by Su Bristow
They were coming down to the harbour, and there were a few children about, playing tag among the boxes and baskets. At sight of them, the younger ones shouted a greeting and began to run towards them. Mairhi went to meet them, smiling; she loved to watch them at play, or even to join in, and never minded if they teased her for being halfwitted. But before they reached her, one of the older boys caught up. ‘Come back here!’ he yelled, and yanked the nearest one by the hair, so hard that the child fell in a heap and began to bawl. ‘You stay away from us!’ he shouted at Mairhi.
She had bent to pick up a little girl who had taken a tumble, and was setting her to rights. The boy darted at her and dragged the child away, slapping her for good measure. ‘Don’t you touch her! You leave us be!’
Mairhi stood up slowly, her smile fading. She was staring at the boy – a puzzled, hurt look that Donald had never seen on her face before. He laid a hand on her arm. ‘Come away now,’ he began, but the boy set up a screeching as he scrambled away.
‘She tried to witch me, she gave me the eye!’
Some of the women had come to their doors now. One or two ran to gather up their children, while others just stood, watching.
‘That’s enough!’ said Bridie, in a voice that carried clear down to the harbour. ‘Shame on you, James Macdonald! You’re too old to be making such a fuss about nothing. No harm’s been done, and none will be, if we all pay less heed to lies and gossip and get on with our business.’ She turned around, including all the onlookers, and then swept on down the street. Donald and Mairhi followed in her wake, and silence lay behind them.
17
Auntie Annie’s cottage was near the bottom, just above the harbour, and all eyes were on them as Bridie reached the door. Auntie Annie stood there already, holding it ajar. She touched Bridie’s arm. ‘I’ve got company inside,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Bad news travels fast.’
Mrs Mackay was seated by the fire, teacup in hand. She stared at them all as they came in.
‘Good morning to you!’ said Bridie brightly. ‘You’re out early today. Have your knees been easier with the new ointment I made you?’
‘Bridie Macfarlane, I’m surprised at you,’ said the old woman. ‘Bringing that creature into the village as though you were proud of what she’s done.’
‘Now why don’t I make some fresh tea,’ said Auntie Annie, ‘and we can all sit down and let Donald here tell us exactly what did happen. He was there, after all, and we know better than to pay much heed to what men say when they’re in their cups, now don’t we?’ She took down the kettle, and Donald went to fill it for her, but his mother stopped him.
‘I’ll see to that,’ she said. ‘You stay by Mairhi.’ She filled the kettle and hung it over the fire to boil, and then began to set out fresh cups and cut slices of the cake she had brought in her basket.
Donald sat down and took Mairhi’s hand, but she would not look at him. Mrs Mackay simply sat and watched them, saying nothing. The silence grew heavier, until he could not bear it any longer.
‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ he said suddenly, startling everyone. ‘Aly Bain grabbed her, and the other two held me back, and I know he’s your nephew and all, but he had no business doing what he did. And then … and then he choked and fell down, and then he was sick, and we came away. And that’s about the size of it.’
‘Well,’ said Auntie Annie, ‘you don’t surprise me one bit. It’s not the first time he’s been in trouble for putting his hands where they’re not wanted. Drunk or sober, he’s old enough to know better, wouldn’t you say, Peggy?’
Mrs Mackay had not taken her eyes off Mairhi. ‘I’d say you’re trying to take me for a fool,’ she said. ‘There’s something not right about her. She doesn’t behave as a young lassie should. She doesn’t speak, but she knows a lot more than she lets on. Things that shouldn’t be known, maybe. She put the mortal terror into Aly Bain. Who knows what else she might do, the next time someone crosses her?’
‘Come now, Peggy,’ said Aunt Annie mildly. ‘She didn’t put anything into his head that wasn’t there already. It’d be a foolish fisherman that didn’t think about going overboard and about the souls that have been lost before. It’s just that most men know how to hold their tongues and get on with it.’
‘It’s true,’ said Donald. ‘I saw their faces. We all have those thoughts, every one of us.’ He spoke from the new certainty that had come to him the night before, and knew that none of them could gainsay him.
