by Su Bristow
James and Aly exchanged glances, but no-one spoke. Slowly, so slowly, they drew in alongside the harbour wall, and Hugh came forward to catch the ropes and make them fast. Still he said nothing, and now Donald was afraid to ask. Seeing his father, John began to try to break free of Jessie’s hand, but she held him fast. Shona took the baby from her, and he knew beyond doubt that it was his own daughter, Sorcha. Everything seemed to slow down, but he could not make it stop. Moving as if through water, he got down off the deck, and faced his uncle at last.
‘Where is she?’ he said. And Hugh said simply, ‘She’s gone.’
Donald stood still, absorbing the blow. And then a second blow, as John came running across the harbour and burrowed into his arms. He was howling, a wordless cry of loss and terror. Donald picked him up, and John wrapped his arms and legs about his father as though he might grow there, like ivy. For a long moment, they stood still, shutting out the world. Into the child’s hair, speaking low, Donald said, ‘Show me.’
Hugh stood back, and the crowd moved aside to let them pass. People spoke to him, and one or two touched him as he went by, but he never paused, carrying John all the way along the path, not down to the shore but away from the sea, up the hill, towards their home. Some of the children followed at first, but at the last house of the village, he stopped and turned.
‘Go home,’ he said, and at the sight of his face, they scattered without a word.
65
The door to the cottage was closed. Inside, all was in order, the fire banked and the kettle laid aside, as it should be. Donald set down his son and stood a moment, breathing in the scent of the turves drying on the hearth. He’d need to get more in, later. John tugged at his arm.
‘In the barn,’ he said, looking up at his father. And Donald said,
‘I know.’
He let himself be pulled along by the child, around the house, where the hens came running. In through the open barn door, swinging on its hinges, to and fro. In where the last of the hay was piled against the walls, and the egg-basket lay on its side, spilling the morning’s gathering. The hens were starting to lay again now, as the days got longer. Some of the eggs had cracked in their fall, and the cats were licking them, but at the sight of Donald they scattered like the village children.
And there, spread out in the hay, the ropes cut through where she had taken her knife to them in her haste, the oiled sailcloth, open, empty.
‘Was it you that found it?’ he said, speaking low. ‘Were you playing in the barn today?’
John shook his head. He had few words as yet, but plenty of other ways to tell a story. After all, he had had the best of teachers. He showed his father how he had climbed the haystack after a stray kitten – he made the sound, ‘Mew! Mew!’ just as his mother would have done – and had scrambled all the way to the top.
Not so very far, thought Donald. Most of the hay was gone; an easy climb, even for a little one.
‘And you found – this?’
John nodded, watching his father’s face.
‘And you showed it to your ma,’ he said, very gentle. ‘And what did she do?’
John stared at him. ‘The eggs broke,’ he said. He opened his mouth and began to wail.
‘Oh, dear God!’ Donald held out his arms, and the child came into them. ‘There now, whisht now. It’s not your fault, you weren’t to know. You weren’t to know.’
A time went by. The cats crept back, and the hens came about them, questing for grain, then wandered off again. The light changed, a little.
And at last Donald lifted his cheek from the child’s hair and said, ‘So you went down the path, then? You and your ma and the baby?’ Because I have to see this through, step by step, all the way.
And so, step by step, hand in hand, they went down the path together. John showed him where he had fallen and grazed his knee, and Mairhi had set down the baby and her precious bundle, and come to kiss him and set him to rights. The path was in shadow now, the air growing cold, though the sun still caught the rocks on the skerry. She had not gone there, though. The boat still lay safe on the shore, pulled far up in case of storms. Maybe she had thought of the children, left alone on the beach. Maybe, full of anger at him, she had thought only of getting away. Maybe, full of joy, she had thought of nothing at all.
At last they came to the place – to the flat rocks where the seals basked sometimes on sunny days. There was none there now. Nothing at all. Just her boots, her faded green dress and her shawl, dropped where she had let them fall. The incoming tide was curling around them now, and John ran to gather them up out of the wet. There might have been footprints in the sand, but the sea had already taken them.
