The Silver Darlings

by Neil M. Gunn

  In the usual spot, by the little flat stone circle, he sat down and looked about him. The natural tiredness of the body after the long walk disposed him to pleasant ease. And, besides, there was this odd feeling of fulfilment in the simple fact of being back home. Here was a difference not merely in the stones and the trees and the shape of the ground but in some influence that came out of them, old and friendly and known. At no hour was this experienced so much as at the approach of the twilight, when a tenuous darkness came into the light and made grey rock or autumn-tinted leaves glow faintly as from an inner radiance. The robin’s song was full of impersonal reflection. Above the rising broken rocks across the little gully, a rowan-tree hung with its load of brilliant berries. From his pocket he took and examined the sprig he had brought with him from Kildonan. The tiny stems had gone soft, but the berries themselves had not wilted. It was a curious present to bring back to his mother. He smiled but put the berries carefully back in his pocket, seeing Ronnie’s point now. They were quite valueless, and it seemed to him amusing that they yet could convey something. But they did, and he would produce them with a smile. Precisely how? Would he mention Ronnie? No. In an offhand way, as if he were discovering them in his pocket….

  He got up, went down through the birches, and walked across the little field. He had not let the “Come forth!” incident even enter his mind, but he now knew that it was washed out—as if one existed here not in words or even in silent thoughts but in states of mind. Not that he worked it out clearly, or worked it out at all. The mind was in a new condition and the eyes glimmered.

  The two long pools, the Steep Wood, the wall that his trumpet had shattered, and now the rising slopes, the roof, his home. His heart began to beat. His mother would come rushing out. It’s a wonder she wasn’t on the watch! How unsuspecting the house was of his near presence! He would approach quietly. There was Bran—ah, now he had seen him. Bark! bark! They met at the byre door, and he spoke in a loud voice which his mother could hear in the kitchen. She couldn’t be in. And she wasn’t. The kitchen was empty. At once he turned out again—and there were Roddie and herself at the byre door.

  In a very short moment of time Finn’s mind was invaded by a shattering tale of action that had had a, beginning, a middle, and now an end. Their faces, looking towards him, their arrested bodies, cried the story aloud in that small moment. And when, above it, his mother cried “Finn!” and came towards him carrying the milk-pail, with an exaggerated eagerness, a hurrying trepidation, he stood still, his mind scattered, smiling awkwardly.

  Roddie slowly followed her.

  “Oh, Finn, how are you?” she cried, her eyes glancing. She looked confused, but eager for him. He had taken her at a disadvantage but—but—that was all, was what her manner was crying out. “You must be famishing. Come away in and get some food,” and she made to bustle in at the door. But Roddie was still there.

  “Perhaps,” said Roddie, “I’d better be getting home. You had a good trip?”

  “Yes,” answered Finn, not looking at him.

  “Come away in,” Catrine cried eagerly to Finn, cutting Roddie away from them.

  “Don’t you think——” began Roddie; but she interrupted him, as though she had not heard him, crying over her shoulder, “We’ll be seeing you soon.”

  Finn followed her and, after standing a moment, Roddie walked away.

  In the kitchen, she bustled about, getting food ready. “I’ve been watching for you ever since last night.” She talked without looking at Finn as she hurried, talked quickly. “And how are they all?”

  “They’re all right.”

  “And had you a good time?”

  “Yes.”

  “I missed you this time a lot. The house felt quite empty. For the two nights I could hardly sleep. I was frightened!” Her hurried voice was laughing. “No-one came near me until Roddie looked in at the milking to-night.”

  “What did Roddie want to say?”

  “When?”

  “Just now, when you stopped him.”

  “Want to say?” She stood and glanced at him, as if hitherto unaware of his cold peculiar manner. “I didn’t notice he wanted to say anything.”

  “You know he did.”

  “Finn, what do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said.

