The House Between Tides (28 page)

Cameron was the first to look away. “We'll drop sail now and get the rods out, I think,” he said. “Can you keep her on course?”

Beatrice nodded quickly, and Cameron moved forward, calling out to the other boat. Rupert helped him bring down the sail and yard, glancing shrewdly at Beatrice as he took the helm. “And for bait, Cameron?” he asked.

Cameron lifted the lid from a small creel of fish heads and began to prepare the rods while Beatrice moved quickly forward to be beside Emily, making inconsequential remarks, and then took a rod that Rupert passed to her.

The boat rocked gently on the swell, and almost immediately she felt a tug at the end of her line, but then nothing. Emily's rod bent next, and Cameron came across to assist, laughing at her glee as an iridescent fish was pulled from the water, scattering silver droplets. He deftly removed the hook and replaced the bait. “You've got one hooked too, Mrs. Blake,” he said, and nodded at her rod.

After an hour of drifting, several mackerel, ling, and a small cod lay gasping in the basket at their feet, and by then they were only a short distance to the seal island. The men rowed the last few yards and pulled the boats up onto the sand. Rupert lifted the women clear of the shallow waves while Donald placed the fish in a shadowed rock pool, where one or two of them revived and began splashing, desperate to escape.

Emily stood looking down at them. “Poor things. Wouldn't it be kinder to let them go?”

“Rubbish. That's lunch.” Kit started up the beach. “Where are these seals, Donald?”

They followed Donald up over the rocks, scrambling to the top from where they could see the seals were hauled out, basking in the sun, keening and moaning softly while others played in the waves nearby, watching with whiskered curiosity as the visitors settled themselves on the rounded summit.

“Do you remember the stories your mother used to tell us, Donald?” said Emily. “How seals would come ashore at midsummer and take human form.”

“Oh, she was full of such stories, that's a fact.”

“How did it go? They'd shed their skins and dance on the beaches—”

“And the fishermen would steal the skins to stop them returning.”

“That's it. And the seal women would search until they found them again, then take their human children back to the sea, leaving the fishermen tormented by their siren songs.” She gave a long theatrical sigh.

“My mother's family are all a bit fey,” Cameron remarked to Rupert.

“She was
lovely.
”

“Aye, and she swore the stories were true. Her cousin was born with webbed fingers, which she said proved the point.”

Emily pouted. “She and I always felt sorry for the poor fishermen.”

“Speaking for myself,” said Kit, passing the field glasses to Beatrice and rolling onto his back, “I can't see the allure.”

“Philistine,” said his sister. “Seal women are lithe and sensuous, very beautiful and wild. They've a special name . . . ?” She turned to Cameron in enquiry.

“Selkies,” he supplied.

“That's it. Selkies. Seal women.”

“And men. Selkies are male too. And as it's midsummer tonight, Major,” he added, “you'd better lock up your woman in case a lusty male down there has taken a fancy to her.”

“Ha! Poor devil. He'll get more than he bargained for.”

Emily laughed and they stayed a little longer, until the seals slipped from the rocks, their heads bobbing in the sea, and hunger drove the party back to the beach. “Why did we ever leave these islands, Kit?” She sighed as Rupert assisted her over the rocks.

“No shops, no theatre, no concert halls, no dances, no parties, no dressmakers, no milliners . . .” Rupert murmured as he waited for Beatrice and landed her safely beside Emily.

Emily pulled a face. “That'll all keep for the winter, but we
must
spend the summers up here. Bea will be pleased of the company, won't you? Then our children and theirs can run wild like children
should
, like we did, and hear the old stories.” She threw herself down on the sand, kicked off her shoes, and tossed her hat to one side. “Cameron and Donald can teach them to swim and to fish and to sail just like John Forbes did with us, and they'll grow up nut brown and healthy out of the city smoke.” Rupert stretched out his long legs on the sand and slipped an arm behind her.

“Of course, my love.”

Donald had begun collecting driftwood and dry seaweed while Cameron crouched beside the rocks, cleaning the fish and tossing
the entrails to a group of waiting gulls who contested them noisily a few yards away. “That'll have to be Donald's job,” he said.