‘So here.’ It felt wrong to speak, to say out loud what must have happened, as though by saying it he would be making it real. Donald cleared his throat, tried again. ‘You came down here, to the water’s edge. And then?’
John shook his head. He pointed to the rocks some twenty yards out, now an island in the rising water. And as the child, prompted by his father’s questions, began to show him what had happened, Donald saw with his mind’s eye. Saw all too clearly the fierce, wild joy in her face, which had frightened John so he began to cry, until she hugged him and held him close. Saw how she had fed Sorcha, sitting there on the rocks, and then walked up the beach to find a safe place to leave her, out of the rain and wind and beyond the reach of the tide. And then, how she had told John to mind his sister and wait there, and held him again, and laughed, and wept. And then at last, as he sat obediently by the sleeping baby, how she had taken off her clothes, walked down to the rocks again through the first waves of the turning tide, back to where she had laid out the sealskin.
And for the rest, he had no words.
‘Come here. Come sit by me.’ Donald patted the flat stone beside him. He held his son close against him, and they both gazed out to sea. No seals moved in the restless water. Only the gulls called, endlessly, on the everlasting wind.
‘It’s too cold,’ said John, twisting round to look up at his father.
For a long moment, Donald could not speak. He lowered his head, to rest his chin on the boy’s head, the way Mairhi often did of an evening. ‘No, lad,’ he said. ‘She won’t feel it.’
‘Where’s she gone?’
‘Home.’ The word was out before he thought. ‘No, John. Not our home. Before she came to us, she had another home. That’s where she is, now.’
Donald would have done with words, then. She’d never found a use for them, and he had left it too late to speak the words that mattered, that might have made a difference. But the child was restless, needing answers.
‘Sorcha got hungry. She cried,’ he said.
‘Oh, my dear. She never meant to leave you,’ Donald said, and hoped to God that it was true. ‘But we can’t go where she’s gone.’
‘Come back!’ John was on his feet now, shouting at the sea. ‘I called and called and she didn’t come!’
‘John, look at me.’ Donald knelt down on the sand and turned the child around to face him. ‘What did she do, before she went?’ But John only stared up at him, not understanding. Trying to read his face, to see what he wanted to hear.
‘I stayed here. It got cold,’ he said at last.
‘She told you to wait for her?’
John nodded, still watching him intently.
She thought she was coming back! The secret joy of it flooded him so that he could not speak. Of course, she would never leave the children. She made her choice, and she chose us. Then he remembered John. ‘You did well,’ he said, and his voice shook only a little. ‘You looked after your sister.’
John stared at him. ‘She cried,’ he said again.
How long had it been? Time enough, Donald thought, for the tide to have gone out and come in again; time enough for a small child to grow frightened and hungry. Once again, he took his son into his arms, picked him up and held him close.
‘So who was it found you here?’
And even as he spoke, there came the sound of boots on the shingle. It was a long moment before he turned, cherishing the brief, bright flare of hope, though he knew that if she came, she would be barefoot. It was Hugh, trudging along the strand, and for a mercy he was alone.
He stopped a few steps away, looking not at Donald, but at the little pile of clothes.
‘Who found them here?’ Donald’s voice sounded too loud above the wind. John huddled into him.
‘Sam Bain was out salvaging,’ said Hugh, coming close. ‘He went for his mother. And Jessie came back with him and found them, so. And the baby crying, but she’s fine, no harm done.’
Donald nodded. No harm done. But then Hugh spoke again.
‘Donald, why would she do such a thing?’ His voice was raw. ‘She’d everything to live for. Did someone hurt her? And with the bairns watching!’
He doesn’t know about the sealskin. He thinks… Donald raised his head. ‘Uncle Hugh, she’s coming back. It’s not what you’re thinking.’ Don’t say those words, not with John listening. Don’t make it so.