‘That’s as may be,’ said Mrs Mackay at length. ‘But why would those thoughts come to him just then? I’ll grant you, he may have been taking liberties – and you should have known better, Donald Macfarlane, than to take a lass in her condition to the bar—’
‘I didn’t—’ Donald began, but she carried on relentlessly.
‘—but even so, she called it out of him, somehow. And that’s not right. You’d no business bringing such a creature among us, whatever she may be. You should take her back where you found her.’ She leaned forward and thumped her stick on the floor, glaring at Donald.
He dared not glance at his mother or at Mairhi. Was it possible, somehow, that she knew?
‘I mind well,’ said Bridie, ‘how some folks said John should never have brought me here. She’ll never take to the life, they said; she should go back to her own kind. But I learned, and I stayed, and maybe I’ve brought something new to this village. I hope I’ve done some good, here and there. You can’t keep everything the same; and even if you turned away all the strangers, what would you do with someone like James Wallace, who’s not been right in the head since his accident, or a child that’s slow-witted, or anybody that’s got too old or frail to do the work they used to do? You can’t turn them away, no-one would think of it. We all look out for each other. That’s how things are. And if you can think of a better way to manage, I’d like to hear it.’
‘That’s well said, Bridie,’ said Auntie Annie. ‘Oh! The tears I shed when I was newly wed, and people mocked me for not knowing one end of a fishing boat from the other.’ She glanced at Mrs Mackay, whose eyes were now firmly fixed on her teacup, and then gave Donald the merest quiver of a wink. ‘But I got over it. And so will your nephew. Maybe he’ll learn something, you never know.’
Mrs Mackay began to rise from her chair, taking her time to arrange her shawl and her stick. ‘Well, Annie, I can see your mind’s made up. I’ll leave you be. Bridie, Donald, good day to you.’ Like Hector, she did not acknowledge Mairhi, or even look at her.
Once Auntie Annie had seen her out of the door, she sank back into her chair. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’ve probably faced the worst of it now, at least from the women. My, but she was a holy terror when we were young; you’ve no idea. She’s got soft in her old age. But here’ – and she got up again, went to Mairhi and took both her hands – ‘don’t you worry, my dear. This storm will blow itself out; they always do. Some folks will always be unkind, but you’ll learn how to deal with them without scaring them half out of their wits. Ask Donald here; though I wouldn’t always recommend his methods, either. Now then, we’ll say no more about it. I hear you’ll be out on the boat a bit more, Donald. It’s a comfort to your uncle, believe you me. And your father would have been proud of you lately, never doubt it.’
She had kept hold of Mairhi’s hands while she talked, giving them a little shake now and then for emphasis. Now, as she moved to go back to her chair, Mairhi stood up and took her in her arms. It was hard to tell who was comforting whom; when they drew apart, both women looked close to tears. Auntie Annie had a little, crooked smile. ‘That’s the way, lass,’ she said softly.
18
They made their way home by a roundabout route. ‘I think we’ve had enough company for one day,’ said Bridie, despite what she had said when they set out. Donald was not about to disagree. The tide was low, so they took a path along the strand, keeping an eye out for salvage.
They walked in silence for a while, each thin
king their own thoughts, and then Bridie said, ‘I never knew that Auntie Annie was a stranger here. She’s always been kind to me, but she never mentioned it before. I wonder where she grew up. You don’t think, when you’re young, about older folk having lives before you came along. And later, I suppose you just take things for granted.’
‘I suppose,’ said Donald, who had always done exactly that, until now. ‘Was it very hard for you here, at first?’
‘Oh, well, you know. You get over it, as Auntie Annie said. They didn’t dare go too far, not then. John’s father was very well respected, and the family stood up for me, mostly. The hardest time was later, after John went. The family was all for moving us in with them. I put my foot down, and a lot of people, like Mrs Mackay for one, thought I should either do as I was bid or go back to Kilbeag with my father. A woman living on her own, that’s a tricky thing. Other women don’t like it. But the men, now, that’s a different story. You’d be amazed how many of them lost their way in the fog that year and ended up at my door.’
