The Fan Tan Players, page 21
‘‘Ye didne pay her much respect when she was alive, did ye? Ye coulds hae come over tae comfort her efter your father died in ’35, but ye didne.’’
‘‘I live half way across the world. I can’t undertake such a journey at the drop of a hat. Look, I’m here to say my final goodbyes to her, not to interfere with your lives.’’
‘‘Och, ye willnae be interferin’ wi’ anythin’ if I hae my way with ye.’’
‘‘Meaning?’’
‘‘Meanin’ ah’d fling ye out of town if ah coulds.’’
‘‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gone in a few days.’’
‘‘Ye know what folke are sayin’ about ye, don’t ye?’’ Uncle Johnny continued. ‘‘There goes that Sutherland fellaw, Callum’s brither. Th’ one with th’ sassenach accent, all hoity-toity noo and wrapped up in himself. Too proud tae call himself a true Scot.’’
‘‘It’s not like that at all and you know it. I’m proud of my heritage.’’
‘‘Like buck ye are. Ye’re nae like us. Ye don’t belong here anymore!’’
Iain pedalled backwards with an involuntary step. He glanced at Callum for support but got none. His brother’s eyes were as bulged as Uncle Johnny’s.
A strained silence fell over the bar.
After several moments Callum spoke. His voice quivered. ‘‘Och look, Iain, we’re nae lookin’ fur a fight or anythin’ like that. We, weel Uncle Johnny and me specifically, we want to know why you did it. Why you did whit you did tae Daa. Tae us.’’
Iain looked first at Callum and then at Uncle Johnny.
‘‘You’re right, maybe I’m not like you anymore. Maybe I don’t belong. But I’ll tell you this. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about Helmsdale and what I did to my family.’’
‘‘Why’d you hurt Daa like that Iain? Why’d you dae it?’’
Iain took a swig of whisky. ‘‘You want to know? All right, I’ll tell you. I went poaching for salmon on six occasions. The first five hauls were successful, brought me almost thirty-two shillings in total at Cameron’s Fishmongers in Golspie. Each time, I borrowed your bicycle, Callum, and carried the salmon in a sack across my back. When I returned home, I hid the money under my bed, in a Colman’s mustard tin filled with wooden soldiers.’’ He paused. ‘‘The sixth time I tried it, Daa caught me.’’ He took another sip from his glass. ‘‘I gambled and I lost. Why did I do it? I did it for James, that’s who, I did it for James, our brother.’’
‘‘James?’’
‘‘Aye, for James. Do you remember how badly he wanted to go for trials at Aberdeen when he was seventeen? Remember how he always boasted of becoming a great inside-left? He needed something like two guineas to get his act together – trainfare, accommodation, that sort of thing. Well, Daa wouldn’t help him, said there was no future in association football. What would he do if he got badly injured, Daa asked, how would he feed himself, bring bread to the table? What would he do with himself after the age of thirty-five when his legs gave in? A footballer’s career is short – did he have a back-up plan, could he think of a back-up plan? Unfortunately, James couldn’t come up with a good enough answer, so Daa refused to lend him the money.’’
‘‘You lent it tae him?’’
‘‘I gave it to him and I made him promise he’d never say where he got the money from. It was enough to get him to Aberdeen. The rest he’d have to earn working for the lobstermen in the village, which he did.’’
Callum laid his hand on Iain’s shoulder. ‘‘But you ne’er mentioned-‘‘
‘‘Let me finish. After he died I felt protective of him. For a few months I even wondered whether I was responsible for his death because he was still in Aberdeen when he joined up with the Gordon Highlanders. It was silly, I know, but maybe if he hadn’t gone for trials, if I hadn’t given him that money, he wouldn’t have made it south. Maybe he’d have joined another regiment, like the Dragoons with me and avoided that bayonet. And maybe he’d still be here today. Anyway, when I got news that he’d been killed, I swore that I’d keep this a secret. I didn’t want to sully his name in any way, so I’ve kept it to myself for twenty years.’’
‘‘You shoods hae told us, shoods hae told Daa.’’
Iain shook his head. ‘‘No. Daa would never have understood. He loved this river as much as anything. For me to do what I did was unforgiveable in his eyes.’’
