Читать книгу Land Of The Leal - James Barke - Страница 17

In the midst of that summer’s work Captain Richard Ramsay came home. His ship was lying at South Shields and he had some ten days of freedom. He was anxious to see his father.

Andrew Ramsay was working on the march dyke of Achgammie farm, on the brow of a hill, when Richard came upon him. He had not received a letter in months from his son and he did not expect him.

Richard Ramsay was a tall upstanding man. But his face which ought to have been open and smiling, was darkened as if by sorrow – and he had his father’s brooding eyes.

He came up softly behind his father and tapped him on the shoulder. Andrew Ramsay turned sharply. For a second, surprise overcame him.

‘In the name of God – it’s yourself, Dick!’

He grasped his hand firmly and his eyes moistened.

It’s me, father – and how are you?’

‘Fine, boy, fine – and yourself? When did you come home?’

‘I came up from South Shields. Bob Hamilton drove me in from Stranraer.’

‘Aye, aye … Have you been at the Suie?’

‘No … I had my trunk left at the Inn with Bob MacHaffie: you won’t mind ..? It wasn’t too comfortable at the Suie the last time I was home … I’ve got used to a bunk to myself … You’ll understand …?’

‘Fine, boy, fine. I’m glad to see you. You’re looking well. Have ye had a good voyage?’

‘Fair … I’ve nothing to complain of. You’re looking well yourself. How’s everybody at the Suie?’

‘Fine, fine. We’re a’ doing away – busy the now – the hay – there’s no rest here, you know.’

‘Still the way of it? How’s the bairn getting on?’

‘David’s doing fine. Ye remember him?’

‘Oh, he’s the bairn – I wouldn’t be forgetting him. And my mother?’

‘Not so bad, Richard. She has her bit touts back and forward. So ye’re for the Inn? I believe you’re right, Richard – but ye’ll be seeing us?’

‘I’ll be seeing you? God! What d’ye think I came home for?’

To cover his embarrassment Richard pulled a bottle of whisky from the pocket of his blue reefer jacket. He wrenched the cork from it and thrust it at his father.

Andrew Ramsay took the bottle slowly and looked at it and then at his son. The thought which crossed his mind saddened him – so that’s why he’s biding at the Inn. But instantly, looking from the bottle to his son, he dismissed the thought as false and ungenerous.

‘Here’s your health, Richard – and long life and happiness to you, boy.’

He wiped the mouth of the bottle and handed it back.

‘Well – here’s… everything.’

Richard took a long draught of the whisky, corked the bottle and put it back in his pocket.

‘That’s better … Everything’s looking fine … Have they had a good crop of hay?’

‘A fair crop … You’ll be coming in for your supper?’

‘Yes, yes – then you’ll maybe come down with me to the Inn – maybe Sam MacKitteroch could come too?’

‘Sam will be honoured if ye ask him, Dick. Sam thinks the world o’ ye.’

‘I owe a lot to Sam – and to you. Is he still keeping fine?’

‘Sam’s wonderful – ageing like the rest of us – going down the hill, my boy – and you’re going up it— Aye: and you’re standing well with the company?’

‘They’re more than satisfied – I was a couple of days ahead …’

They stood leaning over the dyke. Both their pipes were drawing well. From the slope of the hill, looking down over the lands of Achgammie, they could see the workers busy in the hay fields. And from the fields of Achgammie the fields of neighbouring farms dipped and rolled in the July haze. But as far as the eye could see there were dots of human activity. In the pasture fields, herd after herd of Ayrshire cattle were grazing, chewing the cud or mating.

From the hillside the scene was calm and peaceful. Richard Ramsay found it soothing. It was home. He had looked on the scene many times in his youth and many a time he had seen it from the bridge of his ship sailing in distant waters. Many a time he had longed to see in reality the green rolling fields of Galloway.

The air was still and he could not smell the sea. His nostrils, fresh to the air, were sensitive to the smell of mown hay, the scent of the earth, of peat and bog and the scent was good to his nostrils. Occasionally the call of a human voice, as a carter shouted at his horse, would drift towards him on the sun warm air.

Aye: there was something to be said for the Rhinns: something to be said for those who stayed at home – even though they did sweat in the heat of the day. Something to be said for marrying and settling down with a wife and a home. He was heart sick of his interminable voyaging – sailing, sailing across oceans from port to port – months on end without even seeing land. And every voyage more and more steamships to be sighted, the dirty smudge of smoke at their funnels.