‘What on earth do you mean? You never … surely you never…’ Donald could not bear to go on; such a thing had never occurred to him. Bridie was watching him narrowly.
‘Of course I didn’t! That’d be a sure way to get myself turned out, and serve me right! No. I loved your father, never doubt it. And I had you to think of. Mind you, some of them offered to make an honest woman of me. Even your Uncle Hugh; he’d lost his wife before John and I were married, and he always had a soft spot for me. Still does, I think.’ She laughed suddenly, a bright, clear, carefree sound, like the sun coming out. ‘Donald, your face! You look as though you’d stolen the cream and got the whey instead!’
He tried to mask his outrage, gave it up and grinned at her. ‘I suppose I asked for that! Everyone’s got secrets, haven’t they? Just because they seem fine from outside doesn’t mean a thing. And there was me thinking I was the only one.’
His mother took his arm, so that he had to stop and turn to face her. Mairhi stopped too, looking from one to the other. ‘You’re one of us, Donald, and you always have been. And so is our Mairhi, whatever folks may say.’ She reached out and took Mairhi’s hand. ‘It was a blessing, the day you came to us, lass. Don’t you forget it.’
Mairhi smiled, but the solemnity of the moment was too much for her. She whirled around and took off down the beach, as usual forgetting to gather her skirts as she ran. Donald started after her. He heard his mother call, ‘Be careful on those stones!’ And then the only sounds were the surf breaking on the rocks a few yards away, the cry of gulls on the wind and his own feet crunching on pebbles. He slowed as he got nearer to the water, below the tideline, where the rocks were slimed with weed and studded with limpets. Mairhi was still some way ahead, picking her way around the base of the low cliffs that began here and ran on below their own house and northward for some miles. No hurry, now; he stopped to turn over a rotten piece of driftwood, too sodden to burn, but there were some drier pieces higher up. By the time he straightened up again, she had turned the corner around the first headland and was out of sight. Burdened with the slippery spars, he followed slowly.
He rounded the bluff and could not see her at first, just the empty strand, wider here, and the tumble of boulders at the water’s edge. Then there was movement among the boulders, a splash as something slid into the sea. One gone, but there were still two – no, three, there in the lee of the rocks. Grey seals, her own kind. She was squatting not two yards from them; he could see her bent head and her outstretched arm.
19
As quietly as he could, Donald set down his load of wood. He was about to move forward when he felt a hand on his arm. Bridie had caught up with him.
‘Leave her be,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It was bound to come, sooner or later. We can’t always be watching her.’
‘But they might hurt her!’ Though that was not really what he feared.
‘I think they’d have done it already. Or, more likely, if we get too close and panic them. Besides, it’s none of our business.’
He stared at her, but she would not look at him. ‘Is it not? What if she tries to go with them? Or they turn her against us? Or—’
‘Hush, Donald. Keep your voice down. If she could go, she’d have gone long since. And they’re her family; she’s not just going to forget them, now, is she? You’ll have to make your peace with that.’
He felt silenced, shamed, in the wrong once again. He had thought – had hoped – that maybe she might just forget, somehow. As ever, his mother had seen straight through him. That had always been a comfort in the past, a net to catch him when he fell. He shook off her hand, moved away a little. Below them, the seals were raising their heads to look at Mairhi. As he watched, she straightened up, smoothing out her dress, and stood still for a long moment. Then she turned and went on her way along the strand, not looking back.
Donald was beginning to move off when Bridie stopped him again. He pulled away, but she hissed, ‘Wait!’ and something in the intensity of her voice made him pause. As he glanced at her, she made a little upward gesture with her eyes, and put a finger to her lips. There, on the edge of the cliff, maybe thirty yards above them, someone was standing. He could not make out whether it was a man or a woman, and even as he looked, the figure drew back and was gone.