A minute went by, followed by another. Nobody said a word. Then Iain felt Callum’s hand on his shoulder once more and he looked into his brother’s eyes. ‘‘I’m sorry that I caused so much hurt … I never meant to.’’
Callum’s face showed real sadness. He pressed his lips together as though to suppress a cry. ‘‘Ah jist wish you’d told us afore.’
‘‘I know,’’ said Iain.
The two men grabbed each other and hugged. An old man seated with his dog let out a cry of hurrah and clapped.
‘‘This doesnae mean we hae tae like ye, though,’’ said Uncle Jimmy with a laugh. ‘‘Och, whit th’ hell, this round’s on me! A dram ay whisky for everybody!’’
On Monday Iain took Nadia fishing. Over rocky pots and gravel shingles they clambered. Emerging from the undergrowth, a thirteen-foot greenheart in hand, Iain led Nadia down to the water’s edge into the weed-beds. They both wore thigh-length angling waders and dark clothing. It was early morning and a long bank of cloud hooded the brightening sun. By the time they reached the river bank there was hardly any breeze.
‘‘Which part of the river are we on?’’ she asked.
‘‘This here is community water, anyone can fish here so long as you get a permit from the local angling club, but if you look over there,’’ he pointed upstream in the direction of a fringe of tall, thin trees, ‘‘that’s the Whinnie, the start of beat number one. Only the proprietors can fish beyond that point. The river’s divided into six beats, shared equally between the estates.’’
They waded into the water. Iain stood on Nadia’s left and showed her the workings of the fishing rod. ‘‘We’ll be using two different flies,’’ he said, ‘‘A Hairy Mary for the tail fly and a Jock Scott as the dropper.’’
Nadia looked down at her feet. Little iridescent bubbles emerged from the underswell whenever she moved. The deeper she waded the more her toes and ankles felt squeezed by the river pressure. ‘‘Right,’’ she said sucking in a lungful of wintry air. ‘‘How do I cast?’’
‘‘Like this.’’ Using a shortish line, he lifted the rod so that it was perpendicular to his shoulder and after a moment’s pause threw the rod head forwards. With a swoosh the line sprayed out towards the centre of the fast water, straight as an arrow. He did it again for her to see. Nadia studied his wrists, watched the way his body moved. Holding her arms in front, she did a series of imitations with her own hands, mimicking him. ‘‘Just remember to pause on the uplift and don’t crack the rod like a whip. If you do that the flies will snap off.’’
Nadia took the rod in her begloved hands and did as instructed. She heard the shwish-shwoosh of her back-cast sailing through the air. The line did a wobbly zigzag into the open stream. ‘‘Any good?’’
‘‘Not bad at all.’’ He sounded impressed. ‘‘Next time aim at a forty-five degree angle and wait for the fly to come right around. Then take a good step forwards downstream after each cast. That way we get to cover the entire pool.’’
They fished the pool all the way down to a bend in the river. From time to time a salmon would leap high out of the water and do a belly-flop. Iain looked skyward and examined the clouds. ‘‘I think we’re going to see some snow,’’ he said.
After a pause Iain said, ‘‘Did you see that?’’
‘‘See what?’’
‘‘A fish came to your fly. I saw a boil in the water.’’ There was a ripple of circles where a salmon might have surfaced.
‘‘Really? I didn’t see anything.’’ But Nadia wasn’t watching her fly at all. She was enjoying the scent in the air, the sounds of the birds, the rush of the water swaddling her calves. Earlier she’d watched an otter roll down the far bank and plop into the water. Behind her now, on the southern hill, she saw railway men at the steam depot unloading cattle from Thurso.
After a while she asked, ‘‘What do you think they’ll say to you next week?’’
‘‘You mean the office? I expect they’ll want to know if I’m committed to staying in Asia.’’
‘‘Are you?’’
Iain glanced at his wife. ‘‘You know I am.’’ He assured her.
‘‘What if they want you to return here permanently?’’
‘‘Why would they want that?’’
‘‘There’s talk of war in Europe. They may need you in Paris or Amsterdam or …’’
‘‘Then I’ll turn them down. Nadia, what’s the matter? I’m not going to leave you if that’s what you’re worried about. Why would I want to return to Europe?’’
