by Neil M. Gunn
Behind her Catrine drew the door shut quietly and glanced up the dark passage towards the guest-room. But there was no need to go there. In the kitchen, however, she stood with the candle in her hand, staring over it, her lips apart. She tried to think of the inside of the guest-room clearly, but could only see the movement of dim figures, several figures, bending over and whispering. She turned and went up the passage, hesitated before the door and cleared her throat, her flesh running icy cold. Then she pushed the door open so that the candle flame hardly flickered and entered. But as she entered, while the leaning flame straightened, she thought she saw, over against the farthest wall, the figure of Kirsty’s father, standing quite straight, with a look of remote yet infinite understanding in his grey face. As the figure faded from the shape of things hanging on the wall, a swooning sensation beset her. The candle swayed, and when the hot drops of grease stung her hand, she screamed. The scream set her in a wild flurry and stopped her from falling. She got along the passage in a way that she never afterwards clearly remembered, and came back to herself lying on her own bed in the kitchen.
As her mind cleared, the omnipresence of terror lifted somewhat also, as if her visit to the two rooms had in some measure cleared the house of it. But she remained in so highly sensitive a state that if anything else happened, even a small thing, the sensitiveness would snap. She knew this, and told herself about it, trying to rally her dissolving spirit. For a long time she was conscious of this struggle going on inside her, and the temptation not to struggle, to let go, to give in, was at moments extremely strong. But she held on against this seductive desire to let dissolution have its way, and presently the wild wave receded, the tumult subsided, and she began to breathe with some ease in exhaustion.
Slowly upon her there came a mood of quietism, and she wondered if it was the old man she had actually seen or just the pattern of things on the wall. She had not been thinking about him at all. He would not do her any harm. He would only help her if he could. But she was afraid of him now, she did not want to see him, because he was dead.
So the living forgot and feared the dead. The thought touched her heart’s sympathy and strengthened her a little. But it did not take away the fear.
It was extraordinary how Kirsty and her father had come to life in her mind and in the house as they had never done since their death. The years pass….
The years pass. She saw them pass. Year after year after year. They took her with them. She was walking with them on the road, the road vanished, and there was Kirsty on the bed, dying as she had seen her die, with her dreams, the bonnie things, locked in the wooden chest by the bedside.
She was on Kirsty’s road…. But she rebelled at the thought, and with that came a greater access of strength. She was young. She felt so young. In her mind and her body she felt like a young girl. She was no older than Shiela, who was in the midst of life, a warm swarming life.
But self-pity would not come; neither self-pity nor tears. Her mind had travelled too far and seen too much. She was terribly exhausted. Her head fell over and she breathed in gusts. After a little time she sank into a fitful sleep, but towards the morning she slept heavily.
*
When she arose and dressed and looked out of the window at the sunlight on the grass, Catrine was conscious of an extreme relief and happiness. She smiled, remembering last night, believing it hardly possible that she could have worked herself up into such a state! She went into the middle room, where everything was quietly awaiting Finn’s return. He would probably be home to-night. She suddenly longed for him. It would be fine to see him coming walking up, tall and slim, but getting broad-shouldered—and very good-looking! She would run out and link her arm in his. So long as she did not show any particular emotion, any real affection, it would be all right! She gave a small chuckle of a laugh. Up now she went to the guest-room. It was perfectly normal, too. Though it was always somehow a trifle solemn, with a sort of Sabbath air about it. Hardly troubling to glance at a certain spot on the farthest wall, she closed the door and shut the room away. The beasts were waiting for her, outside where the sun was shining. The ground mists were clearing. It was going to be another glorious day. She milked the cows and tethered them and fed the hens. When Bran and herself had something to eat, she would clean the byre, churn a bit of fresh butter, get everything clean and tidy, and, later on, do some herding down at the lower end. The corn was beginning to turn. She loved the harvest season. She did not even mind lifting potatoes to Finn’s graip. And she would have all Finn’s friends around; this was his home; they would have a spree, a real Harvest Home.
She was sitting by the burn at the lower end of the croft, knitting a strong pair of socks for Finn’s seaboots, when she observed Roddie coming down by the Steep Wood. Without lifting her face, she saw him look towards her home and then, missing something, pause—until his eyes picked up the cattle—and herself. She gave him a gay wave. Slowly he approached the wall against which Finn had blown his trumpet in a dream. “Some of the boys have gone out in the small boat. If there’s a bit of fish to spare, I’ll remember you.”
She thanked him, drawing near the wall, her eyes bright, her mouth red. He leaned on top of the wall, the slow characteristic smile clearing his face. “You don’t look as if a night alone had disagreed with you.”
“Don’t I? What makes you think so?”
“You look so fresh.”
“Thank you! I hope you had a good night yourself?”
“Not bad, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“You would like to know, wouldn’t you?”
“Not if you don’t want to tell.”
“Ah well, there are worse things than a good sleep. I see you are giving them an extra bite. They look pretty well, too.”
“Yes, don’t they? But then everything thrives on our croft!”
