On the Island (3 page)

5

I
T WAS WINTER
time and the snow was billowing round the cottage where Iain stayed with Kenneth and his mother, and the glittering light was almost dazzling. So attracted was Iain by the waves of snow and the light that he put on his wellingtons and went outside.

In front of him and around him he could see the houses of the village, with snow on their roofs and doors, as if they existed in a fairy tale. Blue smoke rose vaguely from the chimneys and was dissipated in the still air. In his wellingtons he sank deep into the snow, finding no road anywhere and once sinking deep into a ditch, but though for a while he was frightened by this, his main feeling was intense joy to see the world so white and clear and sparkling, so that he wanted to burst out singing. The houses were like ships rising out of an ocean of snow, and on the telegraph wires, themselves covered with snow, he saw little birds perched as if they were clutching their little wings about them for warmth. It was a magical world, its purity was overwhelming: it was as if some being had calmly in the night rid the whole world of its detail – roads, tin cans, planks – so that all that was visible was an undulating sea of snow, more solid – seeming than an ordinary sea, but almost as treacherous.

Plunging his wellingtons into the snow, Iain plodded on, just for the sake of the walking and not because he was going anywhere in particular. Sometimes he felt that he was losing his balance and that he would keel over like an overloaded ship into the waves of white. When he turned and faced the moor all he could see was uninterrupted mounds of snow, rising and falling like a ghostly Atlantic. The world had been made anew under a blue sky: in the secrecy of the night it had been totally transformed. And into this new world Iain plodded.

He passed Big Norman's house which was sunk into the snow and saw like a ghost at the window Big Norman's wife peering out, as if surprised to see him there in the middle of the hillock of snow. She was still wearing her nightgown and Iain burst out laughing inside himself because he had caught her like that on that morning of whiteness. He passed the house of Mrs Murray – whose husband was dead and who lived with her two teenage daughters, and who had a bad limp from her youth, and he heard as he crossed the snow music coming from the wireless. But this time he didn't see anyone at the window. The music floated over the wastes of snow, light and Christmasy. House after house he passed, his wellingtons sinking deep into the snow so that sometimes he was afraid that they would come off altogether and he would have to walk in his stocking soles. Once coming from somewhere out of the distant mounds of snow he heard a cock crowing cock-a-doodle-doo, and the strong notes pierced the calm day with absolute and regal clarity.

He was making his way slowly to the far end of the village and it was there he saw his first human being out in the snow. It was in fact Blinder who was kneeling down by the open door of a now totally white shed trying to get wood for his fire. He was called Blinder because he was blind, and this had happened as a result of two separate accidents. In the first one he had been playing with another boy at gouging out eyes and the other boy had, though not deliberately, gouged out his left eye. He had lost the second one when he had been out in a boat and an oar had gone into it. Nevertheless in spite of his blindness he had been known to climb on to the roof of his house and repair the aerial of the wireless, and was totally competent in the house where he lived alone.

“Hullo,” Iain shouted to him and Blinder turned to him, the sticks in his hands, and Iain could have sworn that he was seeing him, so direct was his gaze.

“Hullo Iain,” said Blinder, “it's a cold one.”

“It's a cold one right enough,” said Iain in his adult voice. It didn't occur to him to ask Blinder if he could help him with the sticks for he knew that Blinder wouldn't want that.

“Would you like to help me with the sticks?” said Blinder.

“All right,” said Iain, for it was all right if Blinder asked first.

“They're full of snow,” said Iain.

“You're right,” said Blinder, “it will take a long time for them to thaw out.”

They collected some sticks and then Blinder shut the shed door and locked it and they went into the house. Blinder laid the sticks by the fire to dry and Iain sat on the bench watching the merry light of the fire, and sometimes stretching out his hands in front of him to warm them.

“It's a great day though,” he said.

“Yes,” said Blinder. “I can feel it. It's very fresh.”

As Iain watched him he poured tea into a teapot and then said: “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“All right,” said Iain. “I'll take a cup.” And he took the cup from Blinder and they sat there drinking tea together. The house was very tidy and the bed had already been made, for it was in the kitchen, and Iain could see it quite clearly. He noticed that the clock wasn't working.

