Sealskin

by Su Bristow

  ‘Steady now. It’s a long road between here and there. They might have their own ideas.’

  ‘Yours might; you’ve always gone your own way, till now. Mine will do as he’s told!’ They both laughed, turning away about their business, and the matter of Bridie’s illness was laid aside.

  The next day was fair enough to go out fishing. Donald found James down by the boat, along with several other men, checking for storm damage. As soon as Donald was close enough for them not to be overheard, James said, ‘You got me into hot water last night. Now tell me, what am I supposed to have said, or not said?’

  ‘You never said a word. But you’ve not stopped smiling this past week or so. I made a guess, and Mother told me the rest. I’m happy for you.’

  James grinned. ‘That’s the two of us happy, then. Who’d have thought it, this time a year ago?’

  Donald considered it. This time a year ago, he’d been a newly married man, his path already opening up ahead. But for him it had taken longer than a year. Looking away, he said, ‘Do you think, if something starts wrong, it can come right in the end?’ And glanced up to see James staring at him.

  ‘We wouldn’t be the first not to wait for our wedding vows. What’s so wrong about that?’

  ‘Nothing at all. That’s not what I meant.’ But of course, he could not say what he was really thinking.

  James was quiet a minute, and then, ‘Oh! You mean because you and Mairhi weren’t promised yet. Is that it?’ And then, when Donald still avoided his eye, he said in a low voice, ‘And maybe she wasn’t ready. Or wasn’t willing. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  The silence went on and on, a vast gulf swallowing up the cries of gulls and the wind in the rigging. He heard Catriona saying, ‘Who are you to be judging us?’ He saw the eyes of Peggy Mackay upon him, and the mocking laughter of Euan Bain. With a few words, he could unmake it all; bring shame on the whole family. James and Catriona would never be married, his mother would be shunned, and he – he would take to the road and never set eyes on any of them again.

  He had missed James’ next few words: ‘… and it seems to me, even if it did start wrong, you’ve more than made up for it since. Donald, if I do half so well as you with my marriage, I’ll be a proud man! Anyone can see how much you care for her – and she for you, never doubt it. Look at Aly Bain, now. He seems to be keeping his hands off Jessie for the moment, but it will never be right between them. It goes too deep. But you and Mairhi – for God’s sake, man, she danced with you!’

  Donald looked up at last. ‘Aye, she did.’ And could not bring himself to say the words, to spurn James’ open-hearted generosity. But James was looking past him down the harbour.

  ‘Speak of the devil. Aly’s on his way. No more talk of babies now. Or women.’ He stood up. ‘Hoi! Ready to sail. What kept you?’

  54

  That year, as the days grew longer and Mairhi’s time came closer, it seemed to Donald that the whole world was rejoicing with him. He went about his work in a kind of quiet ecstasy, even welcoming the longer fishing trips for their pleasures rather than their perils; the sounding whales out beyond the furthest islands, and the arrival of the arctic terns, bringing the white light of summer in their slender wings. Along with his catch of fish, he would bring back these treasures to share with Mairhi. Beyond doubt, he knew that she remembered her former life, and it would have been ungenerous to keep them from her. Especially now, when she seemed so securely landbound.

  By April, the new room was finished. He had assumed that it would be Bridie’s, but she would not hear of it. ‘Why would I want to shut myself away in there? It’s far too big for one, and I’d rather be here where I can keep an eye on you all.’

  It was far too big and lonely for little John, too, but the time would come when he would share it with his new brother or sister. And Bridie seemed so much stronger these days that Donald had not the heart to argue. Most days, now, it would be Mairhi who set out with her basket of salves and medicines, and Bridie would stay behind to mind John. And if she was tired or in pain when Donald came home, she hid it well. He could not bring himself to ask about it, for fear of the answer.

