Pearl Fishers Page 4

  ‘We’ve got no books, Effie.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that because we can’t read?’

  ‘I can read.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you reading a book, Effie.’

  Effie felt dismayed and ashamed.

  ‘Never mind, Effie, maybe Mr Hamilton will teach you.’

  Six

  THERE FOLLOWED a busy half-hour.

  Effie and Morag had their shower, using Hamilton’s soft white towels rather than their own hard dingy ones: they would take his to the laundry on Monday. Eddie brought in the Primus and the battered tin plates and cooking utensils. They were to use their own things and not Hamilton’s. Grandfather, still with his hat on, was seated in an armchair in a corner of the kitchen, waiting for the whisky. Effie, wearing Hamilton’s apron over her red dress, was the cook. Morag assisted her.

  They were seated at the table when Hamilton came in. He had a yellow rose in his hand.

  ‘This is for you, Effie, to replace the one you had this morning.’

  A variety of expressions crossed her face. She looked puzzled, pleased, amused and embarrassed.

  He could not keep his eyes off her. Gone was the ragamuffin in the black jumper and thick trousers. In her place was a handsome elegant young lady in a red dress and a yellow cardigan. There was a neat darn in the right elbow. He had never seen anything more moving.

  She picked up the rose and smelled it. ‘What a lovely scent. Smell it, Morag.’

  Morag smelled it. ‘Me and Effie took a shower in your bathroom, Mr Hamilton. We didn’t make a mess.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t.’

  ‘We used your towels. Effie didn’t want to but I said you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ He handed the bottle of whisky to Mrs Williamson.

  ‘Thanks, Mister. I knew you wouldn’t forget.’

  She was about to pour whisky into two tin mugs.

  Hamilton laughed. ‘You can’t drink whisky out of those.’ He got two whisky glasses out of a cupboard.

  ‘Grandfather once drank it out of a silver tassie, in Carbisdale Castle. Didn’t you, Grandfather?’

  The old man raised his glass to Hamilton. It was a strangely dignified gesture. Hamilton could believe the man was a poet.

  ‘We kept a sausage for you, Mr Hamilton,’ said Eddie. ‘If you don’t want it can I have it?’

  ‘Sorry, Eddie. I’m hungry.’

  He sat down at the table, beside Morag.

  Effie served him the sausage and bread soaked in dripping. She used a china plate she got down from a shelf.

  ‘Are you sure you want this?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course I want it.’

  Mrs Williamson was winking at him. She was asking if he had remembered the other thing.

  He nodded. He was trying to look as if he was enjoying the sausage and bread. ‘Well, what would you like to do this afternoon? I’m going shopping. Who would like to come with me?’

  ‘Me,’ said Eddie, ‘but I’ve got no money.’

  ‘I’ll lend you some. What about you, Effie? Have you any shopping to do?’

  ‘Is there a bus?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s just one bus a day. It leaves the head of the loch in the morning and returns from Towellan in the late afternoon. It carries sheep as well as people. We’ll have to go in the car.’

  ‘Good,’ said Eddie.

  ‘I thought we might go to the matinee at the cinema.’

  ‘I would like that,’ said Morag.

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll go and have a shower and change my clothes. I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.’

  Effie followed him out. She spoke quietly so that the others wouldn’t hear.

  ‘I have to talk to you, Mr Hamilton.’

  ‘If I call you Effie why don’t you call me Gavin?’

  ‘I can’t. I know you’re trying to be kind, but you shouldn’t, you mustn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The children are already too fond of you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Because we’re different.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you, Effie. Just because you’re poor and your people have chosen to travel about and live in tents doesn’t mean you’re inferior.’

  ‘I didn’t say inferior, I said different.’

  ‘But, Effie, you’ve given me the impression that you would like to change your way of life.’

  ‘My way of life is none of your business, Mr Gavin Hamilton.’

  She rushed away then, with a small cry of anguish.

  He stood listening. His heart was beating fast. He had ventured too dangerously.

  She seemed to have gone outside.

  He went into the kitchen. Here was his chance to give Mrs Williamson the pads.

  Morag and Eddie were washing and drying the tin dishes. Grandfather and Mrs Williamson were happily drowsy.

  ‘With Mrs McTeague’s compliments,’ he said, putting the packet on the table.

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘A friend. Where’s Effie?’

  He looked out of the window. There was Effie, with her head close to that of the old grey horse.

  He must heed her warning. There could be no place in his future for her.

  Seven

  IN THE car Eddie sat up front beside Hamilton, pretending he was driving. Morag was in the back with Effie. Both were very quiet, except for Morag’s occasional cough.

  It looked as if he and Effie had decided to find a way of behaving towards each other that wouldn’t cause embarrassment. They would be friendly but not close. She would live in the house, for the children’s sake. She would call him Gavin. Somehow she felt that calling him Mr Hamilton would look as if she was too deliberately trying to keep a safe distance between them.

  For his part, he was going to be very careful not to hurt her feelings but at the same time not to give her foolish hopes. There must be no more inane gestures like giving her the rose. He had almost found himself offering to pin it on her breast.