They both stood stock still, as though by not moving, not going on, they could somehow undo the moment. At last Donald said, ‘Dear God! How much do you think they saw?’
Bridie shook her head. ‘All of it, we’ll have to suppose. It’s what they think they saw that counts. A simple-minded lass going too close to the seals before we could stop her, or … something else. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. I’ve had enough, Donald. Let’s go home.’
By the time they caught up with her, Mairhi had salvage of her own to show them: shells, a piece of sea-glass, an empty crab claw. Her face as she displayed her treasures was as open as ever; hiding nothing, hiding everything. Donald could not bring himself to ask what had passed between her and the seals, and she could not have told him anyway. It was her business, and hers alone.
In the days that followed, Donald was reluctant to let Mairhi or his mother out of his sight, but Bridie made him go about his business as usual, and every day she and Mairhi went off to the village or to the shieling, spending time with the other women.
‘Oh, some were a bit fearful at first,’ she told him one evening, ‘but the younger ones seem inclined to take Mairhi’s part. They’re not too bothered about Aly Bain; he’s needed teaching a lesson since he was a bairn. Jessie hasn’t shown her face, though. She sends the older girl out when she needs anything. I’m guessing she’ll take the brunt of it, poor woman.’
After the greeting they’d had in the village, Donald guessed that Bridie was making the best of things. Well, that was her way. His way was to steer clear of people as much as he could, going to the village only when he was sure the men would be out at sea. He did not go to the bar, and Bridie did not try to force the issue.
It seemed as time went by that perhaps she was right, and folk would think no more about what had happened to Aly Bain. As for the figure on the clifftop, whoever it was seemed to be keeping their own counsel. Donald began to feel easier – just a little – though his heart still leaped when he saw Bridie and Mairhi coming home along the cliff path. He, who had always fought shy of other people, now wanted only to gather them close and keep them safe. Of his own safety, he never thought at all.
20
The arm that snaked around his throat, crushing it and cutting off his wind, caught him completely by surprise. He dropped the basket he’d just been lifting, ready to climb the cliff path up to the house. His arms went up, and the blow to his stomach drove the breath right out of him and sent him to his knees. He hardly had time to register the dark shapes closing in; he keeled over, gasping for air, almost not feeling the boots connecting with his back, his legs, his unprotected head. Something cru
nched in his back, and then came a flare of bright agony as someone stamped hard on his left knee. There was shouting, but the voices buffeted him like a storm wind, without meaning.
Even when the breath finally came searing back into his lungs, he stayed curled over, trying to shield his face. Under his cheek, blood mingled with sand and seawater. He tasted grit and hot metal, felt the stones bite as his body was driven into them, and still tried to lie as limp and unresisting as seaweed. Let them think he was unconscious, or too cowardly to fight back. Schoolyard tactics; Donald had learned that it was over all the sooner if he gave them no sport, though the beatings then had never been as bad as this.
But he began now to be able to make out their voices. Three, maybe four. Euan and Andrew Bain, of course, and their friend James Wallace, who always tagged along. The fourth was unfamiliar, the reedy pitch of a very young man, now shrill with excitement, egging on the others from a little distance. Donald risked a glance from between his laced fingers, but could see nothing beyond the legs of those close around him. They were tiring now, or their blood was cooling. They drew back a little, watching to see what he would do.
‘Get up, Macfarlane!’ That was Andrew, breathing heavily.
‘He’s not moving. Maybe you’ve killed him!’ The young voice, closer now, bending low. Donald did not move.
‘Don’t talk daft, Fergus.’ That was James Wallace, sounding rattled. Fergus was Campbell Callum’s boy; he had crewed with them for the first time last autumn, and Donald remembered his white, scared face as they cleared the harbour and the first real waves hit them. He had thrown up, not once but many times. When they’d unloaded the catch, Hugh, meaning to be kind, had said, ‘You’ll get used to it soon enough.’ But as he turned away Donald had seen the look of miserable hatred in the boy’s eyes. He did not know what he himself might have done to earn Fergus’s enmity; they had scarcely exchanged more than a word or two.