by Ian Stephen
Like the pollution in the Elbe. The powers in West Germany said it was all from the East.
Then there was one of those far-fetched chances that happens to be true. She was looking down on the paper I’d opened up, to wrap our own ling. Her hand went down to hold it open on a page. Neither of us had noticed it before. A proposed Superquarry bringing jobs to the Bays of Harris. To maximise the potential of the site, the resulting hole could be filled with harmless waste from Hamburg. As one bulk-carrier went seaward, taking high-grade anorthosite to the West German market, another would arrive to disperse low-grade industrial silt.
An efficient idea.
‘The Elbe is one of the most contaminated waters in Europe,’ she said. Protesters in Germany made an alliance from the Rhine to the Elbe. To show that their concern was not just the local issue.
So the industrial waste she had protested against might follow her around the fringes of the continent. All these traces of metals, the ones which induce cauliflower growths on eels. From the North Sea to the Little Minch.
Invasions usually cause some deaths. Organisms are attacked by aggressive others who have to establish themselves. Some people argue that beggars can’t be choosers. The Harris Tweed industry was seriously frayed and the fishing industry was in a terminal crisis.
We couldn’t live on fresh island air. But the plan to establish the largest quarry in Europe did not in fact go ahead. So there was no huge influx of either ballast water or landfill. And Gabriele went on to bring one additional new life to the Island.
Ordnance
I’d been accepted to train as a full-time Regular Coastguard Officer. We’d not long been offered the Coastguard house on Leverhulme Drive. We had a bairn on the way and I was earning a bit more than the Queen’s shilling. It was walking distance from the olaid’s new council house, where we’d shared the back room.
‘It’s no that your nae welcome but I dinna want to be on top o ye,’ she said. ‘And it could jist be that I’ve been used to hivin a wee bit space. I dinna mind yer Gabriele like.’
That’s the East Coaster’s way of showing love and affection.
I was working my way back into the town after the years of being back and fore. Wanting to be a part of its pulse.
‘What’s fresh?’
‘You’re seeing it. Yourself?’
We’d just met in town. The uncle took me for a dram in the Legion. He was grabbing his chance in case I went back to all that religious stuff. So it was a large Dewars and a half of Export. Each. That was his order. I had money in my pocket to ask for the same again.
I’d only recently re-started taking any alcohol. I knew I was out of practice but I remembered that there’s that point of no return. Like in love and affection. And it sometimes comes across you a bit suddenly. Like in love and affection. So we went out for a stroll after he’d topped up the drams again and we’d sunk those.
If we were seriously interested in the historical aspects of the town, we should go and have a look at the Opera House, Ruaraidh said.
‘The what?’
‘The South Beach pissoire.’ Maybe I was too young to have swilled hot whisky and cold beer, down the neck and then out against the wall. He’d spent a wee bit of his own life pissing against walls.
We walked to the end of the pedestrian precinct then risked a route across. Ignoring the indicators of fast Fords. Escorts now. They used to be Cortinas.
‘Cairo is the only other town where they drive like this.’
‘I’ve never been there,’ I told Ruaraidh, ‘but I’ve driven with someone who has.’
Then my uncle told me one more variation on the story of the guy who went to the gates of heaven.
This cove, a good Free Kirker all his life. He kicks it. He’s up the road at the gates waiting for St Peter to finish a yarn with the guy in front. It’s taking a hell of a time and the good man looks ahead and notices it’s a brown-skinned gentleman and they’re talking on and on, even though the cove’s already through the gate. He’s getting a bit impatient so he just says, ‘Scuse me, Peter, my friend, sorry to interrupt but, there’s just a wee formality here and then you can carry on with the old conversation.’
But Peter and the other guy are just blethering on so the Free Kirker says, ‘Now excuse me gentlemen but, I’ve been a paid up member all my life and hardly missed a service and I’ve borne witness and –’ ‘No, you excuse, me,’ says Peter. ‘I have a conversation to complete with this good man, Abdul.’