  Suddenly she spoke, in a carefully controlled tone of voice. This was how she was going to speak to him from now on.

  ‘Do you know a place called the Big Stone?’

  He tried to copy her emotionless tone. It was harder for him because he liked and admired her, and would have liked to show it, whereas to her he was simply a self-important person trying to show how good he was.

  ‘Yes, it’s in the forest, not far from Mr McTeague’s house. As a matter of fact we’ll pass it soon. We won’t be able to see it, though, because of trees. It’s said people were buried there. There are signs of graves. Why?’

  ‘That’s where Grandfather wants to be buried. The graves are those of his family – his father and mother, and his brother. Eighty years ago. They all died in the same week.’

  ‘God! Was it an accident?’

  ‘They just got ill and died. It had been a bad winter for them. They hadn’t enough food. It could have been pneumonia. Grandfather was only four and he doesn’t remember it very well.’

  ‘Did nobody help?’

  ‘I think they were afraid it was something smittle and they kept away.’

  ‘How awful it must have been for the little boy.’

  ‘He’s made poems about it.’

  ‘And you’ve brought him all this way to give him his wish? You’re a heroine, Effie.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll allow him to be buried there?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s forestry land now. It belonged to the estate then. I don’t think Hugh McTeague would object but his superiors might. Also the local health authorities might have something to say.’

  ‘If it wasn’t allowed, could he be buried in the kirkyard at Kilcalmonell? He said that would do as well.’

  The honest answer was no. Robert McDonald, the minister, wouldn’t mind but his sister Fiona certainly would, and most of the members would agree with her. />
  He slowed down the car. ‘If you were visiting the Big Stone, this is where you’d have to climb the fence. It’s a boggy area. There are lots of marigolds.’

  He drove on. ‘The man to ask would be Mr Rutherford. His family have been undertakers in Towellan for generations.’

  They were now on the outskirts of the town.

  ‘Would you please let us off here?’ said Effie.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better outside the hotel? That’s more central.’

  ‘No. Here would do.’

  He realised that she didn’t want any of his friends to see him with the tinkers. For his sake. She would keep the unspoken agreement more honourably than he.

  He got out to help the children down. He was careful not to offer his hand to Effie.

  He gave Eddie and Morag a shilling each.

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Effie. ‘We’ll have money when I sell some of the pearls.’

  ‘Shall we meet outside the cinema at a quarter to three?’ he asked.

  She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be there.’

  He drove on and got out at the hotel.

  He looked back eagerly. There they were, the three of them, strangers in this place, outcasts indeed.

  He wished he was with them, that he had a right to be with them. But of course if that right was on offer he could not accept it.

  One of his workmates was approaching, with his wife.

  Archie McLeish was a good-natured man who agreed with everybody; his wife Meg made up for it by being deliberately cantankerous.

  ‘Hello, Gavin,’ said Archie, with his usual complaisant grin. ‘How are you getting on with your tinks?’

  ‘They’re no trouble.’

  ‘They shouldn’t be allowed to live like that in this day and age,’ said Meg. ‘Especially if they have children with them.’

  ‘They’ve been living like that for centuries,’ said Archie. ‘It’s in their blood. I was telling Meg the young woman was quite good-looking.’

  ‘They get gey coarse as they get older,’ said Meg. ‘No wonder. How long do you think you’ll have them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for the children I’d say get rid of them at once.’

  She had three children of her own.

  They moved on and Hamilton looked again for Effie and the children. They weren’t to be seen. Perhaps they were in the jeweller’s, selling the pearls.

  Again he wished he was with them. But Effie would not be easily swindled and in any case Mr Lojko would offer a fair price.

  Hamilton went off to have a talk with Mr Rutherford, the undertaker.

  Eight

  MR RUTHERFORD was a tall, thin, bald man with a very soft voice.

  He listened attentively.

  ‘Of course, Mr Hamilton, I know about those graves at the Big Stone.’

  He got up and took down from a shelf one of a number of ledgers.

  ‘What year did you say?’

  ‘1870 or 1871.’

  Mr Rutherford turned the stiff yellowish pages. ‘Yes, here it is. The entry is by my grandfather, now of course deceased. Most meticulous. No typewriters in those days. “1870. 3rd December. Burial, at the Big Stone, in the grounds of the Kilcalmonell estate, of one Edward Williamson, an itinerant mendicant. His spouse, Agnes Williamson, and their son, aged six. Cause of death? Question mark. No religious service. Total cost 20 guineas. Paid by public subscription.”’

  ‘Were they trying to make amends?’ said Hamilton, bitterly.

  ‘So, Mr Hamilton, the one member of the family who survived and who was only four years of age at the time, has been brought to Kilcalmonell to be buried beside them. He is not, however, deceased, but is not expected to live much longer. That is the situation?’

  ‘Yes, do you think it will be allowed?’