But Hugh was too upset to hear him. ‘For God’s sake, why would she go into the water? A body can’t bear it, not at this time of year. She’d know that, wouldn’t she? What on earth would make her do it?’
There was nothing he could say that Hugh would understand. Not unless he told the whole story. And then, when she came back…
‘Don’t say about the skin. It’s Ma’s secret,’ he whispered into John’s hair. And to Hugh, he said, ‘I don’t know. But she’ll manage, in the water. She’s a good swimmer. I know, I know; but she learned when she was too young to know better.’ And maybe she’s not far off, even now. Watching us, waiting for Hugh to be gone. He rose to his feet. ‘We should go home, get the fire lit for when she comes back. Would you ask Jessie to mind the baby for now?’
Hugh stared at him. ‘Donald, it was hours ago! She was hungry, so Catriona fed her with her own wean. She can bide with us, for now. You should come back with us too.’
Donald shook his head. ‘Will we go home now?’ he said to John. ‘The cow will want milking, and your ma will be cold and hungry when she comes back. Let’s put her dress over here, so, where it’s dry. She’ll want it later.’ And to Hugh, ‘That’s fine, then. We’ll go up to the house. Will you come with us?’
There was a long, long silence, filled only by the surf breaking on the rocks offshore. Nothing moved there.
Hugh let his hands drop. ‘I’ll be off home,’ he said. ‘I’ll come by in the morning.’
He turned and began to trudge away down the strand, back towards the village. And Donald, holding John close against his heart, began the slow climb up the cliff path. More than once, he stopped to look back, but the light was fading now, and still, there was nothing to see.
Up at the cottage, he found the door open and the ashes scattered by the wind. The barn door was still swinging to and fro, to and fro, and the cow already waiting inside. He saw the sailcloth cast aside in the hay, but could not stop himself from looking again, anyway, in the place where he had stowed the sealskin. Nothing. Of course, nothing.
Back in the house, he fetched food for them both, talking all the while of everyday things. There should have been fresh fish today, but it could not be helped. John sat quietly at the table to eat his supper, and watched as Donald cleared it all away – ‘She won’t be pleased if we make a mess, now, will she?’
When Donald went to pick him up and take him to bed, he saw that the little boy had something in his hand.
‘What have you got there?’
John made a move as if to hide it, and Donald’s heart began to beat fast.
‘Show me,’ he said.
John held out his hand, but when Donald went to take it, he pulled it back, just as Mairhi had once done. So long ago, now! His knuckles were white around the carved wooden seal.
Donald made his voice gentle. ‘Did you take it?’
John shook his head. ‘She gave it to me,’ he said.
66
In the small hours before dawn, when John was sleeping soundly, Donald eased himself out of bed. The lantern he had left burning in the window was dark now, the tallow all used up. He had lain awake, listening for the scrape of the front door, but there had been no sound. Quietly, he relit the lantern and went out.
The wind had died down, and there was only the sigh of the sea as he made his way down to the shore. There were her clothes, just where he had left them. Setting the lantern down on the rocks, Donald took off his own clothes. He stood up and walked to the water’s edge, to where the little waves broke over his bare feet. There had been footprints earlier, where he and Hugh had walked, but the tide had come and gone and there was no trace now.
‘Mairhi,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard above the sound of the sea. ‘You’ve no use for words, but there are things I need to say. Things you don’t understand. When I told you it was gone, that was the truth.’ He took a few steps further, and stopped to listen. ‘But then I found it. It was hidden from me, all this time. Hidden from us.’ Again, he stopped, but there was only the quiet water, surging and hissing all around him. He was up to his waist now, bracing himself against the cold. ‘And I’ve looked after it for you. I was going to give it to you! Because you have to be free to choose. I was only waiting for the finer weather, I swear it.’
