Pearl Fishers

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘In a church?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will he have to go to college?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I think he said October.’

  Morag counted the months on her fingers. ‘July, August, September, October. What will we do then?’

  ‘I expect we’ll be long gone by then.’

  They set the table, using Hamilton’s china delftware and steel cutlery. He had given permission. Make yourselves at home, he had said.

  They had never really had a home. You couldn’t call a temporary campsite home.

  ‘Are you friends with Mr Hamilton now, Effie?’ Morag asked.

  ‘I hope so, love.’

  ‘The children look half-starved, Effie,’ he had said. ‘Feed them well.’

  So it was the best breakfast Eddie had ever had: porridge, ham and eggs, toast, and milk to drink. He ate everything.

  Morag had to be coaxed to eat. She had little appetite.

  ‘If she doesn’t perk up, we’ll have to take her to a doctor,’ Gavin had said.

  Effie’s greatest concern was that Morag might become dangerously ill.

  It seemed that Gavin was anxious too.

  It brought them close.

  After making sure that the kitchen was as tidy as they could make it, they set off for the sands, Morag in her new blue dress with a blue ribbon in her hair, Eddie in his smart new shorts and new red jersey with a white collar, and Effie in her red dress; underneath it she wore her black swimming costume. She loved swimming.

  Mrs Williamson had been invited but she preferred to stay in the house, to look after her father, she said, but really to sit by the window, looking out for Daniel.

  Eddie was carrying the ball, Morag the bucket and spade.

  At the gate they met a family: father and mother, a girl, and a boy. The girl, about Morag’s age, had a dog on a lead.

  ‘Do you live here?’ asked the woman. She was English.

  ‘Yes,’ said Effie.

  ‘Is it all right if we go in and have a look?’

  Effie spoke primly. ‘Yes, but please don’t forget to shut the gate. The horses might wander onto the road.’

  It wasn’t likely. The two old horses were enjoying the rest and the lush grass.

  ‘This is the Old Manse, isn’t it?’ said the woman.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s a rose garden, we were told. Visitors are welcome, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. We’ll keep Judy on her leash.’

  Effie and the children went on towards the sands.

  ‘Do we really live here, Effie?’ asked Morag.

  ‘We slept here last night, didn’t we? We’re going to sleep here tonight. So of course we live here.’

  ‘Yes, but I think they thought the house was ours.’

  There were already several families on the sands.

  Effie and the children were observed with interest, because they were speaking Gaelic and because Effie with her happy laughter was very attractive.

  As enthusiastic as a child herself she played football with Eddie, helped Morag to build a sandcastle, and raced them both, giving them big head starts, and letting Eddie win.

  People laughed at how gleeful the little boy was at his victory.

  ‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’ said Effie.

  They waited, eagerly. Effie often gave them surprises.

  ‘Do you see that little island?’

  It was about a quarter of a mile offshore.

  ‘I’m going to swim to it.’

  Morag was doubtful. ‘It’s too far, Effie.’

  ‘Effie’s swum further than that,’ said Eddie.

  ‘You don’t have to do it,’ said Morag.

  ‘Yes, pet, I do.’

  Even as a child Effie had felt compelled to set herself tests.

  Morag was puzzled. ‘Why do you have to?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’ Years later, perhaps.

  Effie took off her dress and then, in her black swimming costume, ran into the water. She would have to wade a good fifty yards before it was deep enough for her to dive in.

  ‘Can you speak English?’ asked a man nearby. ‘What’s your sister doing?’

  ‘She’s swimming to the island.’ Morag pointed.

  ‘Will she be all right? Has she done it before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ said the man’s wife. ‘She’s a big strong girl.’

  Effie was pretending that Gavin Hamilton was on the island, waiting for her.

  Fourteen

  HAMILTON WAS thinking hard about his relationship with Effie and her family.