“Well, Iain,” said Blinder genially. “I haven't seen you for a long time. And what's your news?” His eyes turned towards Iain as if he were searching him for news, while he sat there just like anybody else with the cup of tea in his hand.

“I haven't any news,” said Iain. “I don't think anything is happening.” In spite of the fire his knees felt cold.

“That's right,” said Blinder who seemed to be pleased that nothing was happening. “Here, I'll show you something.” And he walked over to a basket which was lying in a corner of the room.

“I found a bird,” he said. “What bird is it?”

“I don't know,” said Iain.

Then he looked more closely and he thought it might be a redbreast.

“I think it is a redbreast,” he said.

“I thought it might be,” said Blinder.

The bird was lying on its side in the basket and Blinder took it very gently in his hand while its beak feebly pecked. The beady eye of the bird looked at Iain with a blurred fierceness and it twisted a little in Blinder's large gentle hand.

“I think its wing is broken,” said Blinder. “Can you see if it is?”

“I think it is,” said Iain, bending down to look more closely. “What are you going to do?”

“I've been giving it hot milk,” said Blinder, “and I've been trying to splint its wing. I hope it won't die.”

“I don't think so,” said Iain as the bird began to flutter its one good wing while its little breast beat spasmodically and it stared at Iain with its beady eye.

“I'll put it back,” said Blinder. “The warmth will help it.”

“Yes,” said Iain, “I'm sure it will.”

They sat in silence for a little while and then Blinder said, “Have you any idea what the time is?”

“I don't know,” said Iain, “it might be about eleven o'clock.”

“I bet that everything is white,” said Blinder. “I bet it's very white, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Iain, “it's very white and the snow is very deep and the sun is flashing off it. Only my wellingtons sink in it.” It occurred to him that he was finding it difficult to describe to Blinder what the snow was really like, the billowing mounds of it, the intense sparkle, the newness of it. These were things that you couldn't easily tell anyone.

“That would be right,” said Blinder putting his empty cup on the table. “I bet you it's white. I can feel it.”

“Can you see anything at all?” said Iain in a little burst of words, as if he were asking something that should not be asked, and he therefore felt nervous like the little bird whose heart had beaten so spasmodically in the basket.

“No,” said Blinder, “nothing at all. I can't see you at all. But I know your voice.”

“It must be funny to be blind,” said Iain. “I mean …”

“I can manage all right though,” said Blinder. “I know where you are though I can't see you. It's not all that funny. I can't explain it.”

“I bet you could find your way about the village better than me in the dark though,” said Iain.

“That's right,” said Blinder, “I could.”

“I might fall into a well if it was dark,” said Iain and he shuddered as he imagined himself falling and falling and shouting out of the dark water while the silence grew deeper and deeper around him.

“You could do that,” said Blinder. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Yes.” said Iain, “I wouldn't mind.”

And they went out into the white glare again, and they walked through the snow, sinking into it, while now and again Iain heard the same or a different cock crow, and the houses were white with snow and the roofs were covered with it. Even the sky seemed bluer and more dazzling than usual.

“Take my hand,” said Blinder, “if you like. I know what I'm doing. I know where the ditch is.”

“All right,” said Iain and he took Blinder's hand, feeling quite secure as he walked beside him through the deep waves of snow.

“Over there,” said Blinder, “is the quarry. I bet you can't see it, can you?”

“No,” said Iain, “I can't see it at all. It's just a big mound of snow.”

“I thought that,” said Blinder in a satisfied voice. “I thought you wouldn't be able to see it.”

Hand in hand they trudged on through the snow for what seemed to Iain to be ages, and then Blinder said, “The well is to your left. It's a few yards over there. But I'm sure it will be frozen over.”

“Is that where it is?” said Iain.

“Yes,” said Blinder, “it's over to your left. You keep over to this side with me.”

“Right then,” said Iain in his adult voice.

“We won't go near it,” said Blinder, “in case anything happens.” His blind empty eyes, unaffected by the sun, stared straight ahead of him.

After a while they were a good bit out of the village and Blinder stopped and said to Iain, “Now tell me what you can see.”

