by Su Bristow
Donald groaned again. ‘How’s Mairhi?’ he said, squinting against the cruel sunlight. ‘How was it?’
Bridie smiled, a smile that took him straight back to childhood. His little sister chanting on their father’s shoulders, and himself holding his father’s strong, work-calloused hand as they came up the last slope before their own house, and their mother running to meet them, joy shining out of her. Donald shuddered, drawing in a great, ragged breath, and drew his arm across his face.
His mother was watching him. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘All this time – but all’s well, Donald. Just as it should be. And no-one can be in any doubt; we must have had half the village women here, one way and another! I’m sure some of them were hoping to see something magical or monstrous; but if they did, they’ve gone home disappointed.’ She was about to say more, but then there came from the bedroom that strange new sound. Bridie came to him and took his arm. ‘Come now,’ she said. ‘Come and greet your wife and son.’
At the bedroom door, she stood back and let him go in alone. Mairhi lay in the bed with her hair spread loose on the pillow, and at sight of him she smiled; but as he moved towards her she shrank back a little, holding the baby close. Donald stopped. He lifted his hands and let them fall back, helpless. What could he do? Behind him, he heard his mother take a sharp breath, and then she hurried to Mairhi’s side.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right, my dear. Nothing to fear. He’ll not hurt you or the babe. It’s not like … well, see now, there’s nothing to worry about.’ She took Donald’s hand and drew him forward. ‘We’re both so proud of you, aren’t we, Donald? Talk to her,’ she said. ‘Let her see you mean no harm.’
‘Mairhi,’ he began, and had to clear his throat before he could go on. ‘Oh, love, how could you think I’d hurt you? I’m here to protect you and our child, now and always, I swear it.’ The baby was crying more strongly now, turning its head from side to side against her breast, and he was weeping too, the tears falling unchecked. The thought came to him of what he had been prepared to do last night, and he shuddered again. He went to the bedside and fell to his knees, sobbing outright. ‘I’ll never hurt you again. I’ll look after you both. I’ll go to sea and provide for us all! Please, love, please don’t shut me out!’
The raw sound of his own despair appalled him, and he buried his face in the bedcover, shaking as he tried to hold back the tide of grief. After a moment, he felt the light touch of her hand on his hair. Behind him, he heard his mother say something like, ‘It’s not you, my dear, she knows; she knows you wouldn’t…’ But her words were lost in the gentle warmth that spread through him from Mairhi’s fingers, like clean water washing away pain and guilt, soothing away the false fire of the whisky still in his blood, pouring balm on his wounds. He yearned to give in to it, to be borne out on the sweet, healing tide, but it would not do, not today of all days. He stopped her stroking hand, kissed her palm and then held it still.
‘Not now, love, not for me. Save your strength. You’ve done so well!’
Cautiously, watching her face all the while, he reached out to touch the baby’s cheek with one finger. It stopped fussing and turned towards the touch, seeking milk. After a moment, finding nothing to its liking, it let out an impatient wail. Donald laughed. ‘It’s his mother he needs now! I’ll let you be.’
He got to his feet, watched for a moment as the child – John, his son John – found his mother’s breast at last and began to suck. He took a deep breath, and let it all out, let it all fall away. ‘I’d best go and get washed,’ he said.
40
That was the start of a strange new time. John was a strong baby, hungry for life, and right away he became the centre of the household. After the first night, he slept in a cradle next to the big bed; but as soon as he roused, Mairhi would bring him into bed with her, and fall asleep with the child at her breast. She had laid aside her misgivings about letting Donald near him, and Donald learned to sleep lightly, always aware of the child’s small stirrings, the rise and fall of his breath. Leaving the bed to go out into the world seemed like a kind of birth, every new morning. His skin felt tender, as though it were not quite healed, every sensation more intense; the touch of the breeze, the sting of blown spray.
It was not that he wanted to stay with them all the time; more that everything he did was charged with new meaning because they were there at his hearth. His hearth: he was the head of a family now. Of course, he would go to sea whenever he could, though he still saw to the crab pots as well. The first day out with the crew, he walked down to the harbour as usual, but somehow his stride was longer; he stood taller when folk stopped him to give their congratulations and ask after the baby. He felt, for the first time, as though he had the right to be there.
