The walk round the pier to their house became a feature of life in Stonehaven. Wilma tended to get the frying pan out as soon as look at me. Knowing that I couldn’t fight against eating when she’d gone to the bother. Besides, my nose would be twitching, on its own. She’d dig out stuff like lambs’ kidneys or a bit of frying liver. It was like being in Ulysses. I could still see that scene in the film with parts of a pig sizzling in the pan. I’ve never read the book but I read an extract somewhere and that was the bit.
Once, I stayed a day or two after the end of term, to get sailing. He’d recently installed a wee Ducati diesel. Very little vibration.
Wilma thought he’d sold out. They’d had some good cod last year. It was mostly long-lining, inshore here, which had saved the fishing. So far. I had my dinner with them and we waited for the wind to fall. Sides of cod from the freeze. Must have been a good-sized fish.
Did I like mine bare naked, like my women, or with a bit of sauce?
‘A bit of HP,’ I said.
‘Oh well,’ she said.
James and me walked as far as the seafront to check on the barograph, viewed through glass, at the corner. These were installed all round Scotland. Before outdoor swimming pools. After drownings.
It was steadier now, after a steep fall in pressure. We’d give it a go. Should moderate by evening.
‘First, these are the brails. The light lines gather the canvas and pull it up tight. Faster than lowering the sail by the halyard, if we have to. We might need to. We should get the Ducati running and warmed up first. She’ll probably fire, first go. The dynastart is pretty good.’
She did fire up, not too much smoke. James looked proud.
‘We’ll keep her running,’ he said, ‘till we clear the pier. A bit of tide off there. OK, I’ll hold her nose in and you get that sail up but don’t lose these brails whatever you do.’
So I hoisted, hand over hand. Then I made the halyard fast. I knew not to do any locking turns. You could feel the boat taking the wind already. I was sensing her lean right over. The adrenalin was kicking in. I was ready to shift my slight weight. Coiling the slack.
Not really seeing that the heel was now quite violent. Water shouldn’t really be slopping in over an inboard engine. Even if it’s under a painted plywood hatch. Not really seeing that the skipper wasn’t looking that happy. Hearing it though, soon enough.
‘Never mind the bloody slack. The brails.’
I yanked at them and the sail gathered together to spill wind. One gunnel dipped. James lunged forward and we got the yard down together.
‘Hell’s teeth.’
Too much wind. It hit you when you cleared the breakwater. He just turned her in a wide circle then took her through the gap so I could pick up the mooring buoy we’d thrown off, only fifteen or twenty minutes before. But this small circle had done something to us. I’d only had one minor role but had played it, on demand. Maybe James was keen on testing these brails, that engine. Now he knew. The new systems could get you out of trouble.
It was The Ship. I came close to it, not only getting one for him but one for me too. But James had already ordered his Glenmorangie, my orange juice.
He’d been in a seminary, training for the priesthood. Cycled bloody miles from there to a pub. But he was serious all the same. That’s why he didn’t laugh at people’s beliefs. He’d been at the last hurdle. No, another story for another day. Enough drama for tonight, real life.
Two wives, five kids, maybe more to come, kids that was, probably not wives.
James never tried to steer me one way or the other. Get the degree, then decide. If you’d found a line you had to follow it. If anyone could make sense of the last century, they were on a worthwhile mission. But follow your own lines of enquiry, not the ones set by the other guys. You can surely jump through the hoops when it comes to the finals. Then get back to your real project. That’s all he could say. He said he’d done too many daft things to be able to advise anyone. It had worked out for him now, though.
See pibroch, most folk thought it was improvised music. Like a series of cadenzas. It wasn’t like that at all. There’s a set series of variations but they’ve been composed by a piper who’s gone before you. You don’t have that much freedom to move within them, at all.
I was thinking that percussion isn’t really that different. It’s like the timing in an engine. If it’s set right, you don’t really notice it.
The reality of the situation. As it is. One orange juice, one malt. Like the modern inboard engine in the historic boat. Like the nylon covering over the shrouds to prevent the sail chafing. Like being late with the phone call, missing the funeral.
Then beginning to see more clearly, at last. Learning the pibroch. Falling into the rhythm. So there’s a chance you can maybe keep momentum. Move on.