Emily sat forward, clasping her knees. “Gosh, yes. I keep forgetting. The island won't seem the same without you.” And Beatrice found the words chimed painfully with her own thoughts as she watched his long fingers filleting the fish; the island without Cameron was suddenly unimaginable.

“We'll all wish we lived up here in a year or two.” Rupert joined Donald at the high-tide line, calling over his shoulder, “Either the Kaiser will take us into war or the discontented masses will bring the country to its knees.”

“No politics today, Rupert,” Emily commanded as he dragged a bleached plank towards them. Cameron glanced up and caught Beatrice watching him. She looked quickly away and began smoothing the sand beside her.

“You soldiers are always spoiling for a fight.” Kit had stretched out on his back and was making no effort to do anything useful. “And it's too hot for the proletariat to turn savage.” Donald dumped an armful of driftwood beside him and began gathering stones to make a fireplace. Cameron raised his head as if to respond, then caught his brother's expression and shrugged, returning to his task.

Rupert's sharp eyes missed little. “What about you, Cameron? What do you think?”

“Don't ask him, sir, for pity's sake.”

Beatrice silently echoed Donald's plea. Politics, where Cameron was concerned, were best avoided. He spoke freely to her now and was passionate about the running sore of land hunger, nursing a deep resentment for injustices past and present. But he merely grinned at his brother and continued to cut open the fish, pulling out the guts and scraping them clean.

“I have an agreement with my family, sir, not to offend guests with my opinions.”

“
Guests?
” retorted Kit.

“Hardly guests, but nonetheless,
no
politics, Rupert.” Emily frowned at her fiancé, who returned her a bland smile.

“But I'm interested to hear these opinions, my love.”

Cameron kept his attention on the fish. After a moment he said, “Let's just say that if our titled politicians lived as dock hands for a month, they'd soon be joining the reformers they're so afraid of.”

Rupert pulled out a packet of cigarettes and patted his pocket for matches. “Joining the rabble-rousers, eh?” He struck a match and held it. “Who—having forced the issue in '89—are now back for more. Inevitably.” The wind blew out the flame and he took a second match.

“Perhaps they need more, sir.
Perhaps
they haven't enough.” Cameron reached for another mackerel, and Beatrice prayed that they would leave it there.

But Rupert had cupped his hand to shield a new flame. “Socialist, are you, Cameron?” he asked, narrowing his eyes to draw on the cigarette, proffering the packet, which Cameron ignored. “And I had you down as a man of sense.” Beatrice saw Cameron's face darken and felt a flutter of alarm. “If there
is
a general strike, it'll be the poor who go hungry, you know. What would you say to the strike leaders then?” He blew smoke into the air above them.

“I'd say more strength to their arm.
Sir.
” His reply was calmly spoken, but the appellation was added with deliberate insolence and their eyes met, stags locking antlers, testing the other's intent.

“
Stad an sin
,” hissed Donald.

“Stop picking a fight, Rupert.” Emily's voice was sharp with the sudden tension, and Kit sat up, much entertained. He shook a cigarette from Rupert's discarded packet, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and looked about for a light.

“Does old Theo
know
he's harbouring a dangerous radical, Bea?”

Cameron took a glowing stick from the fire and held it out for Kit to light his cigarette, and as his dark head bent close to
Kit's fair one, Beatrice glimpsed the boyhood companions they had been before their different worlds divided them. “Hardly dangerous, madam,” Cameron said, addressing her directly, his eyes alive and unsettling. Then he began placing pieces of fish on the hot stones, where they sizzled as the heat brought the oil to the surface, and he flashed a look towards Rupert. “I'm better suited to the colonies, you see.”

Rupert grunted agreement and smoked on, watching him.

“But”—Cameron scanned their faces with some amusement—“I do know what to do with a piece of mackerel. Fetch the basket from the boat, will you, Donald? I raided Mrs. Henderson's pantry this morning.” He glanced towards Beatrice with an ironic expression which seemed to ask for recognition of his restraint, and she dropped her eyes to hide a smile.

