Authors: Iain Crichton Smith
On the Island
This eBook edition published in 2015 by
Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd
West Newington House
10 Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
Copyright © Iain Crichton Smith, 1979
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
eBook ISBN: 9780857907332
Version 1.0
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
1
I
AIN SAT ON
the pier swinging his legs and looking down into the water. There was an iron ladder, slimy with seaweed, set into the stone and he had always wanted to climb down it, but was afraid of doing so. In his nostrils there was the tart smell of brine, and his brown jersey stirred slightly in the sea breeze. He looked over at a rock on which a seagull was perched, turning its head from side to side as if it was studying the sea like a human being and thinking deeply.
I must climb down the ladder today, Iain was thinking, but there was no one there but himself and he was frightened of falling into the sea and drowning, for he couldn't swim. Really he shouldn't have been there at all, for it was Sunday, and all the houses were lying in a deep slumber; but he thought that if he actually wasn't doing anything, such as swimming, it would be all right for him to be there. Maybe, he thought, climbing down the ladder might be considered “doing something”, and because he was frightened he thought that might be the case. Perhaps he should leave it till a weekday.
The sun beat on the water, and made it a wide trembling glitter as far as he could see. He noticed that the sea near the land was green, but that further out it became blue. He left the pier and went to the back of it, clambering among the rocks and gazing down into the pools. He was looking for crabs but he couldn't see any. The water in most of the pools was a soupy green, as if it were full of vegetables. He scrambled among the rocks finding here and there old wooden boxes, damp and broken, which had been washed in on the waves, and lots of cardboard which perhaps the sailors threw overboard. Once he found a doll with no head and only one red chubby leg, and another time a decayed seagull which had only a few feathers left. He sat on a rock and looked out at the island which was set in the bay and on which sheep grazed, and wished that he could go over to it, but there was no way of doing so. The island was long and green and beyond it on the far horizon he could see ships sailing.
The silence around him apart from the heaving of the sea was profound. It was the silence of Sunday which was the greatest silence there was, and even when he looked back to the village he could see nothing moving on the road, not a person, not a car. The houses seemed to have withdrawn like crabs into the earth itself. The silence entered his head and sat there as if on a salty rock.
“I am Silence,” it said.
Silence had a small black head like a gull's head.
The sea swayed all round him, sighing gently as if it were sad. Mixed with the smell of brine there was a scent of rank flowers, some of them red, which he saw growing along the top of the shore and above the dry cracked boats.
Iain liked the sea, for it told him stories. It told him of Spanish galleons, and Nelson's ships, and great liners, and little fishing boats. It told him of ships with masts and rigging and boys with buckled shoes. It told him of whales and sharks and herring and mackerel and dogfish and cod. It sang in his head, and it seemed to course through his body as naturally as blood. He liked to watch the waves running to the shore, collapsing, and threading inwards on the sand, as thin as spittle.
He went down to the sand from the pier and felt it hot to his touch. He lay on it looking up at the sky, where the clouds passed slowly by, high and white. As he gazed it seemed as if it was the earth itself that was moving, just as when one looked down into the water from the pier it seemed after a while as if it was the pier that was moving. He felt the heat of the sun on his brow and on his knees and on the part of his throat that was exposed above the jersey. Above him he saw a seagull flying and for a moment he looked directly into its dull eye which knew nothing of humanity.
Under the heat of the sun he felt as if he was going to fall asleep, but at the same time he knew that he should be home soon, for his mother would be waiting for him. How nice it was to be alone and not fighting with his brother, Kenneth. How pleasant it was to be completely alone beside the sea, and feeling the heat of the sun on his body. A wasp buzzed round him and he scratched his head.
The sea was singing its song in his head. It was filling it with all sorts of stories, chests with treasure in them, pirates in black coats, skull and crossbones flying bravely in the slight breeze. The pirates were waving cutlasses which flashed like new moons. They swore fearfully below their flags. They were rushing towards him, their swords becoming heavier and heavier and heavier. Then they finally faded away into the darkness.
Iain slept.
When he woke up, the day seemed to have turned slightly dark, and Iain looked around him in fear, for the sea itself had a dark shade running along it like a bruise, as had the grass which was waving in a stronger breeze. The rocks stood out of the water, cold and dark and apparently more distant than they had been before. The island, long and dark, had lost its greenness. Suddenly Iain got to his feet and ran, away from the dry beached boats, from the rocks, from the pier, from the cooling sand, and his feet flashed along a road which too had turned dark.