‘What’s so special about Abdul,’ the Free Kirker says, ‘that you can wave him through and yarn away all day and keep me hanging on out here?’
‘Since you ask,’ says Peter, ‘Abdul used to be a taxi driver in Cairo and he’s put the fear of God into a lot more people than you have.’
And in Cuba they keep the wide and long Oldsmobiles and Chevrolets on the road because they have nothing to replace them with, their wings shiny as in the days when Kennedys were Knights.
‘I watched a moon-landing in this town, no not a moon descending on the town. Hell, you know what I mean, Ruaraidh. Squeezed it in between cycling back from Holm, me and Kenny, with tails of mackerel, haddock and flounder beating a song in our spokes. Staying with you guys for the summer. You let me watch BBC2. They got Pink Floyd to do space age music. We called it Underground. While we looked to the heavens. No wonder so many people’s grannies still believed the whole thing was set up in a studio in London or Cape Kennedy.
‘We were all talking about how crazy it was with Biafra going on and then we all shut up when the footage happened. Think of that still from Glen’s Hasselblad.
‘Then, just a few days after the moonwalk, splashdown. And that was the day Senator Edward walked, on this earth, away from a drowning car sinking into Chappaquiddick. Mary Jo sank with it. Put to the Democratic-ish test, he was re-affirmed as the candidate. He won and his majority was only slightly down on ’64. The power of the Kennedy myth remained but the big dream of the dynasty was all over.’
‘Hell of a story to tell me when we’re trying to cross a road,’ Ruaraidh said. ‘Any road. But hell, this road?’
So the uncle and me were now two wanderers. OK, you’re supposed to say so and so and I. It doesn’t sound too good in the SY twang. All these years, all these teachers, good ones among them, and they never quite got me out of it.
One of the best of all was in the Clock School. We were a family in her classroom and you still nod to folk you recognise, in their greying hair. Frostiest time of the Cold War. Of course, we guys were still all Uri Gargarins. Did you know that our hero was 5ft 2ins tall, by the way?
The Opera House was still standing but only just, near Number Two Pier, across from the Weighbridge. A stink from the joined forces of whisky and ammonia still hung in the air around it. A stout wooden barrier bolted across the entrance. The Opera House was OUT OF ORDER.
‘See that gate,’ Ruaraidh said. ‘It would keep a herd of bloody elephants at bay. But that’s not enough. There has to be that sign as well. It says a lot, that additional KEEP OUT.’
We went to the café. Me and my mates all got banned from these in our day. They all changed their names as the next generation took over. Cabrelli’s became The Town House, Scaramouchie’s became The Coffee Pot.
The seat’s got to be where you can look out, see who’s going by, Ruaraidh reckoned. You flirt with muesli, revert to oatmeal porridge, not the flakes. But eggs are probably best. Two of them. Poached ones are all right but fried ones are better. He could remember when they were scarce.
‘The telephone’s a handy instrument, by the way,’ he said. ‘It’s a long peatbank. That was a hint, young man.’
One to cut and one to throw. It was great, swinging them to fall with an inch between each one and delicate thuds sounding out to say they were mostly landing fine.
As for the cutting, I hadn’t done too bad, once I started getting the iron closer in, flush to the wall of the bank. I must have had a good teacher
. Or else it was genetic. No disrespect but you could always recognise an incomer’s peatbank. Usually tried to re-invent the whole procedure. Unless they’d teamed up with the right squad. It could be funny until a sheep drowned in it. You’re making a new edge, for next year, as you go along. And the village inspection committee would of course be studying what we’d done. So we shouldn’t be too proud to adopt some kind of pride.
‘Cutting peats is a piece of piss,’ I said. ‘It’s holding your own in the philosophy, the religious, sexual and political discussions while driving a razor-sharp, long iron down to its hilt – that’s what takes a bit of concentration.’
But we both had all five fingers and toes, port and starboard sides intact, with the job complete.