Even when his ship was made fast against the wharf of some foreign port and he had seen to the cargo or the water and there was time on his hands: what was the outcome? Drink and women. Always drink and always women. In port or at sea there was always drink. But only in port were there women – the flint-hearted bitches! He was more than tired of them: he was scunnered with the dull satisfaction they brought. It was a dog’s life the sea, eating deeper and deeper into a man, driving him more and more to the rum jar for forgetfulness.

And the company going more and more over to steam – damn them!

Aye: he would need to look around for a job ashore, find a wife and settle down. Australia was a fine country, New Zealand was a fine country – in California there was opportunity and enough for a man ashore. But there was something about Galloway, something that eased the nostalgic craving and longing that so often came over him. And yet when he thought of the Suie …

He straightened himself suddenly.

‘Will we go down to the Suie – or have you a bit to do?’

‘Well, I should do a bit yet, but – No: it’s no’ every day ye’re home, Richard boy. We’ll away down.’

David Ramsay came trudging home from the hay field, the sun casting a long shadow before him. He was dog tired: he felt he could hardly straighten his back. It had been thus now for many days. And he felt he would be glad when the hay was all coiled and ricked. He felt that he would only escape from the fields the day he escaped to sea. Through many tired days and weary nights this hope of escape sustained him.

He raised his head. A figure was coming over the brae-face to meet him. For a moment he concentrated on the figure, wondering who it might be. And then it flashed on him – could it be his brother Richard? It couldn’t, it couldn’t …

He broke into a run as the approaching figure raised his arm in salute. It was his brother, his brother Richard, the captain, home from the sea.

When he came up to him, Richard held out his immense hand.

‘Well, David, boy – and how’s the world with you.?’

But David could hardly trust himself to speak.

‘Fine.’

‘That’s the idea,’ cried Richard, with forced jollity. ‘You’re growing, boy – you’ll be leaving the school soon – What age are you now?’

‘I’m seven past.’

‘There now, nearly eight. Sit down here for a minute and tell me how you’re getting on – or are you hungry for your supper?’

‘No – I’m no’ hungry. Are ye for staying a while – Richard?’

The boy’s face was radiant. His wide open eyes devoured his brother. Richard was touched deeply. He did not know why he was drawn towards the boy who, even though he was his brother, belonged to a different generation and had been born when he had been at sea. David alone of all his brothers and sisters drew him. His dominant feeling was one of commiseration. He could not quite analyse the feeling – but he felt pity for the boy. His own boyhood had not been happy – he had suffered much both in the Achgammie fields and in the over-crowded house at the Suie. He had come out to meet David so that their meeting might be private.

They had not been talking long when David broached the subject dearest to his heart. Richard feared for the question: he could recall the ache in the boy’s voice. That ache was deeper now and it would go deeper in the boy – unless he could be spared the disillusionment that lay ahead of him; unless some one warned him, guided him clear of the pitfalls. Richard realised he could not completely dash his hopes.

‘Well, you know, Davie boy, the sea is not all that you might think. There’s hard work hereabouts – damned hard on Achgammie as I well know. But there’s hard work at sea too – a damned sight. Aye: and the sea’s not what it was – sailing’s finished I doubt. It’s engineers that are wanted nowadays, not sailors. I wouldna set your heart too much on it, Davie, if I were you.’

‘My mind’s made up, Richard.’

‘Well now, I wouldn’t be just so quick making it up, boy. If you get the chance of a bit education – take it. And if your father suggests that you go to college, don’t cross him. Don’t you think you’d like to be a doctor, maybe?’

‘No: my mind’s made up, Richard. I want to go to sea. Could I no’ get sailing wi’ ye, Richard?’

‘We’ll see, we’ll see – if your mind’s made up. But I don’t think your mind’s made up – fully. There’s plenty of time, boy, plenty of time. And if you ever go, you’re going into steam: there’s no future for sail. If I could get a job ashore I’d take it to-morrow.’

David was torn with conflicting emotions. First was the elation that he was sitting beside his brother and that his brother was treating him like an equal and, second, the actual disappointment that his brother should so disparage his cherished wish to go to sea. He had hoped that Richard would support him with enthusiasm. His heart did not lie to the Achgammie fields and the word college had a strange intimidating sound. He just wanted to escape from everything and go to sea. It did not matter that the work would be hard – he had already reconciled himself to the knowledge that there would always be work, hard work to be done; but it would be work he liked. He was cast down in spirit. Though hunger had left him, a heavier sense of physical tiredness came over him: he wanted to crawl away into a corner by himself: like a sick dog.

