by Su Bristow
Donald knelt by her side. ‘Let me help you. Do you need the outhouse, is that it?’
She was gasping, almost sobbing, but her eyes were dry. ‘I have to … I have to…’
‘There’s nothing you have to do now. Just tell me, and I’ll do it, whatever it is.’ He put his arms around her, tried to lift her up. She weighed almost nothing.
She looked at him and seemed to see him for the first time. ‘Donald,’ she said, and the pleading in her voice made him weep for the pity of it. ‘I don’t know…’
He lifted her and laid her on the bed, and this time she did not try to stop him. John was right there, pulling at her skirts and wailing.
‘Here, now,’ said Donald. ‘Let’s go to the barn and see if we can find an egg for Grandma’s tea. She’d like that, don’t you think?’ He swung the little boy up into his arms, turning to block John’s view of his grandmother as he did so.
Mairhi was standing by the table, quite still, with the baby on one arm and the stirring spoon in the other hand. It drooped, letting food fall onto the hearth, and still she did not move. Not since those early days had he seen her look so lost, and his heart went out to her.
‘Ah, my dear,’ he said. ‘Some things can’t be mended.’ When had his mother said that to him? No matter now. ‘You’ve done all you can. We’ll weather this too. We will.’
She made a little motion of her shoulders, and that was all the answer he got.
‘Now then,’ he said to John. ‘Let me wrap my coat around you, so. We’ll need to make a run for it. Ready? Hold tight!’
They stayed in the barn as long as they could, hunting for eggs in the straw, finding a nest of late-born kittens and seeing to the cow and her calf. Donald took up a length of rope he had been mending; there were a couple that needed replacing on the boat, and he would not go to sea with frayed ropes. But John was hungry now and would not settle, and in the end they held hands and ran back to the house, leaning into the wind. There would be no going to sea for a few days, in any case.
There would also be no visiting, and no chance to speak to Bridie alone about what might be on her mind. No-one ventured out, except to the barn and the outhouse, and if anyone had fallen sick in the village or the hills, they knew better than to send for Mairhi at such a time. So Donald worked on his ropes, played with John and kept the fire stoked. There would be a time, but not yet.
58
By the third day the wind had almost blown itself out. The ropes were done, and it was high time to go fishing. Donald set off down to the harbour after breakfast, with the ropes coiled over his shoulder, breathing deeply as he walked, glad to be out of the house. He knew this feeling of old, knew that he was running away, even if other tasks were calling him. In his mind’s eye he saw the path up into the hills; the bees would be busy in the heather now that the wind was down, and the streams running bright and lively after the rain. But that seemed a lifetime ago. John’s lifetime, more or less. In a year or two he’d be old enough to make the climb himself, at least partway. Donald found that he was looking forward to it.
He had reached the row of cottages along the harbour. Some of the boats were tied up there, and men were aboard one or two, checking for damage. Then he stopped. His own boat was among them; there was Aly Bain on deck, and his two brothers alongside. Quietly, Donald moved closer, until he stood in the lee of the last house, about twenty yards away – near enough to hear, but not be seen unless they looked directly at him.
‘Don’t know why you’re bothering. He won’t thank you for it.’ That was Euan, watching Aly busy about something. If Aly replied, it was too low to make out.
‘He’s soft in the head, that’s why.’ That was Andrew. ‘He never took the trouble for us – not that you’d trust his handiwork. They must be daft to keep you on so long, little brother.’
Aly kept his head down. Donald could not make out what he was doing, with his brothers in the way. He took a step closer.
‘And don’t think you can come crawling back to us when they throw you overboard! What if young Rennie comes home, or Hugh Macfarlane has a mind to go back to sea? D’you think they’d keep a place for you then? Eh? Useless little coward.’ Andrew turned away a little and spat into the water.
