by Su Bristow
At last, he drew his arm across his face and set down his burden in the lee of the wall. Crouching over it to make a little shelter, he tried again to loosen the ropes that bound it. It was no use; only a knife would serve, and then how was he to secure it again? As he turned it about, looking for purchase, he could see little jagged holes in the cloth where mice, despite all Bridie’s care, had tried to nibble through.
This would not do; and in any case, the thought of leaving it in this desolate place made him sick at heart. He gathered it again into his arms, got to his feet and turned his face for home.
More than once, on that long journey downhill in the face of the gale, he marvelled at his mother’s determination, that she had managed all this time to keep the precious thing safe and hidden. All the while, as one blessing after another had come to him, this had been the price. It was an awkward thing to carry, and heavy, and he fell again and again; and somewhere along the way he let his anger slip away, and was left only with pity. When he stopped to rest, his arms shook so badly, he could hardly take up the burden again; but if she had borne it, then so could he. And so at last, step by stumbling step, he made his way down to his own back yard, where he unbarred the barn door, and went in.
61
Inside, it was still, and quiet, and dark, so that he felt as though he had lost all his senses at once. He set down the bundle, but it was some time before his arms would stop trembling enough that he could strike a spark for the lantern. And then, at last, he took out his knife and cut through the ropes, and spread out the sealskin on the clean straw.
Here it was. Donald ran his hand over the surface, as he had done once before, feeling the lie of the thick fur. It had been cared for, he could see that; but not recently. It should have been supple and glossy, but there were places that were beginning to dry out, and here and there, where mice had got in, little patches of bare skin. With hands that were still numb, he unstoppered the flask, and began to smooth oil into it, working with the grain. He stroked it tenderly, seeing the subtle play of colour in the fur, feeling down through the coarse guard hairs to the soft, fine layer beneath. The barn cats came to see what he was about, sniffing and then rolling on the fur in a kind of ecstasy. Mairhi loved the cats, and so he did not try to fend them off.
At first, as he worked, the blood from his wounded hands mingled with the oil and soaked into the dry skin. After a while, the bleeding stopped, and his hands grew warm and smooth. He began to sing under his breath, a cradle song without words, like the songs Mairhi herself sang to the babies. And when he had rubbed oil into every inch of it, he lay down, like the cats, and rubbed his face into the deep fur.
The best of the day was gone. When he heard the lowing of the cow outside, ready for milking, Donald sighed and sat up. He ached in every limb, but there was warmth in his heart. Now, where would be a good hiding place? He thought about the caves down on the strand, or maybe a hollow tree, but it was too late to set out again now. In the end, he fetched a length of sailcloth and carefully rolled up the skin inside it. The summer’s hay harvest was piled to the ceiling, and Donald climbed up to the top and wedged the bundle down behind the topmost bales, covering it with hay. One of the cats came with him, nosing about for nests of mice. ‘Mind you do your job,’ he said to her. For now, it would have to do.
He went to bring the cow in and shut up the hens for the night. There was a light in the house, so Mairhi and the children must have made their way home, despite the weather. He found himself eager to see them, to hear about Catriona’s baby and find out what they had brought back from the shieling, to weave himself back into the fabric of an ordinary day. And yet … the sealskin under the eaves of the barn was a shining secret, the precious thing that made it all possible. He looked back once, and then took up the basket of eggs and the pail of milk, and went to greet his family.
They were at supper already, John shouting and banging his spoon on the table, and the baby wrapped in Mairhi’s shawl in the fireside chair, clamouring to be taken up and fed. Bridie was sitting with them, but she had barely touched her food. She started up when Donald came in, but the look that passed between them told her all she needed to know, and she sank back into her chair, looking spent. If Mairhi noticed her tears, busy as she was with getting food into John, seeing to the baby and eating her own supper, she pretended she had seen nothing. It was Donald who helped his mother to the outhouse and then to bed, and sat holding her hand until she drifted into sleep.
