‘Chrissie’s looking after him,’ Rose explained. ‘He hurt his shoulder and he’s got his arm in a sling, so he can’t do very much for himself. That’s why he didn’t go on the trip.’
‘How did that happen?’ the old woman asked.
‘He fell off the table when he was drunk,’ Rose laughed gently. ‘Dislocated his shoulder.’
Granny Ina laughed too, then immediately wept again.
‘Did no one tell you?’
‘Maybe they did,’ Granny Ina said. ‘These days I don’t remember things too clearly. Tell the big man I was asking for him, will you?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘I’ve always had a soft spot for Gannet. He’s a good man, you know; a better man than he’s ever known.’
‘You really do have a soft spot for him if you think that,’ Rose teased her.
‘He’s always made me laugh.’ Granny Ina nodded, managing a short smile. ‘And Chrissie and her lassies as well?’ she said anxiously. ‘You’ll tell Chrissie and her lassies too?’
‘And Chrissie and her lassies as well,’ Rose smiled.
They buried Sorley Og beside his father that Friday. Once again Father Mick spoke from the heart about the boy he had known all his life, the boy he had christened. He had hoped that after marrying him to Rose little more than a year ago that he would in due course christen Sorley Og’s bairns. Father Mick smiled sadly.
‘He made me stay sober on his wedding day, then said he wasn’t sure it had been a good idea after all, that he hadn’t realised till then that he’d never seen me without one in me before and he wasn’t sure he liked me after all.’ The congregation laughed quietly. ‘He even made me shave with an electric razor so that I wouldn’t look like a tinker,’ he said with a sad smile, ‘but he also brought me a half-bottle of the precious Islay Mist, so his heart was in the right place, as I always knew. This week I have presided at the funeral rites of my dearest friends, my family, dearer than my own blood relatives. Watching Sorley Og growing up all these years, so like his father, I often regretted I would never have a son like him. Priestly vows of chastity are stupid, if you want my honest opinion, but I gave up any hopes of being Pope years ago, so it doesn’t matter if anyone quotes me. I used to tell Sorley Og that I thought priests should be allowed to marry and he’d say, “What are you talking about? Nothing of woman born would ever have anything to do with you anyway!” It was his favourite insult. He paid me the great compliment of cheeking me as if I was his father, not his priest, and every time I looked at him he made me wish I could have been a real father instead of just a professional one. That’s what he was, the son I never had, and I never told him. I should have, but I thought I would have years and years to embarrass him with shows of affection. Now I’ll always regret that I didn’t tell him, and I can see Gannet, his other father, nodding his head in agreement.’ He paused for a long moment.
‘I’ve used many words this week to say the same thing,’ he told the mourners wearily, ‘but I don’t think I have done any of the lads justice. They deserve better than I’ve been able to give; my only excuse is that they are too close to me and I’m in too much pain myself to give them farewells full of eloquence and word imagery. I can think of little to add: like everyone here I just want to get today over to find out if I can face tomorrow, and all the tomorrows without them. What else is there to say? That we loved these men, that what happened to them wasn’t fair, that we wish there was some court of appeal to reverse the tragedy that befell them, that befell all of us, and that we will miss them forever. If I have left gaps you must fill them in by yourselves, though I believe I have said nothing but the truth.
‘When the decision was taken earlier this year to get out of the fishing and sell the boat, Sorley Mor said to me that it would be the last Wanderer. I told him at the time that he wasn’t strictly correct. The MacEwan boats were called Ocean Wanderer because the name Sorley meant Summer Wanderer so, even though the boat had gone from Acarsaid and the fishing industry beyond, there would still be Wanderers here, because we would still have Sorleys. Now we are here today to bury the last Sorley, the last Wanderer; maybe I shouldn’t have tempted fate – and you can just hear Sorley Mor chiding me about being an old sweetie wife, can’t you? On the wall of Sorley Mor’s home and in the wheelhouse of Ocean Wanderer there was a framed quote called “The Sea”, a warning that there should be no error in the ships and the men who sailed in them, that we should send only our best or the sea would punish us. Sorley Mor loved it because he had such a healthy respect for the sea. He was of the opinion that it owed us nothing, and that those who earned their living on it must be on their mettle at all times. Well, we sent our best; we sent a boat and men with no error, and look what happened. I can’t explain that, I can’t understand it, I only wish I could.