  He was reluctant to call his offering them the use of his field a mistake; it had been necessary, an act of humanity; but perhaps his inviting them into his house had been impulsive and over-zealous. He had not taken time to consider their feelings. Effie’s accusation that he was trying to take away what pride they had left had been unfair, but from her point of view it was justified. She had realised the price that they, she especially, would have to pay when, inevitably, after only a few days of spacious rooms and high ceilings, they would have to go back to crawling in and out of low, grimy tents. Moreover, he had in front of him the invidious task of telling them they had to leave. He might have to get Sheila McTeague to do it for him. She would take Effie aside and explain the situation. Effie wasn’t stupid; she would understand. She was proud too and wouldn’t want to stay where she wasn’t wanted or rather where she knew there could be no place for her.

  He was not sure what the effect of their being sent away would have on him. He was already fond of the two children and they of him. As for Effie he not only had respect for her, he also felt some affection.

  The affair of the tramp and the pay packet should have been a lesson to him. There was no virtue in being kind to people if in doing so you humiliated them. He would never forget the old tramp weeping and yelling abuse at him.

  He hoped he would not have similar memories of Effie.

  ‘What you need, Gavin,’ Sheila McTeague had said, tartly, ‘is a wife like Fiona McDonald. She would see to it you didn’t take your Christianity too seriously.’

  Daughter of a minister, niece of a moderator, and sister of a minister, Fiona had been brought up to look upon undue zeal as no better than bad manners. Respectability and good sense were the hallmarks of a Christian gentleman. Christians had to be charitable but only to those who deserved it and would appreciate it. If Gavin wanted to succeed as a minister he would do well to heed Fiona’s advice. He had once confessed to Sheila and Hugh that it was his ambition to take part in, perhaps to lead, a crusade to convert the Church of Scotland into a pacifist organisation, as it ought to be. Fiona’s cold common sense would quickly quench that particular passion.

  Though he was never seen to offer her any encouragement it was assumed by most of the congregation that she would have him in the end. That she was ten years older than he, had no figure to speak of, and was very prudish, would not matter; it would be the least physical of marriages.

  To those sceptical about such a marriage ever taking place it was pointed out that Miss Fiona must love him in her own peculiar way, and as for Hamilton he was well aware of the advantages of marrying her. Not only did she have influential church connections, she had also been left a good deal of money.

  Fifteen

  SHEILA MCTEAGUE had not gone to church that morning. She had been busy looking out cast-off clothing. It amounted to a goodly bundle: dresses for the little girl, shorts and shirts for the little boy, slacks, blouses and underwear for the young woman.

  Hugh looked on, with a frown.

  ‘You think I should give them to the charity shop?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but you will have to be careful not to hurt their feelings, especially the young woman’s.’

  ‘Heavens, Hugh, she’s just a tinker girl. Don’t they scroung
e and beg their way through life?’

  ‘No, they do not. They work very hard. That girl has got more pride and self-respect than many a titled lady.’

  Sheila had to laugh. ‘Don’t exaggerate. How many titled ladies do you know?’

  ‘You’re going to get a surprise when you meet her.’

  ‘You’re making me jealous!’

  In the car Sheila gave some last instructions to her own two children.

  ‘Remember these people haven’t been as fortunate as we have. They don’t live in houses. They live in tents. They’re very poor. They start work as soon as they can walk.’

  ‘What kind of work?’ asked Ian.

  ‘They fish for pearls in ice-cold rivers. They lift potatoes in frosty fields. They help at harvest time.’

  ‘Why have they come here? There aren’t any pearls in the Kilcalmonell burn.’

  ‘There’s an old man who’s dying. His family were buried here eighty years ago. He wants to be buried beside them.’

  ‘Are they foreigners?’

  ‘No, they’re Scottish, like us. They speak Gaelic; well, a kind of Gaelic.’

  ‘Can they speak English?’

  ‘I think so. Yes.’

  Deirdre so far had said nothing. It wouldn’t matter to her if the tinkers were poor and dirty. She had other criteria.