“Apparently. You’ll miss young Barbara.”
“I do indeed.” And so they got talking in a natural friendly way about everyday affairs, until he said that he would have to hurry if he was going to be in time to catch the boat coming in.
Two hours later, the twilight falling, he appeared at the end of the house with a string of fish as she came out of the byre. “There’s just one for you,” he called, and, laying the catch on the grass, slipped a large codling off the string.
“Thank you very much. That’s lovely. Won’t you come in?”
“No thanks, Catrine; they’re waiting for me at home.”
“It’s very good of you.”
“It’s nothing at all.”
“I’m sure you would like a dram?”
He looked at her. “Well, now!” And he smiled back.
“Come on,” she said gaily, and turned and went quickly into the house. He followed slowly, wiping his hands on a bunch of grass.
When she had poured him a stiff glass of special, he wished her the best of health and luck and drank half of it.
“Won’t you sit down?”
“No, thanks. I’ll have to be going.”
“All right.” She was very glad to have him in the house like this, with no difference or difficulty between them. She would hate Roddie to feel any restraint just because their relationship had taken a certain final turn. She had deliberately overcome his reluctance to enter in order to restore the old friendliness, and now she felt happy and completely unselfconscious.
Roddie sat down. “Faith, I’m tired being on my feet all day.”
“That’s right!” said Catrine brightly, and offered him a piece of crisp oatcake, as was the custom at such a moment. He took it and his lips curved away half-humorously from his even teeth. It was his most attractive expression.
She kept the talk going without any difficulty, and felt even a little excited at doing her hostess’s duty so satisfactorily.
“So you weren’t frightened?”
“Not I!” said she. “Though I confess my heart did miss a beat once.”
“Did it? When?”
“Just before going to bed. I thought I heard footsteps round the house.”
“Did you?” he said, and moved his head sideways with a curious half-mocking wonder; and all in a moment her ease left her.
She talked quickly and laughed. “Bran heard them, too, so I couldn’t have imagined it.”
“And what did you do?”
“Oh, I just waited and—and nothing happened.”
“What did you think it was?” he asked, looking at his whisky.
“Must have been someone taking a short cut home, of course. Who else?”
He nodded. “I can understand that it would frighten you all the same.” His voice was easy, but amused in its inscrutable way, and he looked at her.
She could not now meet his expression and busily bent down to place some peats against the bank of fire, talking as she did so and laughing. She was beginning to feel nervous.
“Had I thought you were frightened I might have come over and given you a call,” he suggested.
“Not at all! Not at all! I wasn’t frightened. It was just eerie a bit. You know?”
He was silent. A premonition of something about to happen, of a word and movement by Roddie that she could not cope with, overcame her, and she said blindly, brightly, “I’m expecting Finn any minute,” and busily swept the ash back off the hearthstone. Then she had to look at him.
“Oh, are you?” He drank off the whisky. “In that case, I’d better be going.”
“But there’s no hurry.”
“Thank you for the dram.” He was on his feet, smiling. “It was good.”
“But—but there’s no hurry.” She could not think of anything else to say and her brightness was now forced.
“You’ll be wanting to get things ready for him,” and he went unhurriedly out at the door, smiled, saluted her, and walked off.
She went back into the kitchen full of intense dismay. She could not read Roddie; she had no certainty about him. He had behaved normally, but——She sat down, and in a little while her mind began to clear.
It was Roddie who had walked past the house last night. There was suddenly no doubt about it. It was Roddie. She let her mind hearken to the footsteps again, let it hang on to them, because of the new terrible thought that was waiting to be faced.
“No!” she cried, before she faced it. It was nonsense! But certain little acts and attitudes of Finn towards Roddie, small intangible affairs mostly which she had put down to manhood’s normal growth in her son, now became clear. Finn was jealous of Roddie; and Roddie was intolerant of Finn. Because of her!
Her heart began to beat in an extremely agitated way, accompanied by an emotion of outrage, such as had never before touched her; outrage and a strange burning shame, as if her body were being exposed. She could not get over it, could not think, got up and moved about with wide-open eyes, picked up the milk-pail and went to the byre.
She milked so erratically and nervously that Bel refused to let down her milk. For Catrine always hummed her a milking-croon, pulling the teats to its rhythm, when the beast stood in a half-swoon, loving the caressing luxury of it. Catrine tried to hum, but Bel was now out of humour. Catrine grew angry and slapped her on the haunch. Bel moved restlessly, whisked her tail into Catrine’s face, and grew stubborn.
*
Her mind would not rest. It was the absurdity of the whole thing! she thought, getting the fish ready for Finn’s supper. He should be coming soon, if he was coming at all. It was getting dark. What was keeping him! Perhaps he was staying another night. She had told him to stay, but he had said that wasn’t at all likely, in that slightly sarcastic manner he now had at times.
