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To the young lad from the country, summer holidays spent with his grandparents in Portknockie were adventures in another world. Just about the time he became aware of the heartbreak involved in adopting baby wild rabbits he realised that crabs and starfish, although smuggled home in a big jar of seawater, would not survive in a fresh water environment. His lasting impressions were of the generosity of his seaside relatives and their fondness for wearing black. Although he delighted in the visits, even as a child he was acutely aware that compared with his home environment, an overwhelming mood of sorrow pervaded the fishing village, most noticeable on Sundays when the entire population appeared to attend Kirk or the Plymouth Brethren Meeting Hall. David, given his father's daily lectures on the wages of sin, honouring of father and mother, and insistence that children should be seen and not heard, was no stranger to the Bible. But having led a restrained and practically sin-free life, in his late teens he found himself rebelling against what he felt were unwarranted reprimands fettering his natural instincts. Why, he argued, carry a burden of guilt for just thinking about things others regarded as normal human behaviour? He left home in his late teens and found work in Glasgow. A further five years passed before he became sufficiently self-confident to renew his association with his parents and Portknockie. The city life had been a revelation to him forcing him to adopt tolerance and compassion in place of his inherent instincts to moralise and condemn. He felt at one with the easy-going Glaswegians and their disarming sense of humour. Sampling previously forbidden fruits he wondered why such natural pleasures should be denied. Was it really God's will? Or had churches like his that supplied kneeling pads graded in thickness according to social status lost touch with the real message of Christ? Homesickness is a powerful force and distance colours and deceives the memory. In her letters his mother pleaded with him to come home and after a particularly stifling romantic liaison he agreed to give it a try. His father and mother now occupied the old bow-windowed house in place of his late grandparents and he wondered whether the estrangement had mellowed his father's attitude towards him. The peaceful fishing village was as he remembered it; the almost empty streets, the harbour where he fished for flatfish with a taymet and spent an eternity throwing back unwanted geeks or disentangling the hook from greedy conger eels. The ebbing tide at the nearby creek left the same rock pools, smaller now it seemed, but with the familiar mixture of miniature sea life, which never failed to fascinate him. He even located the hidden underwater rock crevices where his granddad used a cleek to land large pink crabs he called partans. Further along the coast he sat at the top of the cliffs overlooking the excrement-whitewashed Bow Fiddle rock as noisy fulmars and terns screeched while diving cormorants fished the easy way. They brought to mind childhood sightings of Gannets, Guillemots and Kittywakes and the realisation that the unspoiled beauty of the place and his affinity for it had influenced his decision to return. He found the first sign of human life on a bench near the coastguard hut. "Watching the ships?" he asked. He had been sitting next to the middle-aged man for all of five minutes and although unperturbed by the silence, his curiosity and friendly nature prompted the question. "No." David frowned. "Sorry, I didna mean to interrupt your…" The man turned to face him revealing a slightly chubby weather-beaten face and alert, searching eyes. "It's a peaceful place t' think. I d' a lot o' thinkin' these days…" "I used to come here when I was a wee loon. Stayed wi' my grannie and granddad in Gordon Street." "Let me think noo… you'll be the young Findlay lad?" "Aye, that's right, but I canna remember…" "No, I dinna s'pose, but there's nae secrets in Portkockie y' ken. I'm a 'Knocker' born and bred but I've been bidin' in Cullen since Elsie and me wed. Lately I've taken t' walkin' here every Sunday afore I get ready for the boat. I'd buy y' a drink at the Vic but you'd get a reputation you'd never live doon." He managed a weak, reluctant smile as he trampled out his cigarette, "I'll toast your health at Jenny's Well on the way back instead, how's that? We sail oot o' Buckie at midnight." "You must miss Portknockie a lot t' walk so far…" "No, I just miss my wee lassie since they took her here." His eyes misted over and he turned to look out to sea again. "Aye, well, I'd better be off…" His companion turned towards him and stood up, taller and stockier than he had previously appeared. "I'm sorry Davy, it is Davy, isn't it? My name's George… George Kyle. I enjoyed oor wee chat. Tell me lad, are y' religious?" "I used to be, but I'm nae sae sure these days…" George grinned. "Well, best to keep an open mind son; steer clear o' the bigots if y' can. I'll be seein' y', nae doubt." "Well, aye." David shook George's outstretched hand warmly. "Aye, I hope so."