All the time he was running he didn't see anybody: it was as if there was no one alive in the whole world, as if the silence had become threatening and empty. He pushed open the iron gate at the end of the road and ran faster than ever, though now there was a stitch in his side. He climbed over the grassy wall to the path which lay between the cornfields in which red flowers were growing and whose strong scent he could feel in his nostrils.
His feet seemed to be drumming out the words, Everyone's gone. I am alone. The wetness of the grass seeped into his shoes. He was climbing a brae along the path which had been beaten by the many feet of the villagers, both in time past and in the present, as they had made their way to the well which was hidden, like a cool mouth, among tall grass. He followed the path till he came to the first house, which was silent behind its tangled garden, crouched into the earth. And still he had seen no one, no car, no bicycle. Sunday hung over the whole world: there was even no smoke from any of the houses.
Then off to his left he saw a cow deep in grass. The cow was brown and its head was buried in the grass and its tail was flicking flies away from its body. Suddenly it raised its large heavy head and looked ruminatively at him, with its big stupid eyes. Carefully Iain went up to it and he saw that its eyes were tearful, for the flies were buzzing inside them and about the bony head, humming blackly and busily in the day. The cow gazed helplessly back at him with its large liquid eyes, its tail swishing backwards and forwards like a pendulum. Slowly Iain put out his hand and patted the hard head, while the eyes gazed at him mournfully and sadly.
After a while he turned away, walking slowly to his own house, over the flowers which were growing from the beaten earth, and stepping very carefully between them lest he should kill any of them. He walked across the plank and up the path to his house. He waited a while at the door, for the house was as silent as the others. Then he opened the door and ran into the living room where his mother was sitting in a chair reading the Bible. She turned and looked at him, through her large spectacles which she only wore on Sunday.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
Iain looked at her, at the clock on the mantelpiece, at the bed on one side of the room, at the sideboard with the dishes on it, and said, “I don't know.”
2
O
NE DAY WHEN
Iain was sitting in class looking at Miss Stilton and thinking that she was as thin as a pencil â though he was frightened of her too â he saw a boy wearing his clothes sitting at a desk in front of the teacher. The boy was wearing Iain's own green stockings, green jersey and green woollen shorts. All through the lesson he watched him and he was quite sure that it was his clothes he was wearing, for only his mother made clothes like that. It was very odd seeing someone else in his clothes as if he were looking into a mirror â though the boy, whose name was Dan and who was the son of a tinker, wasn't like Iain at all, for Iain was pale and this boy was short and freckled. Iain was so surprised that even in the middle of the class he would have gone to speak to him if Miss Stilton hadn't been asking them questions. However, they were doing English and Iain knew that Miss Stilton didn't want to be interrupted, especially at English, for she was very keen on spelling and parts of speech. He looked down at his own green clothes and then across at Dan in his dress of reflected green.
Miss Stilton was asking Dan what a noun was and Dan was half standing half sitting in his seat, his mouth opening and shutting. “Don't you know what a noun is, boy?” Miss Stilton repeated, tapping the desk with her pointer. “I thought I told everybody what a noun was. Everybody else knows what a noun is. How do you not know? Do you think I am going to stand here day after day asking you questions about what a noun is when you don't bother to listen to anything that I say? Why do you think I write these things down on a blackboard? Eh? Are you deaf or blind or what?” And she banged the desk with the pointer while the class sat up petrified in their seats.
Dan half sat and half stood awkwardly in his seat, and he looked funny and frightened. Iain gazed at Miss Stilton and thought how he might kill her. First of all he thought of putting her in a pot and having savages dancing round her waving spears. There would be drums beating and there would be feathers shaking and there would be birds of bright tropical colours with big long beaks clacking from the branches. After that he thought he would stretch her on a rack till her legs extended so far that they would go over the horizon. Then he thought he would lay her head on a block and have an executioner with a black mask cut it off.
Dan was very frightened and his freckled face was flushed with nervousness. For some reason there was spittle coming out of his mouth and Iain watched it with fascination. It seemed to him â because of the clothes Dan was wearing â that it was himself who was being attacked by Miss Stilton, though he thought that he wouldn't have allowed spittle to spoil the neatness of his jersey. Miss Stilton banged on the desk again and told Dan to sit down. “Next time,” she said, “you will know what a noun is or I will know the reason why. What is a noun?” she asked the class and they all chorused, “A noun is the name of an object, miss.” A jersey was a noun, Iain thought, shorts was a noun, green, however, was an adjective. The desk was a noun, but a desk was also varnished and had a smell. And smell was a noun. Or was it. Was Miss Stilton a noun? The light poured in through the window and showed him clearly the green clothes that he might have been wearing himself.
