Kames

I tread with care; my wooden Dr. Scholl’s sandals are not designed for this terrain and I am in danger of slipping. No matter. I can take my time since “uncle” L— is still getting the little boat ready. There is a cool, salty breeze coming from the loch, but I’m warm in my Aran jumper. My mum made it specially for me; it has two rows of bobbly knots down the front that I twiddle with. My shorts are still too big for me: hand-me-downs from my middle sister that I have not quite grown into. I reach the bottom of the slope without too much difficulty and stop to inspect my leg. There are two pinky-red cloth plasters: one just inside my knee, and one on the outside of my ankle. They are itchy, as are the dozen or so scratches that run down my leg from knee to foot. Stuffing my thumb in my mouth, I count them slowly. There are fourteen, including the smaller ones. I continue on my way over the rocky beach towards the water, still happily sucking my thumb. No-one is watching, so I will not get the usual telling-off. “Only babies suck their thumbs,” my mother often scolds. At the water’s edge I put my toes into the water, testing it out. Too cold for swimming - but good for paddling. 

Further along, I reach the mouth of the burn that runs beside our uncle’s cottage. Here, I have spent gleeful hours exploring the narrow braided channels and miniature waterfalls. I like the cottage with its wobbly salt-scraped wooden floors and ancient horsehair-stuffed sofa bed. I like washing in the soft cold water. I like rifling through “auntie” N—’s chest of drawers: among the hair grips and packets of Rennie I have found real treasure: a bottle of magical fake tan and a Max Factor lipstick. The cottage has an outside toilet with a corrugated iron roof: torches hang in the entrance way ready for night-time trips to the loo. We have been staying here for a few days: mum, dad and my older sister. I like my uncle. He’s funny and kind, and likes making up little songs as he potters about. Today’s song is about finding the equipment for fishing: “Ting-a-ling a-ling a-ling, I’ve lost the ball of string…”, he trills. Mum and dad are not coming on the fishing trip: mum feels guilty about not paying for the cottage (she is always embarrassed by anything that seems like charity), and so I will be weeding the garden as payment. Dad is whitewashing the outside loo (perhaps he feels guilty, too?). 

I am interrupted by my sister who comes sashaying down to the beach. I wish I could sashay, but my movements are awkward and lumpen. We share the sofa bed at night with its buttercup yellow sheets and scratchy pale woollen blankets. The cottage backs on to a rookery; at summer dusk the birds make it difficult to get to sleep with their constant cawing and screeching. Last year, we scared ourselves half to death: we watched “The Birds” on the cottage’s old black-and-white television, and then huddled under the bed covers, terrified of the noise outside. 

My sister wants to know when the boat will be ready, but I have no idea. There is something wrong with the outboard motor and Uncle L— is trying to fix it. While we wait, I take an amble among the rocks looking for shells. Meantime, my sister grumpily throws pebbles into the loch, as if they have done something to irritate her. At last the boat is ready, and the we head towards our uncle who is calling to us; my sister marches in front with me trailing behind. We clamber in, and sit opposite each other on the bow. Our Uncle L— is at the stern, steering us through the shadowy water. I watch my sister under my fringe. I cannot quite trust her; the barbed-wire fence has taught me as much. 

Driving to the cottage we had both needed to wee, but since we were nowhere near a public convenience, Dad had to stop at the side of the road. A barbed-wire fence was between us and the bushes that would give some privacy, but we were both so desperate after the cherry colas at lunch time, we had little choice. My sister had gone first, and I had followed, gingerly climbing over the fence. On the way back, my sister was faster and more nimble, and, worried that I would be told off for making my parents wait, I rushed my descent – and slipped. The rusty barbs caught my right leg. Straight away, I knew there would be trouble. I had to be taken to the nearest hospital for treatment; the bleeding stopped on the way, but the wounds needed cleaning and I would require a tetanus injection. I apologised all the way there. The motherly nurse had been soothing and re-assuring, but I knew it was all my fault. The throbbing pain of the injection in my arm that night had seemed a kind of penance: what I had deserved for my clumsiness. 

Uncle L— cuts the motor, and the boat bobs for a time on the quiet surface. He sets a fishing line and lets it out behind the boat. It barely makes a shimmer in the water as we move off, heading south towards the wide open inlet. Far too quickly, the line is being twisted and there is quick movement in the water. L—shuts the engine, and carefully draws in the line. Three mackerel have been caught, their zebra backs iridescent as they are lifted out of the water. I can’t watch as L— swiftly hits their heads against the bottom of the boat. Supper has been supplied, but I will refuse to eat it. I am sorry for the fish as they look up at me, surprised by their sad fate. I look out towards the inlet, miserable. Plus, I am alarmed to see the weather up ahead: storm clouds are moving quickly towards us, black and forbidding. Almost immediately, it starts to rain and Uncle L— turns the boat around, his face grim and rigid. He says nothing as the storm bears down on the loch. The rain is coming down in sheets and my sister and I exchange frightened glances, but do not speak, willing the little boat to the shore. As we near the rocky beach, L— jumps out and pulls the boat up to safety. We scramble out onto the rocks and run as fast as our legs will carry us up the slope to the cottage. We arrive back, our Arran jumpers soaked through. Mum instructs us girls to strip off our sodden clothes and we dry ourselves on rough blue towels. Dad and Uncle L— chat together in the living room, watching the rain blurring the view of the loch. The storm passes over.