  On a bright, windy day in June, James and Catriona were married, and that was a noisy, joyful wedding. Mairhi was close to her time by then, and earned herself a telling-off from Mrs Mackay for dancing, but that had never stopped her before, and it did not stop her now. Nor did it seem to hurt the baby, who waited another three weeks before slipping quietly into the world, unattended by anyone this time except Bridie and Jessie Bain, and little Nancy, who would not be kept away. It was a girl-child, and they named her Sorcha.

  At summer’s end, when the light was beginning to fade, there came a string of bright, still days, and a lull in the fishing before the rich harvests of autumn. They had been out since dawn and caught nothing, and so they came into harbour before midday. Unburdened for once, Donald decided to walk home along the shoreline and see what he could salvage.

  He passed the place where he had seen Mairhi speaking to the seals, but there was none here today. They would come later, when it was their time to give birth and to breed; for now, the sun-warmed rocks were silent, waiting. By this time he had gathered an armload of driftwood, and so he began to climb the hill to rejoin the clifftop path, to save himself the longer walk around the headland. Reaching the top, he turned inland for home, and then paused.

  There were sounds on the wind. Not seabirds, but the high piping voice of a child, and another voice answering, and then a great splashing of water. He could not be sure at this distance, but he thought it might be his own son, John. He went back towards the cliff edge on the further side of the headland, and looked down.

  There were pools there, hollowed out of the rock and refilled at high tide. Now, after a morning’s sunshine, they would be warm, and the shallows full of tiny crabs and anemones. But he could see no-one there. They must be out of sight under the headland, where the waves had undercut the cliff and made deeper pools. He would have to walk further along, until he could look back at the headland and see what was there.

  He had gone maybe forty paces when another shout stopped him, and he turned. There, at the base of the cliff, was John, naked in the sunshine, standing on a rock by the dark water. He had spied his father and was waving; Donald could see his open mouth, and then the call came to his ears: ‘Dadda!’ And as he watched, the little boy flung up his arms and jumped into the pool.

  55

  Donald dropped the wood and began to run. Down over the cliff edge, sliding and scrambling, heedless of safety. He shouted, but the child would not hear him through his own splashing. And then, to his horror, John disappeared below the surface.

  ‘Mairhi!’ Dear God, where was she? As he got lower, more of the pool came into view, and at last he saw her. She was sitting calmly on the further side, her feet in the water and baby Sorcha between her knees. At his call, she looked up, but with no urgency, until she saw the terror in his face. Then she let go of the baby, and stood up.

  ‘Mairhi!’ He was splashing through the shallow pools now, but he could not cross the large pool to where she was. John’s head reappeared at the far side, close to his mother; he shook the water from his eyes and held out his hands to Sorcha, who was moving across the pool towards him. Swimming like a fish. Like a seal.

  Stepping in – up to his waist, and gasping for breath – Donald could go no further. He watched, unable to make sense of what he was seeing, as both children vanished again. He looked across at Mairhi, but she was making her way, with no hurry, around the edge. And then, quite close, the two little heads bobbed up. He held out his arms, and they came to him.

  Sodden and shaking, Donald clasped his children to him, making his awkward way back onto dry land. From what he had just witnessed, they could have made their own way perfectly well, but he could not let them go. In his arms, Sorcha was just a tiny infant again, barely able to sit up; yet he had seen her paddling, diving, moving wit
h ease and grace. And John! He wriggled now to be put down, slithered out of his father’s grasp and ran to meet his mother.

  She came to a stop a few yards away, frowning against the sunshine. Was she afraid of him? It was true that he had been angry. For a moment there, he had wanted to catch hold of her and … what? If the children had not been there … But then, if they had not been there, none of this would have happened.

  He stood quite still, feeling his own heartbeat thundering in his chest, and laid his cheek against the baby’s head. At that, Mairhi came forward.

  ‘Oh, Mairhi.’ What could he say? She came quietly into his arms, and John danced around them, shouting for joy.

  After a time, Donald took a deep breath, and said, ‘Show me.’