“I can see the houses,” said Iain, “and they are all covered with snow. Their roofs are covered with snow and even the doors have snow on them. I can see smoke rising from the chimneys. I can see birds on the telegraph wires. I can see the fences covered with snow. And that's all I can see.”

“Is that all?” said Blinder with the same note of satisfaction in his voice. “Is that all you can see?”

“Yes,” said Iain.

“Well then,” said Blinder, “I think we should go back,” and he started to hum under his breath as if he was happy. All the way back to his house he was humming while the two of them hand in hand swam through the snow which was practically up to their knees, and now and again Iain heard the cock crow and then a dog bark till another dog answered the first dog and then there was a whole lot of invisible dogs barking all over the village.

6

O
NE EVENING
I
AIN
went to see the Cook in order to ask him what the weather was going to be like the following day as he, his mother and Kenneth, were going to town, which they did only once a year because they had not much money. Nobody knew why he was called the Cook, though perhaps he might have been one in his youth when he was sailing the oceans on a merchant ship. He was an old man now, with a white beard and red cheeks, and he smoked a small stubby pipe.

He was sitting on a bench outside his house when Iain called on him, and taking his pipe out of his mouth, he said, “Hullo, Iain, where have you been for such a long time? I haven't seen you for weeks.”

“I wasn't doing anything,” said Iain. “Nothing particular.”

The Cook's teeth were yellow because of the tobacco he smoked and there was a smell from his clothes which Iain could never identify.

“I came to ask you,” said Iain, and then he stopped, for the Cook had begun to speak.

“You never come without asking for something,” he said. “Why don't you come and see me anyway?”

As Iain didn't have an answer to this he didn't say anything: but the answer that he might have given if he had been bold enough was that he didn't very much like talking to old people, for he didn't know what to say and a lot of the time he used to sit on a chair looking down at his feet and kicking them together while he could hear the clock ticking, and he couldn't think of any excuse for leaving. Anyway old people asked silly questions, and sometimes they would sit for hours without saying anything at all.

He began again. “I came to ask you if it is going to be a good day tomorrow.” The words came out with a rush and then he stopped abruptly.

“Aye aye,” said the Cook. “I know what you're going to do. You're going to town. All the boys who are going to town ask me about the weather. I know that. Well, then,” he said, pointing at the sky with his pipe, “do you see that? It's got straight clouds in it.” Iain looked at the sky and sure enough it was barred with clouds above the hill that would later turn purple, as it always did, in the evening.

“Is that a good sign then?” he said, wishing that the Cook would give him a definite answer so that he could get away.

“Well, in a way yes, and in another way no,” said the Cook. “Aren't you the lucky one to be going to town? When I was your age I never got to town at all. And anyway in those days they didn't have buses, they just had gigs and horses.” As it hadn't occurred to Iain that the Cook could ever have been young he waited politely for him to finish speaking, only wondering why old people couldn't answer yes or no to a simple question.

“That's right,” said the Cook, tapping the pipe on his knee, “we used to have gigs. And do you know how I spent my time when I was young? I used to help my father with the ploughing. And I used to fish. You're still in school, aren't you? Well I left school when I was twelve and I never went back. The only time I asked about the weather was when I used to fish. Ay, those were the days. And we used to have ceilidhs too. We used to go to people's houses and sing songs till late at night. That's how we spent the time.” And he paused as if he was seeing what he was talking about, and seemed to have forgotten the pipe which was now lying motionless in his wrinkled hand.

“I used to be like you once,” said the Cook. “Did you know that? I was your age once. You wouldn't think that now, would you, but I was exactly your age. In those days the sky was clearer and we never hardly had any storms or rain. We used to run barefoot on the moors and the hills and I once found a bird's nest: it was a skylark's nest and it had three speckled eggs in it, and they were warm. We were doing the peats at the time and I was coming home with my wheelbarrow full of peats when I saw the nest. I had very keen eyesight when I was young: I'm still not bad yet. People will tell you that we didn't have any enjoyments but they're wrong. The air was fresher in those days, Iain, and the sea was bluer. What do you do with yourself anyway?”