Richard was quick to note his brother’s reaction. He did his best to rally him. To hell: there should be some other way of life than this. He had gone to sea full of the happiest anticipations. And long before he had taken his ticket he had become disillusioned. Now he was sick and tired of it all. He knew he could never come back to the Suie; knew he could never bear to spend a night under his father’s roof again. But David would need to stay there for many a day yet eating the rotten food and sleeping neck and crop with his brothers. It was natural that the boy should have made up his mind to run away. He would have been disappointed had he shown no spirit of revolt. Only he must be saved the disillusionment of the sea – another way of escape must be found.

‘You’d better get some supper, boy. Tell your father I’m waiting for him. And don’t get down-hearted. We’ll find something for you to do – you won’t have to muck around Achgammie all your days. Come on now – and I’ll be seeing you to-morrow.’

David rose wearily. But he must extract some grain of comfort from their first meeting.

‘Will we go down to the shore on Sunday, Richard?’

‘The shore? Sure: I’ll remember that. The shore: it’s a long time since I went down the heughs, Dave – a hell of a long while.’

Bob MacHaffie who owned the Plough Inn was a typical landlord: he was fat and cheery and though he laughed like a woman he could tell more bawdy stories than any ten men in the Rhinns. His inn was a poor place. It had two bedrooms upstairs and a parlour downstairs that served as a general common-room. But when he had visitors the parlour was reserved for them. It was a dimly-lit low-roofed musty room with an enormous mahogany table and sideboard and twelve massive horse-hair dining chairs. Above the mantelshelf hung a large steel engraving which seemed to be a mixture of public bar and slaughter house. In addition to various individuals in different postures in the act of drinking, having drunk or about to drink, there were hounds, shot birds and the carcass of a stag lying on the floor, its head so twisted as to give the best view of its magnificant antlers. The white-washed ceiling above the picture was badly discoloured by the smoke of the oil lamp. The room had a musty smell because the window could not be opened. The only ventilation was by way of the chimney. Warm though the summer night had been the landlord had a fire burning because, as he said, the place looked a damned cold hole without it.

Bob MacHaffie was of an age with Captain Ramsay and he enjoyed his company. He was a man who enjoyed company though he preferred company of his own age – mostly young farmers or the sons of farmers. But to-night he was content to sit and listen to the Captain and old Sam exchanging reminiscences.

As the clock went round and they were well on in drink he took a hand in the conversation.

‘Ah, to hell wi’ they foreign parts – what’s wrong wi’ Stranraer? Market day’s worth a’ your damned Bombays and Calcuttas – what dae you say, Andra?’

‘There’s a lot to be said for hame, Bob.’

‘Damned true there is. You know, Captain, you miss many a tare on Market day. God, the drink that’s swallowed in the Cock and Hen would sail ye half-roads to Australia. You’ll come in wi’ me next Wednesday and I’ll let ye see life. How Tam MacBurnie gets hame is more than I can understand. By God, I’m telling ye, if he loses that mare o’ his he’s finished.’

But Old Sam was not to have the sea disparaged.

‘Ye ken nothing about it, Bob. Not a thing. There’s no life to be seen about Stranraer.’

But Bob stoutly defended his capital town.

‘Aye, heth, but there’s life about Stranraer. And the best o’ lassies – none o’ your damned French hizzies or yellow whores – but just our ain kind. Some of them buxom hizzies up from Stoneykirk or Kirkmaiden would gar ye loup. And plenty o’ Scotch whisky and a feed o’ tatties and one o’ Jimmy Craig’s haggis and ye can have a’ your fushionless foreign trash for me. What d’ye say to that, Captain?’

‘It’s the last thing I can mind, Bob: tatties and haggis. It makes my teeth water to think of it. Damn it man, Sam, you know yourself sailing foreign’s all right for a while but the novelty wears off. East or west: hame’s best.’

‘It takes the drink to get the truth out o’ folk.’

‘Ye’re right enough, Richard. But, still, the sea gets into your blood. I was like you many a time – when I could have grat like a bairn for hame – but I always went back. And you’ll go back, Richard – and be glad to go back.’

‘Maybe: it’s so damned stupid. The sea gets into your blood and you’re finished – neither happy ashore nor afloat. What life have you at sea? You’re a bloody slave from the moment you leave port till you reach another. And what’s the difference when it comes to that between this port and that? You can never drop anchor. Afloat the grub’s lousy: ashore you’re liable to be poisoned—’

‘What do ye do for a woman afloat?’