  They went to sit on the warm rocks. Mairhi fed the baby while Donald held her, held them both, and wished he need never let them go. John, though, would not be still until he had shown his father how he could swim on his back and on his front, and dive under the water. Donald did his best, but he shuddered as he watched, and Mairhi set the baby down on her shawl, and took his hand from where it gripped her shoulder. She looked up at him, frowning a little. After a while, he began to feel the now-familiar magic. The slow, sensual rocking of the surf; the delicious slide of cool water over sun-warmed skin. How tempting, to slip open-eyed beneath the surface, to see for himself the secret underwater world…

  He squeezed her hand. ‘No, love,’ he said. ‘I need to find the way for myself. I can’t go where they can go, but maybe I can learn to be easier with it, somehow.’ He drew her to him, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘You’ve given me so much,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Whatever I can do in return; just tell me.’

  At that, she twisted round to look up at him. The urgency in her eyes brought him back from the sweet, drowsy state he had drifted into. ‘What is it, Mairhi?’

  She gestured towards the water, where John was still splashing. For a moment, he did not understand, and then he began to be afraid again.

  ‘Oh, love.’ Should he tell her, now, and bring grief into this precious place? He thought, what would Mother do? But the time was past when he could turn to Bridie for wisdom. He had just made a promise, though. Could he now say, anything but that?

  ‘Sweetheart, it’s gone,’ he said. ‘I don’t know who took it. I searched and searched, but it was nowhere to be found. I’m sorry. Well, I’m not sorry for what it’s brought us.’ He looked around at the beach, the children, the warm water at their feet. ‘But I am sorry for that. If I could give it back to you, I would.’ And in that moment, he meant it with all his heart.

  Mairhi stared at him, quite still. All this time, he thought. All this time, she’s been wondering, and hoping, and waiting for this moment. The pity of it was almost too much for him, but he forced himself to meet her gaze. I owe her that, at least. And if she wants to drown me now, then so be it.

  But he did not drown. It was Mairhi who looked away first. She shrugged her shoulders, and then turned to watch John, so that he could not see her face. Fair enough. Not so long ago, he’d have been off and away before anyone could see him so wounded, so naked. She, too, was about the business of learning to be human.

  They sat there, close together but without words, until John had finally grown tired of swimming and wandered off to catch crabs, and Sorcha had fallen asleep, full of milk and sunshine. Then he turned again to Mairhi.

  ‘I’m sorry if I scared you, love. When I saw them in the water, I thought … well, I don’t know what I thought. It’s what we all fear the most. You know that, don’t you?’

  She shook her head a little, watching his face. Of course she knew; she had seen for herself how a man might fear drowning. That was not what she meant.

  ‘You see…’ he paused, trying to think how to explain it in a way that would make sense to her. ‘We fishermen, we don’t swim. If you fall from a boat out at sea, you’ll die. We can’t stand the cold, not for more than a few minutes, not like … well, you know. So it’s better to go quickly, and not to have false hope. D’you see?’

  She made no move. ‘Oh, sure, the children play in the water when they’re little, but they don’t swim. It’s not our way. And if anyone saw them, they’d be scared, the way I was. They might start to think ill of you again. So…’

  What on earth could he say? ‘I don’t know what’s for the best,’ he said, and that was nothing but the truth. ‘I can’t tell you not to do it, and even if you do keep it secret, the bairns themselves will give it away one day. Has anyone else seen you, besides me?’

  She shook her head. She must have known, then, that other people would not understand. She had kept this even from Bridie, and from Donald himself. What had she thought they might do?

  Donald sighed. ‘There’s no way around it, is there? If trouble comes, we must just weather it. But be careful, my dear. And…’ He paused, then said, ‘You can’t swim yourself?’

  Again, she shook her head, and tears glittered in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘For all of it. I’m so sorry.’

  56

  After the coming of the baby, Bridie had begun to fail, as though she had been hoarding her strength for that one task. Sometimes, in the middle of making up the fire or milking the cow, she would turn white suddenly and press her hand to her side. In the night, she would cry out in her sleep, and Mairhi would go to her and try to ease her pain. She was waking to tend to the baby now, too, and often both women would be sluggish and dull-eyed in the morning. Sometimes Jessie Bain would come, but there was always a straggle of children about her, and so she would sweep John up with her own brood, returning him hungry and dirty in the evening. Less often, now, Jeannie and Ailsa would come, but they were more demanding than helpful; and they would have their own baby nephew or niece to play with, soon enough.