Iain saw the Cook's wife come out of the house and empty a basin of water into the grass. She was old and small and wrinkled and she smiled at him and then she went back into the house again carrying her basin. The Cook hadn't turned to look at her at all: perhaps he hadn't seen her.

“I go to school,” said Iain.

“School, eh? When I went to school the headmaster would belt us for the smallest thing. He belted me once because I didn't know my poetry. I can't remember now what the poetry was but he gave me six of the belt and he said, Perhaps that will teach you to remember. Eh eh? He was a small man with a red face and he was a very good headmaster. If I had gone home to my parents and told them that he had belted me they would have whipped me too, so I never said anything. He was a very respectable man, that headmaster, I can tell you that. But I didn't know then what I know now.” He paused, and there was a long silence. Iain was going to ask him again about the weather but he didn't dare do so till the Cook himself would remember to tell him.

“Another thing,” said the Cook, “we used to throw stones at each other. Did you do that? We used to line up, the boys from the two villages, and we used to throw stones. Big stones too. How they never killed anyone I don't know. We had teams, you know. But I don't suppose you do that now.”

“No,” said Iain.

“I thought not,” said the Cook, “I thought not. I thought you wouldn't do that. Take that corn now. It used to be yellower than that. Even the corn isn't as yellow as it was. And the grass isn't as green. I remember the day when the grass was as green as …” And the Cook paused as if he couldn't find a comparison for the greenness of the grass. “And we used to run about barefoot and the grass would be warm under your feet. People don't run about barefoot now, they've all got shoes, but are they any better for that, eh?” And he glared fiercely at Iain as if he were about to strike him.

“Eh?” he added again, shaking his pipe vigorously to shake the ash out.

“The weather,” said Iain at last, feebly.

“Eh?” said the Cook again, as if he were emerging out of a dream into which he had sunk. “Weather, eh? The weather was much better. Look at that sky. That sky isn't as bright as it used to be. Now, I'll tell you a funny thing about the weather. When you're as old as I am it's always cold but when you're young it's always warm. You remember that. Now take the sky, the sky is what you make it. Do you understand that? What is the sky? In the daytime you see the sun in the sky, isn't that right, and in the night time you see the moon. But who knows what the sky is like? Can your teachers tell you what the sky is? Tell me that. You tell me that. You ask them. They don't know either. Nobody knows what the sky is. Sometimes the sky is green and sometimes it's black. I'll tell you what the sky is. The sky is just a reflection, that's all it is. The sky above the sea is blue when the sea is blue and when the sea is grey the sky is grey. That's the sky for you. If you want to know about the sky you come to me. I know all about it. And I'll tell you something else, the more I see of the sky the more I get puzzled. When you see it's green, that's because the earth is green. And there are caves in the sky too, and there are roads. The sky is a country of its own. You can turn a corner in the sky though you might not think it. I've made a study of the sky. Sometimes it seems to know what you are thinking. Have you ever noticed that? I don't suppose you have. That's because you're not sitting here like me. But it can. Sometimes when you're happy the sky is happy and sometimes when you're sad the sky is sad, and sometimes when you've nothing to do the sky has nothing to do. That's the sky for you.”

As if he felt that he would never get away from the Cook if he didn't get an answer immediately, Iain rushed out the words, “What kind of day will it be tomorrow, sir?”

“Sir, eh,” said the Cook. “That will be what they're teaching you at school, eh. Sir, eh?” But he seemed pleased just the same. Then with a keen look at Iain that penetrated right through him, he said, smilingly, “I'll tell you, Iain, it will be a good day tomorrow. It will be a very good day. It will be hot and there will be no clouds. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” said Iain.

“Are you hearing me?” And his face came closer and closer so that Iain could see the red network of veins in his eyes. “It will be a good day tomorrow, boy. You remember that.”

Iain stood up. “Thank you, sir,” he said, and ran away as quickly as he could, only looking back once to see that the Cook was still sitting on his bench, the pipe back in his mouth, and staring straight ahead of him at the corn which was not so yellow as it once had been in the past.

Yet he was quite confident that the Cook would sort the sky out for him one way or another, for he was old enough to do that, and wise enough too.