And then we strolled over to that loch, the deep one over the ridge. Ruaraidh said that stories came from it like vapours. Maybe the last water-horse was still down there.
In the village, the word was a Heinkel had gone over. Hadn’t found a target out the Atlantic and had to drop its heavy load somewhere if it was going to get back. Someone heard the controlled thunder of engines, the loose whine of a falling weapon. But then a delay. Only the engines fading distant. No explosion. They’d gone out next day and hunted the moor. They’d want to find it sooner rather than later, not hit it with an iron, at the peats. Not a trace. No new mud. No visible holes in the wet coat of the Lewis moor.
But all eyes went to that deep loch. If there wasn’t a sign of it anywhere else, it might be there still. That bomb might not be dead yet. Our lives could still be affected by the ordnance from a war that was growing distant.
The Gynaecologist
A pal of mine went for one of the ex-Health-Board houses. They were in a group, not so far from Westview Terrace. Nice part of town and in good reach of the Lewis Hospital. It was a good buy. There was a lot of timber under the roof. It was Welsh slate, outside that, and the construction was solid. Like the Coastguard houses. You felt bad at taking advantage of the offer at the time but whatever you said, the next guy was going to buy it. If by any chance he didn’t, it would be sold on the open market.
These were the houses reserved for those with useful occupations. The teachers’ houses on Ripley Place. The nurses’ cottages on Westview. Police houses on Balmerino Drive.
But see, when it came to the plumbing in this house, he was expecting a nightmare of different layers of additions since the Sixties. But no, every pipe was labelled. Every tap, every twist and turn, joint and elbow. He said to me, ‘I think this must have been the gynaecologist’s house.’
I remember a gynaecologist from when I was a hospital porter for a year. He was very proud of his machines. He gave me dirty looks, for my cornering style. I remember this day, giving a young lad who was long-term sick, a spin round with me – a suggestion from one of the sisters. He was a born teacher, telling me the Gaelic for ‘This way North’ and ‘That way South’ and the lefts and rights. We didn’t come that close really but parked up behind the machine outside Maternity. Too close for the gynaecologist. He had these classic authoritarian eyebrows and he told us exactly how much that machine had cost.
When it came to Gabriele’s scans, it was probably the replacement model for that machine – so of course a lot more compact. That’s the way machines go. I’ve a very early hand-held GPS and you couldn’t fit it in a pocket. They cost a grand when they were new, about the mid-Nineties.
Anyway, when I was showing the new porter round, before going back to Uni, he thought the consultant was the day porter. That was the guy who was into sailing and vans and would stop for a cup of tea and a yarn with you. The gynaecologist was never so familiar. It’s very educational, observing a hierarchy from the bottom.
Gabriele had an issue with his dates. This was a bit crucial for us because our son was due right in the middle of the Coastguard Training Course which we hoped would help feed him and educate him. We knew he was a son because the gynaecologist told us. But he didn’t ask us if we wanted to know. I was a bit pissed off but Gabriele was livid. I had to press on her arm a bit to calm things down. Then she tackled him on the dates again. His answer is burned into my memory: ‘I have never known this machine to be wrong.’
So we drove down to Bristol and swung on to Christchurch. We had found a cottage to rent, out of season but the occupants were caught up in a chain of buying and selling houses. Everyone was talking about buying and selling houses. The Coastguard houses on Leverhulme Drive were being modernised – double-glazing and central heating from piped gas – but we’d been promised one, soon after the end of the eight-week course. So we found an out-of-season holiday apartment for our nest. It was clean and fine and close to the river.
We’d drive to Boscombe hospital for checks and visits. But our son was not born there. Though Gabriele did give birth there. It was not an easy birth.
The labour took about twenty-four hours and all issues about natural childbirth and waterbaths so the new baby could swim soon after birth – these did not seem very important any longer. So when I went into uncontrollable laughter when our baby was born, the staff must have thought it was simply the relief after all that tension.