‘Oh, but they’ve got him where they want him.’ Euan spoke over his shoulder, still watching Aly. ‘Haven’t they? She’s got you all under her spell, hasn’t she, Aly? And now she’s teaching Jessie all her tricks, and wee Nancy too. As long as you do as you’re told, you’ll be fine. But if you dare to touch your own wife … The sea has long fingers, eh?’ Euan’s own fingers reached out towards Aly, clawing at his throat.
Aly raised his head at last. ‘Leave me alone!’ he said, and both brothers laughed.
‘Is that the best you can do?’ Euan’s voice took on a high, whining tone. ‘Poor little Aly, always getting picked on. It’s not fair.’ It was the voice of Aly himself, as a child, and Donald thought again of that day on the beach, watching the Bains at play. Without making any conscious decision, he moved out from the shelter of the wall and walked straight towards them. His skin prickled, but he kept moving.
And they made way for him, a man boarding his own boat, so that he found himself on deck before he’d expected it. Aly sat crosslegged almost at his feet, with a pile of nets at his side.
‘You can’t have brought her in by yourself?’ he said, low so that only Aly could hear. Aly shook his head, not looking up.
‘I fetched James down. He’ll be back soon.’ Donald stared at him a moment, and then nodded. He went to look at the frayed ropes.
‘It’s done,’ said Aly behind him.
And so it was; neatly done, too. There were many hours of careful work there.
‘Good job!’ Behind him, he heard Andrew’s snort of derision. He went over to Aly, and squatted down at his side. ‘You must have been out in all that weather, seeing to it. We’ll get an extra day’s fishing.’
Aly shrugged. ‘I’m closest,’ he said.
Donald put a hand on his shoulder, and felt the man flinch. Anger bloomed inside him, and he did not take his hand away. ‘You’ve done a grand job,’ he said loudly. ‘We’re a good crew, these days.’ He looked up, directly into the eyes of Andrew Bain. For a moment each held the other’s gaze, and then Andrew turned away. Euan had already started down the harbour towards their own boat, whistling a little.
Donald stood up. ‘James’ll be back soon; we might catch the morning tide. Where shall we try first, d’you reckon?’
59
What with the fishing, and all the coming and going around Bridie, it was not easy to find some time alone with her, even if Donald had been eager to try. There was hardly a moment when one or other of the women was not about, or Hugh sitting quietly by, or Father Finian bringing news and good counsel. She seemed to rally again, for a time; the pain was easier, and some of her old spirit returned. But Father Finian was right. Something was troubling her, and Donald could not bring himself to dwell on what it might be. Time enough, yet.
Still, when Catriona’s time came, it was not Bridie who went to help her, but Mairhi, and Donald’s turn to keep company with James in the bar. All went well, as Mairhi told them when she returned late in the morning, but it was left to little John to announce that he had ‘a new baby cousin, and his name is Hugh!’
In the following days, the house grew quiet. Mairhi was over with Catriona most days, and the children with her, and the tide of visitors turned that way too. Donald came up the path from the harbour one afternoon to find the place seemingly empty; but as he went across to the fire to warm his hands, he heard a sound from Bridie’s bed. She was there, watching him from her pillow.
‘Have you been sleeping, Mother?’ She looked wide-eyed, far away. ‘Will you take a cup of tea?’
She shook her head. ‘Sit by me a while, Donald.’ Her voice quavered, like Auntie Annie’s when her joints were paining her.
Donald took his time, getting out of h
is wet coat and boots, fetching tea for himself; but at last he came to sit beside her. In the half-hour or so since he had come home, it had grown fully dark outside.
‘I’d better light the lamp,’ he said, and made to get up, but she caught at his hand.
‘Don’t go! The firelight’s enough for now. I think they’ll stay at the shieling tonight.’
He stayed, holding her hand, grown dry and thin like the claw of a bird. After a time she turned his own hand over, stroking the back of it.
‘Your hands are better, these days,’ she said. ‘Still a little rough, but no cracks.’
It was true. He had hardly thought about them for weeks now; hardly needed to.
‘Do you still wear those sealskin gloves?’
‘Oh, yes. But not always.’