And so the summer wore on, and the child grew and thrived. Mairhi was up and about within a few days, and she too seemed to grow more beautiful, so that sometimes he could hardly bear to look at her. Everything seemed clearer and sharper, charged with a secret fire that was fiercer and more pure than anything a man could get from a bottle of whisky; and he went about his business drunk with the joy of it. James laughed at him – ‘You’d think you were the first man ever to father a child!’ – but Hugh watched quietly, and gave him more work on the boat when he could. Only Rennie seemed to draw back a little, making excuses to be off home as soon as the day’s catch was dealt with. When Donald remarked on it, James only laughed. ‘He’s not ready to settle yet, and his father’s after him all the time to find a wife to keep house for them both. It used to be he’d get away from all that at sea, but now you’re bringing it with you!’
Donald was puzzled. ‘Do I say too much, then?’
‘You don’t need to! It’s there in the look of you, in the way you’re coiling that rope as though it were a precious thing. Och, man, don’t worry yourself about it. He’ll come to it in time, same as you did. From where I’m standing, it looks just fine.’
After a minute or two, Donald worked this out. ‘Catriona will come to it as well, I’m sure of it. She likes you well enough.’
James turned away, busy with nets and baskets. ‘I think you’re right at that. It’s Hugh I’m bothered about. It’s not that he’ll be against it; I don’t think so. But to have a younger man come into your household, to give place to him and his children, if we’re blessed that way; well, that can be hard. Your mother, now, she seems to be fine with it, but it’s different for women, maybe.’
To this, there was nothing to say. Did his mother find it hard to step aside as head of the household? She had schemed and plotted; dealt with reluctance from Donald himself and suspicion or outright hostility from everyone else; and buried her own misgivings, in order to bring this situation about. What it cost her, he had no idea, and he would never ask. Brimful with his own precarious happiness, he drew back from walking that path, unwilling to spill even one drop. But Hugh was another matter; that seemed safe enough.
‘I’ll have a word with him,’ he said.
41
Not so long ago, he would have gone out of his way to avoid having words with anybody about anything. The thought came to him, fleetingly, as he walked up to the shieling with Hugh after the day’s fishing, laden with nets for mending, and it made him smile. Not so long ago had become ancient history, as misty and unreal as any of the old stories. Surely, now, it was the same for Mairhi? He hoped so, and dared not ask her in case it broke the spell. But here, at least, was one question he need not shrink from.
‘You know, you’ve set Catriona off, starting a family. The baby’s all she talks about these days.’ Hugh’s words startled him; had his uncle guessed what he was thinking?
‘Ailsa and Jeannie too. He’ll be spoiled with all the attention.’
Hugh laughed. ‘He will not! It’s what makes them grow, and thrive. Catriona’s done her best with the little ones, and tried to make it up to them for losing their mother, but I know they still miss her at times.’
&nb
sp; ‘So do you, surely.’ The old Donald would never have said such a thing to his uncle. Hugh glanced aside at him. ‘So I do. You can understand that now.’
Donald said nothing, and they negotiated a narrow stretch of the path in silence, going single file. Then, ‘Did you never think of marrying again?’
Hugh smiled. ‘Who’d have me?’ He became more serious. ‘Of course, many a time. But it’s a hard thing, to lose two wives. It almost seems you’d be inviting another woman to the same fate, if you married again. And besides, I don’t think Catriona would take kindly to giving over her place to anyone else; do you?’
Donald had never heard that becoming a father made a man take risks he would not have dreamed of taking before, but it seemed that for him, it was so, at least where words were concerned. ‘You’d have had my mother and me to live here, if she’d had a mind that way.’
Hugh stopped, so that Donald had to stop too, and looked him full in the face. ‘And I still would. When I first asked your mother, Catriona still needed mothering herself, and goodness knows you needed a father, though it wasn’t me you were yearning for.’ Hugh’s eyes held his, and Donald realised how rare it was that he ever looked directly at anyone in that way. Except for Mairhi. It made him hot and uncomfortable. He shifted the load of netting, glanced up at the sky. ‘There’s a squall coming.’