When she had eaten some of the fish, drawn the slip of blind, tidied the hearth with its glowing bank of peat, and looked around the cosy home she had for Finn and herself, she felt much calmer. Indeed she was presently aware of a feeling of profound ease, of deep luxurious comfort. For she realized that she loved her son, loved him beyond anyone or anything else in the whole world, and he so cared for her that he was jealous of the intrusion even of Roddie, who had done so much for him and had meant so much to him. It was stupid; it was absurd; in some way it made her feel foolish; she was ashamed of it; but now, in this calm rich moment, waiting for Finn, she realized that, after all, it was the way life went, and it was no good crying against it; what she had to do was to put it right—and that should not be difficult! She would be able to reassure Finn without trouble. And already Roddie was standing off! In her wisdom she smiled, somewhat self-consciously, like a woman who had trafficked in thought with sin. She looked very attractive.
More than once, of course, she had contemplated the future with common sense and even a little misgiving. But in fact there was no sign of Finn’s becoming attached to any girl. If Finn got married she would not want to be in the way, in the same house. But the only thing that Finn was thinking of marrying was a new boat! How secretly and strongly his mind ran on that—as it had once run on the trumpet! He thought she did not understand. She smiled to her knitting. But she had not gone far enough when she had recently told him that half the forty-one pounds was his. When he came home, she would hand him twenty sovereigns, make him take the money. If there was this folly between Roddie and himself, the sooner he had a boat of his own the better.
This thought pleased her so much that she got up, hunted out the old leather purse, and divided the contents, making his share twenty-one. She would present them to him in the purse. It was nearly enough to buy a boat in itself, and he had a few pounds of his own stowed away. Once he had given the order to have the boat built, he would become a grown man and the real head of the house. How sweet it would be to mother Finn through years. Years, anyway.
She felt the rich flow of life in her flesh. Lately her body had had this deep warm feeling of well-being very strongly. Her skin had the fairness that holds light. Her hair was fair. In the peat fire, her brown eyes looked black and gleamed with lights. She sat with an easy poise, not quite upright, her back curving over into the firm pale nape of the neck, her face lifting and sometimes glancing about the kitchen as she withdrew a needle to start a new row. She looked like a woman whose mind is made up, who is content, because she is waiting for her lover. There was that faint, expectant, almost wanton air about her.
But Finn did not come that night.
Next day she knew he would come, and set about her ordinary tasks in special preparation for his arrival. If Roddie moved in her mind, it was as a rather ominous force far in its hinterland, and she did not mind him. Why should she?
In the late afternoon, she went several times down to the edge of the brae to see if Finn was coming. He had probably been held up on the way by Callum or others, anxious for the Helmsdale news. Finn was a favourite with the regular fishermen, and none of them had any great idea of time. She forgave him, feeling happy that he should be so well liked.
With the evening at hand, she thought: I’ll get the cows in and have the milking over. And immediately she became very busy, her feet light as they had been in her twenties.
*
Bel, whom she always milked last, stood with her eyes shining, in a dumb ecstasy, listening to Catrine’s voice keeping time with the old Gaelic air as her gentle hands firmly and rhythmically drew the milk dancing into the pail.
She was at the long last squeezing strokes, the melody slowing up, dying, when a footfall at the door fell like a blow on her heart. She glanced sideways and saw Roddie, his face shadowed from the dim evening light behind him.
“Hullo!” he said, in a smiling but husky voice.
She could not speak, pressed her forehead against Bel’s hide, drew on the empty teats, then said, “Now!” and got up, the milk-pail in one hand, the little three-legged stool in the other, and turned to Roddie, deathly pale but smiling. “Hullo!”
“Finished your milking?”
“Yes.”
He did not give way and she stood before him, know
ing that the awful moment of decision had come at last. He bent down to take the pail and stool from her; but she hung on to them, saying, “No! no! It’s all right.”
Gently but firmly he took them from her and set them down to one side.
“Roddie, no!” she said, feeling the dark force of his body coming at her, pleading wildly out of the weakness that was melting her flesh.
“Yes,” said Roddie, enfolding her. “Yes, Catrine.” His voice was laughing-gentle, thick with breath, terrible. In the crush of his arms, she felt herself fainting, and lifted her hands and gripped him behind the neck.
The strength of her body, that for these last few days had played such strange pranks with her thought, now completely deserted her, and she hung limp in his arms, her mind blinded. He carried her over to the stall with the straw, where Finn had been born.
CHAPTER XXII
FINN DENIES HIS MOTHER
Finn would have arrived at the byre a little before Roddie had he not been deflected from the river path by a sudden desire to cross over the knoll of the House of Peace. He had always been slightly ashamed of the impious visit under the influence of drink, and to-night, because he was feeling so happy after his highly successful Dale trip (the drover had been there the second night, and asked, “Are the days of Finn MacCoul coming back upon us?”) he wanted to be at peace with the world, even the other world. To have shouted “Come forth!” would have been such bad manners. The thought of it more than once had made his sensitiveness wriggle. But he had not shouted it, and he was convinced now that it was not fear altogether that had kept him silent, but consideration for the figure he had once imagined there.