Authors: Eleanor Thom
I wonder if Lolly’s dad went, but I dinnae ask. My father was too old, but the Bissaker went the second time round. He was under-age. We’ve photies ae him back home in a wee cherryshape hat with painted squares round it, standing all important-looking next tae a big, bonnie horse. It’s Jugs that paints all our photies. He learnt it off an Italian prisoner ae war he was escorting up tae Orkney where they built thon famous red and white church inside a Nissen hut. Jugs has aie been good at painting. When I look at our photies, sometimes I wonder what happened tae the Italian who taught him. Maybe he stayed and opened an ice cream shop, or maybe he had a sweetheart back in Italy who he missed too much. Who knows.
I cannae think what tae say about Lolly’s uncle who died, so I just tell her nae tae worry cause I’ll be safe, willnae crash or get myself shot down. She stays quiet a wee bit too long after that, and I wonder if I’ve upset her.
‘Hey, what’s that you’ve got?’ she goes all ae a sudden. ‘It’s digging intae me.’
I was going tae wait for a nicer time tae gie it tae her, but I’m just glad we can get off the subject ae planes crashing out the sky. It’s the slipper the Bissaker gave me. I remembered tae take it today. I’d put it in the chest by my bed and forgot all about it till now.
‘Oh, that,’ I go, feeling a bit embarrassed. ‘Aye. Well, it’s for you. Just thought you’d like it.’ The button on my pocket’s a bit
stiff and I have tae lift myself off my seat a bit, wriggle round till it comes free. Then I lean over sideways tae slide out the slipper. It’s nae wrapped or anything, and I notice now there’s a wee hole on the front, just a tiny hole where the pink lining shows through. I should’ve mended that.
Lolly’s really pleased anyhow. She brushes her fingertips over the velvet and fur, then turns it over tae look at the heel. It’s the sole she seems most interested in. She traces her finger over the wear, the scratches and indents that would ae been put there a hundred years ago by its owner.
‘Aye,’ I go. ‘I might ae waited till yer birthday or something, but Wee Betsy’s had her mitts on it already. I thought it best tae gie it tae you now, before it vanished for good.’
Lolly laughs at this cause I’m aie telling her stories about my nieces. She says Betsy sounds like a wee so-an-so, and I tell her she’s right.
‘I can probably mend that for you there, if you prefer it neat,’ I mumble, pointing at the wee hole in the slipper. But Lolly likes it fine how it is. She says she doesnae mind the tufty bits.
‘That’s right. You like them a wee bit scruffy!’ I laugh, and gie her a wink.
For a second she looks like she’s going tae slap me, but then she puts the slipper gently intae her bag and holds my hand instead. Further down the road she lays her head on my shoulder. Her hair smells good. One ae the kids behind whistles and I wonder if it’s cause ae us. Lolly ignores them and she tells me I smell good too. That’ll be all the scrubbing with the soap this morning behind Rachel’s ears, her screaming like a piglet while I held her by the collar. You could have grown tatties on her, she was that clarted with muck. But I’ll nae tell Lolly about that. We go the rest ae the journey sitting quietly and watching the fields go past.
The tide’s out, as if the beach was waiting for us, dragged back like a wide open door. It’s hundreds ae lines. Nae just three
strips, earth, water and air, like in the pictures Wee Betsy and Rachel paint. At the shore the sand is flat and smooth, covered with water, still, shallow as skin. The water reflects the sky, brush-stroke clouds, gies them a gold outline. It pools round the odd shell, darker there, like freckle stains on my old shaving mirror. Gentle breakers stroke, in, out, frothy like lace. Wee pebbles flip, laupin like fishes as waves surge back. They make ripples in the sand. Tracks have been left by folk dragging their feet along the shore, heads down, combing for cowries or staring out tae sea. Where the sand’s hard and wet, a scattering ae stones, black in this light, has been tossed out ae the ocean by the night-time’s crashing waves. They lie like seeds sown along a border. There’s a row ae casings left by the lug worms, piles ae wet sand coiled like broken bootlaces, and higher up, a bank ae rotting seaweed, a line ae dark dashes along the beach, alive with tiny flies and the wee creatures the birds feed from. The coarser sand is at the top, strewn with dry seaweed, rocks and driftwood.
Lolly’s taking off her shoes, rolling down her stockings, getting ready tae run. Her feet are beautiful, pink with the cold. Behind us is the long path with the odd bench keeking over a wall ae dunes and grasses, and the path finally meets the water at the Covesea lighthouse in the distance. This is where all the lines end, as if the whole world’s being drawn intae that one point, waves and ships, sand and seaweed, sky and clouds, birds and all the wee beasties.