Our son was a healthy girl. One arrogant bastard and his machine had been proven wrong. He must have just taken a glance at the scan, peering under all that hair in his eyebrows.
So this is of course a memory of the beginning of a new life. Though a strong case could be argued for seeing the event as a death. Whether you want to or not, you have an idea in your mind, suggested by the abrupt words of someone in authority. So the idea of that son died when our Anna appeared. That stage of the game I don’t think either of us could have cared what sex our baby turned out to be. Except that it was a very good result.
Gynaecologist nil. Anna one.
Flights
Razorfishing depends on the day and what’s gone before it. An Atlantic depression will bump up the High Water, way above the predicted level. Wind-driven current, from a spell of strong southerlies, will hold back the tide, preventing the ebb from going as far back as it wants to. Tides are strange things. They can be predicted up to a point but events in distant geographies exert their influence.
You need a big, spring tide – one of only a handful in the year when the ebb goes far enough back – with calm, mild weather. No rain. You’ll see the same faces at the shore. Everyone nods to a new arrival then returns to their own small area of patrol. It’s a blood sport but the red you notice, leaking into the sand, is more likely to have come from the top of your own hand, when you’ve made an eager stab.
If you do get enough razorfish, you place them in a shallow container, maybe a lasagne dish. You pour the kettle, making sure they’re all covered. They’ll open. Meanwhile you’ve the cold tap running. You rinse them. This flushes the sand out and stops them from cooking further. If you leave them in the hot water too long they’ll get tough. I’ve seen a TV chef, handsome chap, make an arse of it. Delicate things till you overdo them and then they’re about the texture of a wellington boot.
There’s a sandy gut to remove. You do this while the butter is melting in a skillet. Crushed garlic if you like it and a twist of black pepper. It’s like making omelettes. Everyone’s got to be ready to eat. You pat them dry and then just turn them in the seasoned butter. That’s it.
I say all this just so you understand that we really wanted to leave the house and get to that shore, Gabriele as much as me. If you don’t catch that hour, either side of the turn of the tide, you might as well not bother. I abandoned the dishes, unwashed in the sink, as Gabriele was hunting through the row of wellies for a pair which still fitted Anna.
The phone went. I was crashed from our kitchen into Glasgow, at the sound of my mate’s voice. I was back in touch with Kenny F. He was living in a high-rise in Maryhill, very appropriate for a scaffolder. And staying sober, a good idea in that trade. I’d bumped into Angus, in town, and he’d given me the number. I hadn’t given it long before asking
the favour. Since he wasn’t a kick in the arse from the city, could he take Anna’s papers, photo and details direct to the Passport Office? The timing was tight. Delays were expected but if you got someone to go along in person…Kenny had indeed been along in person. That fucking office was Kafkaland. Something else. He’d already been an hour over his lunch break when he was given a card which said ‘Turn No. 83’. He’d tried to explain that all the papers were ready with franked photographs but the woman was harassed and told him to wait his turn. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get off the site, long enough, during the day. It might not be the best job in the world but it was a job. Only thing he could think of now was to give a few quid to a mate who wasn’t working, get him to queue.
‘I took a look, of course,’ Kenny said. ‘The photos. The wife and the kid. Isn’t your lady German? Quite tidy, by the way. I thought they were supposed to be organised, I mean with dates and stuff.’
‘Exception that proves the rule?’ I said it though I’d never understood that idea. ‘Thanks anyway, man. Thanks for trying. Hold on. Gabriele’s decision.’
She shook her head. So I asked Kenny if he could just post the whole lot to the Passport Office, registered. We’d take our chance.
What was I up to anyway, apart from international wheeling and dealing? ‘Razorfishing.’
He wished I hadn’t said that. Pity I couldn’t send him some. Put some on the plane, maybe, like they do with lobsters. Remember the raw clams off the line on Broad Bay? But it would only take a delay of an hour or two and they’d be higher than we’d ever got.
He’d just need to come up and get some. They still printed the tides in the Gazette when they remembered.
‘I’ll see if I can swing it.’