WHATEVER THE SEA BRINGS

by
Heather Reid

From the sink, by the kitchen window, Ella watches as, at the tides turn, the small blue boat, which until now has been pointing this way and that in the breeze, begins to slap and buck on the swell, humping the jittery waves like a frisky dog. Further along the shore, Sorley, is preparing to run the first ferry of the day; small puffs of condensation blossom from his mouth as he shoulders the black fuel canister onto the tender, and then, more carefully, the eggs from Mrs MacKay’s hens, to be sold on the mainland.

Usually Ella works in silence, blending oils onto canvas, adding shells – painted top shell, wendletrap, tellin – shards of driftwood, the crinkled seams of sugar kelp, whatever the sea offers. But today she’s cleaning brushes, enjoying the company of the radio, albeit some romantic dedications show. Sometimes she sings along, sometimes she taps the wooden brushes against the crazed porcelain of the sink, keeping time to the beat.

If she’d waited a little longer she would have missed the name, it would have hidden in the clatter and swish of the streaming tap, where now she’s rinsing brush heads, stroking the stubby bristles in the flow. But the water’s cold, numbing her fingers, and she cranks the tap shut so that it judders and moans in complaint. And that’s how the name gets in, through the sudden silence, shot like a bullet, from the radio’s small frame.

Shock makes the day tilt and she leans hard against the sink. A thin whine begins to waiver in her head, the pitch increasing - slowly at first - until suddenly, like a train, fear comes roaring in, sending her stumbling from the cottage and out into the hard slap of the wind. Down to the shore she runs, her feet skittering on the smooth dark pebbles, raising turnstones and oystercatchers from their probing business on the strand.

He wants her back, that’s what the radio presenter said, he wants her back and this is how he’s gone about it, a pathetic appeal on a radio request show. His lost love; aye, that’ll be right; what kind of love was that? The kind that bolted doors; the kind that broke the skin.

Thank God she’s changed her name. She was a Karen on the bus to Lancaster, when the girl beside her asked, a Grace in the women’s hostel in Carlisle, a Gemma on the train to Oban; three different names since Manchester. And then the little ferry brought her here. Now she is an Ella, hiding in a cottage by the sea.

The cottage was a god send. Six months lease with an option to extend, no references required, no questions asked. The islanders, used to privacy, showed no surprise when she arrived with little more than a tired smile and a carrier bag stuffed with art materials. If they also noticed the fading shades of bruising they’ve never said.

Across the bay the pale yellow yolk of the sun wobbles briefly on the tip of Ben Cruachan, soon it will spill down the mountain and out towards the town, pooling around the yachts and fishing boats in the harbour. He always hated the sea, suspicious of its slippery unpredictability and its unknown depths. That’s why this place is so perfect, safely surrounded by a natural moat.

Sorley is winding rope now, snaking its damp coils around his arms. He is waiting for Fergus to get his arse into gear, before the wind gets worse; he doesn’t want to stay long in the town. Fergus takes his time; he’s not one to be rushed. He’ll be saying his goodbyes, pulling a black knitted hat over the complication of his dark curls, swinging an oilskin bag over his broad shoulder: Fergus the younger brother; Fergus the wanderer.

Fergus owns the small blue boat that’s anchored in the sound, uses it to dive for scallops; queenies he calls them. He sells them to the big hotel across the bay, where tourists eat them fried with butter and shallots. Sometimes he works on the rigs - it’s risky work but the moneys good - and sometimes, in the winter, he migrates south, where the water’s warm and he works as an instructor in the beach resorts around the Caribbean cays.

‘Where to this time Fergus?’ They ask in the pub ‘Is it the rigs again, or somewhere slightly warmer?’

‘Aye, for my sins.’

‘And will you be going far?’

‘Far enough’ He never gives them much, likes to keep it vague.

