Trawler (41 page)

“So Bryan,” I said, after ten or so unbelieving slurped mouthfuls of small-boy delight (and it’s a soup!), “how come you’re a trawlerman? Is that what you wanted—as a boy?”

Bryan, happy as he ate, I could see, would have been yet happier if, for this one half-hour, say, he’d been allowed to eat in peace. And I understood, of course I did, because I myself, when it comes to a meal you need, or something special: a small piece of a fillet of a hunted roe-deer that you’re now roasting in the entrance to the family cave, say—well, you want to take it off to a darkish safe corner, don’t you? You want to eat it, to enjoy it, mouthful by bolted mouthful,
in complete privacy,
like a dog.

Bryan, resigned to this questions-business, the tiresome Worzel-factor (and after all, I just
knew
he was thinking: it’s only for the one trip, the one landing—otherwise we would, we really would, we’d
have
to do something to stop it); Bryan said, in slow bursts, between huge, slow mouthfuls: “Aye, Orkney. I was brought up in Orkney, Stromness. And I’d set my sights, you might say, on the Merchant Navy. Aye! The big ships! The really big, the
beautiful
ships!” A long, a chewing, a contemplative pause, and then: “So I did my O levels in navigation and seamanship—you can do O levels like that, you know, in Orkney and Shetland.” He looked at his warm and welcoming, his friendly plate—and not once at me. “And I did well, because I enjoyed it, because it’s in the blood, and so I went to Captain Sutherland’s
great,
in my opinion, nautical school, Stromness.”

“And after that?”

Bryan took his time, so very calm, so at-ease-with-himself,
the only man on board who really was all-of-a-piece, right through, and besides, there was half a chop to go, and still warm. And the clapshot, too, of course, the mashed turnip and potato and lashings of butter and a little salt and pepper, but that wasn’t so important, not at all… And he said: “Why the fuck don’t you eat your soup?”

So I did.

And when I’d finished (how did something so comparatively simple, you know,
food—
how did
that
make one feel such a different person? So happy and so confident all of a sudden?) I said: “And after that?”

“After that?” he said, well settled. “After that—I discovered that the British Merchant Navy, the fleet that no long ago was the best and the biggest, by far, in the whole fucking world, and that’s a fact—guess what? It had ceased to exist! That’s what!
There were no jobs!
So I went to the creels, the lobster-pots, the crab-pots, and I have to say I loved that—but it’s no much of a job for a young man who wants to be away to sea, to the deep sea, is it? So I took a chance, Redmond, and I joined a trawler—and my mother never forgave me, that’s what I suspect, because it’s no like the Merchant Navy. No. Not at all. She’s right. Because it’s fucking dangerous and crazy for half the year—and for the whole year it’s no secure and you don’t get a salary and you have to take your chance—but you know what? I’m happy with it!”

“You
are?
Because you’ll be a skipper one day?”

“Fuck no,
Worzel! And
sorry,
but how would
you
say that politely? Eh?
Absolutely not.
Yes that’s it: absolutely not,
old bean.”
Big Bryan’s red-tired eyes went bright, and twinkly Yes, I could see, he liked that, the
old bean…

“To be a skipper? No—hell on earth, that’s what
that is.
And if you don’t believe in eternal life—aye, and most skippers
do—
but I don’t, really don’t: then why spend your one chance of life here, at sea,
and on earth ashore
(because you’ll no forget your debts, even ashore): why spend the one chance of life you’ve got
in hell?
Why? No
—never
be a skipper. That’s what I think.
Let someone else worry.”

“So what do you mean
-you’re happy with it?”