‘‘But this is your home’’
‘‘Not any more, not for twenty years. I could never settle here now. I‘ve changed. I’m not like these people anymore. I don’t act the same. I don’t sound the same … Maybe because I’ve been away so long. Maybe it’s also because being in Scotland reopens old wounds. A long time ago I hurt my parents and never had a chance to properly apologise.’’ Nadia remembered him telling her how his father had caught him red-handed trapping salmon.
‘‘Was it here that it happened? Is this where he surprised you?’’
‘‘No, it was near the Kildonan Falls. A long way further up the river.’’ He looked at the point of her rod. ‘‘Cast again before you get snarled up in the weed.’’ She flipped the line over her head and sent it sprawling across the water. ‘‘Hand-line it just a little to keep the fly moving,’’ he said.
‘‘Why did you say that just now?’’
‘‘Say what?’’ he asked.
‘‘You said, ‘I’m not going to leave you’.’’
‘‘Well, I’m not am I?’’
‘‘Does that mean you’ve thought about it? Do you want to leave?’’
‘‘Of course not! Christ, what’s got into you?’’
She noticed his eyes grow large in their sockets. She looked away. ‘‘Nothing’s gotten into me. It’s just that I’m surrounded by all these women who are fantastic mothers – Mamuchka, Izabel, Mrs. Lo, Jane … maybe you want somebody who can give you children.’’
‘‘Is that what this is all about?’’
The question seemed to take on a life of its own, circling round them like a predator.
They moved along to the next pool in silence. They fished it down without saying a word to each other. A choir of oystercatchers accentuated the stillness that hovered uneasily between them. Nadia felt like screaming. She knew how much Iain hated talking about their childlessness and she wanted to scream because she imagined what he must have been feeling.
‘‘I want a family, Iain. Isn’t that what we all wish for – a family to love?’’ she said.
‘‘You have a family.’’ Iain slipped his hand under her tweed skirt and into her tights. Speaking in a whisper he said, ‘‘I love you Nadia Sviazhsky Shashkova. Whether we have a baby of our own or not won’t change how I feel about you. And if you doubt that for even a minute then you’re as mad as a March hare. You’ve got to stop torturing yourself over this.’’ His fingers caressed the skin along the back of her thighs, trailed across her buttocks. She felt him rub the delicate fabric between her legs, touching the soft grooves of folded cotton.
‘‘Stop,’’ she said, sensing her own arousal. ‘‘Someone might see.’’
‘‘There’s no one around.’’ He began to kiss her neck, her throat, her wet eyes.
She could feel the cold air where he had lifted her skirt. His touch was cool against her warm body. A purl of complaint crossed her lips. She was tempted to push him away. But then she felt him slide her knickers to one side, parting the thin material, and his fingertips were inside her, feathering a path between her legs. The sensation blinded her with stars. Her heart began drumming in her chest. Her legs turned to mulch and her body grew moist. The river ran thick and dark beneath her loins. She felt the corners of his welcoming mouth on her cheek. Felt his hardness through his trousers. She wanted to tear off his clothes.
She pulled him by his sleeve, wanting to guide him deeper, to suck him in. His hot breath warmed her cheek; she could smell the Vitalis in his hair.
Wrapped around each other, she was about to drop the fishing rod when they were shocked out of their embrace by a shrill sound.
GGTSSSSSSSSSSSSSSGGTSSSSSSSSSSSSS............
It was the reel.
‘‘Bloody hell!’’ said Iain. ‘‘You’ve hooked a fish.’’
Nadia hopped up and down. ‘‘What do I do?’’ she yelled. The rod was bending alarmingly in her hands.
‘‘Keep the rod up!’’ He grabbed her by the waist and guided her towards the bank. When she was on firm ground he said, ‘‘Now, follow the fish and try to get as close to him as you can. Reel in as much line as he’ll let you. Don’t let it go slack. Keep the pressure on at all times, but if he wants to run, let him.’’
‘‘Bawzhemoy, Bawzhemoy!’’ she said over and over again. The salmon threw itself high into the air, darted this way and that, making deep Vs in the water. The reel sang like a drunken soprano.
They ran thirty yards up the river. Then they did an about-turn and ran thirty yards back down. Her mind was spinning crazily, like a lug nut come loose from a fast-moving train.