He’d dropped by the cottage last week, with a gift, a jaw bone lined with inward curving teeth; an angler fish he’d said. He’d settled himself, without being asked, in the old, high backed armchair by the fire. Ella had made him tea, and tried to remember the history she’d invented for herself, and he had nodded, and told her in return about growing up on the island, and how it was like being smothered.

‘And that’s why you go away?’ she’d asked.

‘I suppose it must be.’ He’d replied ‘But in the end there’s nowhere else quite like it, this island, you’ll find that out yourself, in time.’

‘And so that’s why you keep coming back?’

He’d shrugged, then, as he’d stood up to go, had lifted Ella’s hair from her shoulders, holding its weight across his arm, like fine cloth he planned to buy.

‘You should have kept it blonde,’ he’d said, smiling, and Ella saw that he knew, and his knowing frightened her. As he left he winked to keep the secret. Sorley calls him gallous; she’s not entirely sure what it means, but, the way he says it, makes her think he’s right.’

Fergus is leaving today; he’s catching the first ferry to the mainland, the train to Glasgow and then a plane to Guadeloupe. He’s worked there before and knows the reefs. Ella wonders what it will be like, so far away, and whether, if he asked, she would go along with him. Perhaps the warmer seas and sunny skies would help her heal. But no; Fergus was right, already she feels no desire to leave; the island’s pulled her in and claimed her for its own. If it wasn’t for the shock of hearing her past name on the radio, of knowing that he has set his mind to find her, the thought of leaving would never have occurred. And in her heart she knows she can’t be found, she’s severed every trace of who she was, her few friends shed as quickly as her name. For all he’ll ever know she could be in Guadeloupe. But just to be on the safe side…

As Fergus wanders down towards the ferry, Ella greets him, slightly out of breath. In her hand she holds a pale blue envelope, addressed to Stuart Baker, Cheadle Hume.

‘Can I ask you a favour?’ she asks.

‘You can, but you know I’m just about to leave.’

‘That’s not a problem. I wonder, when you get to Guadeloupe, could you post this letter for me? You’ll need to buy a stamp but I’ll reimburse the cost.’

He smiles. ‘I think I can go you a stamp without breaking the bank.’ He takes the letter and scans the address. ‘I’ll post your letter if you explain why you want to send a letter from Guadeloupe, when you’re here in sunny Scotland.’

Again Ella feels edgy, exposed under Fergus’s quizzical gaze. ‘It’s to an old college friend. I’d like them to think I’ve made it to somewhere a bit exotic. Like you say, this place is great, but probably not everyone’s idea of paradise.’

Fergus nods. ‘A male friend?’ he asks, smiling. ‘Will he be coming to visit you here, once you’ve enlightened him of your real whereabouts?’

‘I shouldn’t think so’ she replies, adding ‘He doesn’t like the sea and there’s rather a lot of it here.’

‘There’s quite a lot around Guadeloupe too.’

‘Yes; that’s a pity.’

Sorley is on board the ferry now, a small roll on - roll off, big enough for the few passengers who head to the island to walk on sunny days, and for John and Betty’s tractor. There are no cars here, the tracks – gouged and pitted in the summer – run like treacle when the autumn rains begin. Sorley is impatient, sounding the horn and gesturing for his brother to hurry up. ‘Well, that’s me away then’ says Fergus ‘I’ll make sure your letter gets posted, I get the feeling it’s important.’

‘It is, yes, thanks.’

‘See you then.’ And he boards the ferry, slipping the rope from its tether as he does so.

The day’s early bluster has calmed to a gentle breeze as Ella wanders back along the beach, scattering a raft of eider, floating just off shore. As Sorley starts the engine, she sees Fergus leaning on the handrail. He raises his hand and Ella returns the wave, hating herself for the small knot of something she feels tightening in her chest.

The ferry moves, slowly now, towards the mainland. The sob of its engine disturbs the air and wrinkles the silver skin of the sea. Small, froth-capped wavelets hurry back to Ella, carrying with them a quiet message; hush now, hush.

© Heather Reid
Reproduced with permission