always believed the crew should stay with the boat, but I think if the families want them home, and they can be brought home, then they should be. Sorley Mor would’ve said exactly the same thing, I know that. He had no time for superstitions or daft traditions: everyone knows that. We never once discussed what we would like if it happened to ourselves. You just don’t, because you never think there’s any chance it will happen to you. It always happens to someone else, doesn’t it? But he admired the Sapphire women and damned and blasted the government for refusing to bring their men home. In fact, as everyone knows, he went on about it till we all threatened to hit him.’ He stopped talking and smiled sadly. ‘I know he’d say the same as me. If you and the girls want him home, Chrissie, then that’s what should happen.’
‘That’s good enough for me,’ Chrissie said quietly. ‘I want him to have a decent burial here at home; the girls will agree.’
One by one, those who could gave their painful, halting thoughts on the matter, for and against; the fathers, the mothers and the new widows.
‘I want my child to know where Pete is,’ said Alison Kerr quietly. ‘I want to have a place where we can go together and talk to him. This baby, whether it’s a boy or a girl, that’s the only chance they’ll have of talking to him. I don’t want to point to the sea and say, “He’s somewhere out there.” ’
‘I want Sorley Og home,’ Rose said simply. ‘I don’t want to discuss this any more. I want Sorley Og home.’
Then came the question of who should travel to Denmark to identify the bodies. The relatives winced as one. It seemed that they were being rushed from one horror to another, without having any time to come to terms with the disaster that had befallen them and their families. They were still struggling to absorb the fact that their men were dead – there was no one in the room who was truly expecting never to see them again, never to hear their voices – yet there was Dougie Nicolson, behaving like a businessman and matter-of-factly going over an agenda. Father Mick saw their looks and felt their pain.
‘I know how bad this is for everyone,’ he said gently, ‘please believe me, I do. I can’t think too deeply about it at the moment without losing all control. Like you, I don’t believe it yet. I can’t, I don’t want to, but these things have to be attended to; practical things have to be done. I’ve known this lad,’ he looked at Dougie, ‘I should say, this man, nearly all of his life, and I have to tell you that in these past hours I’ve looked at him with new and admiring eyes.’
Dougie shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable.
‘He’s feeling this too,’ Father Mick continued, ‘you must all know that, in your hearts, but he has some God-given ability the rest of us don’t have, to keep going, to keep thinking straight in what is the worst disaster this village has ever experienced. We must try not to resent the speed with which he’s moving. He’s doing it for all of us and, I suspect, at great emotional expense to himself. We must help him do what has to be done.’
There was another long, heavy silence as first one pair of eyes, then another settled on Gannet until everyone was looking at him. Gannet looked up, shocked, then shook his head.
‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I have to look after Chrissie.’
‘It’s OK,’ Dougie said, still embarrassed and clearly near to tears at Father Mick’s intervention on his behalf. ‘I wasn’t asking for volunteers and I wouldn’t ask you to do this, Gannet,’ he said. ‘I was going to say, if no one objects, that I’d do it.’ He looked around the room. ‘If this is something anyone else feels they should do, please say so. I’m not trying to usurp anyone’s position, I just felt it might be easier on everyone if I did it.’
From around the room came a murmur of agreement.
Dougie hesitated. ‘I know this is difficult for all of you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’m sorry if I come over as not caring. I’m trying to get all of this done without giving myself time to feel it. There will be more than enough time for that later.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Father Mick’s right, though, we have to get these things sorted now because it will be easier in the long run. I don’t want the press bothering anyone, and the Mission will be handling that side of things, so there’s no reason why they should bother you, but if they do, let the Mission know. Unless anyone specially wants to talk to the press?’
He looked round the room; everyone shook their heads vigorously.
‘I need to know if you want to handle funeral arrangements individually or if you trust me to handle them all on your behalf?’
At the mention of the funerals there was a spontaneous outbreak of quiet weeping, and Dougie lowered his head.