  They arrived at the Old Manse gate.

  Sheila got out and opened it. She heard a little boy screaming. It was a high-pitched, happy scream.

  He was playing football with his big sister in the field behind the house. Effie was running about with the natural grace that had so impressed Hugh and the men at the hut.

  The McTeagues got out of the car.

  ‘I see what you mean, Hugh,’ whispered Sheila. ‘She’s quite beautiful.’

  Effie came running to greet them. ‘Hello. Gavin’s not back yet. I don’t think he’ll be long. I’m Effie. This is Morag, and this is Eddie.’

  ‘I’m Sheila and this is my husband Hugh. I think you’ve already met. This is Deirdre and this is Ian.’

  ‘My mother’s upstairs keeping my grandfather company.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s very ill.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he be in hospital?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to die in a hospital.’

  Suddenly Deirdre went forward without a word and embraced Effie.

  Effie was a little embarrassed but very pleased.

  Sheila felt very proud of her ten-year-old daughter.

  Here was no sluttish, scheming would-be seducer. In that respect this girl was as innocent as Gavin. Her eyes were the colour of beech leaves in autumn. They were honest and intelligent.

  Did Gavin realise what a treasure he had here?

  There was the merest hint of coarseness, which was no wonder, considering the harshness of her life.

  They heard a car coming up to the house. It was Hamilton’s. He parked it alongside the McTeagues’. He got out with an eagerness not quite in keeping with his Sunday suit.

  He went straight to Effie. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. Did you have lunch?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Effie swam to the island,’ said Eddie, proudly.

  ‘What island?’ asked Hamilton, alarmed.

  Eddie pointed. ‘They all clapped.’

  ‘There are dangerous currents in the loch,’ said Hamilton, ‘and it’s a good half mile there and back. What possessed you, Effie?’

  She laughed. ‘Maybe, one day, I’ll tell you.’

  She had already found the right attitude to adopt towards him: that of a younger sister, frank, friendly, humorous, a wee bit cheeky, and with absolutely no sexual allure.

  He was still trying to find a satisfactory attitude to her.

  Towards the two children he was like an affectionate uncle.

  Sheila had never liked him more than she did now. There was not a trace of his exasperating self-righteousness.

  ‘Would you like tea?’ asked Effie. ‘I’ve set the table in the big room.’

  Sheila was amused. Good for you, Effie, she thought. Previously when she and Hugh had tea with Gavin it had been in the kitchen. The big room with its expensive furniture was reserved for visitors like Fiona McDonald.

  ‘You don’t mind, Gavin?’ said Effie.

  ‘Of course not.’

  Fiona and her friends would have been shocked at what they would have called the impudence of the girl. They would have refused her naive hospitality as hurtfully as they could.

  ‘It’s just fairy cakes and biscuits,’ said Effie.

  The big round mahogany table had a white cloth spread over it. The dishes were Gavin’s bone china, which had come from the Big House.

  Effie had probably never drunk out of a bone-china cup in her life. Bashed tinnies would have been what she was accustomed to.

  It occurred to Sheila that though Effie was laughing and apparently enjoying her role as hostess it must be a great strain and she would suffer for it later.

  Eddie had an opinion to express. He did it boldly, with his mouth full of fairy cake.

  ‘Mr Hamilton’s the second best person in the world. Effie’s the best.’

  ‘You’re a wee blether,’ said Effie.

  When tea was over Sheila asked Hugh to bring in the suitcase containing the clothes. It was her turn to be under a strain. She would never forgive herself if she caused this girl any distress.

  Hugh put the suitcase on the kitchen table.

  ‘Now you two go for a walk,’ she said.

  She opened the suitcase. ‘These are some clothes we’ve grown out of. These trousers,’ – she held them up – ‘are too tight for me now.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs McTeague,’ said Effie.

  ‘Please call me Sheila.’

  Effie smiled but wasn’t sure.