62
Father Finian had been right. Almost overnight, Bridie seemed to shrink, becoming as little and light as a bird. The thing was done, and now at last she could be about the business of dying. There was always someone to sit with her, but more and more she would be travelling her own road, sometimes talking to people no-one else could see.
At midwinter, Donald set the lantern in the window just as she had always done, and turned to see her watching him from her bed. In the last few days she had seemed further and further away, but now her eyes were clear.
‘He won’t come now,’ she murmured.
Donald went over to the bed. ‘What’s that?’
‘Your father. You’ve a look of him these days, did you know that? But he’s far out to sea. He won’t be back tonight.’
‘Well. We’ll set the lantern there, in any case.’
‘Will you light the way for me, when I’m gone?’
He turned his face away. When he could speak again, he said, ‘Of course I will. But you’ll be down by the church, and we’ll come there to see you and talk to you all the time. You won’t need a lantern to guide you home.’
She closed her eyes for a moment, and felt for his hand. ‘That’s a comfort,’ she murmured. Her breathing grew regular, and Donald thought that she had fallen asleep, but when he went to take his hand away, her grip tightened. ‘And you’ll make it right with Mairhi? Promise me, Donald, you’ll make it right?’
‘I promise, Mother. In the spring, when the better weather comes. I’ll do it then.’
She nodded, once. Under his fingers, the pulse in her wrist slowed, paused for a moment, and started again, but so weak, he could barely feel it. He stayed there, holding her hand, until he could feel it no longer.
There were folk at the funeral whom Donald had never set eyes on before, come down from the hills or along the coast to pay their last respects to Bridie Macfarlane. And afterwards, at the wake, he heard tales that showed him, again and again, how she had spent herself for other people’s benefit, all without him knowing. They also showed him how good she had been at keeping her own counsel. But none of it came close, somehow, to telling the story of his own mother. Who had been so strong, and wise, and had known what to do, always. And who was no longer there.
That night, they went home at last to a quiet, empty house. They settled the children and went to bed, but it was not long before John woke up, crying for his grandmother, and then Sorcha roused for her night-time feed, and so they spent that night all in the big bed together. There was not much sleep to be had for any of them, but the living warmth of skin on skin answered a stronger need.
It was now deep winter, a time for keeping close to home, and Donald was grateful for it. His family had never seemed so precious, or so fragile, and he rejoiced with Mairhi over every new word that John discovered. Sorcha learned to roll over and began to crawl; very early for an ordinary child, but then she was not quite that. There was no more chance for swimming, though. He had seen the joy it gave to Mairhi and the children, but he could not help but be glad. Next year would have to look after itself.
For now, he mended nets and tended the house and garden, and slipped away to the barn by himself whenever he could, to oil and care for the sealskin. It could not stay there forever, he knew that, but there was no sense in moving it yet, when the weather was so bad. And the day would come when he would give it back to her. He would explain, and ask her forgiveness once more, and surely, surely she would make the right choice. But not now, not wh
en the sea was wild and dark, and ice lay on the pools where they had swum. Not yet.
63
Slowly, by just a few minutes each day, light began to come back to the world. Out at sea, it was the birds who brought change, some moving north as the retreating ice opened up new places, and others arriving from the unimaginable south. But on land, the signs were everywhere – in the new green shoots, the urgency of birdsong and the rush of meltwater down from the hills. There was a restlessness, an itch in the blood.
On fine days, Donald would take the cow out further afield to find fresh grass, and to eke out the dwindling supply of hay in the barn. Sometimes, he would take John with him, and show him this and that along the way; a spray of blackthorn blossom, or a bird’s nest in a may tree. He was too small, yet, to go on the boat, and so, when the time was right for fishing, the children would stay behind with their mother.
Mairhi still went out and about to care for the sick, and often Nancy went with her. When she could, she left the children with Jessie or Auntie Annie in the village, and so they managed, one way and another. But the new room was unused for now, and Bridie’s bed, too, lay empty.