‘I think you can take it, Dougie,’ Father Mick said, ‘that everyone would be grateful if you would handle it on their behalf.’
Dougie nodded. ‘I’ll keep in close touch with all of you,’ he said. ‘So will the Mission and Father Mick here. I promise nothing will be done without keeping you informed. If anyone else contacts you and tells you things or asks questions, refer them to one of us, and if you have anything you want to say or ask, call us at any time.’
As they were leaving, Rose looked at Alison Kerr. The thought suddenly struck her that the baby the girl was carrying would be born without a father, with a father lost to the sea, as Rose had herself. She reached out and put her arms round Alison.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m OK, Rose – or, not OK exactly, but, well, you know. And you?’
Rose nodded. ‘The same. I was thinking of the baby.’
‘Oh, I’m not going to lose this!’ Alison said firmly, putting a hand on her stomach. ‘I know everyone is afraid that I might, with the shock and everything, but I won’t, I bloody well won’t!’
The two young women laughed, then immediately cried.
‘It’s all I have left of him,’ Alison wept quietly. ‘I’m not sure I’ll survive, mind you, but I’ll make sure his baby does!’
‘And we’ll tell the baby about Pete, all of us,’ Rose wept with her. ‘Everybody has such good memories of him, we’ll all talk to the baby about him and keep him alive that way.’
Chrissie watched the two young women clinging together. Wiping her eyes, she turned to Gannet. ‘Look at the two of them,’ she cried. ‘The poor lassies! They’ve had no time at all with their men. At least I had all those years with Sorley Mor, all those memories to look back on.’
As Dougie was leaving, he turned to Father Mick. ‘By the way, I didn’t appreciate that,’ he smiled quietly.
‘What was that, Dougie?’ the priest asked.
‘This ability you say I have. It’s not God-given at all, it’s
all my own work!’
Father Mick laughed gently. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Pig shit, I remember!’
22
As the press arrived, details about the circumstances of the Wanderer’s sinking were filtering through. She had been making for port and the freighter had noticed her seven miles away, but as the Wanderer was on the freighter’s right, the freighter had right of way and the lookout expected the Wanderer’s lookout to take note and alter course. The Wanderer kept on her original course, though, and the freighter didn’t even sound a warning whistle till collision was inevitable. The question was why the Wanderer hadn’t altered course when her lookout would have been able to see a freighter three times her size on a bright, clear morning, so all attention focused on the subject of lookouts. The inference was that there wasn’t one aboard the Wanderer. In Acarsaid this was greeted with indignation and disbelief. Sorley Mor was the most disciplined, safety-conscious skipper in the industry, everyone knew that; his crew were of the best and had been with him many years and his boat met every safety and operational requirement. The suggestion that there was no lookout was an insult, nothing less, and, furthermore, it was a slur on the integrity of a dead man who could not give his side of it.
‘They can say anything they want,’ Gannet told Father Mick as they sat in a subdued Inn, ‘and that’s the truth of it. It doesn’t matter what story surfaces, it will be one-sided and always will be, but I will not believe that Sorley Mor or any of the crew deliberately endangered the Wanderer.’ He looked around. ‘And no man had better suggest it.’
All around heads nodded in agreement; a slur against Sorley Mor would not be tolerated by anyone.
In the village the mood was still one of shock, as if a large black cloud had descended out of that bright, clear, Sunday morning and settled on the entire area, seeping into every crevice, enveloping Acarsaid in pain and grief and sealing any escape route. The tragedy occupied the thoughts and actions of everyone, and when villagers met in the streets they would lock eyes and see reflections of their own feelings. There was little talk; there was nothing to say and no words anyway to describe the loss. Everyone waited for news from Dougie, waited for something they could do, something that could move their minds on from the awful, raw emotion they couldn’t see beyond. They fended off the press as best they could: a united front against intruders, they made sure in quiet ways that the families were protected, and they waited some more.
The Last Wanderer Page 32