  Eddie, in a smart-looking jacket, strutted about importantly.

  Morag had picked up a dress, red with white dots.

  ‘Say thank you to Mrs McTeague,’ said Effie.

  Eddie said it cockily, Morag shyly.

  Ian thought he might have left something in a pocket of the jacket. ‘Maybe a marble.’

  ‘You’re being stupid, Ian,’ said Deirdre.

  Eddie searched all the pockets. ‘There’s nothing.’

  What could have been awkward had been made easy by the two small boys.

  ‘I’d like to give you something,’ said Effie.

  ‘There’s no need, Effie.’

  How could people so poor have anything to give?

  ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  Effie hurried out and was soon back, with the Oxo cube tin in her hand.

  Sheila wondered what it could be, and prepared herself to give thanks for some cheap trinket Effie had found in exchange for her hand-me-downs.

  She opened the tin, drew breath. Deirdre clamoured for her to lower the tin so she too could see what was inside.

  ‘Oh, Effie. They’re beautiful. Simply wonderful.’ Two perfect little pearls sat side by side in the tin, held in place by a small piece of gold thread.

  Sheila looked at Deirdre and knew she would already be planning a necklace or a bracelet for each of them, determining exactly what kind of chain each little pearl would be hung on. Well, why not, she thought, and looked at Effie and the children in delight.

  Sixteen

  EFFIE AND Hamilton were having a quiet moment in the kitchen together. The McTeagues had left, and Effie felt she had had a small victory there. She was proud of the children too. They had got along so well with Deirdre and Ian. She felt sure she had seen the beginnings of real friendship between them.

  She was about to explain to Hamilton how happy and relieved she felt, when her mother came into the kitchen, greeted them briefly and told Hamilton that her father wanted to see him.

  Hamilton was feeling a little guilty that he hadn’t already made an effort to see the sick, lonely old man.

  ‘You too, Effie.’
>
  ‘I don’t want to see him.’

  Hamilton was surprised by Effie’s bitterness.

  ‘He wants to make me promise to marry Daniel Stewart.’

  ‘Why should he want you to marry a man nearly thirty years older than you?’

  ‘Because Daniel paid him.’

  ‘Now, Effie,’ said her mother, ‘you know that’s not why. You see, Mr Hamilton, Grandfather’s anxious that Effie stays one of us. She’s already run away once.’

  ‘And I’ll run away again.’

  ‘If she was to marry Daniel she’d have to stay, especially if she had a child by him.’

  Effie clutched Hamilton’s arm. ‘I want to tell you something.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Effie,’ cried her mother, ‘it’s family business and it happened long ago. Mr Hamilton’s not interested.’

  But Hamilton was interested. ‘What is it, Effie?’

  ‘On my fifteenth birthday they tried to trick me into marrying him. They didn’t tell me he was already married to a woman who’d run away from him. I think I was drugged. There was a kind of ceremony. They gave me a ring. They said I was married and I had to let him sleep with me. They brought him, my mother and my grandfather and two of their cronies, brought him to my tent in the middle of the night when I was asleep.’

  ‘God forgive us,’ cried her mother, ‘we were all drunk.’

  ‘They tore off my clothes. They tried to help him to rape me.’

  ‘Rape? Christ, Effie, how could it be rape? We did it because we loved you, because we wanted you to be one of us.’

  Effie burst into tears. She clutched Hamilton’s arm. With her other hand she hid her face.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ cried her mother. ‘No harm was done. He couldn’t get near her. She was like a young tiger, scratching, and biting. I got a kick in the face. She’s always wanted, God knows why, to keep herself pure for the man she marries. It’s not such a precious thing, is it? If I had been like her she wouldn’t be here. Her father was a ploughboy in Ross-shire. He couldn’t have been any more than sixteen. I was even younger. He liked me, I liked him, he wanted it, so I let him have it. In a byre, among the beasts. I heard he was killed in the War.’