Suddenly the girl looked at the clock and said, ‘Can I go now, Mother? I’ve got to catch the bus.’
‘What’s this?’ said her grandfather and at that moment as he raised his head, slightly bristling, John was reminded of their father.
‘She wants to go to a dance,’ said her mother.
‘All the other girls are going,’ said the girl in a pleading, slightly hysterical voice.
‘Eat your food,’ said her grandfather, ‘and we’ll see.’ She ate the remainder of her food rapidly and then said, ‘Can I go now?’
‘All right,’ said her mother, ‘but mind you’re back early or you’ll find the door shut.’
The girl hurriedly rose from the table and went into the living room. She came back after a while with a handbag slung over her shoulder and carrying a transistor.
‘Goodbye, Grandfather John,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She went out and they could hear her brisk steps crackling on the gravel outside.
When they had finished eating Malcolm stood up and said, ‘I promised Hugh I would help him repair his bike.’
‘Back here early then,’ said his mother again. He stood hesitating at the door for a moment and then went out, without saying anything.
‘That’s manners for you,’ said Murdo. ‘Mind you, he’s very good with his hands. He repaired the tractor once.’
‘I’m sure,’ said John.
They ate in silence. When they were finished he and his brother went to sit in the living room which had the sun on it. They sat opposite each other in easy chairs. Murdo took out a pipe and began to light it. John suddenly felt that the room and the house were both very empty. He could hear quite clearly the ticking of the clock which stood on the mantelpiece between two cheap ornaments which looked as if they had been won at a fair.
Above the mantelpiece was a picture of his father, sitting very upright in a tall narrow chair, his long beard trailing in front of him. For some reason he remembered the night his brother, home from the war on leave, had come in late at night, drunk. His father had waited up for him and there had been a quarrel during which his brother had thrown the Bible at his father calling him a German bastard.
The clock ticked on. His brother during a pause in the conversation took up a Farmers’ Weekly and put on a pair of glasses. In a short while he had fallen asleep behind the paper, his mouth opening like that of a stranded fish. Presumably that was all he read. His weekly letters were short and repetitive and apologetic.
John sat in the chair listening to the ticking of the clock which seemed to grow louder and louder. He felt strange again as if he were in the wrong house. The room itself was so clean and modern with the electric fire and the TV set in the corner. There was no air of history or antiquity about it. In a corner of the room he noticed a guitar which presumably belonged to the grandson. He remembered the nights he and his companions would dance to the music of the melodeon at the end of the road. He also remembered the playing of the bagpipes by his brother.
Nothing seemed right. He felt as if at an angle to the world he had once known. He wondered why he had come back after all those years. Was he after all like those people who believed in the innocence and unchangeability of the heart and vibrated to the music of nostalgia? Did he expect a Garden of Eden where the apple had not been eaten? Should he stay or go back? But then there was little where he had come from. Mary was dead. He was retired from his editorship of the newspaper. What did it all mean? He remembered the night he had left home many years before. What had he been expecting then? What cargo was he bearing with him? And what did his return signify? He didn’t know. But he would have to find out. It was necessary to find out. For some reason just before he closed his eyes he saw in the front of him again the cloud of midges he had seen not an hour before, rising and falling above the fence, moving on their unpredictable ways. Then he fell asleep.
4
The following day which was again fine he left the house and went down to a headland which overlooked the sea. He sat there for a long time on the grass, feeling calm and relaxed. The waves came in and went out, and he was reminded of the Gaelic song The Eternal Sound of the Sea which he used to sing when he was young. The water seemed to stretch westward into eternity and he could see nothing on it except the light of the sun. Clamped against the rocks below were the miniature helmets of the mussels and the whelks. He remembered how he used to boil the whelks in a pot and fish the meat out of them with a pin. He realised as he sat there that one of the things he had been missing for years was the sound of the sea. It was part of his consciousness. He should always live near the sea.
On the way back he saw the skull of a sheep, and he looked at it for a long time before he began his visits. Whenever anyone came home he had to visit every house, or people would be offended. And he would have to remember everybody, though many people in those houses were now dead.
He walked slowly along the street, feeling as if he were being watched from behind curtained windows. He saw a woman standing at a gate. She was a stout large woman and she was looking at him curiously. She said, ‘It’s a fine day.’ He said, ‘Yes.’
She came towards him and he saw
