Peter May - The Blackhouse

Looking back, I’m amazed my aunt told me any such thing, given her feelings about God and religion. I suppose she thought that maybe it was the best way of breaking it to me gently. But there is no way that the death of your parents can be broken to you gently.

I was in shock. All that day the house seemed full of people. My aunt, some distant cousins, neighbours, friends of my parents. A succession of faces fretting and fussing over me. It is the only time I ever heard any explanation of what happened. My aunt never spoke to me about it once in all the years I lived with her. Someone said — I have no idea who, just a voice in a crowded room — that a sheep had jumped up from the ditch, and that my father had swerved to avoid it. ‘By that shieling on the Barvas moor, you know, the one with the green roof.’ Voices were lowered, and in a hush of whispers I could barely make out, I heard someone else say, ‘Apparently the car turned over half a dozen times before it caught fire.’ There was a gasp, and another voice said, ‘Oh, my God, what a way to die!’

I think sometimes there are folk who take an unhealthy interest in death.

I spent a lot of time alone in my room, barely aware of the comings and goings downstairs, cars drawing up at the path and then driving off again. I had heard people time and again saying how brave I was, and my aunt telling them how I hadn’t spilled a single tear. But I know now that tears are a kind of acceptance. And I was not ready for that yet.

I sat on the edge of my bed, numbness insulating me from the cold, and looked around the room at all the familiar things that filled it. The panda that shared my bed, a snow globe with a santa and reindeer that I had got in my stocking the previous Christmas. A big box of toys dating back to the days when I could barely crawl, coloured plastic shapes and disconnected pieces of Lego. My Scotland football shirt with Kenny Dalglish and the number 7 on the back. The football my father had bought me in the sports shop in Stornoway one Saturday afternoon. A rack full of board games. Two shelves laden with children’s books. They might not have had much money, my mother and father, but they had made sure that I never wanted for anything. Until now. And the one thing I wanted most they couldn’t give me.

It occurred to me, sitting there, that one day I would die too. It was not something I had ever thought about before, and it nudged up against my grief for space in my little locker of horrors. But you can’t dwell on the thought of your own death for long, and very soon I had banished it altogether by deciding that since I was only eight it was a very long way off, and I would deal with it only when I had to.

And still I couldn’t cry.

The day of the funeral, the weather was like a reflection of the anger and despair with which I had not yet come to terms. Rain tipped down, verging on sleet. December gales blew it in off the sea, under our umbrellas and into our faces. Stinging and cold.

I remember only black and grey. There was a long, sanctimonious service in the church, and I am haunted still by the sound of the Gaelic psalm-singing, those plain, unaccompanied voices such a potent evocation of my grief. And afterwards, outside the house, with the coffins placed side by side on the backs of chairs set in the middle of the road, more than a hundred people gathered in the rain. Black ties and coats and hats. Black umbrellas fighting with the wind. Pale, sad faces.

I was too small to help carry a coffin, and so I took my place at the head of the procession immediately behind it, Artair at my side. I could hear his distress in the phlegm that crackled when he breathed. And was unaccountably moved when his cold, wee hand slipped into mine and squeezed, a silent expression of friendship and sympathy. I clung on to it tightly for all the length of that walk to the cemetery.

Only men are allowed to accompany the dead to their place of burial on the Isle of Lewis, and so the women lined the road to watch us go as we left the house. I saw Marsaili’s mum, her face a picture of misery, and I remembered how she had smelled of roses that first day when I had gone to the farm. Marsaili stood beside her, clinging to her coat, black ribbons in the bunches of her hair. I noticed that she wasn’t wearing her glasses that day. She reached out to me in the rain with her soft blue eyes, and I saw such pain in them that I had to look away.

That was when the tears came, hidden by the rain. The first time I cried for my parents. And I suppose it was then that I accepted that they really were gone.

I had not thought beyond the funeral, or even wondered what would happen next. If I had, I doubt if I could ever have imagined how brutally my life would change.

Barely had the last person left the house, than my aunt took me upstairs to pack a suitcase. All my clothes were stuffed unceremoniously inside it. I was permitted a small bag to carry a selection of toys and books. We would come back another time, she said, and go through what was left. I didn’t really understand that this was no longer to be my home, and as it happened we never did come back for the rest of my things. I have no idea what happened to them.

I was hustled out to my aunt’s car which was standing in the road, engine running, wipers scraping the rain from the windscreen. It was warm inside, but smelled damp, and the windows were all misted. I never even thought to look back as we drove away up the hill.

I had been in my aunt’s house before, and always thought it a cold, miserable place, for all the colourful pots of plastic flowers and fabrics she draped around. There was a chill damp in that house that got into your bones after a while. There had been no fire on all day, and so it seemed even more wretched than usual when she pushed open the door to let us in. The naked bulb in the hall was harsh and bright as we struggled up the stairs with the bag and the case.

‘Here we are,’ she said, opening the door to an attic room at the end of the hall, sloping ceilings, damp-stained wallpaper, condensation on rusted windows. ‘This is your room.’ There was a single bed pushed against one wall, draped with a pink candlewick bedspread. A wartime utility wardrobe stood with its doors open, empty hangers and bare shelves awaiting the contents of my case. She hefted the suitcase on to the bed. ‘There you are.’ She threw open the lid. ‘I’ll leave you to put away your things in the wardrobe the way you like. It’ll just be kippers for tea, I’m afraid.’

She was almost out the door when I said, ‘When will I be going home again?’

She stopped and looked at me. And although there was pity in her eyes, I’m sure there was a degree of impatience there, too. ‘This is your home now, Fin. I’ll call you when tea’s ready.’

She closed the door behind her, and I stood in the cold, cheerless room that was now mine. My sense of desolation was very nearly overwhelming. I found my panda in the bag of toys and sat on the edge of the bed, clutching him to my chest, feeling the damp of the mattress coming through my trousers. And I realized for the first time that day, that my life had changed inexorably and for ever.

The car rumbled over the cattle grid and into the car park. Fin parked it at the foot of the steps to the manse. All light had been squeezed out of the late afternoon sky by those ominous clouds which had been gathering earlier over the ocean. Now they were rolling in from the north-west, contused and threatening, and casting a deep gloom over the north end of the island. There were lights on in the front room of the minister’s house, and as he climbed the steps, Fin felt the first spits of rain.

He rang the bell and stood on the doorstep, wind tugging at his jacket and trousers. The door was opened by a young woman in her mid-thirties. She was a head shorter than Fin, with cropped dark hair, a white T-shirt tucked loosely into khaki cargo pants and white trainers. Somehow she was not what he had expected of Donald Murray’s wife. And she was oddly familiar. He looked at her blankly, and she tilted her head.