Hugh laughed. ‘Best get on home, then.’ He walked on a few paces, and then stopped again. ‘There aren’t many like your mother,’ he said. ‘John was a lucky man.’ And he moved on, not waiting for an answer. Donald had had enough of risk-taking, and so they finished their journey in silence. It was not until much later, when he was on his way home with a share of the catch and some of Jeannie’s old nightgowns for the baby, that he realised he had not mentioned James at all.
He had been right, though, about the weather. A summer storm came in overnight, whirling away the bright stillness into which John had been born. Time moved on again. He would go down to the boat, now, and put on his sealskin gloves in sight of the other men, and be glad of them. They made it possible to do what he could not otherwise have done. Whenever he could do it without being seen, he left offerings for the seals on the rocks where they liked to lie. It became a ritual for him, one of the many things fishermen do to bring about a safe voyage or a good catch. He was always aware of the seals, these days; and at the same time, he hoped that Mairhi might begin to forget. Surely the baby would bind her into the life that was now hers, in a way that nothing else could?
‘She’s a good mother,’ Bridie said to him one day, as they watched Mairhi playing with the baby. He was smiling now, and beginning to reach for things that were held out to him. ‘And he’s growing just as he should. Not like that poor child of Jessie Bain’s.’
‘Jessie doesn’t seem to miss it, though.’
Once she was up and about again, Jessie had begun to turn up at their door from time to time. At first, she’d made the excuse that she had ‘come to fetch Nancy home’, and it was true enough that Nancy hung around Mairhi whenever she could; but, as Bridie said, ‘she could have sent one of the other bairns after her.’ After the first time or two, she seemed to feel there was no need for an excuse at all, and they learned to expect her, usually with a child or two in tow, whenever Aly was at home. She would watch Mairhi feeding little John, see the children fussing over him, and never mention her own baby at all, unless Bridie asked her directly. Her milk had never come in, and the child was still with a wet nurse who lived up in the hills. Bridie herself had seen it there, and said it was a sickly thing.
Jessie had been there the day before, when Ailsa and Jeannie burst in, shouting that Catriona was on her way up the path, and there were scones and fresh crowdie ‘and we made them all ourselves!’ They fell quiet when they saw Jessie. Bridie busied herself making tea for everyone, but by the time she came to pour it, Jessie had slipped away.
‘Did you not see her on the path?’ Bridie asked Catriona.
Catriona sniffed. ‘She’s a strange one! Hiding in the heather, I shouldn’t wonder, rather than give me the time of day. I’m surprised you’ll have her in the house.’
‘I’ve no quarrel with Jessie Bain,’ said Bridie, with a sideways glance to where Nancy sat in the corner, watching Jeannie and Ailsa handing out scones, and doing her best to be invisible. They, too, acted as though there was nobody there. Jeannie was carrying a plate carefully across to Mairhi, who sat by the hearth with the baby in her arms; but when the plate was offered to her, Mairhi took Jeannie by the shoulder, turned her around and pointed at Nancy.
Jeannie stood still. ‘Catriona says we mustn’t talk to them,’ she said, and her clear, small voice fell like a stone into the sudden silence.
‘That’s all right, my dear,’ said Bridie before Catriona could gather her wits. ‘Nancy’s been helping me and Mairhi gather some medicines, haven’t you, Nancy?’
Nancy said nothing. Only stared like a trapped animal, from Bridie to Jeannie to Mairhi, and back again.
‘We can help you do that,’ said Ailsa. Like a little copy of her big sister Catriona, sitting up straight and trying to take charge.
‘Of course you can. This time of year, all help is welcome! So here’s a scone for you, Nancy, and some jam to go on the top. And then all you children can go and look for eggs while Mairhi settles the baby to sleep.’ Bridie gave Catriona a long look. From Donald, or even from her father, it would have had no effect, but for Bridie she held back the tide of words, if not for long.