‘When Sorley Og married Rose last year you were all here and saw the boy kissing me. All I can say now, as I have the painful task for all of us of sending him to a premature grave at such a ridiculously young age, is, “Go to rest, my boy, my beloved son, as we return the compliment; all of our love and our kisses go with you.” ’
For Rose it was more unreal than when the whole saga had begun less than two weeks before. Something told her that every day would bring more reality to an unbelievable situation, but it hadn’t; if anything every day was more bizarre. Her only request had been that Gavin, Sorley Og’s best friend, and her brother, Dougie, help to carry Sorley Og’s coffin. She knew Dougie had done so much for everyone and that he still felt some guilt at what had happened to his friendship with Sorley Og over the wedding: it was her way of making amends and of letting Dougie make his. Dougie had simply nodded his head when she suggested it, but as he took the weight of the coffin to carry Sorley Og out of the chapel, he whispered a request to the others to stop for a moment, because tears were hampering his vision and he had to regain some control to continue. It was only the second time Rose had ever seen him cry, and both times were for Sorley Og. Rose looked at Father Mick, who stepped forward, patted Dougie’s shoulder gently and whispered in his ear, ‘I meant to say, boy, do you have your umbrella with you today? Those damned pigs will be circling outside!’ Dougie smiled, straightened up and walked on with the others.
Rose sailed through it all, barely thinking, barely taking notice. Going down the aisle she couldn’t stop recalling her wedding day, but this time there were gaps, she realised, as she looked without intending to at the places where the crew had been. Stamp and Molly had been there; she wished now more than ever that she had stopped to hug Stamp that day. Eric and Marilyn had stood here, looking unnaturally theatrical beside Pete and Alison, who would marry here six short months later. She looked down, trying not to exchange glances with the congregation.
She passed her mother and, looking her straight in the eye, wondered how she could be so impassive. Margo had made no attempt of her own to be with Rose since this had happened – not that Rose wanted or expected her to, but it still seemed strange. And there were Sally and Alan, his face showing the grief he was feeling for his dancing cousin, and feeling responsible, she knew, because he had brought Eric to Acarsaid and to Ocean Wanderer. Like everyone else his mind would be full of so many torturous ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’. Remembering how she hadn’t hugged Stamp on her wedding day, she stopped briefly and hugged Alan before following the cortège out.
At the cemetery the widows held hands, once again shielded from the media pack, and then it was over, though in other ways only just beginning. That evening she refused all invitations and offers of company and sat in darkness by the window in her own home, as she had done so often. Here she was, the end house on the end of MacEwan’s Row on the end of a road that was itself an acknowledged dead end; fitting, she thought, as she was contemplating the end of her life. Nothing mattered any longer; life was meaningless. In the background the phone kept ringing. As the answer-machine picked up each call she would hear little one-sided conversations taking p
lace in the distance. Dougie had been right; the press had all the information they needed, but they still wanted something extra, and the more the families ignored the calls, the more calls came. As the phone rang again she moved to the machine and listened.
‘Mrs MacEwan,’ said a strange male voice, ‘I’m from the—’
Suddenly enraged, Rose picked up the receiver. ‘What do you want?’ she shouted angrily. ‘Tell me, in God’s name what is it that you want?’
There was a pause. ‘I’ve been told by my editor to ask if you’ll do an interview, Mrs MacEwan,’ the voice said.
‘That doesn’t answer my question!’ Rose shouted shrilly. ‘What is it that you actually want? Not just you, but all of you. Tell me, please, because I honestly don’t know!’
The voice paused again and she heard a sigh. ‘To be perfectly honest, Mrs MacEwan, I don’t know what the hell we want. Oh, I know what, I suppose, but not why.’