  ‘I would have to make enquiries … You may be assured, I am very sympathetic. You say you are here on behalf of the granddaughter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She is herself an itinerant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I believe she passed through the town this morning, on a cart.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She cannot be particularly well-off.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘An interment of this sort could be costly. Lawyers might have to be employed.’

  ‘The bill would be paid.’

  ‘May I ask, Mr Hamilton, what is your personal interest in the matter? You are not, I assume, related to these people?’

  ‘No, I’m not. They need help. That’s my interest.’

  ‘Most commendable. We should all follow your example.’

  ‘Could you let me know as soon as possible the result of your enquiries?’

  ‘There is no telephone at the Old Manse?’

  ‘Not yet. Mr McTeague the forester would take a message. He will probably be involved in any case.’

  ‘Perhaps I could meet Miss Williamson?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Nine

  THERE WAS no need to hurry, he had plenty of time, but he hurried all the same. He felt pleased with himself, and was looking forward, not to receiving Effie’s thanks, but to seeing some of the worry leave those beautiful, brave, brown eyes. She might at first protest that she had no right to expect him to take up a burden that really was no business of his, but she was bound to feel relieved and grateful afterwards.

  People were already going into the cinema, many of them children. They looked so happy and carefree, so confident and healthy, laughing and chattering among themselves, that he thought sadly of Morag and Eddie, especially of Morag with her mouse-like diffidence and pale eager face.

  It seemed to be a popular film. The cinema would be packed. Just in case, he went in and bought two adult and two children’s tickets. Then he went outside again to wait.

  He would sit between Eddie and Morag, so that he would not be too close to Effie, although he would have liked to sit beside her.

  His heart took a sudden leap. What lay ahead for Effie?

  It seemed inconceivable that in a week’s time, perhaps sooner, she would slip out of Kilcalmonell as suddenly as she had arrived and set out on an arduous and perilous journey of two hundred miles to some bleak campsite, beside one of the rivers where she fished for pearls. She would be back to her old way of life. It would be as if she and Hamilton had never met. It was inconceivable and yet it would happen. She would, as Meg McLeish had said, grow coarse. Worse than that, she would give up hope of escape. For the children’s sake she would marry one of her own clan who might be kind to her but would never appreciate her as she deserved. She would bear children.

  Would he, in Glasgow or Edinburgh, an ordained minister, ready to fulfil his ambitions, remember her?

  It was now past the meeting time. He looked in each direction. Towellan was going about its usual Saturday afternoon business. People were meeting friends and chatting. Some were going into shops, others were coming out. There were lots of screaming seagulls. But there was no sign of Effie and the children. Perhaps she was in a shop and had forgotten. She had no watch.

  Nearly an hour later, with the cinema entrance deserted, he gave up.

  So keen was his disappointment he felt resentful and, God forgive him, vindictive. Who did she think she was? He had known that she was proud, though God knew what she had to be proud about, but he had not known she was also arrogant. But why was he surprised? Uneducated and ignorant, how could she be expected to behave like a civilised person?

  Had she decided, without bothering to consult him, that he would not want to be seen with her and the children in a public place like the cinema? Or was it that she didn’t want to be seen with him?

  His friends would say, laughing, ‘Look, there’s Gavin doing his Christian duty, being nice to the tinks.’

  She would never let herself be used in that way.

  These were his thoughts as he stood outside
the cinema, surveying the streets full of people but empty for him.

  Let her go. Let her, if she could, find another place to camp. He would miss the children and, he felt sure, they would miss him, but it couldn’t be helped.

  He went into the chemist’s to buy medicine that would alleviate Morag’s cough and then into a newsagent’s for comics for Eddie.

  The children were not to blame for their sister’s arrogance.

  In the licensed grocer’s he arranged to have two bottles of whisky included in his weekly order that Willie would leave at the Old Manse gate.

  The old man too was not to blame.

  They would go back on Willie’s bus. A taxi would be too dear. Someone would have told them that the bus left from outside the hotel at four o’clock.

  He watched from a safe distance.

  The bus arrived at ten to four. There they were, hurrying to it. Willie came off to help them aboard. Hamilton was pleased. Willie would look after them.

  Why had his own reaction been so extreme and angry? No one in the world was less arrogant than Effie.

  He would watch the bus leave then hurry back home to see them.

  Ten

  TOWELLAN ATTRACTED many holidaymakers, so its inhabitants were accustomed to seeing strangers in their streets and shops. Even so, Effie and the children were given more than their share of curious stares. It was now general knowledge that tinks had passed through the town that morning. Among them had been a young woman and two children. And now, here they were, back in the town, trying to act as if they were no different from other visitors.

  After an hour or so of wandering about, and going in and out of shops, Effie and the children were glad to find refuge and rest in a small tearoom up a side street. That was where they were when they should have been outside the cinema meeting Hamilton.

  Eddie was in a huff. He had been looking forward to the cinema and was cross with Effie. Morag was concerned that Mr Hamilton would be waiting for nothing.

  They spoke in Gaelic, to the amusement of the waitress and other customers.

  ‘You’d have fallen asleep,’ said Effie. ‘Look, you can hardly keep your eyes open.’