The Year of the Fathers

Kenny gave his nod to the choice of subject, like he was bidding for a box of fish at the mart. I don’t think he’d heard this yarn of Mairi’s either. Had the feeling they’d not been together that long so maybe they didn’t spend so much time talking, yet.

She rolled herself a smoke and held the tin out. I shook my head and Kenny noticed. We’d both gone that way. She shrugged and took a big draw, to keep her going.

The year of the herring ban. First, everyone was talking about the big shots the Quo Vadis was bringing in. The records getting toppled. Then the Minch was closed. They’d even stopped the Scalpay drifters. What was the point of that, for all the herring they took? And the small ones swimming through. They could have chucked out the purse-seiners and left it at that. But you couldn’t land a herring even if you’d caught one.

Now salmon that year – you couldn’t give them away. It was a dry summer and they were going crazy at the mouths of all the rivers and burns. Everyone had their freezer full and there wasn’t much point in going out for more. Mairi said:

This was the year after my father died. He wasn’t that old, and it just wasn’t expected. It happened in the winter so everything had already been put away. When I went into the byre, there it was, the drift net with the corks, a different mesh from the salmon net, stretched and dried. The Seagull engine, the big one with the brass tank, on its bronze bracket, all the old fuel drained. The plug loose in the cylinder. A new one in a box, ready.

So I put the boat back on the running mooring. My sisters – you know there wasn’t a boy in our family – had taken her in, when we stopped setting the net in the bay. The estate had started lifting nets by then. Well, I’d never been out at night, of course, but I found myself following my nose. I’d his oiled gansey with the grey fleck in it, the Norwegian one that sheds the rain. I wasn’t cold, wasn’t scared and I knew where to go.

You know the east gap – out by Orinsay island? You can just about cut through the narrows to Loch Erisort in a dinghy on a big enough tide. And the south way takes you to a good fishing at Calbost. Or right clear down to the Shiants. There’s a couple of rocks to watch out for, both routes.

Choke on. Fresh mixture. New plug. I primed it, pumping that nipple on the carburettor. There was a spark and clean fuel. It had to go first time. It did. I went out the south gap at half throttle. Once we were through, there was enough light to make out the marks. I opened her up then.

But don’t ask me how I knew when it was time to stop. Just like himself reminding me to put the brass tap in to shut off the fuel. ‘Enough vessels dropping their oil and muck in the Minch without us adding our tuppence-ha’penny worth.’ It was his own voice, telling me.

I remembered something else he’d said. Something about a light that was very handy. No, not a lighthouse. One house up Calbost way. One old guy was always up half the night. He’d keep his light on. You could catch sight of that white light and hold it on the point.

I paid out the net then, just like going for salmon, only rigged to fish deeper and I held the rope. I wasn’t sure where to tie it on but it was as if he was in the boat with me, pointing out the eye bolt at the bow. Round turn with two half hitches but I took the end back through the first hitch. Same as the anchor knot.

You know how you set the salmon net with a grapnel and hold off to watch it? I mean you know their runs, where they’ll come close for a taste of fresh water. Well, I knew just to drift with this one and I wasn’t cold. Wasn’t lonely or scared. Don’t ask me how I knew it was time to haul but I did. It was heavy to get in. I thought of these stories you hear of – a basking shark caught in it. But it was herring.

Again, it was as if he was in there with me, explaining how to shake them out in one part of the boat. Clear of the anchor and other gear. The light was coming back into the sky. The tide had gone and returned to about the same level so I’d have plenty of water, coming back in the loch.

I got the shovel from the byre and more boxes. Didn’t fill them too full so I could drag them in under shelter. It was cold in there. Planks and a concrete block on top so the rats or mink or cats wouldn’t get them. I’d phone around later in the morning for people to come and help themselves. But I put a decent fry in a bag in the fridge. That was going to be a special delivery, for the old guy who keeps his light on.

I pulled the ropes to put the boat back out on the running mooring. I could clean the scales off later. Found myself raking out the ashes in the Rayburn as he always did. A few bits of black caoran to get it warm for the breakfast and I went to my bed before my mother was up.

But it was all starting to move again, this room, at this time. Our personal ceilidhs were breaking up. People were saying they wouldn’t leave it till next year. We’d keep it going, they said.

Kenny F said we wouldn’t say anything. If we said something like that we’d think it was all sewn up. It would be in our minds as having happened already and we wouldn’t do anything more about it. So we’d just shut the old gobs.