  “You must mean something. I don’t think that’s right.” She was bustling about again. “I don’t know what’s come between you and Roddie. But—but—you make me feel awkward. And I was so looking forward to you coming home.” Her voice had risen in distress.

  He did not speak, but stood staring at the patch of window, with a gloomy mocking expression on his face. Through her distress, she glanced at him acutely.

  But Finn could not help himself. His brain felt dull as if it had been struck a heavy blow. What he wanted to do was to walk out and leave her. She was acting, lying, trying to get round him, to smooth things over. Something had happened. She was hiding it. She was all strung up. Why had they taken so long to come to the byre door?

  “Here’s your supper.” Her voice was calmer. He felt the quiet desperation in it. The blame was falling on him. He did not want his supper. If he would not speak to her, she would not speak to him now. This could not be borne. He stirred, putting his hands negligently in his pockets. The right hand pulled forth the sprig of rowan-berries from Kildonan. He regarded them on his palm with a slow sarcasm, then pitched them towards the fire, but with a physical indifference that let them fall short, an indifference that yet had in it an odd perversity, as though he would not quite destroy them, but must let them be seen.

  He was aware, too, that his mother was watching him, for there had come an extraordinary stillness upon the kitchen. But he could not turn and look at her now. All at once an element of fear touched him and he swung round. Her eyes were on the berries, her face death-pale, her lips apart, her fingers against her breast like claws. She collapsed so suddenly that she fell her length before he could stir a foot to save her. She hit the floor with a solid thump, and lay with the crown of her head a couple of inches from the sharp edge of the hearthstone.

  Finn had never seen anyone faint before, and now got into a state of extreme anxiety. “Mother! Mother!” he cried sharply, on his knees beside her, shaking her. He touched her face. It was death-cold. She had stopped breathing. When he lifted her head and shoulders against him, the head rolled away and the arms slumped. Was she dead?

  “Here, Mother!” he cried into her face. He did not know what to do. He could not leave her and run for a neighbour. His voice broke. He gathered her up against his breast. Would he try to lift her into bed? “Mother! Speak to me!” O God, what would he do? As, beside himself, he began to lift her, getting to his feet, her soft body slid heavily down through his arms. He felt he was choking her and laid her out on her back. Rob had once told a story of how cold water … Before the memory was right born, he dashed for the bucket. His intention was to sprinkle it, but from his cupped hands the cold well water fell in a splash on her face and trickled down her neck. He had done it badly! But as he hung in desperation, he saw her eyelids flicker. Quite suddenly her eyes opened, and stared, and glanced from side to side. She did not know where she was, and in a moment was in a flurry of terror, as if she were being attacked. He tried to soothe her crying, “It’s all right! It’s all right, Mother!”

  She grew calmer. “I must have fainted,” she said.

  “Yes. Come, and I’ll help you into bed.”

  “Wait a minute. I feel strange.” Her smile came strangely. “Did I give you a fright?”

  “You did indeed! But look, it will be softer for you in bed.”

  Slowly her face turned to the fire. Yes, the berries were there. She began to tremble. Finn put his hands under her armpits and would no longer be denied. His right arm round her waist, he guided her to the bed and heaved her legs in. “Now! You just rest and you’ll be all right,” he said comfortingly.

  She lay on her back and
closed her eyes.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said brightly. “I’ll go for Shiela. You’ll be all right until——”

  Her scared expression stopped him, and he at once assured her he would not go away, but would get her a hot drink.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” she implored him in an exhausted voice.

  “No, no!”

  “Where—where did you get the rowan-berries?”

  “I got them in Kildonan. I—I thought you might like to have them from there.”

  “Finn.”

  “Yes.” He lowered his head towards her weak voice.

  “Please leave me for a little.”

  “Yes, Mother,” he said at once. “Try and get a little sleep.”

