Storm Island Page 6

  The island is a J-shaped lump of rock rising sullenly out of the North

  Sea. It lies on the map like the top half of a broken walking-stick;

  parallel with the equator but a long, long way north; its curved handle

  toward Aberdeen, its broken, jagged stump pointing threateningly at

  distant Denmark. It is ten miles long.

  Around most of its coast the cliffs rise out of the cold sea without

  the courtesy of a beach. Angered by this rudeness the waves pound on

  the rock in impotent rage; a ten-thousand-year fit of bad temper which

  the island ignores with impunity.

  In the cup of the J the sea is calmer, for there it has provided itself

  with a more pleasant reception. Its tides have thrown into that cup so

  much sand and seaweed, driftwood and pebbles and seashells, that there

  is now, between the foot of the cliff and the water's edge, a crescent

  of something closely resembling dry land, a more-or-less beach.

  Each summer the vegetation at the top of the cliff drops a handful of

  seeds on to the beach, the way a rich man throws loose change to

  beggars. If the winter is mild and the spring comes early, a few of

  the seeds take feeble root; but they are never healthy enough to flower

  themselves and spread their own seeds, so the beach exists from year to

  year on handouts.

  On the land itself, the proper land, held out of the sea's reach by the

  cliffs, green things do grow and multiply. The vegetation is mostly

  coarse grass, only just good enough to nourish the few bony sheep, but

  tough enough to bind the topsoil to the island's bedrock. There are

  some bushes, all thorny, which provide homes for rabbits; and a brave

  stand of conifers on the leeward slope of the hill at the eastern

  end.

  The higher land is ruled by heather. Every few years the man yes,

  there is a man here the man sets fire to the heather, and then the

  grass will grow and the sheep can graze here too; but after a couple of

  years the heather comes back, God knows from where, and drives the

  sheep away until the man burns it again.

  The rabbits are here because they were born here; the sheep are here

  because they were brought here; and the man is here to look after the

  sheep; but the birds are here because they like it. There are hundreds

  of thousands of them: long44 legged rock pipits whistling peep peep

  peep as they soar and pc-pc-pc-peas they dive like a Spitfire coming at

  a Messer-schmidt out of the sun; corncrakes, which the man rarely sees,

  but he knows they are there because their bark keeps him awake at

  night; ravens and carrion crows and kittiwakes and countless gulls; and

  a pair of golden eagles which the man shoots at when he sees them, for

  he knows regardless of what naturalists and experts from Edinburgh may

  tell him -that they do prey upon live lambs and not just the car cases

  of those already dead.

  The island's most constant visitor is the wind. It conics mostly from

  the north-east, from really cold places where there are fiords and

  glaciers and icebergs; often bringing with it unwelcome gifts of snow

  and driving rain and cold, cold mist; sometimes arriving empty-handed,

  just to howl and whoop and raise hell, tearing up bushes and bending

  trees and whipping the intemperate ocean into fresh paroxysms of

  foam-flecked rage. It is tireless, this wind; and that is its mistake.

  If it came occasionally it could take the island by surprise and do

  some real damage; but because it is almost always here, the island has

  learned to live with it. The plants put down deep roots, and the

  rabbits hide far inside the thickets, and the trees grow up with their

  backs ready-bent for the flogging, and the birds nest on sheltered

  ledges, and the man's house is sturdy and squat, built with a

  craftsmanship that knows this wind of old.

  This house is made of big grey stones and grey slates, the colour of

  the sea. It has small windows and close-fitting doors and a chimney in

  its pine end. It stands at the top of the hill at the eastern end of

  the island, close to the splintered stub of the broken walking-stick.

  It crowns the hill, defying the wind and the rain, not out of bravado

  but so that the man can see the sheep.

  There is another house, very similar, ten miles away at the opposite

  end of the island near the more-or-less beach; but nobody lives there.

  There was once another man. He thought he knew better than the island;

  he thought he could grow oats and potatoes and keep a few cows. He

  battled for three years with the wind and the cold and the soil before

  he admitted he was wrong. When he had gone, nobody wanted his home.

  This is a hard place. Only hard things survive here: hard rock, coarse

  grass, tough sheep, savage birds, sturdy houses and strong men. Hard

  things and cold things, and cruel and bitter and pointed things, rugged

  and slow-moving and determined things; things as cold and hard and

  ruthless as the island itself.

  It is for places like this that the word 'bleak' has been invented.

  "It's called Storm Island/ said Alfred Rose.