She played the fish for another twenty-five minutes. Her arms tingled, her shoulders hurt. Her cheeks were rosy, flushed with excitement. There was ice-cold water inside of her boots. ‘‘He’s tiring now,’’ said Iain.
‘‘He’s not the only one!’’
‘‘Look, his head’s appeared on the surface. That means he’s almost ready. Christ, what a brute! Must be over twenty pounds!’’
‘‘Get the net!’’ she screamed.
‘‘What net?’’
‘‘Didn’t you bring a net?’’
‘‘I didn’t think you’d catch a fish.’’
‘‘Didn’t expect me to catch a fish!?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘How do you expect us to bring him in?’’
‘‘You leave that to me.’’ His voice was quick and alert. ‘‘Just keep him away from the weed-beds. Keep your rod up. If the dropper gets trapped in there we’ll lose him.’’
The salmon’s tail slapped loudly against the water surface. It tried to make a break for it when it saw Iain closing in. Nadia pivoted. The reel screamed once more. ‘‘What do I do?’’ she shouted.
‘‘Try reeling in some line. Hold your rod up high and keep it pointed upstream.’’
For a moment time seemed to stand still as the exhausted fish, with its mouth above the surface, was guided slowly towards the bank. Then with a flourish Iain grabbed its tail and heaved it onto the shingles.
‘‘My God!’’ he said. ‘‘What a monster! It’s a cock fish. A fresh one too. See that, that’s sea lice.’’
She wrapped her arms round his neck and kissed him.
He started removing the twin barbs of the Hairy Mary from its jaws. His joy gushed and overflowed. ‘‘Who would’ve thought … who would’ve bloody thought … a twenty pounder! You beauty, Nadia! You bloody beauty!’’
Nadia stared at the streak of glistening silver with a sense of awe. ‘‘It’s so beautiful.’’
‘‘I don’t suppose you have a priest handy.’’
‘‘A what?’’
‘‘A priest, a mallet to knock it on its head.’’ Iain went over to the broken rockery to find a stone.
‘‘You’re not going to kill it,’’ she said.
‘‘Of course I am.’’
‘‘Can’t we throw it back?’’ she asked.
‘‘You want to throw it back?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘I just want to.’’
Iain looked at her narrowly, as if she was under the influence of alcohol. ‘‘You’re sure?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ she persisted.
He gave the stubble on his chin a scratch. ‘‘Alright. But first,’’ he said stooping to wipe his thumb across the salmon’s crimson mouth, ‘‘I’ve got to blood you.’’ He smeared her forehead with a streak of red. ‘‘There you go. Your first ever salmon!’’ He wiped his hands on the frozen ground.
Seconds later he held the fish gently in the shallow water and it shot off out of sight; a gurgling chorus of silvery spray, dorsal fin disappearing like smoke in the wind.
The scent of salt and distant wood fire lifted off the sea. They crossed a bridge and turned right, up a flagged street with men in dark shops working tirelessly, bending metal and wood with their tools. They saw jowly old grannies at their windows patching socks and looking at the world like watchful night-owls; a line of women waiting for a bus in their best going-to-town clothes; fishermen boxing lobsters in crushed ice, destined for the big city restaurants. They passed tight rows of lime-washed houses, stuck together like clots of marzipan, and a sweet shop that offered all sorts of rainbow-coloured enticements perched in its window. They spied gum drops and jaw breakers and violet creams, prompting Iain to rush in and return seconds later with a Caramel Bullet for Nadia. She sucked on it like a delighted schoolgirl as light snow began to mizzle their faces.
Soon after that they arrived at the cottage. As they entered though the back door, the pantry clock struck four. It was already getting dark. The glow of dusk lit the interior of the house with crooked, teetering orange light. They scrubbed their hands in the stone sink, removed their waders and damp clothing and left them near the boiler to dry. Jane, who was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, a potato and kidney pudding, fetched some blankets for them and they changed into a set of fresh clothes. Warming their fingers by the fireplace in the living room, they watched the flames leap and dance.
‘‘The children will be back from school in about twenty minutes, so enjoy the quiet while you can,’’ said Jane. ‘‘Callum gets off work at six.’’