‘What d’ye do for water in a desert? I tell you, the captains and mates I’ve met are either half mad or half brutes – and in some of those coffin ships they’re both. Half the owners should be hung, drawn and quartered. To hell! I want to forget the sea for a while: I’m sick of it – sick to death of it. Fill up the glasses, MacHaffie, and let’s talk about something pleasant.’

‘Say when: damn ye for a thrawn beggar! There’s some sense in murderers and criminals running away to sea – but a man that goes of his own free will’s a bloody eediot. Have ye heard the one about the auld wife that took her coo to the bull ..?’

Andrew Ramsay took little or no part in the conversation. All the drink he had taken had not dispelled the sense of depression that had settled on him. Going home, he spoke his mind to Sam MacKitteroch.

‘I’m worried about Richard, Sam. There’s a big change come over him.’

‘There is, Andra – a big change. And he’s drinking in a way I’ve seen many a time – drinking in a way that no good comes out of.’

‘Drinking to drown his sorrows?’

‘Aye: or drinking to forget. He’s seen too much for his age, has Richard. There’s none o’ the brute in him and he takes it hard.’

‘He’ll drink himself to death if he goes on the way he’s doing.’ Sam MacKitteroch shook his head sadly and wearily.

‘I’ve seen men drinking like that, Andra – it’s a bad sign. My heart’s wi’ ye, Andra, you ken that fine – he’s your laddie – but I kind of adopted him myself like. I know you’ll no’ misunderstand me. And I fear maist of all, Andra, that the boy’s lost faith in his Maker.’

‘You think so, Sam?’

‘I hope I’m wrong, Andra. I’ll have a quiet word wi’ him before he goes back …’

They were standing at the edge of the road where the path to the Suie led off. The evening was deathly still and the swallows had left the sky which was a drift of dove-grey clouds. Yet already in the east there seemed a faint iridescence and from Achgammie there came surprisingly clear the clarion call of a stirring cock.

Though the cronies had drunk much the liquor had little effect on them. There was a moment or two of silence as they pretended to survey the night. And then Sam said with a deep and touching sincerity:

‘We maun place our trust in our Maker, Andra.’

But Andrew Ramsay was not certain – not in his heart. Life had not turned out as it might. Perhaps the Maker was weary with mankind.

As he stumbled along the path to the Suie he felt he had been old for a long time – that now indeed he was ripening towards the grave. He experienced a chill repugnance of life …

The flesh is like the wind that passeth over the grass and is gone …

Andrew Ramsay’s heart was sick for his son Richard: heavy beyond knowledge and beyond words.

The Captain and his host crouched round the fire. Richard was relieved that his father and Sam MacKitteroch had gone. MacHaffie was relieved too – he had had enough of the older generation. He had to bridle the tongue of his ribaldry too much in their presence. He was sure the Captain had had many an experience with foreign women that would bear retelling and be a thousand times more interesting than Sam MacKitteroch’s ancient drivelling.

But the Captain did not seem keen to relate his sexual experiences or any other personal intimacies with the light-hearted libidinous landlord.

‘To hell, man, Richard, you’re in a dour dirty bitch o’ a mood the nicht – what’s the matter wi’ ye? The whisky no’ to your pleasement?’

‘The whisky’s fine, Bob. But it hasn’t the kick in it it used to have.’

‘Drink it up, man – get it down.’

‘No: it’s not that, Bob. Damn it, man, I drink it all day and half the night: and yet I never get drunk. A year or two ago I could have danced a hornpipe on a half bottle. Now …’

‘It’s a woman ye want.’

‘Maybe it is.’

‘I know it is. Listen! There’s a couple o’ maids sleep in the cheese loft at Cortorfin – what d’ye say if we go over and see what’s doing? If the bloody dogs don’t set up a barking.’

‘No, no … Christ! that’s no’ the kind of women I need – if it is a woman I need. I’ve had my bellyful o’ that nonsense and it’s like the drink – no satisfaction in it.’

‘God, boy, you’re in a bad way.’

‘It’s me that knows that, Bob. Forget it. How’s Lizzie Hunter doing?’

‘Married to a bloody lout o’ a byreman – three bairns – ye wouldna look at her now.’

‘Aye … she was a fine set-up lass when I knew her.’

‘You’d a notion o’ Lizzie?’