  "I think you're going to like it' David and Lucy Rose sat in the prow

  of the fishing-boat and looked across the choppy water. It was a fine

  November day, cold and breezy yet clear and dry. A weak sun sparkled

  off the wavelets.

  "I bought it in 1926," Papa Rose continued, 'when we thought there was

  going to be a revolution and we'd need somewhere to hide from the

  working class. It's just the place for a convalescence."

  Lucy thought he was being suspiciously hearty, but she had to admit it

  looked lovely: all wind blow and natural and fresh. And it made sense,

  this move. They had to get away from their parents and make a new

  start at being married; and there was no point in moving to a city to

  be bombed, when neither of them was really well enough to help; and

  then David's father had revealed that he owned an island off the coast

  of Scotland, and it seemed too good to be true.

  "I own the sheep, too," Papa Rose said.

  "Shearers come over from the mainland each spring, and the wool brings

  in just about enough money to pay Tom McAvity's wages. Old Tom's the

  shepherd."

  "How old is he?" Lucy asked.

  "Good Lord, he must be oh, seventy?"

  "I suppose he's eccentric." The boat turned into the bay, and Lucy

  could see two small figures on the jetty: a man and a dog.

  "Eccentric? No more than you'd be if you'd lived alone for twenty

  years. He talks to his dog."

  Lucy turned to the skipper of the small boat, "How often do you

  call?"

  "Once a fortnight, missus. I bring Tom's shopping, which isna much,

  and his mail, which is even less. You just give me your list, every

  other Monday, and if it can be bought in Aberdeen I'll bring it."

  He cut the motor and threw a rope to Tom. The dog barked and ran

  around in circles, beside himself with excitement. Lucy put one foot

  on the gunwale and sprang out on to the jetty.

  Tom took her hand. He had a face of leather and a huge briar pipe with

  a lid. He was shorter than she, but wi
de, and he looked ridiculously

  healthy. He wore the hairiest tweed jacket she had ever seen, with a

  knitted sweater that must have been made by an elderly sister

  somewhere, plus a checked cap and army boots. His nose was huge, red

  and veined.

  "Pleased to meet you," he said politely, as if she was his ninth

  visitor today instead of the first human face he had seen in fourteen

  days.

  "Here yare, Tom," said the skipper. He handed two cardboard boxes out

  of the boat.

  "No eggs this time, but here's a letter from Devon."

  "It'll be from ma niece."

  Lucy thought: That explains the sweater.

  David was still in the boat. The skipper stood behind him and said:

  "Are you ready?"

  Tom and Papa Rose leaned into the boat to assist, and the three of them

  lifted David in his wheelchair on to the jetty.

  "If I don't go now I'll have to wait a fortnight for the next bus,"

  Papa Rose said with a smile.

  "The house has been done up quite nicely, you'll see. All your stuff

  is in there. Tom will show you where everything is." He kissed Lucy,

  squeezed David's shoulder, and shook Tom's hand.

  "Have a few months of rest and togetherness, get completely fit, then

  come back: there are important war jobs for both of you."

  They would not be going back, Lucy knew; not before the end of the war:

  but she had not told anyone about that yet.

  Papa got back into the boat. It wheeled away in a tight circle. Lucy

  waved until it disappeared around the headland.

  Tom pushed the wheelchair, so Lucy took his groceries. Between the

  landward end of the jetty and the cliff top was a long, steep, narrow

  ramp rising high above the beach like a bridge. Lucy would have had

  trouble getting the wheelchair to the top, but Tom managed without

  apparent exertion.

  The cottage was perfect.

  It was small and grey, and sheltered from the wind by a little rise in

  the ground. All the woodwork was freshly painted, and a wild rose bush

  grew beside the doorstep. Curls of smoke rose from the chimney to be

  whipped away by the breeze. The tiny windows looked over the bay.

  Lucy said: "I love it!"

  The interior had been cleaned and aired and painted, and there were

  thick rugs on the stone floors. It had four rooms: downstairs, a

  modernized kitchen and a living-room with a stone fireplace; upstairs,

  two bedrooms. One end of the house had been carefully remodelled to

  take modern plumbing, with a bathroom above and a kitchen extension

  below.

  Their clothes were in the wardrobes. There were towels in the bathroom

  and food in the kitchen.

  Tom said: "There's something in the barn I've to show you."

  It was a shed, not a barn. It lay hidden behind the cottage, and

  inside it was a gleaming new jeep.

  "Mr. Rose says it's been specially adapted for young Mr. Rose to

  drive," Tom said.

  "It's got automatic gears, and the throttle and brake are operated by

  hand. That's what he said." He seemed to be repeating the words

  parrot-fashion, as if he had very little idea of what gears, brakes and

  throttles might be.