“Worzel—I thought you were supposed to be a writer, you know, someone who
thinks
about these things, the stuff the rest of us don’t have time for,
emotions,
all that, guts and offal really, isn’t it? But I agree, and Jason says so too—you’re a dead man without your own guts and offal… Yes, that’s what we said to each other about you, and don’t get me wrong, because Jason and I and Robbie—we’re pleased you’re aboard, we really are, though one of the boys isn’t, really not, but Jason said, in the galley, right here, only a few days out, when you were still throwing up and before we knew that you’d actually join in, and try and
help,
when we all assumed you’d just stay in your bunk or simply ponce about with a notebook or whatever and
observe
us, like in a fucking zoo, Jason says, ‘Boys!’ he says. ‘Look at it like this, Luke’s a prize, a worker, the best you’ll see, and boys—we have him for nothing and he guts as fast as any of you and, compared to him, you’re
fucking ignorant peasants,
aren’t you? When it comes to fish—and,
fact
is, we’re all supposed to know about fish—that Luke knows the lot! But Redmond, yes, he’s old and for now he’s sick, but he’s paying us £50 a day and he
doesn’t have to do that,
so he knows he’s no good, and that’s something to respect in a man, and besides—he’s official, he’s an Honorary Member of our Marine Lab in Aberdeen and he’s Luke’s assistant, so if he gets drowned or injured, as he surely will, that’s not our problem,
we’re not liable,
no, that’s for his boss, that’s for the lab in Aberdeen!’ And then Jason says—and I can’t remember if Luke’s there or no, but aye, he
can’t’ve
been—Jason says, ‘Besides, boys!’ he says. ‘Whatever the fuck, that’s what, to have a Redmond aboard, I’ve never heard of it happening to any other skipper, ever. So just enjoy it while it lasts, whatever he does, because you’ll never go to sea again with anything as weird as this—I can promise you!’

And Allan says: ‘Thank God for that!’ And we all laugh. And Jason says: ‘Besides, he’s not
normal,
is he? Because he’s
already
been banned from every bar and hotel in Stromness!’ And Allan says: ‘Thank God for that!’ And then we
really
laugh—even Dougie laughs!

“And in fact, Redmond, I can tell you, I’m thirty-three, and
I’ve been at sea a
very
long time, and I can tell you, as honest as I sit here, with you aboard, not one of us—and even old Dougie got talking—not one of us, no,
we’ve never had such laughs!”

“Oh yes?” I said,
very
huffy.

“Aye! But Allan—you shouldna let him upset you, because he doesna mean it… And he has problems of his own, you know, and I really like him, and he said,
‘Thank God for that!’”
(And Bryan laughed again: Boom! Boom!)

“Yeah—you just told me!”

“So look at it this way—he must like you, or he’d no have given you a nickname, aye!
Worzel!
Just right! Because you’ll no be giving nicknames to people you don’t think about—and if you don’t believe me, consider this: in Orkney we call the Shetlanders
Shelties.
But what do the Shetlanders call us? Answer: they
don’t,
because we’re to the south of them so they’ll no be giving us a thought!”

“So what did you mean? Happy? You said you were
happy
with life on a trawler …”

“Happy?” said Bryan, and he laughed, a kindly run-of-the-mill laugh, not a caught-out helpless boom like a bittern in a marsh. “Happy? Can’t you see? Of course I’m happy! Because that’s what I was
saying.
You a writer who knows about these things—emotions—or a dumbo, or what? I’m happy because
I have a woman at home that I love and trust.
I have three children, two of hers, a gift to me, as it were, and one of ours—and I love her, and I like to think that she loves me, but Redmond,
Mister Writer-Man,
I’ll tell you for nothing: you take that love for granted, and you,
as a whole man,
you’re finished! And that’s a fact! Because you’ll get divorced—and after that, Worzel, all your memories, the places in your mind where you used to go, when the weather comes, you understand me, the places that you used to visit to get away and get happy, those safe
places—and they never fail you,
because they’re only there in your own mind—well, you get divorced, and I’ve talked to lots of my mates, friends, colleagues, whatever you’d say, you know, trawlermen who
had
to get divorced, because she’d deceived them when they were at the fishing, and that’s right, you
think you’re OK, you’ll tough it out, and like as not you have this
new
young woman, so sexy—but guess what? Next time, next year, January, like this,
when the weather comes—
you find yourself trying to get back to those places, those memories that made you happy, but you can’t! You can’t get there! No! That’s what they say! And myself—I can imagine it—the
worst
thing in a man’s life, really: because what could be worse than that? You drown? Simple. You get cancer? Sure. But this
—at least half of it:
you
must
have done it to yourself! And aye, you’re away at the fishing, and you’re on your own out here really, and no one cares back home, apart from your new young wife (and who knows what
she’s
up to?)—aye, so you go where you always used to go to get your comfort and be a man, to your happiest memories, and—guess what? You can’t get there! Not at all! There’s a black knot that you can’t untie, no one could. Because, how can I put it to you, Worzel, an old man who knows sod all? I know! Aye! Of course! Aye—it’s like the trawl-doors, the otter-boards (what did Robbie say you called them? Search me. I’ve forgotten—and anyway, it wasn’t
funny,
not like the car tyres, the rock-hoppers …); it’s like they’re crossed, they’re locked,
they’ve been flipped right across and over each other by the cold deep-sea,
the currents up here that flow so fast and cold beneath the warm surface North Atlantic drift that keeps us all alive! So—your old love, it’s gone cold, and your memories have frozen under pressure, with it, and you,
you’ll never get them back:
they’re miles down, and cold and gone, but you, Worzel, of course, you’re doing your best, but from that moment, really, you know yourself, you’re half-a-man, you’re waiting, that’s all,
you’re waiting for death.”