When the bell went he accosted Dan during the interval, where he was standing beside the tap in the playground. He had a firm intention of asking him where he had got his clothes from, but when he saw him, alone and miserable, he decided that he wouldn't question him at all. Maybe it was a miracle. Maybe they weren't his clothes after all.
“Have you any marbles?” he asked Dan.
Dan looked at him and said that he hadn't. He seemed even more suspicious and distant than usual. Iain thought of giving him some, but decided that he wouldn't, since he had enough of his property already.
“Do you live in a tent?” he asked seriously.
“Yes. What's that to you,” Dan replied, bristling as if he was going to attack him.
“I was only asking. Is it cold?”
“No, it's not.”
“Do you have dogs?”
“Yes.”
“Do you travel all over then?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been to Spain?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been to Czechoslovakia?”
“Yes.”
Iain tried a last thrust. “Have you been to Paraguay?”
“Yes.”
But Iain knew he hadn't been to Paraguay. He might have been to Spain and Czechoslovakia, but not to Paraguay. Paraguay was in South America.
Suddenly Dan said, “I can drink more water than you.” And he bent his head with its carrot-colour hair under the tap and began to drink, letting the water slorp down his throat.
“The water is going on your jersey,” said Iain suddenly. “You're dirtying your jersey.”
“Shut up,” said Dan and pulled away from the tap.
“I can drink more water than you,” said Iain and he also began to drink, feeling that he was being choked by the flood of cold water which poured down his throat. Finally, gasping, he drew his head away, knowing that Dan had won.
“I'll tell you something,” he said,” You haven't as many stamps as me.”
“I don't like stamps,” said Dan. Then Iain noticed that his jersey had been patched at the front and the wool used was a different colour from the rest. It wasn't green at all, it was a dark brown. It was like seeing a field, part of which had been burnt. Also there was a smell coming from Dan, the smell of someone who hasn't had a bath for a long time. Iain tried to imagine what Dan's mother was like. He thought of her as having a brown face like a nut and carrying a string of cans over her shoulder, and sitting by her tent eating turnips and carrots which she had stolen from the fields.
“It's all right,” he said,” You can have one of my stamps. Do you want one?”
“No,” said Dan. “I don't want any of your old stamps. I've got stamps at home.” And he ran away shouting and Iain ran after him.
“Hey,” he said. “Come back, come back. You can have my jersey.” But Dan didn't seem to hear him and he cannoned into Miss Stilton, who was coming round the corner of the old stone building in her black suit.
Iain stopped dead a few feet away while Dan stood staring up at Miss Stilton. A smile came over Miss Stilton's face and it was a beautiful smile, it was a slow lovely smile, and then she said to Dan, “I'll see you in my room after the interval.” And she passed on, still smiling, till she entered the school by the big main door, the pupils making way for her as she walked.
Dan started to cry and Iain went up to him. “I'll tell you what to do,” he said. “I'll take off my scarf and you can put it next to your ⦔ â he hesitated â “bum. ⦠It won't hurt you then.”
“That's no good,” said Dan tearfully, “She hits you on the hand.” Iain had forgotten this, for he read a lot of stories about public schools where a cane was used, and in any case he himself had never been beaten in school.
“I'd forgotten,” he said. “I could go instead of you but she would know me.” He was thinking that perhaps Miss Stilton might not tell them apart in their green clothes. He really had no intention of going in place of Dan but he wanted Dan to think well of him, to consider him a hero.
“That's daft,” said Dan.
Iain shook Dan by the hand very seriously and said, “It won't last. You'll see.” And then without thinking he added, “I'm sorry about the patch.”
“What are you talking about?” said Dan.
“Nothing. Nothing. I hope she dies. I hope she drops dead. And I hope the vultures eat her.”
Iain watched Dan go into Miss Stilton's room after the interval and he was glad that it wasn't him, for in his imagination he could feel her belt with two black thongs bite into his hand. He was glad in a way that it was Dan who had to go, though he didn't dislike him.
When Dan came out of her room, his mouth was twisted in pain, his hands rubbing against his green jersey, Iain's green jersey. Iain ran up to him and said, “I'm sorry. Was it sore?”
“Oh, shut up,” said Dan. “Go away.”
That night Iain told his mother about the green suit and she told him that Dan's mother had come round the houses one day looking for rags and she had given her Iain's old green suit which he had outgrown.
“You shouldn't have,” said Iain. “Tinkers are very ungrateful. They don't care. Anyway I nearly punched him today.”
“Punched him,” said Kenneth, his younger brother, and laughed.
“Well, I nearly did,” said Iain. “He's getting too big for his boots. And he smells. And he tells lies as well.”