  But before leaving the kitchen, he picked up the berries. It was now getting quite dark outside. A surging passion of affection for his mother moved in him. Her death-pallor, her helplessness, had wrung his heart. A profound feeling of responsibility, transcending every other consideration, walked with him. He did not want to be seen; he wanted to hide what had happened from all prying human eyes; and crossing the pasture lands above and to the back of the house, he came among the bushes where his mother used to play hide-and-seek with him when he was a little boy. Down below, the small pools of the burn were grey from the last of the light in the sky.

  For a little time he lay without thought, moved only by emotion for his mother. Gradually, however, his mind darkened with the foreshadow of thought. He felt it coming, and began to breathe more quickly. It came in the shape of Roddie, at whom he would not look. But though he avoided looking, because the conflict would be too destructive even inside his own mind, he still apprehended the coming. And now an odd limitation of vision beset him. There was no need for the body to have a head. Headless, it drew near him, dark-clothed, physically rank, imminent, awful, abominable, and in a paroxysm of revulsion and hatred, he slashed and destroyed it.

  When the paroxysm had passed, he found his hands smeared with the crushed berries. He wiped away the sticky red stuff on the grass and then, moved by fear lest his mother came upon the crushed mess, he hid it under a bush and covered it up.

  After that his expression grew cunning and full of a bitter mockery. But he could not think. Everything stopped on the edge of thought, of apprehension. For he could not penetrate beyond the vision of Roddie and his mother at the byre door. Some ultimate loyalty to the thought of his mother would not let him penetrate.

  By the time he went back to the house, he was tired, and weary of his own mind. His mother was up and greeted him quietly. “You must be very hungry.”

  “No, not very,” he replied in an indifferent voice.

  “Sit in.” She placed his chair.

  Presently, she referred to the folk in Dale.

  “They are all well,” he answered. “They were asking for you.”

  “Were they?”

  “Yes.” He knew she wanted details, wanted him to talk. The food was sticking in his throat.

  “How is Granny?”

  “Fine.”

  “And Isebeal?”

  “Quite well. I spent the evening there last night.”

  “Did you? Were there many in?”

  “Yes. The house was full.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes; it was all right.”

  She did not encroach on him; did not press him. She seemed pleased with the few crumbs of talk.

  “I’m feeling tired.” He pushed his chair back. “I think I’ll go to bed. We were late last night.”

  “All right, then.”

  Once behind his own door, he stood stock still, wishing he could have said something natural and kindly to his mother. But it had been beyond him. He sat down on Kirsty’s chest and began to breathe heavily, as if he could not get enough clean air. His hands were shaking, his chest was restricted, he was beset by an impending darkness of guilt and horror.

  *

  Next day, Finn and his mother had a quietened attitude to each other, and went about their tasks in a fatalistic manner. Folk behaved so after or before a death—but not with this underlying consciousness of estrangement, of secretiveness. There was a feeling of waiting, of watching, that soon would become intolerable.

  Catrine, however, hung on to the mood, playing for time. She must keep Roddie and Finn apart, and allowed this to become an obsession, obscuring her own personal problem, keeping it under, where she need not see it. All day she was in terror lest Roddie appear, and made work in places where she could command his approach.

  At their midday meal, they spoke little to each other, but reasonably. Catrine said she would do some herding in the afternoon down by the burn, and Finn thought he would go along to see Henry. They were glad to get away from each other, from the strain of being calm and reasonable.

  When Finn disappeared, Catrine lay beside a whin bush and closed her eyes. She would have these few minutes to herself. Blessed minutes, they lapped her about from the grass and the heather, from the spaces beyond men. They came pressing upon her in a soft darkening, pressing on her eyeballs through the lids. When Roddie awoke her, she grew agitated and confused and glanced about half-terrified, pulling her clothes straight.

  “Who are you frightened of?” he asked, with that faint humour that could come into his steady eyes.

  “I fell asleep,” she answered, flushed in astonishment.

  “Didn’t you sleep well last night?”

  “Not very.” She hadn’t slept a wink.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No oh no.” She was restless, ill at ease in his company, as if she wanted him gone.

  “Was Finn a bit difficult?”