Donald got up abruptly, leaving his tea half drunk. ‘Better check that Sam Bain’s not been in the barn again and left the door wide open.’ He was out of the door before Jeannie and Ailsa could jump up, clamouring to come with him. There were too many people, these days; too many unspoken words battering about the room like panicked birds, never mind the ones that were actually said. Home had always been a quiet refuge for him, just himself and his mother and a deep, peaceful understanding between them. Mairhi’s coming had stirred up the waters, to be sure, but she brought with her a special kind of peace, and he had learned to cherish it. Now, it seemed the whole world had an interest in her and the baby, and his quiet haven was no more.
A part of him wanted to be off and away, up into the hills or along the shoreline, finding sanctuary in his old way. But he had made a promise to see this through, to stand by his new family whatever it took – though he had never reckoned with having to play host to all and sundry. And it was more than that, more than just a duty. He missed Mairhi at his side, watching and learning and teaching him in her turn. He went only as far as the barn, where he climbed up on top of this year’s fresh hay bales, to lie for a while, listening to the patter of rain on the roof and the scratch of mice in the rafters. A couple of the barn cats came to sniff at him, hoping for food, and then they let him be. When the children came in with a basket for eggs, he lay quiet.
‘The speckled hen has a nest under the wall outside. Auntie Mairhi showed me.’ That was Jeannie, full of importance. ‘But we mustn’t take her eggs because she’s brooding.’
‘The fox will get them for sure. Catriona says it’s foolish to let her sit there.’ Ailsa, eight years old and armed with certainty. Donald heard the rustle of hay as one of them found a nest. Then, ‘You leave those eggs alone!’
Donald raised his head a little. Ailsa stood, hands on hips, and Jeannie was over by the door. Then came another voice, close under the haystack where he was lying. ‘She said I could!’ Nancy Bain, tremulous but determined.
‘Well, she’s not here, and I say you can’t!’
‘You can’t tell me what to do.’ Donald had never heard Nancy so bold.
‘Those eggs belong to my family, and you’ve no right!’ Ailsa came a step nearer. ‘And that’s my dress you’re wearing,’ she added for good measure.
‘It’s mine now. She gave it to me.’
Ailsa made a small, scornful noise. ‘She doesn’t understand about things like that. That dress s
hould have gone to Jeannie when she’s big enough. Catriona says so.’
Nancy was silent. This was a defence Donald understood. Give them no handhold, and they’ll tire of the sport in the end. He had used it himself many times, with Nancy’s own father for one. But he understood something else now, too; how it looked from the other side, how stubbornness became insolence, and how insolence invited punishment. Even as he began to move, Ailsa darted forward, and Nancy gave a sharp cry.
Jeannie saw him first. ‘She started it, Uncle Donald!’ she called as he clambered down from the haystack. By the time he reached the floor, Ailsa had grabbed the basket and retreated. Nancy crouched against the wall of the barn. One of her braids had come loose, and she looked up at him like a wild beast at bay. There were tears in her eyes. And no defence against him, the looming adult. She simply huddled there, waiting for the blow.
‘It’s all right, Nancy. You did nothing wrong.’
Behind him, Ailsa and Jeannie had crowded close, anticipating justice. Nancy saw her chance. The look she gave him as she fled for the door contained both gratitude and scorn, but there was no mistaking what his two cousins felt about it.
‘She was taking the eggs, Uncle Donald!’
‘She was doing as she was told. You leave her be.’
‘She’s got no right! That whole family is nothing but trouble, Catriona says.’
Despite himself, Donald smiled. It was so exactly what Catriona would say, and in exactly that way. He crouched to pick up the basket, and looked up at Ailsa. ‘You’re old enough to think for yourself,’ he said. ‘What trouble has she brought to you, now?’
Ailsa huffed. ‘Her daddy hurt Mairhi!’
‘True enough. But how is Nancy to blame for that?’
‘They’re all the same. Give them an inch and they’ll take an ell, Ca—’
‘Catriona says a lot of things. Too many things, sometimes.’ Donald knew he would pay for that later, but at least he had their attention. ‘Nancy’s daddy hasn’t been working much lately, and that means we’re all doing what we can. You wouldn’t have them go hungry, now, would you?’