‘Well, tell me what you do know, then.’
‘We want you to cry, Mrs MacEwan, that’s the bottom line.’
‘And you think I haven’t?’
‘We want a picture of you showing all your distress for the edification of the entire nation, that’s what we want.’
‘Why?’
‘In the hope that a pathetic, heart-tugging picture or two will entice people who don’t normally do so to buy our paper, then our transiently interested readers can view it over their breakfasts before they move on to the crossword. But why, now that’s what I don’t know,’ said the man wearily. ‘I’m passing on the request because I’ve been told to and I have a mortgage and a family to keep, and if I don’t do it, someone else will. Lousy reasons, but they’re the only ones I have.’
Rose didn’t reply at first. ‘Look, Mr whoever you are, and don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. I’m standing here in the dark trying to work out if I’ll go on living, because everything I had to live for has gone. If I had something to end it with at this moment, I would. Can you understand that? What possible difference could that make to anyone outside Acarsaid?’
‘None. They’d read it, feel sorry in a kind of detached way, and that would be that.’
‘So why are you here? It keeps coming back to that. Haven’t you seen enough shock and grief in this village to fill all the column inches you need?’
‘Yes, and more on top,’ said the man. ‘The whole thing is cruel and sick, you’re absolutely right. I’ve been here since the news broke, I know how much we’ve intruded on the relatives and the village; not even a journalist could be left in any doubt about how this place has been affected. We’re only talking about six men, but given the reaction it seems like a hundred. It’s as if the village had been wiped out. Maybe that’s what keeps us here: the grief is tangible and, to put it bluntly, it makes good copy. Anyone who gets you to say what you’ve just said would get a pat on the back because, as I say, it might sell a few more papers, especially if we get a photo of you looking grief-stricken. That’s how it works.’
‘They were special men,’ Rose protested. ‘That’s why the village is the way it is.’
‘I know they were, they always are, but here more than most, for some reason.’
‘But you’re only interested in multiples, aren’t you? If it had been one man you wouldn’t have bothered. It has to be a group before you take any notice,’ she said bitterly. ‘Men die in the fishing every day with barely a mention, but their deaths are every bit as valid as the deaths of our men.’
‘You’re right, I’m not denying it, and it makes no sense to me either. With respect, Mrs MacEwan, no one outside the fishing industry will care one way or the other about the Wanderer and her crew. As for people living in the cities, they won’t remember the boat’s name in six months’ time. They’ll read about it in their morning papers, then turn the page and never give it another thought.’
‘So why are you here, pestering us like this?’
‘Damned if I know,’ the man said sadly. ‘It makes no sense, but this is how these events have been covered over the years, and so it still goes on, mindlessly.’ There was a long silence. ‘Mrs MacEwan,’ he said eventually, ‘I’ve passed on the crass request I was asked to pass on, and you’ve declined. That’s official, OK? As far as I’m concerned, the matter’s ended, and everything we’ve said is off the record. I won’t be pestering you again, but please take my advice: do not be tempted to lift the phone again. However angry you feel, and you have every right to feel it, leave the answer-machine on and ignore everything that isn’t family. Don’t react again, because in their minds you’ve cracked and they’ll never leave you alone once they’ve done that to you. We’ll all go away, we have short attention spans, something else will come along in your place.’
‘If this story is important enough to have you all camped out here for weeks, watching our every move, you would go that easily?’ Rose asked.
‘That’s how it is, Mrs MacEwan,’ said the voice. ‘You’re not important, the story isn’t important, other than because it might sell a few more newspapers, and I’m not convinced about that. Some other human tragedy will come along in a few days that might sell even more papers, and we’ll desert you and sit outside someone else’s door.’
‘It’s not much of a job, is it?’