At the other side ae the lighthouse I imagine another beach, the lines spilling out again like sand through an hourglass. Everything here’s reflected there. The same, but different.
Lolly throws her bag tae her feet and tells me I look all pensive standing there. I’m nae sure what ‘pensive’ means, but I do like watching her, skirt hitched up, bare legs skipping. It reminds me ae that picture again,
From Here tae Eternity
, that scene on the beach. I imagine me and Lolly doing something like that. I have tae push the idea tae the back ae my head.
Her hair flies out behind her. I follow. Our bodies make long shadows, ghosts in the wet surface. Our footprints draw new lines in the sand, striking through all the others. We pick up pebbles. Lolly finds a small round one that glitters with mica in the sunlight. She asks if I want tae skim it, cause she’s no good. It’ll be a waste if she uses it. I take the pebble but dinnae throw it away. Instead I put it in my pocket. Later I’ll make a wee hole so I can wear it round my neck on a cord.
‘My mother was born near the lighthouse,’ I tell Lolly when we sit down for our sandwiches. In my pocket I’m playing with the pebble.
Ma was born in one ae the caves. It’s where the family aie used tae stay in winter. Ma’s full ae stories about it. She swears it was a smugglers’ cove once, and that her greatgrandfather was the middle man, selling stuff on land and keeping a fee for the family. It was a good system. The ships barely had tae drop anchor.
That was over long before Ma was born, though. She says once they were moved intae a cave, they never left it empty till spring. They’d tae fight tae keep the spot tae theirselves, so there was aie someone on guard. One man would bide in the cave while the others went tae work.
These days it’s just a big, empty hole in the cliff, but there’s still the old marks scratched in the walls, if you ken where tae look.
I dinnae tell Lolly about all that. I will take her tae the caves, though, later on. It’s a lovely spot, and we can be alone there, nae that there’s many folk out on the beach, a day like today.
‘What was it like when you were a wee boy?’ she asks.
I stare at the water, spilling and splashing about the Skerries rocks, and wonder if I should tell her about the summer trips we used tae take here. I’ve got good memories. Near the cave there was a rock shaped like a crocodile’s back. Birds would land on it, and we saw dolphins swimming round it sometimes.
There was fresh water from a spring, and you could collect it
in a can. The spring’s dried up now, though. First thing I’d wake up tae the gulls and the waves crashing and go and get some water. If it was a warm day there’d be the smell ae the broom bushes mixed with the salty sea air. We were surrounded by yellow flowering broom. What a lovely smell that stuff has in the morning sun, like coconut. Even if I did slip on the rocks and fall intae those wicked prickles a hundred times, it was worth it for the smell, just like when you win a coconut off the shy at the showies and you first crack it open with a hammer and chisel.
I got my nickname at Covesea when I was a bairn. Father had taught me the names ae all the different birds, gulls, oyster catchers, sand martins, herons, kestrels, all ae them. But terns were my favourites, Heaven kens why. I must ae carried on about terns the way Wee Betsy does about her teacher, the good-looking one, Miss Webster. Anyway, I loved going tae Covesea cause there were so many terns there. So ‘Jock Terns’ it was. I dreamed ae the flying even then.
There’s another family story from Covesea. The day Ma and Father met, Father saw a fishing boat go down at the caves after it hit some rocks just hidden under the water. You can see waves breaking over them in low tide. Now the rocks are known as the Nellie and Jane, after that boat, and Father said if I’d been born a girl I’d have been called Nellie Jane too, if Ma had allowed it. But Ma believes too much in the old ways tae name a bairnie after a shipwreck! They fought over it, though, before I was born and the matter was settled in a glance. Ma says I came intae this world laughing at the pair ae them.
I dinnae ken what tae say tae Lolly about those days, so I take a sip ae my drink and look down, studying the bottle. It’s a Moray Cup, sweet and fizzy, turns yer tongue red. The glass has a seam down it like a stocking on a dilly’s leg, and the label has a picture ae a wee coloured boy: ‘
Ask for Sangs MORAY CUP –
The one and only’
.
‘Years ago,’ I point tae the label tae show Lolly the picture ae
the boy, ‘I was feart tae drink Moray Cups cause my big brothers tellt me they would make me turn black!’
It’s no true, that story, but I heard Rachel and Wee Betsy arguing about it the other day. It made me laugh. Maybe Sangs didnae exist back when I was their age. I cannae remember it. The only coloured person I knew was the landlord, Darkie Smith, and even that wasnae till I was ten and we moved intae Lady Lane.