She nodded. ‘They’ll last you well, if you oil them.’
‘I do.’
But her eyelids were drooping, and she dozed a little, he thought. Gently, he made to take his hand away, but she clutched at him with sudden strength and said, ‘Donald! I can’t do it any more. I’ve tried, and I can’t—’ Her voice caught, and to his horror she was weeping. In all the years, even those dark days after his father’s death, she had been dry-eyed, but she was weeping now.
‘Hush, Mother, hush. Oh, here now, here.’ He went to lift her, to hold her against him, the way he had learned with John and the baby, but she pushed at him and fell back against the pillow.
‘What can I do? Oh, Mother, let me help. Please, tell me what’s the matter.’
There, it was out at last. And she fell blessedly quiet, watching him out of those shadowed eyes, the tears still running. He could not bear it.
‘Whatever it is, just tell me,’ he said.
She stared at him a few moments longer, and then made a little movement of her head, that might have been a nod. ‘It was wrong, what we did,’ she said in a low voice, as though someone might overhear.
Now, at last, he was on firm ground. ‘What I did, you mean.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I did a terrible thing, and you did your best to put it right. You saw what had to be done, and look what’s come out of it. The wrong was all mine, Mother, and I don’t know if I shall ever make up for it, but I’ll never stop trying.’
She was not listening. Her hands were working at the coverlet, and the tears were flowing again. ‘It was wrong,’ she repeated. ‘She never had the choice, poor lass. All this, now; of course, it’s everything a body could hope for. But she never had the choice.’
‘But that’s my fault, not yours. That’s my load to carry. Please, don’t torture yourself like this.’
‘You don’t understand!’ She struggled to sit up, to get out of bed, but he held her as she wept. And then, muffled against his shoulder, she said, ‘I hid it from you, Donald.’
‘What?’ He held her away from him, tried to look her in the eye. ‘Hid what from me? What are you saying?’
‘I knew you’d go back, and I was afraid of what you might do. While you were up in the hills, I went down to the boat, and I rowed across to the skerry, and I found it.’
‘No. No, that can’t be right.’ He was shaking his head, trying to unmake her words.
‘I found it, and I brought it back,’ she said, calm now, watching his face. ‘But I couldn’t keep it here, in case … well. So I took it and hid it, as safe as I could.’
Donald was staring at her. ‘And that day, when Uncle Hugh brought the gloves…?’
She was nodding. ‘Oh, that was a terrible thing! As soon as I could, I went up the hill. I had to see. And there it was, safe and sound.’
‘Where is it?’ Could it be that somehow he had always known this? Not some stranger, or someone who wished him ill, but his own mother? Why else would he be so terribly calm, now?
‘I’ve kept it safe, Donald, and looked after it well. I’ve oiled it and wrapped it to keep the water out and the mice away.’ She was speaking very fast, her eyes too bright, the words unsaid for so long now bubbling out of her. ‘But I can’t manage the hill any more. I’ve tried and I haven’t the strength. Oh, Donald…’ She was weeping again, grasping his hands as though she could somehow draw strength out of him.
‘Where is it?’ he asked again, very quiet.
‘Up the hill a way, too far for me now. I thought it was for the best, or you’d have sent her back where she came from. But it’s not right. I made my choices, for good or ill, and I lived by them. But she never had the chance. It’s not right.’
‘Mother. You’ve come this far. Now just tell me where it’s hidden, or do I have to carry you up the hill on my back so you can show me yourself?’
She stared at him. ‘But you can’t go now! It’s full dark, and a wild night besides.’
‘Of course I can’t go now. But as soon as I can, I’ll find it, if you’ll only tell me where to look.’
At last, she looked away, and her hands grew still. ‘I’ve moved it, more than once. There’s nowhere really safe. But you know the old shepherd’s bothy up by the lochan over the hill? You used to go there sometimes, as a boy.’
He nodded. ‘But that’s just a pile of stones, these days.’
