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