Lolly stares out tae the Skerries. I ken she wants tae hear more about the family really, how we lived, nae daft stories about Moray Cup. Suddenly she turns and asks, ‘Is it true what they say about your ma being a seer?’
I look back tae the lighthouse, away from her, take another sip ae drink and gie a wee sniff. Bubbles up ma nose. ‘A seer, you say? I dinnae really believe in all that stuff. But, aye, she’ll do palms sometimes, if she’s in the right mood. With the other old wifeys.’
I dinnae tell Lolly the story about Curly. Nae long after moving intae the Lane, Duncan was marring with a neighbour over the hall. He was a labourer, nae one ae us, and his wife was pregnant. The man took against Curly and said he’d nae stand any noise up and down the dancers once his child was born. All Curly said back was, ‘Better nae count yer eggs before they hatch.’ His wife died giein birth, the child too, poor manny. I only ken that story cause Curly was full with the drink one night and she began greeting about it. Ach, but it’s all rubbish. I told her nae tae feel so bad, but I ken she still feels responsible.
When I turn back tae Lolly she’s staring intae her hand tae examine her lifeline, or her loveline, or whatever it is they call them. I wonder if she kens about the Batchie Woman. All our women go tae visit the Batchie Woman, but it’s rare that they trust her so much, cause she’s nae one ae us. She was born in the town. Ma says she’s a fisherman’s daugher. One time the Batchie Woman told Jeannie she’d got visions ae Duncan and
Curly in the Lane with a monkey! Well, we all thought she wasnae wise, except Ma of course, who believed her. Till one night Ma was out in the garden and we heard her shouting.
‘Come and hae a look. I tellt ye!’
It was a bloody monkey made ae sacking. It had velvet ears, glass eyes, a woollen smile and a purple waistcoat. Even from a distance we could see the long tail between the legs, arms stretched out like a wee child. Hauding a velvety hand each, swinging this thing to and fro, were Curly and Duncan. It was a favourite toy for Wee Betsy, came off ae the cart. ‘Monkey! Monkey!’ Wee Betsy learnt tae say, cause she was just a baby then. So ‘Monkey’ was its name, and that was what the Batchie Woman had seen.
‘Show me your palm!’ Lolly goes, and takes my hand. You’ll live tae a hundred, Jock Terns. That’s what I see.’
‘Well, that’s a relief!’ I go. ‘Ma’s nae in agreement with you there, though. Apparently your poor wee Jock here’s cursed.’ And actually, the Batchie Woman agrees, but I try nae tae think bad thoughts like that.
‘Then it’s definitely a load ae nonsense!’ says Lolly, but she looks worried, just for a second. I kiss her tae take the frown off her face.
‘Stop it, Loll! She’s nae a seer. All Ma’s ever predicted was floods. She kens when the river will be high, and you dinnae need the gift tae predict that in this part ae the world! It’s just old wifeys having a laugh with us, and other folk with imaginations running away, getting themselves all feart. There, now.’
I take a long swig ae my Moray Cup. ‘Come here,’ I go, and we kiss again, for longer this time. I feel all the tiny sweet bubbles ae the drink on the smooth insides ae my lips and it mixes with the salt, the fine sand on my face, the taste ae my Lolo.
‘Hey,’ I go, reaching intae my bag. ‘I’ve got your da’s camera.’ She takes it and holds it up to take a snap.
‘Aw, I come out all gawky in photies. Dinnae.’
‘Wheesht, Jock Terns. What rot! Say cheese.’
I turn my head as she takes her snap. ‘Can I no get one ae you, beautiful?’
‘We should do one together. Let’s find someone tae ask.’
‘Come on,’ I go, standing up and pulling Lolly tae her feet, ‘I want tae take a look at the caves. There’ll be someone on the path can take a photie.’
Once we get tae the top, past the quarry, there’s a wee track down tae the beaches and our cave. The broom’s thick on both sides, and it can be slippy an all. Lolly takes fearty steps all the way down and I have tae tell her tae look up, cause the cliff’s beautiful, golden, orange, brown and bronze in the sun, sandstone in all different colour layers. I want her tae see it.
At the mouth ae the cave, and inside it, it’s black with soot. I take a wander in and have a kick round while Lolly waits for me tae call her. There’s some signs ae fires near the entrance, and what’s left ae the wall halfway in. I guess that was built years back by one ae us lot. Everything’s just how it was when I was wee, except for a few more initials and dates scratched or painted at the back, near where it gets deep, the bit we cried the Monster’s Gulp.