‘Well … I don’t know …’

‘I æy thought ye’d a notion o’ Bell MacCready.’

‘How many bairns has she?’

‘Two – and one on the road – or it might be twins. It’s her young sister that’s over at Cortorfin.’

‘Aye … Is there no’ a decent lass left in the Rhinns?’

‘Man, ye’re a thrawn beggar gotten. What’s the harm in a bit o’ fun back and forward like? There’s nobody any the worse and a lot a damn sight the better.’

‘Aye …’

‘Aye! Ye’ve been too long at sea: that’s what’s wrong wi’ ye. Maybe ye’ve had a touch o’ sunstroke or something?’

‘Maybe. I’m sorry, Bob: I’m neither company for man nor beast. I shouldn’t have come back here. What’s my father got out o’ life living in Kirkcolm?’

‘There’s damn a’ wrong wi’ your father. He’s maybe a bit independent: but that’s a good fault.’

‘Independent? Aye: he’s independent. And by God! there’s no’ many like him in that respect. I’m telling you, Bob, Andrew Ramsay is a man in a thousand – only he never had a chance in life.’

‘Right then! But you can’t say that. You’ve done gey well. You got your ship before MacMeechan. You’re the youngest skipper that ever came out o’ the Rhinns to my knowledge.’

‘Aye … and what have I made of my chances, Bob? Damn all. It’s me knows exactly what I’m talking about. Christ! If I could only forget – that’s my trouble. What the hell’s before me – but the sea? I’m sick o’ that life. And what’s for me here? There’s not even a decent lass ye could marry and settle down with: and there’s no decent work to provide a roof for her.’

‘Well, damn it, if ye put it that way there’s something in what ye say. I felt myself I would like to get married: we’re no’ getting any younger – but I havena met the girl I’d like to bring here to be my wife. I don’t suppose I’m the marrying kind, Richard. But still … there’s something in what you say … I see what you’re driving at …’

‘It shouldn’t be hard to see that. And yet again, Bob, what’s the good o’ bringing a litter o’ bairns into this world – unless they can be well provided for? You wouldn’t want to see any of your bairns hash their guts out on Achgammie – and I don’t want to see them have their guts hashed out before the mast. You see: it’s a problem no matter how you look at it.’

‘Aye … it’s a problem all right. But damn it, man, you look too much at the problem. Things have a way o’ working out – they’ve aey had … and we’ve never died a winter yet. No: to hell: you can look at things too seriously, Richard. You’re young: you’ve the world before you. Try giving up the drink for a month or two: you’ll be damned glad to come back to it.’

‘I’ve the world before me? No, no: the world’s behind me. There was a day when the world was before me – and by God I had great expectations o’ it. But that’s all behind me. You know, Bob: when I was a boy like my brother David that’s at the Suie yonder I had a great admiration for grown men. Boy, I thought they must be wise and great and all that kind o’ thing. And I thought that when I grew to be a man the world would be a wonderful place to live in. And I’ll not dispute there’s a great man here and there – Sam MacKitteroch’s one in his way – he taught me more navigation than ever I learned before the mast – and my father’s one in his way – I mean they’re decent and kindly and they’ve got courage – which is more than I have by the way. Oh, I know I’m not modest. I’ll take a ship through a storm wi’ more sail tacked on than any other skipper I know – I’ve plenty of that kind o’ courage. But that’s not what I mean – However, it wasn’t long till I found out that men were a damned mixed crowd of blackguards and fools – and not a man o’ them but you’d find a woman a damned sight worse. I’m quite admitting there’s an odd one here and there that’s different – but only here and there. It’s not what men profess to be that matters – it’s what they are. That’s what’s wrong wi’ religion. You can say you’re a Christian and a’ the rest of it. What does that matter? It’s my experience, Bob: the bigger the Christian the bigger the rogue.’

‘That’s true – by God, that’s true. I’ll bear ye out there, Richard boy. But come on! We’ll hae another drink and get off to our beds.’

‘Bed? Well, I suppose you have your work in the morning, Bob …’

‘Aye, bi-God, there’s work to be done here – I’ll tell ye what, though. I’ve a kitchen lass here. She’s maybe no’ a beauty. I’ll send her up to your room. My mither’s as deaf as a door nail and even if she wasna she wouldna mind.’

‘Thanks, Bob: I appreciate your offer – but no: I don’t want any women.’