He stepped forward, barely keeping his balance now. Salt on his lips, and the shingle dragging from under his feet. ‘You’ve a right to be angry.’ He spoke more loudly now, though the crash of the surf was behind him. ‘But I know you’re coming back. If not for me, then for them, for the bairns. Only don’t be too long.’ One more step. ‘Mairhi!’ Water pushing at his chest, splashing up into his eyes. ‘I can’t bear it,’ he said, very quiet. One more, and his feet went from under him and he cried out, beyond words, as the sea took him.
Had he hoped that she would come, then? Or had he truly thought that he might drown? Afterwards, he could not remember what had been in his mind. The intense cold locked his muscles, shocked the breath from his body, and there was only salt water to take its place. But instinct took over then, and he fought to keep his head above the waves, choking and gasping as they rolled him over and over. He was not so very far from shore. It seemed an endless time, but when he finally crawled out onto the rocks, bruised and numb, it was still night, and she had still not come.
He lay there, his skin flushed fiery red with returning blood. Great racking sobs tore through him. He lay there, and the salt drying on his skin made him itch all over, and nothing changed. In the end, the cold drove him to his feet again, and back to the shelter of the cliff where his clothes lay. He dressed, and pressed her shawl to his face for a long moment, breathing in the everyday human scent of her. Then he folded it, and laid it down, and went on his way.
The next day, torn between hope and despair, Donald could not be still. He set the house to rights and then swung John up onto his shoulders and set off for the shieling. Hugh was right; it would be better for the little ones to bide there for a while, where there were folks to care for them and the girls to play with. He took a path through the hills, to avoid meeting anyone in the village, and so came almost into the yard before the dogs scented him and set up a racket. Jeannie came running out, and John clamoured to be set down. And after Jeannie came Catriona.
‘Oh, Donald, oh, I’m so sorry!’ She took both his hands, and her eyes were full of tears. ‘We always knew she was a little touched, but to do such a thing! You must stay with us now. And don’t worry, I’ll look after Sorcha as if she were my own. She’s no trouble at all, and the girls are helping too. We’ll manage fine, so we will. But you’ve brought nothing with you! Never mind, I’m sure Father can lend you a shirt. John, don’t chase the hens now! They’re just starting to lay again. Come in, come in.’
Hugh had been digging in the kailyard behind the house, but he came now to stand a little behind her, watching Donald carefully.
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br /> ‘I won’t stay,’ said Donald. ‘I just came to bring John for the moment, while Mairhi’s away. I can’t leave him on his own when we take the boat out.’ Inside the house, he heard the wail of a hungry infant, and his heart turned over, but he would not go in to see his daughter. It was better so.
Catriona was staring at him. ‘While she’s … whatever do you mean, while she’s away?’
Behind her, Hugh said, ‘Enough, now.’
But she rushed on. ‘Donald, she wouldn’t last two minutes in the water! Even if she can swim, which I don’t believe for one moment’ – she glanced aside at her father – ‘she’d been gone for hours by the time we found the bairns; poor little Sorcha crying her eyes out and John not knowing what to do for the best. Well, what are we supposed to think? It’s as well Sam Bain was dodging school again, or who knows what might have happened? At least he’s done some good for once in his life, even if it was by accident.’
‘Catriona, that’s enough!’ said Hugh. ‘Donald, come in and take some tea. You look done in.’
‘I won’t bide,’ he said again. ‘I don’t want her coming home to an empty house.’
Neither of them seemed able to meet his eyes. Catriona started to speak again, but Hugh laid a hand on her arm.
‘Let him be,’ he said. ‘He’ll have to come to it in his own time.’
And they watched, quite still, as he turned and went down the path that led to the harbour.
Now he could not avoid the village any longer. He thought again of all those faces turned towards the boat – yesterday, was it only yesterday? – and shuddered. At least the older children were in school today, so there was none out and about to give warning of his coming. But there, seated on the wall in the spring sunshine, were Mrs Mackay and his aunt Annie. They got to their feet when they saw him coming. He quickened his stride, but then checked himself. Sooner or later, it would have to be faced.