It was Perry Jesperson who came with me on my first visit to Pollaporra. He had borrowed one of his father’s cars.
Even on the one-inch map, the topography was odd. It had struck me as odd many years before. I had always thought myself good with maps, as solitary children so often are; but now that I had been able to travel frequently, I had come to see that one cannot in every case divine from a map a feature of some kind that seems central when one actually arrives and inspects. In that way, I had made a fool of myself on several occasions, though sometimes to my own knowledge only. When it comes to Scotland, I need hardly say that many one-inch maps are sometimes needed for a journey from one place to another, and that some of the maps depict little but heaving contours and huge hydroelectric installations.
Pollaporra stood isolated amid wild altitudes for miles around. Its loneliness was confirmed by its being marked at all. I knew very well that it was no Inveraray or even Balmoral. It stood about three and a half miles from the sea loch, where Mason lived. That of course was as the crow flies, if crows there were. I had miled out the distance inaccurately with thumb and forefinger when I had still been a child. I had done it on many occasions. The topographical oddity was that the nearest depicted community was eight miles away in the opposite direction, whereas in such an area one would expect it to be on the sea, and to derive its hard living therefrom. It was difficult to think of any living at all for the place shown, which was stuck down in a hollow of the mountains, and was named Arrafergus. An uncoloured track was shown between Pollaporra and Arrafergus; the rough road of which I had heard so much, and along which my father’s corpse had passed a few years before. One could see the little cross marking the kirk and kirkyard where he lay. It was placed almost half-way between the two names, which seemed oddest of all. For much of the year, no congregation could assemble from either house or village. A footpath was shown between Pollaporra and the sea loch, but one could hardly believe in more than a technical right of way, perhaps initiated by smugglers and rebels.
I had commented upon all this to Jesperson before we left. He had said, ‘I expect it was an effect of the clearances.’
‘Or of the massacres,’ I had replied, not wishing to become involved in politics with Jesperson, even conversationally.
The roads were already becoming pretty objectionable, but Jesperson saw it all as progress, and we took it in turns to drive. On the third morning, we were advancing up the long road, yellow on the map, from the dead centre of Scotland to little Arrafergus. By English standards, it should not have been shown in yellow. Even Jesperson could hardly achieve more than a third of his normal speed. We had seen no other human being for a very long time, and even animals were absent, exactly as I had expected. Why was Arrafergus placed where it was, and how could it survive? Long ago the soaking mist had compelled us to put up the hood of the roadster. I admit that it was April.
In the early afternoon, the road came to an end. We were in a deep cleft of the rock-strewn hills, and it would have been impossible for it to go further. There was a burn roaring, rather than gurgling, over the dark stones. There was no community, no place, not even a road sign saying where we were or prohibiting further progress, not a shieling, not a crow. I speculated about what the funeral cortège could have done next.
‘Do you want to get out and look for the foundations?’ enquired Jesperson. ‘There’s probably the odd stone to be found. The landlords razed everything, but I’m told there are usually traces.’
‘Not for the moment,’ I said. ‘Where do you suppose is the track to Pollaporra?’
‘Up there,’ said Jesperson immediately, and pointed over my head.
How had I missed it? Despite the drizzle, I could now see it quite plainly. Nor must I, or anyone, exaggerate. The track was exceedingly steep and far from well metalled, but, apart from the angle of incline, hardly worse to look at than the yellow road. Obviously, it must be difficult to keep the maps up to date, and in certain areas hardly worth while at present prices.
‘Are we game?’ I asked Jesperson. ‘It’s not your car, and I don’t want to press.’
‘We’ve got to spend the night somewhere,’ said Jesperson, who had not even stopped the engine.
After that, all went surprisingly well. Cars were tougher and more flexible in those days. We ascended the mountain without once stopping, and there were no further major gradients until we came within sight of Pollaporra itself. I had feared that the track would die out altogether or become a desert of wiry weeds such as spring up vengefully on modern roads, if for a moment neglected.
The little kirk was wrapped in rain which was now much heavier. There were a few early flowers amidst and around the crumbling kirkyard walls. By June there would be more.
Jesperson drew up and this time stopped the engine reverently.
‘It’s all yours,’ he said, glancing at me sideways.
I stepped out. The huge new monument dominated the scene.
I scrambled across the fallen stones.
My father’s full name was there, and his dates of birth and death. And then, in much smaller lettering, A JUST MAN A BRAVE MAN AND A GOOD. That was it, the commemorated was no one’s beloved husband or beloved father; nor were any of his honours specified; nor was confident hope expressed for him, or, by implication, for anyone, he having been so admirable.
Around were memorials, large and small, to others among my unknown ancestors and collaterals; all far gone in chipping, flaking, and greening, or all that I studied. Among us we seemed to cram the entire consecrated area. Perhaps the residue from other families had no mementoes. I was aware of the worms and maggots massed beneath my feet; crawling over one another, as in a natural history exhibit. At any moment, the crepe rubber soles of my shoes might crack and rot. Moreover, did the Church of Scotland ritually consecrate any place? I did not know. I turned round and realised that in the distance I could see Pollaporra also.