‘Well, you know best, Richard. But mind, she’s all right. Don’t think I’d do this for everybody. And she doesna need to bed wi’ ye …’

‘I appreciate your offer, Bob – but see here: give me a bottle o’ whisky – or better still: have you a good bottle o’ brandy?’

‘Brandy? Aye: I can give ye a bottle o’ brandy. Grand Imperial all right?’

‘That’ll do me fine, Bob.’

‘And what time would ye like breakfast? Ye’ll be an early riser?’

‘No: send me up a jug of black coffee about eight or nine o’clock.’

‘Whatever ye say, Richard.’

Bob MacHaffie lit a candle and handed it to the Captain.

‘Ye’ll manage up the stair yourself?’

For a moment the men faced each other across the candle-light. Their eyes were horribly blood-shot: they were showing signs of their hard night’s drinking.

‘Good-night then, Bob.’

‘Good-night, Richard – we’ll hae a crack in the morning.’

Bob MacHaffie stood at the foot of the stair and watched Captain Richard Ramsay ascend. He ascended slowly, wearily, as if he were an old man. Bob MacHaffie shook his head. There was something damned queer about him – and he had not liked the look in his eyes when he had handed him the candle …

Richard placed his candle on the mantelshelf of his bedroom. It was a large room, barely but heavily furnished. His trunk stood on the floor at the foot of the enormous four-poster bedstead that occupied two-thirds of the floor space. A large sheepskin rug covered the floor on either side of the bed. Another lay before the fender at the firelace – elsewhere the bare wooden boards creaked to the tread. The walls and cam ceiling were of varnished boards, black-studded with knots.

It was a depressing room. Richard shivered. Sleep was what he feared for sleep did not come easily to him: it would be doubly difficult in a heavy room like this.

He wondered why he had come home: why he felt in his bones he would never stride the deck of a ship again…

He shook these recurrent thoughts from him and drew the cork from the brandy bottle. If the brandy didn’t help him nothing else would – except cocaine – and he was thankful that he hadn’t sunk to cocaine or laudanum. The brandy burned its way to his stomach: there was a bite in it, sure enough.

Hell – why had he come home? And why did the face of that boy David haunt him – the innocent eyes filled with admiration and trust and supplication? He had come home to do something for the boy: that was it.

He unlocked his trunk. There was not so much in it. If he had known he was coming home he would have had it filled – and he might have brought David a parrot – or even a monkey. Curse it: he should have brought home something. Tobacco for his father. He would wonder why he had come empty-handed. But then he hadn’t meant to come home.

Why had he come home?

He had no home: not anywhere. He had his father … and there was David, a mirror of his own young self. But no home, no fireside that was his. He was nothing but a bloody sailor sailing from port to port: never really dropping anchor. And nowhere a Lizzie Hunter or a Bell MacCready waiting to welcome him – that was what messed the whole thing up. Bob MacHaffie couldn’t understand and he wasn’t child enough to wear his heart on his sleeve – especially in his company. But that was what he needed – a wife: a woman to love: a mate to confide in. Lizzie or Bell might have been such a mate – if he had stayed at home. That’s what he had missed going away. What a damned silly mess he had made of his life. And it was too late now: he had seen too much: known too many rotten women ever to get the taste back in his mouth …

Again the brandy burned down into his stomach – but the anticipated reaction was long in coming. The candle spluttered and went out. He rummaged for his night-shirt … He drew his hand away as if he had touched a snake. But his hand went back, slowly … the metal was cold …

Now he knew why he had come home.

David Ramsay heard the knock on the door as soon as his father. He wondered if he had heard. But even as he wondered he heard the boards creak in his father’s bed and the pad of his feet going towards the door.

Andrew Ramsay had not slept. He could not stop worrying about his son. He had been trying vainly to find a satisfactory reason for the change that had come over him. Equally vainly he had tried to console himself with the thought that it was the strangeness of his homecoming that was the explanation. The boy had been away for years and now the homecoming was bound to affect him deeply: it would take a day or two to get over it: then he would be his old self again.

But however he reasoned, sleep would not come to him.

And then as he lay he thought he heard a step outside: maybe his imagination was playing him tricks. But the knock settled that. He stiffened for a moment and then sprang from the bed.

Bare-headed and dishevelled, Bob MacHaffie stood at the door drawing his breath.

‘What is it, Bob?’

‘It’s Richard – for God’s sake come quick, Andra – he’s shot himself.’

Andrew Ramsay clutched the jamb of the door. The sound that escaped him, like the shriek of a mare, was terrible in its agony.