Peter May - The Chessmen

A sense of dread was already growing in me. God knows what Whistler was feeling. I glanced in the mirror and saw him sitting uncomfortably in his new clothes, but his face gave nothing away.

To my enormous relief, there was no sign of Whistler’s dad when we arrived at the croft. My aunt banged her car door shut and confidently pushed open the door of the blackhouse.

‘Hello?’ she called out, to be greeted by silence.

Whistler and I followed her in and stood wordlessly watching as she cast an appraising eye about the place. Her nose wrinkled with disgust.

‘Show me where you sleep,’ she said, and Whistler led her into the tiny room at the back that was his bedroom. It smelled rank in here, his bed unmade, sheets sweat-stained and dirty. She went through the wardrobe, and a chest of drawers, finding little more than a pair of jeans with the knees out of them, and a couple of ragged old jumpers. There was a pair of mud-caked wellies, and a drawer with two or three pairs of threadbare socks and some underpants. Like the ones she had thrown away, the elastic was rotten. ‘Where are the rest of your clothes?’ she demanded.

He shrugged. ‘In the laundry.’

‘And who does your laundry?’

‘I take it with me to Stornoway during the week.’ It was the first time I had realized the importance of the student lodgings to Whistler. It was the one place he could keep himself clean, where he could shower and do his laundry. I glanced at my aunt and saw a look that I knew well. A contained rage. She turned and marched back out to the living room. There was an old refrigerator next to a sink filled with unwashed dishes. She threw it open and stood looking inside. The interior bulb was long gone. ‘Turn on the lights,’ she instructed, and Whistler obeyed without a word. She peered into the dark interior of the fridge. ‘There’s nothing but beer in here. Where’s the food?’

Whistler shrugged and opened a wall cupboard on the other side of the sink. There was some chipped and broken crockery, a half-empty bag of sugar gone solid from the damp. Teabags. A jar of instant coffee. A jar of jam which she opened to find mould growing inside. On a worktop below it, there was a bread tin with half a loaf of stale bread inside it. I could see the horror on my aunt’s face.

‘What do you eat?’

Whistler blew air through loosely pursed lips. ‘Fish, mostly. At the weekends. Whatever I can catch.’ He glanced at me, and I felt his embarrassment for him. ‘But I do most of my eating during the week.’ And I remembered how he had devoured my aunt’s late breakfast that morning as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, and maybe he hadn’t. It had never occurred to me that the only place he got a square meal was at school. It was a miracle he was growing at the rate he was.

‘What the fuck’s going on here?’

We all turned at the roar of Whistler’s dad’s voice. Mr Macaskill’s big frame seemed to fill the room, casting its shadow across us.

‘You will not use language like that in the presence of the children!’ My aunt’s voice scythed through the fetid air of the Macaskill blackhouse and reduced the big man by several inches. He looked confused. It was the first time in a long time that either of us had been called children, and I doubted if any woman had ever spoken to Mr Macaskill like that in his life.

‘Who the hell are you?’

She took several steps towards him, and Whistler and I moved aside to let her past. The difference between them was almost comical. This tiny lady confronting a giant of almost biblical proportions. David and Goliath. But there was no question of who was the more dominant. ‘You filthy brute of a man!’ Her voice was shrill and intense and filled with fury. ‘You send your child out into the world hungry and dressed in rags, while you drink your life away. Maybe it’s a worthless life anyway. And maybe you don’t care about it.’ She flung out a clenched fist, finger pointed at Whistler. ‘But here’s a young life that’s worth something. A young life that needs nurtured and fed. Not neglected and abused.’

She spun around and returned to the fridge, throwing open the door and reaching inside to scoop all those cans of beer into the crook of her arm and sweep them out and on to the floor. The noise of it was startling, and we all three of us looked at her in amazement.

‘Next time I come, I want to see this fridge filled with food, not alcohol. And I want to see clothes in the drawers of that boy’s room, and clean sheets on his bed. And if you are not capable of doing that, Mr Macaskill, then I will make it my personal crusade to have this young man removed from your care, and whatever benefits you scrounge from the state taken from you as well.’ Her face was flushed now, and she was breathing hard. ‘Is that clear?’ And when the dumbstruck Mr Macaskill failed to respond she raised her voice in pitch. ‘Is that clear?’

The big man blinked, cowed and subdued, in just the way I had seen Mairead dominate Whistler. ‘Aye.’

‘Call yourself a father? You should be ashamed of yourself.’

Whistler’s dad glanced at his son, and I was astonished to see that there was, in fact, shame in his face, as if perhaps he had always known what a lousy father he was. But it had taken my aunt to make him see it.

‘Come on,’ she said suddenly. ‘Coats off, all of you.’ and she took off her own. ‘We’re going to make this place habitable.’

We spent the rest of that Saturday afternoon cleaning the house from top to bottom. There was no washing machine, but once the big Belfast sink had been cleaned, my aunt stripped the beds and hand-washed the sheets. They dried in no time on the line she got Mr Macaskill to put up outside.

Mountains of rubbish accumulated against the exterior wall as she went ruthlessly around the house selecting stuff for the bin. Boxes of full and empty cans of beer, piles of bottles. Filthy clothes and sheets. Broken and cracked crockery. The detritus of lives neglected and in decline. And as Mr Macaskill washed the floorboards with an old brush, like scrubbing the deck of a boat, Whistler and I set about cleaning years of grime from the windows. My aunt sat at the table and wrote out a shopping list.

When she had finished she thrust it at Whistler’s dad. ‘Priority stuff,’ she said. ‘Food, clothes, bed linen. You don’t look after that lad of yours, trust me, your life won’t be worth the living of. And I’ll be back to make sure of it.’

He took it from her and nodded.

When we left that day, I was full of trepidation for my friend, and I could see, too, that he was afraid of being alone with his father. He never talked in detail to me about what happened when we’d gone, except to say that they had sat for a long time in silence that night, his father sober for the first time he could remember. And that finally, unbidden, Mr Macaskill had looked at his boy and said, ‘I’m sorry, son.’

After that weekend my aunt encouraged me to spend as much time there as possible. I don’t think she needed me to be her eyes and ears, because I am almost certain she made frequent trips down to Uig herself during the week when we were at school, but I guess she wanted me to be around as a constant reminder to Mr Macaskill that an eye was being kept on him. And that is how I came to be there the weekend we decided to go fishing up at Loch Tathabhal.

It was early in April that year, and there had been an uncommon amount of rain, even for the west coast of Lewis. A slow-moving front which had been picking up moisture over three thousand miles of Atlantic Ocean had settled itself over the island and was shedding its accumulated cargo in copious amounts. It was mild, though, with soft warm winds blowing up from the south-west. Excellent early-season fishing weather. There were lots of young brown trout up in the lochs, that would be delicious slow-roasted in tinfoil over the glowing embers of a peat fire, and Whistler and I were determined to bag a few.