The house, though no more than a grey stone, slate-roofed rectangle, neither high nor particularly long, dominated the scene from then on, probably because it was the only work of man visible, apart from the bad road. Also it seemed to stand much higher than I had expected.
Jesperson wisely refused to set his father’s car at the final ascent. We went up on foot. From the ridge we could make out the sea loch, green and phantasmal in the driving drizzle.
Cuddy was living in the house now; virtually pensioned off by the Trustess, and retained as caretaker: also as housekeeper, should the need arise, as it now did, almost certainly for the first time.
‘Cuddy,’ I cried out in my best English university style, and with hand outstretched, as we entered. It was desirable to seem entirely confident.
‘Brodick,’ she replied, not familiar perhaps, but independent.
‘This is Mr. Jesperson.’
‘It’s too late for the shooting and too early for the fishing,’ said Cuddy. I think those were her words. I never quite remember the seasons.
‘Mr. Leith has come to take possession,’ said Perry Jesperson.
‘It’s his for his life,’ said Cuddy, as if indicating the duration of evening playtime.
‘How are things?’ I asked in my English university way. I was trying to ignore the chill, inner and outer, which the place cast.
‘Wind and watertight as far as this house is concerned. You can inspect it at once. You’ll not find one slate misplaced. For the rest you must ask Mr. Mason.’
‘I shall do so tomorrow,’ I replied. ‘You must set me on the way to him.’
‘It is a straight road,’ said Cuddy. ‘You’ll not go wrong.’
*
Of course it was not a road at all, but a scramble over rocks and stones all three miles; slow, slippery, and tiring. I could see why Mason spent little of his time visiting. None the less, the way was perfectly straight to the sea; though only from the top could one discern that. Jesperson had volunteered to look for some sport. Cuddy had been discouraging, but th
e house was as crammed with gear as the kirkyard with ancestral bones.
Mason lived in a small, single-storeyed house almost exactly at the end of the path, and at the edge of the sea. The local letter-box was in his grey wall, with a single collection at 6:30 A.M. each day, apart from Saturdays, Sundays, and Public Holidays. There were a few other small houses, too small for the map but apparently occupied, and even a shop, with brooms in the window. The shop was now closed, and there was no indication of opening hours. A reasonably good, though narrow, road traversed the place, and in both directions disappeared along the edge of the loch. It ran between the path from Pollaporra and Mason’s house. There was no detectable traffic, but there was a metal bus-stop sign, and a time-table in a frame. I looked at it. If Jesperson’s father’s car were to break up, as seemed quite likely, we should need alternative transport. I saw that the bus appeared at 7:00 A.M. on the first Wednesday in each month between April and September. We had missed the April bus. I persisted and saw that the bus returned as early as 4:30 P.M. on the same day, and then went on to Tullochar at the head of the loch. Despite the length of the inlet, the waves were striking the narrow, stony beach sharply and rapidly. A few small broken boats were lying about, and some meshes of sodden net, with shapeless cork floats. There was even a smell of dead crustaceans.
I realised that all these modest investigations were being observed by Mason himself. He had opened the faded brown door of his house and was standing there.
‘Brodick Leith,’ he said, in the Scottish manner.
‘Mr. Mason,’ I replied. ‘I am very glad to meet you. I have heard about you all my life.’
‘Ay,’ said Mason, ‘you would have. Come indoors. We’ll have a drop together and then I’ll show you the books. I keep them to the day and hour. There’s not as much to do as once there was.’
‘That was in my father’s time?’
‘In the Judge’s time. Mr. Justice Leith. Sir Roderic Leith, if you prefer. A strong man and a mysterious.’
‘I agree with what you say.’
‘Come inside,’ said Mason. ‘Come inside. I live as an unmarried man.’
Mason opened a new bottle, and before I left, we had made our way through all of it, and had started on the remains of the previous one. Though I drank appreciably less than half, it was still, I think, more spirit than I had drunk on any previous occasion. The books were kept in lucid and impersonal handwriting, almost as good as my father’s, and were flawless, in so far as I could understand them; my career in banking having not yet begun. Mason left me to go through them with the bottle at my elbow, while he went into the next room to cook us steaks, with his own hands. I could see for myself that the amounts brought out as surplus or profit at the end of each account were not large. I had never supposed they would be, but the costs and responsibilities of land ownership were brought home to me, none the less. Until then, I had been a baby in the matter, as in many others. Most people are babies until they confront property ownership.
‘I know you attended my father’s funeral, Mr. Mason,’ I said. ‘How was it? Tell me about it.’ The steak was proving to be the least prepared that I had ever attempted to munch. No doubt the cooking arrangements were very simple. I had not been invited to inspect them.
‘Ay,’ said Mason, ‘and the funeral was the least of it.’ He took a heavier swig than before and stopped chewing altogether, while he thought.
‘How many were there?’ I had always been curious about that.
‘Just me, and Cuddy MacFerrier, and the Shepstones.’