The cries of circling gulls added to the din as bottles of wine and beer were unpacked from the basket and Cameron was congratulated on his raid. And tensions evaporated amidst laughter as fingers and razor shells lifted flaky pieces of fish from the greasy stones, and Emily wiped her chin with the back of her hand, declaring that she had never tasted finer food.

“What will you have, Miss Emily?” asked Donald, proffering two bottles.

“For goodness' sake, stop
Miss
-ing me, Donald. Surely we can be Emily and Kit as we used to be—and Rupert too, for that matter, if military regulations allow,” she mocked with a gruff voice. “At least for today.” And she held out a glass for wine.

“So what is it to be, Rupert?” Cameron asked cheerfully, and the major returned a dry smile.

“Beer. But damn it, man.” He stubbed his cigarette out and flicked the butt into the fire. “Have you actually
thought
what a major strike would mean? It'll be working families who'll suffer, you know, the very people your self-serving radicals claim to champion.”

“Rupert, for goodness' sake!” Emily pushed at him, but he imprisoned her hands, ignoring her protest.

“And how will they be heard otherwise?” Cameron took a swig of beer, his eyes grown hard again.

“You ask that after all the reforms this accursed government has made? And the changes that are being—”

“Being what? Considered? Debated?
Promised?
” Cameron sat up and thrust a stick into the fire, sending up a small whirlwind of sparks. Beatrice saw the muscles in his face tighten and grew anxious again. “A man's life can pass before such promises are honoured, while his family live like animals. It's damnable. Shameful.” The flames leapt high as the breeze swung round. “And how will it ever change?”

“Cameron—”

He swept on, ignoring her. “The men who run this country will go to any lengths to shore up the institutions which give them power. You know that, and yet you talk of
self-interest
! Good God! Tell me,
Rupert
, what options have working people got, other than bringing down those institutions?”

“Cameron, for goodness' sake!” Donald got to his feet.

Rupert released Emily's hands to reach up and pull him down again. “Don't worry, Donald. Your brother has a right to speak his mind, just as I have to disagree.” He glanced towards Beatrice with raised eyebrows and took a slow drink. “But such a radical, up here of all places,” he drawled, watching Cameron narrowly. “And so very well-informed.”

Cameron went to fetch more fuel, and Beatrice watched him struggling for self-control as he threw it on the fire, the dried wood crackling in the heat. “You forget. I've been in Canada, which is full of exiled Scots with tales of injustice, and I saw for myself how people live in Glasgow. Island families, some of them.” He looked across at Beatrice, and her eyes fell, remembering what he had told
her of the overcrowded tenement where Duncan MacPhail's wife had fallen ill.

Donald rose abruptly. “I'm off for a swim. Cameron,
cùm do bheul dùinte. Lean thus' ort a' ròstadh èisg.
” He gave his brother a despairing look over his shoulder as he set off up the beach.

Cameron watched him go, then looked back at the fire. “He says I should shut up and stick to frying fish.”

“What about old Theo, Bea?” said Kit, pulling on his cigarette and grinning at Cameron, seemingly oblivious to the words' underlying bitterness. “Does he
really
not know there's an enemy in the camp?”

“Not an enemy, Kit, never that.” There was a weariness to Cameron's tone as he took another drink from the bottle, and then his expression changed. “Besides, he has another radical much closer to him than me”—he leant back on his elbow, the tension leaving him—“and one who is much more effective, working hard to improve the lives of her tenants . . .”

Beatrice flushed. “It's little enough that I do.”

“. . . and I have reason to believe she's a suffragist too.” His expression was unfathomable.

“Oh, splendid, Beatrice!” Emily clapped her hands and Rupert groaned. “When you come to Edinburgh, we'll go and join the marches. What fun!”

“Wife-beating remains fashionable in military circles, my love,” her future husband remarked, lowering his head to light another cigarette, then winding an arm about her as she leant back against him, smiling and unrepentant.

“Be warned. The Kaiser will give you less trouble than Emily, old man.” Kit got to his feet, brushing the sand from his clothes. “But you've only yourself to blame, of course, encouraging her wanton ways.” He grinned at his sister's outraged face. “I'm off to join Donald,” he announced and sauntered up the beach, hands
thrust into his pockets, whistling, while Rupert chuckled softly and Emily went pink with indignation.