Graeme Burnet - His Bloody Project

‘Now, Roddy,’ she said, ‘You know very well that you were talking to someone and you know very well that I know you were talking to someone.’

‘Then you must know to whom I was talking,’ I said.

‘But I would like you to tell me.’

I glanced towards the door of the house, and then said quietly, ‘To Flora Broad.’

‘Flora Broad!’ exclaimed Jetta as if this came as a great revelation to her. ‘Pretty little Flora Broad!’

I shushed her. ‘Father will hear you,’ I said.

‘So now you are running after Flora Broad,’ she continued. ‘Is Jetta not enough for you any longer?’

‘I am not running after her,’ I said.

‘But you must have noticed what a pretty thing she is and how nicely she now fills out her dresses.’

‘I have noticed no such thing,’ I said, my cheeks reddening for the second time.

Jetta laughed. I was glad of it, for she had not been much given to laughter these recent months. Then her face darkened in the way that it always did when she had an augury of some ill fortune.

‘Poor Roddy,’ she said, ‘I know you do not mean any harm, but I am obliged to tell you that no good will come of this and you must stay away from Flora Broad.’

I cast my eyes downwards, dismayed that she had so swiftly chosen to alter the mood between us. I did not doubt that her advice was based on some intimation from the Other World, but I could do nothing to alter the course of what was to occur, and nor at that point did I wish to.

* * *

Some days later, my father and I rose early to catch the low tide. It was a damp, still morning. The reek from the houses clung to the ground like a shroud. Dew lay thick on the broken ground of the croft. It was our intention that morning to gather the sea-ware which, along with the winter’s dung from the livestock, would nourish our crops. We made our way to the waterline, frequently slipping on the slimy rocks. My father was stiff with rheumatics, so it fell to me to cut the sea-ware from rocks and I set about this task. It was arduous work. The blade of my croman was blunt and each fistful of sea-ware I hacked from the rocks required considerable effort. My father leaned on his pitchfork, watching me work, passing frequent comments about how I should alter my grip on my tool or straighten my back while I worked. I made no response to his advice. After I had gathered a sizeable pile, Father began the task of shifting it above the high-tide line. He lost half of his cargo from the tines of his fork on each journey but did not trouble to stop and retrieve it. On more than one occasion, he completely lost his footing, sending the entire forkful flying into the air and himself into a bony heap on the rocks. Despite the waste of our labours, I could not help laughing when this occurred. My father resembled an upturned crab, limbs struggling uselessly in the air, until he managed to right himself.

Nevertheless, as the morning wore on we found some kind of rhythm. As the tide turned I worked continually further up the shore, so that my father’s journeys became ever shorter. Father even set to singing a little to himself. It was a weird kind of singing, more spoken than musical and comprehensible to no one but himself, but it was a singing all the same, and I was glad to hear it. By midday, we had gathered a pile four feet high, enough to cover half of our land. From there it could be transported to the croft by hurlie, a straightforward task. Father sat down on a rock next to our heap and took his pipe from the jacket of his pocket and lit it. This I took to signify the end of our morning’s work. We sat in silence for some minutes, feeling some communal satisfaction in what we had achieved. Father then instructed me to go to the house and bring some milk and bannocks.

As I made my way back down the rig I saw the figures of Lachlan Broad and his brother walking along the road towards where my father was sitting. They stopped and bid my father good day to which he made no response, or at least I did not hear him do so. He had his back to me and I could see a thin wisp of smoke rise from his pipe. As there was no wind, it lingered around his cap as the reek had earlier hung around the houses. I feared that Lachlan Broad was going to make a complaint about my association with his daughter, and hastened towards them as if this would deter him. I handed my father his cup of milk.

‘I see you are gathering the sea-ware,’ Lachlan Broad was saying.

My father did not say anything.

‘For what purpose, may I enquire?’

‘Now, for what purpose would I be gathering sea-ware?’ my father responded. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead towards the bay. A seal put his head above the water and observed the scene for a few moments before silently arcing back under the surface.

Lachlan Broad made a gesture with his hand that seemed to suggest that there might be many reasons one might gather sea-ware. He waited some time before continuing.

‘Are you not going to answer my question?’

‘I know of only one reason for gathering sea-ware,’ my father replied. ‘As such, I see no purpose in answering your question.’

The constable turned to his brother with an air of bewilderment, as if he could not understand why my father was behaving so obstructively. Aeneas Mackenzie bleated like a sheep.

‘Since you oblige me to guess,’ he continued, ‘can I assume that you are gathering the sea-ware for the purpose of spreading it on your land?’

‘You are very astute, Constable,’ said my father, with a special emphasis on this last word.

Lachlan Broad now pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as if this answer troubled him.

‘You are aware, are you not,’ he said, ‘that the fruits of the shore, including its sea-ware, are the property of the laird?’

My father took his pipe from his mouth, but did not say anything. Lachlan Broad pressed his point.

‘Are you aware of this, Mr Macrae?’

My father took up his milk and drank it at one draught. The cream formed a yellow caterpillar on his moustaches which remained there for the remainder of the conversation.

‘And what would the laird want with a few forkfuls of sea-ware?’ he said. He kept his gaze all the time directed at the horizon.

Lachlan Broad shook his head, as if my father had misunderstood him, or rather as if the fault was his own for not making clear his meaning.

‘It is not that the laird might have use for the sea-ware, my point is merely that the sea-ware is the property of the laird.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’m sure I do not need to instruct a devout man like yourself that it is not for one man to be taking what belongs to another.’

Father’s eyes darted towards him.

‘As you well know, Lachlan Broad, the people have always taken sea-ware for their land, yourself and your father included.’

‘That is quite true, but it is only through the beneficence of the laird that we have done so. It is quite contrary to the terms of your tenancy to make use of the fruits of the land or shore without first having sought permission to do so.’

My father stood up from the rock he had been sitting on and took a step towards Broad.

‘Can I assume no such permission has been sought?’ asked the constable.

My father was a good six inches shorter than Broad, but he thrust his chin towards his face in a forceful fashion. His chest was only inches from Broad’s. Aeneas Mackenzie took a step closer to his brother’s shoulder and emitted a stupid snigger. I had no doubt that he would gladly lay my father on the rocks if he made any further advance.

Lachlan Broad appearing quite unperturbed by the proximity of my father.

‘Mr Macrae,’ he said, ‘when I became constable to these villages, I stated that observance of the regulations which govern our existence had fallen into a neglect which shamed us all. And since, if memory serves, you did not oppose my election, I must assume you are of the same opinion.’