Returning to the house one blustery morning, he was surprised to find Mairhi there alone. As usual at the tail-end of winter, there was an outbreak of coughs and fevers, and she had set out early to do her rounds. Jessie was sick and her children with her, so Auntie Annie had the care of John and Sorcha.
‘What’s the matter, love?’ he said as he strained the milk into the tall jug. ‘I didn’t think to see you until evening, the way things are with folks just now. You’re not sick yourself, are you?’
Mairhi shook her head. She was sorting through her supplies of herbs, and now she made a noise in her throat, of impatience or exasperation maybe, and pushed away the bundle she’d been holding. Donald came over to look.
‘That’s thyme, isn’t it?’ He said. ‘Or should be. Looks as though the damp has got into it; see the mildew there. Folks won’t thank you for giving that to them! Isn’t there any more?’
She shook her head again, then leaned against him. After a moment, he realised that she was weeping.
‘Oh, here now.’ He turned her about and took her in his arms.
She was sobbing now, open-mouthed; not the terrible, silent tears of those early days, but wailing, loud and unashamed, like the children. He held her, as he held the children, and rocked her gently. All through the time of Bridie’s illness, neither of them had wept. Always, there were people about, someone else to be strong for; but now at last they were alone. His own tears fell, and there was a strange kind of joy in giving way at last.
Time passed; he could not have said how long. At length, they drew apart a little, and looked at one another. He kissed her wet face, tasting the sea.
‘Oh, love. You ease me even when you don’t mean to.’
She gave him a watery smile, then looked again at the bundles of herbs on the table, and frowned.
Donald sighed. ‘There’s not much left now, is there? Mother wasn’t up to it last autumn. But there should be some fresh thyme coming, if we’re lucky.’
She stared at him, hopeless, and suddenly he understood.
‘You don’t know where it grows! That’s it, isn’t it? But I do. I used to help her all the time when I wasn’t doing what I should have been. Going to school, going out on the boat, all that. There’s a place where it always comes a bit earlier than anywhere else. Come on, I’ll show you.’
Walking out along the path, away from the village, he felt his heart lift. He took Mairhi’s hand – for once not encumbered with children – and she swung it high, catching his mood. ‘It’s a while since we’ve done this, eh, lass?’
For answer, she took off across the hillside, pulling him with her, and they ran together into the teeth of the wind. But the hills were full of new streams, leaping down to the sea with their cargo of fresh water, and they had to slow down soon enough to pick their way across.
‘Careful now, the rocks are slippery here.’
They must have crossed a dozen or more of these newborn waterways before they came to the one he was looking for; old enough to have worn its own little valley, crowded with stunted birches and rowans all combed one way by the wind. He turned upstream, and they followed its course until, a few miles inland, the valley widened out and the river spread itself through a tumble of boulders and bogs. Here, at last, the air was still, and the sunlight slanting through bare branches fell gently warm, like a blessing, on their heads. Mairhi looked around her and smiled.
‘See here?’ said Donald. ‘Over here on the dry ground. Here’s the fireplace I made – oh, twelve years ago, maybe. It was me found this place first, roaming around by myself, and I don’t think anyone else has been here since … well, since Mother. She’d have made the last fire here.’
Mairhi crouched to look at the blackened stones. She ran her finger through the wet soot, and beckoned him to come closer. When he sat down beside her, she marked him, cheeks and forehead, and took his hand to the fire so that he could mark her in turn. A strange thing, he thought, for her to learn. It was only the older folk who did that now at funerals, but she must have seen it and remembered. A mark of respect for the dead.
They sat there a while in silence. The wind was muted here, and even the stream had lost its voice among the boulders. After a time, there came the song of a robin from somewhere near by, and when Mairhi whistled back to him, he came to perch a few feet away, waiting to see what they were about.