  She kept looking away. Lack of sleep and involved torturing indecisions made her eyes brilliant, her fair skin very delicate. She bit her lip.

  “Catrine,” he said gently, sitting down, “you must tell me.” He was deeply moved by the vivid troubling spirit of life in her.

  “I am afraid of Finn,” she said, swallowing.

  “How afraid?”

  She looked down at her restless hand plucking the grass. “I don’t want you—I want you to keep clear of him. If there was any trouble between you—it would kill me.”

  “But why should there be any trouble?”

  “He’s young. I’m his mother. Oh, Roddie, promise me!” And she looked swiftly at him.

  “All right, Catrine. I won’t cause any trouble.”

  “Yes, but—do you understand?” She searched his eyes with a feverish penetration.

  “Yes, I understand. Don’t worry about that.” Into his voice had come a cool amusement.

  “I don’t want you near the house for—for a little time.”

  “You’re wrong. It would be better to get it over. I’ll speak to him myself.”

  “No, no; you mustn’t! Promise me!”

  “Oh, all right. I don’t mind.” His smile was hardening. “So I’m not to come near the house?”

  She could not speak.

  “Don’t you want me to come?”

  “I don’t think I do!” she cried, and suddenly buried her face in the grass.

  “That’s bad,” said Roddie thoughtfully. “You’re upset, I’m afraid. However, there’s one thing you needn’t be frightened of. I have too great a respect for you ever to do anything to Finn. You can keep your mind easy on that score.”

  “Oh, I’m glad!” she muttered, and, after she had wiped her eyes, sat up again, deeply confused but brighter and happier than she had yet appeared.

  “He’s a lot in your mind, I can see,” said Roddie.

  “It’s—it’s difficult to tell you.”

  “You needn’t,” said Roddie. “I was on my way to the shore when I saw you lying here, so I thought I’d waken you up for fun. But I must be off.” There was now a penetrating coolness in his light pleasant tone. “I may see you sometime, then. So long!” And he walked off.

  Catrine sat quite still for a little while, th
en suddenly shivered.

  She had wanted to cry to Roddie, to get up and call him back so that he would understand, but had been unable to stir a hand. Roddie could not discuss and recriminate. In the pleasantness of his tone had been a bitter anger.

  A feeling of intense shame came upon her, of awful, of obliterating shame. Visions would come back. She crushed them into the grass. Everything was wrong. Life was ugly and miserable. She had been so happy with Finn alone.

  But behind this emotion her mind was gathering its cunning, which knew neither shame nor bitterness, only the real knowledge of life as it was, of the day as it came. And for the first time she felt in touch with Roddie’s inner mind, with the pride that would stand provocation and not break. She admired it—and was glad to take advantage of it, to save Finn.

  *

  When the folk had cured their supply of herring for home use through winter and spring, the next excitement was the appearance of schooners to carry the thousands of barrels to the foreign market, mostly the Baltic. They were vessels of about a hundred tons burden, and the sight of one of them anchored in the bay made a truant of every adventurous boy.

  Transporting the barrels in the local boats from the beach to the schooner’s side was a merry job, and Finn had lads of his own age with whom to raise a laugh or crack a joke. Occasionally, too, a schooner was well-found in brandy, and brandy was a novelty. When Rob rubbed his beard and admitted judiciously, “Yes, it was a good drop,” and then, on walking away, side-stepped, Callum and Finn rocked with laugher.

  “By God, you’re drunk, Rob. What’ll your sister say to you when you get home?”

  “Me drunk?” inquired Rob, turning upon Callum with slow care. “It would take more than that to-to-to make me turn a hair.”

  “It’s not your hair, Rob; it’s your feet.”

  Rob looked down at his feet.

  Callum and Finn swayed.

  “I know you,” said Rob, offended. “You think you’re a wh-whale of a fellow. Both of you think you’re wh-wh-whales. But I could tell a different story.” He nodded and walked on with a serious air.