‘You’re probably right,’ the voice laughed quietly, ‘but neither is fishing. Why the hell they do it I don’t know. Harassing decent human beings might not be the finest occupation a man can have, but it beats being drowned at sea fishing for pet food, don’t you think?’ The voice paused. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that as it probably sounded. I just mean that it’s been such a waste. We’ve been sitting here watching your lives, your community fall apart, and we’ve all been saying the same thing: what a lousy bloody reason to lose your life.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Rose said. ‘It wasn’t quite that simple, but that’s what it comes down to. They go out there to catch fish, for human or animal consumption, it really doesn’t matter which, and they die doing it. It’s so … so …’
‘Disproportionate,’ the voice supplied.
‘Yes, I suppose that’s it. Do you have any connection with the fishing?’ she asked.
The voice laughed. ‘No, but I grew up with a mother who always thought about the fishermen on stormy nights, and argued with people who complained about the price of fish. I’d stand beside her in fish shops in the heart of the city and cringe, knowing she would pick up on the slightest complaint and tell everyone within earshot that the real cost was the lives of the men who went out in all weathers to catch our supper. She had no connection with the fishing either, she never travelled out of Glasgow in her entire life, but she always fought the fishermen’s corner. I’ve no idea why she felt so strongly. Maybe she’d read about a sinking once in a newspaper and it had stuck with her,’ he chuckled softly, ‘or maybe I’m making excuses because I feel guilty at annoying you. Anyway, she passed a little of it on. The things you retain from childhood, I suppose. They do say you never forget what you take in with your mother’s milk.’ He sighed. ‘Now, do as I told you, don’t answer any more phone calls. OK?’
‘OK, and … and thank you,’ Rose said uncertainly. ‘I … I don’t even know your name.’
‘As you said, you don’t want to, it isn’t important.’
‘Where exactly are you?’
‘Sitting on your doorstep, where else? But I’m going now and I promise you I won’t be back. All the best, Mrs MacEwan. My sincere condolences for your loss. Goodbye.’
Rose replaced the receiver, quickly crossed to the front door, and opened it just in time to see a car pulling away in the light summer darkness, an anonymous arm waving a slow farewell from the driver’s window.
24
In the aftermath of losing Ocean Wanderer and her crew, Acarsaid withdrew into itself, trying to adapt, to redraw the map of village life, of its own world, much as Rose and the other widows and families were trying to do. Wha
t made this doubly difficult was that the people who had gone were so much part of the place’s identity. While Sorley Mor was alive the possibility of losing him would never have entered the villagers’ collective consciousness, because it was truly unthinkable. It was only after the sinking that they would look at each other and say, ‘You know, I can’t think of anything as bad as this, can you?’ and exchange sad, shocked shakes of the head.
He would have gone in the fullness of time, of course, but he would have done so gradually, as old Ina Hamilton was doing. As the years went on, some of the villagers would have looked at him and perhaps mentioned that Sorley Mor was getting on a bit, that he was driving or, more likely, getting Sorley Og to drive him and Gannet to MacEwan’s Row from the Inn, because the long hike up was becoming too much for them. They would have looked at the pair of them and smiled at the memory of them in their prime, slightly unsteady on their feet and arguing as they went along, the skipper accusing his first mate of treason, mutiny, or anything else he could think of, for disagreeing with him or reminding him of past misdemeanours he wished not to remember. And the older ones would have told the younger ones that they would never see a skipper like him in their lifetime, a man who liked the odd drink ashore, who loved to laugh, who was a decent man; but how once aboard Ocean Wanderer there was no stricter skipper; no man ever took the sea more seriously than Sorley Mor.
And then there would have been a slow and, hopefully, long decline as he and Gannet became old men, then older men, then passed on into village history and mythology. By the time they were no longer to the fore of village life, though, others would have taken a greater part. It was as natural and inevitable as the tides ebbing and flowing, so that their passing would be a sad event, but part of the natural order. Sorley Og would have become Sorley Mor, and he and Rose would have had their own Sorley to attach ‘Og’ to. The torch would have been passed on, and the villagers would have looked at the boy and remarked on how like his grandfather he was, even if he wasn’t.
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