‘We’ll bring the children when they’re old enough,’ said Donald then. ‘But for now, I’m thankful it’s just you and me.’ He touched the mark on her cheek. ‘And I’m thankful to Mother, too, for giving us this day.’
Mairhi smiled, and rubbed her face against his hand, like the cats in the barn. He thought of them, and the secret they kept for him. Should he tell her now? Times like this were precious few; who knew when there would be another? But still, there was frost on the ground in the morning, and the water in the stream was icy cold. And to speak now might undo all the sweetness between them. And yet, it was his mother who had led them here, and he heard again her last words to him. ‘Promise me, Donald, you’ll make it right.’
Mairhi was watching him, puzzled. He took her hand.
‘Sweetheart, you’ve given me so much,’ he said. ‘Places like this used to be my refuge from it all; all the things I was scared of. But because of you, I have friends now. I have the family, and our children. And I have the sea. I used to hate the sea; did you know that? It took my father from us, and gave nothing but grief and hardship in return. But then, it gave me you.’
He paused, choosing his words. ‘Because of you, because of you and me, it all knits together. The land and the sea and all the creatures, your kind and mine. And I’ve given you this – ’ he looked around, at the rocks and trees and the new green grass at their roots ‘ – and I hope it’s made you happy, too. I hope I’ve made you happy. Are you happy, Mairhi?’
She sprang at him, tumbling him backwards into the damp moss, finding the ticklish places with her searching fingers, growling and worrying at his neck and face, licking his eyelids. It was a game she played with little John, rolling him over and over until they were both screaming with laughter, and so he played it with her now, giving as good as he got, saying with teeth and tongue and hands what could not be said in words. And in time the biting turned to kissing, and the tickling to caressing. They gave themselves to each other, and as far as he could tell, she held nothing back. That was his answer.
It was the patter of rain that roused them at last, falling through the still-leafless branches of the rowan tree above their heads. ‘We’d better gather some thyme,’ he said, helping her to her feet, ‘or we’ll lose the daylight going home.’
Up on the hillside he found it, where the early sunshine had warmed the rocks. ‘And there should be mint down by the water, too.’ They filled their bags and set off for home,
walking close together, holding hands whenever they could. She’s right not to speak, he thought, looking down at her as she walked by his side. This happiness, this joy between us, is too big for words.
Soon, I will tell her.
64
After the long days and nights ashore, the fishermen needed to go to sea again whenever they could. There came a fresh spring day when the catch was good, and they stayed out casting the nets again and again, until the boats were full and riding low in the water. Donald and his crew waited their turn outside the harbour, as one by one the boats slipped in, to tie up at the harbour wall and unload their catch.
James was the first to notice. ‘There’s a lot of folks waiting there,’ he said.
‘The word’s spread already,’ said Donald. ‘More hands to help.’
Aly lifted his head, shading his eyes against the dazzle from the sea. ‘Something’s not right,’ he said. He still spoke little beyond what was necessary, but there was a kind of ease between them all these days, borne of shared work and the gentle, unspoken growth of trust. ‘They’re just standing, watching.’
Donald looked. At this distance, he could not make out faces, but there was something about the way they were standing, all looking out to sea. Too still. ‘Something’s happened,’ he said. No use to wonder, now, as they went about the task of bringing the boat safely in; but he kept glancing over to the harbour, and that waiting crowd. They all did.
Gradually, as they came closer, he began to recognise people. Most of the village seemed to be there, and a good many folk from the hills too. There was Hugh, standing with his arms around Jeannie and Ailsa, and Catriona holding her baby. Donald waved to them, but they did not wave back. The Bains’ boat had come in ahead of them and was tying up, but Shona and Jessie stood together, with a crowd of children about them, still watching. And then – surely that was his own boy, John? Jessie had him by the hand, and a baby on her arm. Not her own child; it was too small for that. And there was one person, search the crowd as he might, whom he could not see anywhere.