“You hadn’t told me about your wife,” I said, glum, not sure if he had or not. “You never told me!”

“Of course I did!” said Bryan, bouncy. “But don’t you worry, Worzel. It’s obvious—you’ve got this thing called Alzheimer’s. It happens to everyone over fifty! But don’t you worry, old Worzel, because that’s great, that is, it means you can ask any old person a question, and it’s private, it really
is
confidential, because you can be as sure as the Merry Dancers, the Northern Lights, you can
be sure that the ancient in question won’t remember a damn thing of the question in the morning… And nowadays, of course, on Orkney, things are different, there’s food and healthcare and such, so we have quite a few old people like you, and we all agree, in the Flattie and the Royal and the bars like—you need to catch them, you must hook them (if you want the
real
truth that they’ll forget in forty-eight hours) just as Alzheimer’s is
beginning
like with you: because if you wait too long, and their memory’s now down from forty-eight hours to twenty-four to eight to half an hour, to half a minute, you’ve had it! You might just as well go ask your question late at night of an incoming mermaid on the shore, or one of the little people, like Robbie, squatting on a burial mound—or the other Robbie, Robbie Mowat, beaten to bits, because I was no there to protect him, lying on the cobbles outside the Royal Hotel!”

“So you’re happy—because you’re in love? But,
far more important,
you’re happy because you somehow know that
she’s in love with you?”

“Aye! I told you! And hey, Worzel—there’s this thing called the
Mission to Seamen:
and they
must
run Old People’s Homes, and now you’ve been on the
Norlantean,
K508
(remember your registration number),
I’ll bet you’d qualify!”

“Thanks,” I said, glummer still.

“But Redmond, there
is
something I’d like to ask you, to talk to you about…” And Bryan’s voice lost its volume, it deserted its big hold on life so drastically, in fact, that it became almost a whisper, or as much of a whisper as a voice like that could reach: “Redmond, joking apart, I do have one worry…”

And in order to catch the words I edged myself surreptitiously along the bench-seat, to my right, across Luke’s habitual place, to its end, at the narrow passage-way down the galley, between the tables—and to cross
that,
the crudest common-sense told me, would be to stop Bryan talking altogether, to disrupt the pathways in his brain, to send him, obscurely outraged, to his bunk.

“You do?”

“Aye—it’s simple, but it’s difficult to deal with, to know what to do—it’s this: I
really
love my wife, you know, I
adore
her, or whatever the right word would be, she keeps me going when I’m away at sea,
the thought of her,
all of her, you know what I mean, it fills my head,
so I can do any job: any
boring old job that goes on for ever, like stacking in the hold, well, that’s simple, I just take it slow, and I remember every detail, every moment of our life together, all the private moments, and don’t get me wrong—don’t be a male jerk—I don’t just mean the sex, though that’s
great,
no, it’s odd, isn’t it? It’s not the memories of sex that keep me going, no, I find all that
difficult
to remember, as it happens, so maybe I’m not normal, perhaps there’s something wrong with me? And maybe, you, you know, as a wise old man, maybe you’d do me the kindness of
telling
me, if you think that that’s the case …”

Stupefied, unprepared, out of my depth (Big Bryan
—he was talking so quietly),
I couldn’t think of a thing to say, not for the moment, and the truth is, well, I wanted to
cry …
But you must
not
do that, and besides, my mother used to beat me, with the flat of her hairbrush, every time I did …