‘There’s a bit of the chimney still standing. I pushed it up inside, and built up the stones all around, to keep the beasts out. What else could I do? I always hoped the time would come when we could give it back; but then there were the babies, and the two of you so happy. Was it really so bad, when so much good came out of it?’
He shook his head now. ‘Mother, I can’t make it right for you. I can’t make it right for myself. Maybe only the priest can do that, and we can never tell him. But he knows there’s something.’
‘I know.’ And she smiled at the thought of him. ‘He’s a dear man, and I wouldn’t burden him with it. I’ll make my own peace with God, when the time comes. But there’s not much time left, not for me. It’s up to you, now.’
‘I don’t want this,’ he said, very low. ‘I wish it had been taken, or washed away, or … anything. But not this! I’m sure she cares for the children, and for you, and she’s even come to care for me. But I know she hasn’t forgotten, not any of it.’
‘I know,’ said Bridie, quietly now. ‘Maybe she can’t ever be whole in her heart. But at least she can choose.’
‘But what if…’ He could not bring himself to say it, to make it real.
‘Donald. There are the babies; there’s Nancy and Jessie and Catriona, and all the people she’s helped. There’s me, and there’s you. She has her life here, now, and people look to her when they’re in need. Surely, she’ll make the right choice.’
He had no answer, nothing to say.
They sat in silence for a while, until the fire sank to a dim glow. He banked it for the night, and went to his own bed, but there was no rest to be had there.
60
Before first light, he got up as quietly as he could. The wind was still battering at the house, throwing hail at the windows, and if Bridie called out as he pulled the door shut behind him, her voice was lost in the storm. At least, he thought, he would not be missed at the harbour today. He went to the barn for a bottle of fish oil, and then set off up the hill. He could not see far in the driving rain, and there was no path to make the going easier, but he knew the way well enough, though it was a while since he had been to the bothy. As a child, he had made it a refuge, kindling a fire in the hearth and crouching under the half-ruined wall. What if someone else had been there too? Bridie was right; there was no safety.
It took him a good while, battling against the wind and rain, and he almost missed the way after all. It was slow going, stumbling over the heather and tussocks of marsh grass; a man could turn his ankle between them. Looking for the easier ways, he had veered too far to the north, and found himself in the peat-bogs in the next valley along. There was nothing for it but to climb the hill in the teeth of the wind, until he stood on the ridge looking down to where the lochan should be. The blowing mist obscured everything; bu
t as he watched, it parted for a moment to reveal a glimpse of black water. That was his goal.
He made a careful descent, until he stood at the edge of the water – peat-brown, with hardly a ripple on it despite the wind. It was always still, here. The lochan drank up the rain and never changed, and folk said there was some uncanny spirit that lived there. Right now, Donald did not care, as long as it kept them away.
The bothy stood on a little rise some way around the shoreline. In fine weather, he remembered, you could see down the valley to a distant glimpse of sea. There was no chance of that today, and the bothy itself, as his mother had said, was nothing more now than a heap of stones. He wasted no time, going at them with both hands, throwing them aside to get at the hearth, or what was left of it. Rainwet and jagged, the rocks tore at his skin, so that blood mingled with water as he worked, pooling in the mud under his feet. His sealskin gloves would be a blessing now, he thought, and smiled at the bitter joke.
When he had got the hearth clear, he knelt down and thrust an arm up into the chimney. His fingers touched something cold and unyielding; not stone, but he could not move it at all. His mother had piled rocks down on top of it inside the chimney, and he had to move these, too, until at last he could see the bundle, wrapped in oiled cloth. It was wedged fast. By the time he had finally got it free, most of the chimney itself was down, and after all, the knots that tied it were so swollen that he could not pry them loose.
Donald sat down, his back against what remained of the wall, and hugged the bundle to him with his numb and bloodied hands. He lifted his face, and the rain carried his tears away as he sobbed. The sounds that came out of him were animal, wordless. Not just for himself, but for the lost creature he cradled, stranded so far from home.