Page 60 of A Fire in Their Hearts

A LARGE SHIP HAS BEEN SIGHTED and is expected at Stromness later this morning, so I’ve come to my favourite spot on a low wall to draw the vessel once it’s docked.

The weather is unusually fine for October and it’s pleasant to sit watching the frantic activity around the harbour; men loading and unloading cargoes, people arriving and departing, families and friends waving, crying and hugging whether those they know are coming or going.

Orkney is famous for supplying sailors and they travel the world, their experience greatly valued by captains of all types of vessel. I suspect that several families waiting on the quayside are related to sailors on board the new ship.

‘Don’t forget dinner this evening, Samuel.’

‘I won’t, Alasdair,’ I call back to the passing figure. ‘I haven’t eaten for days in anticipation!’

The invitation is from one of the wealthy ship owners who has an impressive house on the hill. I’ve been successful with paintings of ships, which owners and captains are willing to pay handsomely for, while crews are often keen to purchase a sketch of the vessel on which they’ve sailed.

Sometimes individuals ask for a likeness of themselves and in a few minutes I can create something that gives them a small degree of happiness.

People would willingly buy these drawings but in memory of the Reverend Sinclair’s late wife Anne, I never charge.

I’ve probably sketched half the population of Stromness, and because of this I’m a guest in a humble dwelling as often as I am in some grand house.

I consider it a privilege to sit and chat about life to the occupants in either.

So far the new ship has remained hidden from view to anyone at the harbour by the island of Hoy and I’ll have to wait until it’s quite close before I get my first glimpse of it.

***

Young Drummond was true to his word and my passage from Barbados has been uneventful.

The money I spent in Bridgetown made little impact on the amount he had handed over and there’s sufficient to let me travel wherever I want, with plenty left over to live on.

But where? Covenanters are no longer hunted so I’m free to go anywhere in a world where there is no obvious destination.

I forgave Hamish long ago. One of the government’s aims with its King’s Peace, the various Indulgences and the other oaths of loyalty to the monarch was to split up those involved in the Covenanter cause. They could hardly have been more successful than with us.

I hope Hamish has found it within him to have forgiven me.

He’ll most likely be in Coylton. Who knows, perhaps my mother still lives, and then there’s Calum’s son as well?

Yet despite all this I don’t intend to return.

I would be such a strange figure in Coylton that it can hardly be considered home any more.

Better to live out my life in some quiet place where no one knows me.

***

The ship is new to me and as it appears around the headland I begin capturing details that I will want later, as the owner has already commissioned a painting.

When it’s finally docked and the gangplank run out, I stop what I’m doing to watch people coming ashore.

First off are the young, single men, their wide variety of clothing indicating their wide variety of status and wealth.

They’re followed by the older men, then families and finally the first of the sailors unloading produce.

I’ve assumed that everyone has come ashore and am just about to return to my task when an old woman walks into view and stands near the top of the gangplank.

Even at this distance there is an extraordinary aura about her that captivates me.

I sense, rather than see, an echo of beauty.

It’s so faint, like words that are impossible to discern yet you know they were once spoken clearly and strong.

But her face! Here is someone who has known pain and horror and sadness beyond the measure of even the poorest of wretches I’ve encountered over the decades.

There is also wisdom and kindness and .?.

. greatness; a woman who has done great deeds in her life.

I can’t explain why I’m so sure of it. Quickly, I turn to a clean sheet.

***

My senses are so confounded by the sights, smells and sounds around the harbour that I’m utterly confused and stand on the ship, hesitating to put a foot on the wooden gangplank that will take me on to land as a free woman for the first time in ten years.

It’s hardly more than a dozen steps, yet they feel so incredibly difficult to make, so momentous, that I’m rooted to the spot.

In front of me people hug and laugh, men slap each other’s backs and loudly welcome home a brother or son.

How can I walk into this world knowing what I know .

.?. having seen what I’ve seen .?.?. the terrible things I’ve done?

There are memories that will haunt me until I die.

Yet they’re my memories and no one else’s.

I haven’t travelled this long journey to falter now.

There is a pause in the sailors going backwards and forwards.

I take a deep breath and put a hand on the rope railing.

***

I’m surprised at how stooped the woman is.

Standing like a statue on the ship, there was an elegance about her, but upon moving, she is bent over, hanging on to the handrail as if fearing she will fall at any moment.

She looks and moves like someone who has seen too many harsh winters, though I sense she is not so old but rather .

.?. beaten. Any joy or hope have been sucked out of her to leave only an impression of the woman she was.

I try desperately to catch on paper what I see and sense. I’ve never felt such an intense need to capture an image since those days when I used to draw Violet.

***

I’ve walked several yards along the quayside when the world around me fades in an instant.

The years have been kind to Samuel. His beautiful hair is perhaps not so strikingly ginger, but it’s thick and well-groomed and he has the appearance of a much younger man, his passion and enthusiasm for his art obvious to all those around him.

How well I know those quick movements of his hand as he sketches a scene or figure that inspires him.

I stare, not far away .?.?. near enough to call out his name.

He looks up. Our eyes lock for a brief moment – for such a brief moment – then he is once more drawing.

If I had believed that my heart was so broken into tiny pieces that it could never again feel emotion, I was wrong.

It beats livelier within my chest than I have known for many years.

For all that he studies me with his keen artist’s eye, he doesn’t recognise me. How could he? There’s nothing left of the woman he once loved; not in body, spirit, faith .?.?. not in anything.

He glances over, sees I am watching him, and continues with even greater urgency, hoping to finish before his subject moves on.

It would be a cruel act to reveal myself, cruel to both of us, for I couldn’t bear for him to know what I’ve become.

Let him continue to believe his Violet, who had fought and loved and lived with such zeal, died long ago still the person he knew.

There is nothing I can offer. The truth is that I love him but cannot give him what he needs.

Judging by his expensive jacket and waistcoat, Samuel has prospered.

He seems content, sitting on his wall amongst so many interesting potential subjects.

People call out friendly greetings to him as they pass and he is so lost in his task that he is totally unaware of them. I recall that expression of his well.

I stand a while longer. He continues, glancing up, glancing down. I will let him have his picture. Perhaps he’ll look at it now and again and wonder about the strange figure on the quayside. I hope he never realises. And I will remember how he made my heart beat once more.

Finally, I turn away from my past and the man I’ve loved since we were children. I’m grateful, for I’ll take with me the knowledge that he is well and that my heart is not so broken it cannot feel love .?.?. and if there is love, there is hope.

I will return to Coylton. I’ll climb the hill and lie in the hollow where Samuel drew me so often, and maybe I’ll search for the girl who was so free and bold and passionate. Perhaps she’s still there .?.?. somewhere.

***

I watch the old woman walk slowly past the moored vessels, stopping often to speak to a sailor as if seeking another ship to continue her journey. Following the last conversation, she walks across a nearby gangplank and disappears from view.

It’s only then that I look down at the sketch and gasp, as if I’ve not been aware of what I’ve been drawing. It’s the most extraordinary face I’ve ever recorded and I’m captivated by what’s been created.

‘You will be framed and hung by the fireplace, next to the only woman I have ever loved.’

The picture is so alive I almost expect an answer. Carefully, I place the paper between other sheets to keep it safe and, reluctantly, take out once more the sketches of the ship and begin to fill in more detail of the rigging.