The Shepstones were relatives. I had of course never set eyes upon even one of them. I had never seen a likeness. Millais had never painted a single Shepstone, and if one or more of them had appeared upon a criminal charge, my father would hardly have been the Judge.
‘How many Shepstones?’ I asked, still essaying to devour.
‘Just the three of them,’ replied Mason, as if half-entranced. I am making little attempt to reproduce the Scottishness of his speech, or of anyone else’s. I am far from being Sir Walter or George Douglas.
‘That is all there are?’
‘Just the three. That’s all,’ said Mason. ‘Drink up, man.’
‘A minister was there, of course?’
‘Ay, the minister turned out for it. The son was sick, or so he said.’
‘I am the son,’ I said, smiling. ‘And I was sick. I promise you that.’
‘No need to promise anything,’ said Mason, still motionless. ‘Drink up, I tell you.’
‘And no one else at all?’ I persisted.
‘Maybe the old carlin,’ said Mason. ‘Maybe her.’
For me that was a very particular Scottish word. I had in fact sprung half to my feet, as Mason spoke it.
‘Dinna fash yoursel’. She’s gone awa’ for the noo,’ said Mason.
He began once more to eat.
‘I saw her once myself,’ I said, sitting right down again. ‘I saw her when my darling mother died.’
‘Ay, you would,’ said Mason. ‘Especially if maybe you were about the house at the time. Who let her in?’
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps she doesn’t have to be let in?’
‘Och, she does that,’ said Mason. ‘She always has to be let in.’
‘It was at the grave that you saw her?’
‘No, not there, though it is my fancy that she was present. I saw her through that window as she came up from the sea.’
I know that Mason pointed, and I know that I did not find it the moment to look.
‘Through the glass panes or out on the wee rocks you can view the spot,’ said Mason. ‘It’s always the same.’ Now he was looking at nothing and chewing vigorously.
‘I saw no face,’ I said.
‘If you’d seen that, you wouldn’t be here now,’ said Mason. He was calm, as far as I could see.
‘How often have you seen her yourself?’
‘Four or five times in all. At the different deaths.’
‘Including at my mother’s death?’
‘Yes, then too,’ said Mason, still gazing upon the sawn-up sections of meat. ‘At the family deaths she is seen, and at the deaths of those, whoever they be, that enter the family.’
I thought of my brother whom I had never known. I wasn’t even aware that there had been any other family deaths during Mason’s likely lifetime.
‘She belongs to those called Leith, by one right or another,’ said Mason, ‘and to no one at all else.’
As he spoke, and having regard to the way he had put it, I felt that I saw why so apparently alert a man seemed to have such difficulty in remembering that I was presumably a Leith myself. I took his consideration kindly.
‘I didn’t see anyone when the Judge died,’ I remarked.
‘Perhaps in a dream,’ said Mason. ‘I believe you were sick at the time.’
That was not quite right of course, but it was true that I had by no means been in the house.
We dropped the subject, and turned once more to feu duties, rents, and discriminatory taxes; even to the recent changes in the character of the tides and in the behaviour of the gannets.
I have no idea how I scrambled back to dismal Pollaporra, and in twilight first, soon in darkness. Perhaps the liquor aided instead of impeded, as liquor so often in practice does, despite the doctors and proctors.
III
After the war, Jack Oliver was there to welcome me back to the office off Cornhill. He was now a colonel. His uncle had been killed in what was known as an incident, when the whole family house had been destroyed, including the Devises and De Wints. The business was now substantially his.
I found myself advanced very considerably from the position I had occupied in 1939. From this it is not to be supposed, as so many like to suppose, that no particular aptitude is required for success in merchant banking. On the contrary, very precise qualities both of mind and of temperament are needed. About myself, the conclusion I soon reached w
as that I was as truly a Scottish businessman as my ancestors in the kirkyard, whether I liked it or not, as O’Neill says. I should have been foolish had I not liked it. I might have preferred to be a weaver of dreams, but perhaps my mother had died too soon for that to be possible. I must add, however, that the business was by no means the same as when I had entered it before the war. No business was the same. The staff was smaller, the atmosphere tenser. The gains were illusory, the prospects shadowy. One worked much less hard, but one believed in nothing. There was little to work for, less to believe in.
It was in the office, though, that I met Shulie. She seemed very lost. I was attracted by her at once.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ I asked.
‘I have just seen Mr. Oliver.’ She had a lovely voice and a charming accent. I knew that Jack was seeking a new secretary. His present one had failed to report for weeks, or to answer her supposed home telephone number.
‘I hope that all went well.’
Shulie shook her head and smiled a little.
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Mr. Oliver had chosen a girl who went in just before me. It always happens.’
‘I’m sure you’ll have better luck soon.’
She shook her head a second time. ‘I am not English.’
‘That has advantages as well as disadvantages,’ I replied firmly.
It struck me that she might be a refugee, with behind her a terrible story. She was small, slender, and dark, though not as dark as my mother. I could not decide whether or not she looked particularly Jewish. I daresay it is always a rather foolish question.
The Wine-Dark Sea Page 20