David was never keen on mixing butter and jam but this was Binview Farm at harvest time when appetites were sharpened by heavy toil. Hepburn's daughter Isobel brought the sandwiches to the corn yard and a giant kettle of tea was carried by an attractive, fair-haired lass she introduced as Nancy. "Me and Nance were best pals at Portknockie School but we lost touch since I've been at college. She's a hairdresser in Buckie, y' ken." The workers nodded and mumbled a greeting while Isobel prattled on, as was her way. Nancy blushed a little as her pal added, apologetically it seemed, "Aye, but she's since joined the Brethren." David, deep in thought as he watched them depart, finished his tea and reached for his pitchfork. But instead of following the others he rushed after the girls. When they turned he seemed lost for words. "Em… I was just wondering if they cut men's hair as well in your shop, Nancy…" "Och aye," came the answer immediately. Nancy was blushing again but smiling broadly. "We're nae fussy y' ken." "Good God Davy," Isobel cut in, "y' dinna waste time, I'll grant y' that."
He found the shop on Buckie's Cluny Square on Saturday morning but didn't count on it being mobbed by women so it was a while before he was attended to. "Dinna be a bairn noo, I'll nae hurt ye," Nancy said as David flinched from the touch of the cold metal on his neck. It was his turn to go red in the face, the only male in an all female establishment. "Force o' habit," he replied. "My father cut my hair when I was a 'loon. He might as well've been sheering sheep." He warmed to the jovial environment and the real Nancy. "Can I see you later?" he ventured as he left. "Whit for?" she teased. "Well…" he blushed again, "ach… whitever y' want; the pictures, a coffee at the Kings Cafe or jist a stroll roon' the harbour wi' a fish supper… up t' you." He watched as her smile faded. "Oh Hell! - oops, sorry - I jist remembered, I've a Bible class at seven." David nodded resignedly and left the shop. Collecting his thoughts while watching the bowlers on the green below he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. "It only lasts an hour, then I might tak' a stroll t' Jenny's Well." "That's fine... OK, see y' then," he answered as she retreated hastily to the shop.
The tide was in when he reached the rendezvous and the thrashing of the waves as they battered their way through the hollow rock of The Whale's Moo nearby never failed to stimulate him. Nancy was but a few minutes late, flushed and breathless from negotiating the overgrown rocky path, her eyes bright and eager, her innocent dimpled smile just too inviting. He resisted the temptation to gather her up and hold her tight - you're not in the Glasgow Locarno, he told himself. "There wis nae need t' rush," he said, "you're worth waiting ages for." She retained her smile as she reached for the tin cup by the well's gushing spout. Then the grin faded. "I… wisna sure you'd come. Lads often think twice when The Brethren is mentioned." "Well, we're a' different. It's the person nae the religion that counts. But there's a lot mair tae life than bible-thumpin', honest." David cheekily cocked his head to one side as she betrayed a grimace. "Besides the meetings, Nancy, how d' y' pass the time? Dancing? Music? Sport? Maybe I could tak' y' t' the pictures some nicht?" Her eyes widened as David spoke of the films he'd seen and celebrities and comedians he'd watched at the Glasgow Empire. She even laughed out loud as he described some of the amusing characters he'd met or worked with, but each time he moved closer she retreated a little. "Whit's the matter lass? You're nae scared o' me are y'? If y' like I'll go…" "No! No, dinna leave, it's nae you I'm scared o' it's my auntie. She'd have a fit if she knew I was meetin' somebody." He hesitated, frowning. "I'm nae good enough for y'… is that it?" "It's nae that; Ach y' ken whit I mean…" The spell was broken. "I dinna understand why y' bothered comin.' Maybe y' dinna ken your ain mind. I widna tak' liberties - I respect y' too much. But I canna help whit I'm thinkin' - maybe y' feel the same, but there's limit t' a lad's self-control, y' ken." David broke the long silence. "I'll be here next week, if y' feel like comin'. As he walked off slowly towards the golf course and Cullen beach, he turned briefly, chuckling. "It's at least mair fun than my father preachin' the wages o' sin." Two steps later, he turned again. "I'll even buy y' a chastity belt, if it'll help." Her raised fist told him she'd be back.