  Lucy said: "Isn't that super, David?"

  "Top-hole. But where shall I go in it?"

  Tom said: "You're always welcome to visit me and share a pipe and a

  drop of whisky. I've been looking forward to having neighbours

  again."

  "Thank you," said Lucy.

  "This here's the generator," Tom said, turning around and pointing

  "I've got one just the same. You put the fuel in here. It delivers

  alternating current."

  David said: "That's unusual small generators are usually direct

  current."

  "Aye. I don't really know the difference, but they tell me this is

  safer."

  "True. A shock from this would throw you across the room, but direct

  current would kill you."

  They went back to the cottage. Tom said: "Well, you'll want to settle

  in, and I've sheep to tend, so I'll say good-day. Oh! I ought to tell

  you: in an emergency, I can contact the mainland by wireless radio."

  David was surprised.

  "You've got a radio transmitter?"

  "Aye," Tom said proudly.

  "I'm an enemy aircraft spotter in the Royal Observer Corps."

  "Ever spotted any?" David asked.

  Lucy flashed her disapproval of the sarcasm in David's voice, but Tom

  seemed not to notice, "Not yet," he replied.

  David said: "Jolly good show."

  When Tom had gone Lucy said: "He only wants to do his bit."

  "There are lots of us who want to do our bit," David said bitterly. And

  that, Lucy reflected, was the trouble. She dropped the subject, and

  wheeled her crippled husband into their new home.

  When Lucy had been asked to visit the hospital psychologist, she had

  immediately assumed that David had brain damage. It was not so.

  "All that's wrong with his head is a nasty bruise on the left temple,"

  the psychologist said. She went on: "However, the loss of both his

  legs brings about a trauma, and there's no telling how it will affect

  his state of mind. Did he want very much to be a pilot?"

  Lucy pondered.

  "He was afraid, but I think he wanted it very badly, all the same."

  "Well, he'll need all the reassurance and support that you can give

  him. And patience, too: one thing we can predict is that he will be

  resentful and ill-tempered for a while. He needs love and rest,

  "However during their first few months on the island he seemed to want

  neither. He did not make love to her, perhaps because he was waiting

  until his injuries were fully healed. But he did not rest, either. He

  threw himself into the business of sheep farming, tearing about the

  island in his jeep with the wheelchair in the back. He built fences

  along the more treacherous cliff s, shot at the eagles, helped Tom

  train a new dog when Betsy began to go blind, and burned-oflf the

  heather; and in the spring he was out every night delivering lambs. One

  day he felled a great old pine tree near Tom's cottage, and spent a

  fortnight stripping it, hewing it into manageable logs, and carting

  them back to the house for firewood. He relished really hard manual

  labour. He learned to strap himself tightly to the chair to keep his

  body anchored while he wielded an axe or a mallet. He carved a pair of

  Indian clubs and exercised with them for hours when Tom could find

  nothing more for him to do. The muscles of his arms and back became

  grotesque, like those of men who win body-building contests.

  He refused point-blank to wash dishes, cook food or clean house.

  Lucy was not unhappy. She had been afraid he might sit by the fire all

  day and brood over his bad luck. The way he worked was faintly

  worrying because it was so obsessive, but at least he was not

  vegetating.

  She told him about the baby at Christmas.

  In the morning she gave him a petrol-driven saw, and he gave her a bolt

  of silk. Tom came over for dinner, and they ate a wild goose he had

  shot. David drove the shepherd home after tea, and when he came back

  L
ucy opened a bottle of brandy.

  Then she said: "I have another present for you, but you can't open it

  until May."

  He laughed.

  "What on earth are you talking about? How much of that brandy did you

  drink while I was out?"

  "I'm having a baby."

  He stared at her, and all the laughter went out of his face.

  "Good God, that's all we bloody well need."

  "David!" Well, for God's sake... When the hell did it happen?"

  "That's not too difficult to figure out, is it?" she said bitterly.

  "It must have been a week before the wedding. It's a miracle it

  survived the crash."

  "Have you seen a doctor?"

  "Huh-when?"

  "So how do you know for sure?"

  "Oh, David, don't be so boring. I know for sure because my periods

  have stopped and my nipples hurt and I throw up in the mornings and my

  waist is four inches bigger than it used to be. If you ever looked at

  me you would know for sure."

  "All right."

  What's the matter with you? You're supposed to be thrilled!"

  "Oh, sure. Perhaps we'll have a son, and then I can take him for walks

  and play football with him, and he'll grow up wanting to be like his