  Others would come too, bringing food and stopping to feed the hens or make up the fire, so that somehow or other, jobs got done. Donald stayed home whenever he could, but he had a responsibility to his crew too, and the fishing had to go on if they were to keep the roofs over their heads. For days together, though, his rowboat stayed drawn up on the strand, and his solitary life seemed a longago dream. In truth, he hardly thought about it at all.

  Father Finian had begun to visit every few days. Often, he would simply sit by Bridie without speaking, and both of them seemed to gain some comfort from it. But, as autumn drew on, the pains grew more frequent, and even Mairhi’s touch could not ease them altogether. One afternoon, when they had brought the boat into harbour before a rising storm, Donald met the priest coming down the hill from the cottage.

  ‘Walk with me a while, Donald,’ he said, and so Donald set down his baskets by the path, and turned back towards the village.

  For a while, bent against the wind, they walked in silence. Donald thought he knew what the priest had to say, and was in no hurry to hear it; but after a time, the waiting seemed worse than the hearing.

  ‘So, how did you find her today, Father?’ he asked abruptly.

  Father Finian stopped and straightened up, as though laying down a burden.

  ‘Troubled. I found her troubled,’ he said.

  ‘The pains are coming hard now. I don’t know what more we can do,’ said Donald. He did not expect the priest to have an answer, but a bit of ready sympathy would be welcome.

  ‘Aye. But it’s not the pains I mean. Bridie is a brave soul, and she bears it better than most, that I can tell you. But there’s something in her that won’t let go. You know her time is coming?’

  Donald could not speak, but he nodded.

  ‘I have sat with the dying often enough to know that there is a shape to it. By now, she should be beginning to loosen her hold. She’s made her confession, and so she should be free to be about it – heavens, Bridie knows the way it goes! But still she holds on, and so it goes hard for her. It’s beyond me, Donald. I can’t think what that good woman has done to trouble her con
science so. Whatever it is, she won’t confess it to me.’ He looked directly at Donald as he spoke, almost beseeching. ‘It’s a hard thing, to see someone you care for struggle so. Would you have any idea what it might be, hmm?’

  Donald shook his head, but now it was not grief but dread that stopped his tongue. For a moment they stared at each other, in a kind of mutual horror. ‘I’ll talk to her,’ he said at last, and looked away.

  ‘Good man!’ Father Finian gripped his arms with both hands. The wind gusted about them, and there came a sudden spatter of rain. The priest turned away. ‘Now we’d both best be off home. I’ll pray for you, Donald.’ And he was gone, plodding away down the path, hunched against the weather.

  Donald stood there for a while, hardly noticing the driving rain, until the thought of his baskets blowing about the hillside got him moving again. He faced uphill and let the wind take him home.

  57

  Up at the croft, he found Mairhi busy making an evening meal, with the baby under one arm and John under her feet. Bridie sat by the fire with the basket of mending on her lap; but her head had fallen back and she was dozing, despite all the racket about her, and even Donald opening the door and letting the storm blow in did not rouse her. He looked at her face in the firelight and could no longer deny that what Father Finian had said – and what she herself had said, almost a year ago – was true. She had always been so vigorous – younger-seeming than other women of her age; but now suffering, and perhaps the illness itself, had made an old woman of her.

  He could not bear to disturb her. And, in any case, now was not the time for talking, not with the children and Mairhi about. Not yet, not yet. But even as he watched, she started awake, her eyes black with pain; she bit back a cry as her hand went to her side.

  ‘Mother, what is it? What can I do?’ She was struggling out of the chair and seemed hardly to notice him at first. Then she pushed at him with her hand, took a few steps and crumpled to the floor. John stopped pestering his mother, stared for a few seconds and began to cry.