David stayed on to help out at Binview Farm after the harvest and about two months had passed before he met George Kyle again on the same bench by the Bow Fiddle Rock. "How've you been George?" "Fine, and yersel?" "Oh well, nothing changes at hame, may father and me are aye squabblin' aboot something, mainly religion." "Aye. I knew him and his brother John well; we went t' school together. He got the religion from his mother, a fine woman but strict and pious. She was quite young when she died. It would be her that sent him t' England t' learn t' be a minister but he came hame for the funeral and never went back. He got married a wee while later and moved up Speyside way." "A brother? Are you sure?" "Aye, they baith went t' sea when they left school. John was in the merchant navy and on the Atlantic convoys I believe. He came ashore and ended up in a mental home. He died there, they say." "Bloody hell, George, that's the first I've heard o' it! How did he die?" His companion looked embarrassed. "Better ask your father, lad; I thought y' knew. They say he drank himsel' to death, but y' ken how village gossips like t' embroider things. " They sat in silence for a while then David spoke. "Well, well... my saintly and zealous father… who'd've thought, eh? A would-be minister wi' a skeleton in the cupboard. Still, it's nae worth another row; I'm thinking I've outlived my welcome here anyway." "That a pity. Maybe if you had friends o' your ain age." "Well, I know this bonny local quine, but we can only meet in secret when she can sneak away and that's nae very often. Stays wi' her aunt and uncle she said. I thought we hit it off fine but she canna relax. And nearly everything she says has a reference t' the bible in it. It's like she's lost the ability t' think for hersel'. I give up George, I'm leavin!" A small lobster boat was bobbing about in the inshore waters near the Bow Fiddle. "They say 'faint heart never won fair lady…" "They say 'know your limits,' too, George, and I've nae intention o' joinin' the holier-than-thou brigade jist because I'd like t' wed the lass. Lately I'm thinkin' this place'll drive me t' drink." George turned on him angrily. "And who are you t' judge us, Davy? Whit d' you ken aboot fisher folk? There's hardly a family here that disna know the despair o' loosing husbands, sons and fathers t' the sea. Fishin' is in their blood and they learn t' live with it. Two o' my school pals gave their lives for their country in the war. Think aboot that, lad, a wee place like Portknockie. They've nae much t' be happy aboot, have they?" David gazed out at the vast Moray Firth and listened to the waves crashing on the rocks below. He turned slowly to face his companion. "Aye, you're right, I never looked for a reason, George; I'm sorry." "People need hope, something t' believe in… that's why religions flourish in fishin' communities. A faith makes life bearable for some." "But nae for you, George?" The fisherman smiled, slowly choosing his words. "Let's jist say I've seen the cruel side o' it. My wife's family are died-in-the-wool Brethern; they took our daughter away to live wi' her brother and his wife here when she was still at school. I was a bad influence they said." "Bloody hell, George, your ain flesh and blood! How in God's name could y' let them dae it?" "I understand your anger, Davy and maybe I'm as much t' blame as them, but when your brother-in-law skippers the boat and the rest o' the crew are your wife's family..." George was gazing out to sea again, lost in thought. After a while he shrugged his shoulders. "We fished oot o' Yarmouth in England a while back. I met this woman I got very fond o' - it's nae as if Elsie an' me were sharing a bed even then - I could easily've jumped ship there an' then but I decided t' bide close to Nancy jist in case she needs me as she got older …" "Nancy? Your lass is called Nancy?" "Aye… but I seldom see her - Elsie sees t' that." He raised his hand and slowly rubbed his eyes.
The setting sun bathed Nancy's delicate features in a warm pink glow as she stared out across Cullen Bay. Jenny's Well had been one of David's favourite haunts; even before they met he would wander there simply to calm his mind. As he supped the cold crystal clear water from the protruding pipe he often wondered how it would mix with a pure malt whisky. Nancy on the other hand, believing the spring to be sacred and the water to possess healing qualities, would refer to it as the Holy Well. He sat on a rock drinking in the beauty of her face and figure, marvelling at the rare combination of good looks and naiveté and knowing that she would always be beyond his reach. "I've been thinking aboot things," he said gently, "and it looks like I'll have t' leave Portknockie." Her head swivelled round as if she'd been slapped. "No… Where will y' go? Why would y' go?" Then she saw his resigned expression and grabbed hold of him, the closest they had been physically since they met. "No Davy, I'll nae let y'!" Instinctively he responded, struggling with his resolve. "It's for the best lass, there's nothing for me here noo. I found oot my father's been lying to me all those years and I canna be bothered confrontin' him wi' it." "There's me, Davy, I want - I need y' to stay." "No, y' dinna need me Nancy. You've got your family and your religion," He eyed her up and down once more, "and I'd be banned fae your faith jist for whit I'm thinkin'." This time she didn't blush. "I've been considerin' the things y' say… aboot makin' my ain decisions. The quines at work think the same. Honest, I've never felt like this aboot onybody." He stepped back and gently placed his hand under her chin, forcing eye contact. "You never mentioned your surname, Nancy, is it Kyle?" Her eyes widened. "Aye, but you never asked. Whit's wrang?" "My father's a religious bigot, I know that, just as he believes I'm a hopeless sinner. But the way your mother and her family treat George is a heartlessness I'll never understand." "I dinna ken whit t' think, whit t' dae… Help me, Davy," she pleaded through her tears. "I'm thinkin' the least y' can dae is speak t' your father."
What's known for certain is that David left his work and his home at short notice. More surprising and upsetting to those who knew her was the sudden disappearance of Nancy a few weeks later. The mysterious manner of her going sparked a search of the harbour and local coastline, particularly in the region of Jenny's Well. Less newsworthy and almost unheralded was the departure of George Kyle who, having completed a week's fishing out of Fraserborough Harbour, announced to a bemused crew that he "needed a break" before asking a taxi driver to take him to the station. Rumour has it that the postie mentioned a Yarmouth postmark on letters addressed to David's mother and Nancy's aunt and uncle - but, as David's mother used to say, if y' believe a' you hear you'll eat a' y' see. © 2007 Eddie Bruce
Eddie Bruce lives with his wife Muriel in Waltham Abbey, Essex, U.K. Most of his plot-led tales are based on fact, with anecdotes culled from an unusually varied career as distillers clerk, whisky blender, coal miner, builder's labourer, brewer's drayman, London bus driver, trucker, mobile librarian - and a few he can't remember. He was born and brought up on the Malt Whisky Trail of Speyside, before moving on to Fife, Glasgow, Luton, Sough, London, Jersey and North Sutherland as the "spirit" moved him. Along the way he met some interesting characters and has endeavoured to portray a few of these in his stories. Many of his stories are autobiographical in nature. As a recovering alcoholic he wrote them in an effort to recall the past, hoping that by doing so he might better understand where it all went wrong - or at least find a clue to his real (sober) identity. |
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