Chapter 7
a seachd / seven
Cal was lying on his bed, staring out the window, watching the evening purple and thicken.
It was a bitter comfort to hear his father singing in the kitchen below, practising his psalms for the morning service.
At the end of each line John left a pause for the congregation to respond and Cal sang quietly to himself, adding a melismatic refrain of oooh-ooooh-oooh or yeah, bay-be, yeaah.
There were star-shaped stickers on the ceiling.
They began to glow in the dusk. He often forgot that his mother had stuck them there until this point in the evening when day tipped into night.
They tried their hardest, but they never seemed to gather enough sunlight to shine.
He was imagining covering his naked body with them, going downstairs, and standing before Ella’s sunbed, when there was a knock on his door.
He switched on his lamp. “Jacob Marley, is that you?”
John was wrapped in iron chains. They criss-crossed his body several times and as he started to uncoil them, he let them rattle to the floor.
“I was headed out before I realised you were here.” He spoke to Cal in English because Ella wasn’t home.
“I thought the Sabbath chains could be your job. You could use the fresh air.”
“But there are hardly any children left.”
“And what if a car full of tourists pulls up? It’s better taken care of all the same.
” John placed the padlock on Cal’s desk.
He ran his finger along the chipped edge.
“There’s fresh emulsion in the shed. I could help you strip and paint this desk.
” He picked up and set down several books.
Cal watched him gather some loose pencils and return them to their pot.
There were two long shelves where Cal had laid out the hundreds of tellins and molluscs he had found on the shore.
The shells came in a limited range of natural colours, mostly bone or scrimshaw, gradating to a weak watery blue, or a soft ear-lobey pink.
He had organised them by shade, taking meticulous care to arrange the things from lightest to darkest, even though the distinction was often something only he could see.
John studied the long gradation of blushing Venus clams. He pulled the second from last and switched it with the very last. “You have a blindness when it comes to warm neutrals.” He inspected the corner of a River Phoenix poster that had come loose.
As he peered at it, his mouth grew tight but he pushed the tack back into the plaster.
“You better come to church tomorrow. You’ve been home for two weeks now.
Everyone was asking for you last week. I won’t keep making excuses. ”
“I’ll come.”
“Then you’ll need to sort your hair.”
“I’ll slick it back. When it’s wet it looks dark enough.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Tomorrow’s the third Sunday. Reverend Rose will be here.”
“He won’t care. It’s only hair.”
“You look like a woman. And an ugly woman at that. And why are you suddenly pretending like you don’t know the scripture?
” The way Cal negotiated with the Word irritated John.
He wanted facts to compromise as though they were subject to his feelings.
If he didn’t like a thing, he would keep circling until he found a way to test the cracks.
Cal moved to gather his tattered 501s from the floor, but John stepped forwards and snatched them away. “Are you out to embarrass me?” Cal grasped for the jeans, but John held them out of his reach.
“Everyone wears denims, Dad.”
“Denims, yes. But not these, these . . . skinhead things, where anyone can see the outline of your privates and half your arse is hanging out the back.” The men stared at each other.
Cal knew his father could stand like this till the end of all time.
Cursing to himself, he rifled through the drawers and pulled on a pair of balding corduroys.
Then he reached for his holey Converse, but John kicked the shoes under the bed.
“Let’s have the whole fight now. I never did like how women could draw a thing out. ”
Cal got on all fours and searched beneath his bed for the kicked trainers.
“You’ll have people thinking we can’t afford shoes.”
“We can’t.”
John tore into the denims. The cloth made a terrible ripping sound and Cal stopped his searching. He sat back upon his haunches and stared at his father in shock.
“And see by the time the sun hits that hillside, I expect your hair to be as short and neat as mine. Is that clear?”
His father had waited for Ella’s absence and Cal could tell he was beyond bargaining. He would only be provoked by further back-talk. When challenged, his mind became a tin gutter: everything funnelled into it until it poured out only one way: his way, and they would all be swept along.
“You’ve been made soft by the mainland.” John tossed the denims into the corner. “I expect you met some Catholics. You might have even liked them.”
He could no longer look his father in the eye and he felt angry about that. He nodded at the River Phoenix poster. “I don’t want to cut my hair. It’s how they wear it in Glasgow.”
“It’s womanly.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Thankfully the Bible is not interested in what you think.”
John removed the poster with a neat little tug. He laid it face down on the desk.
Cal wound the chain around himself, it was heavier than his father had made it look.
He rattled like some gaoler through the gloaming.
He had to stop every so often to adjust the weight and rub at the welts on his shoulder.
The leather boots were well worn-in, but his feet had forgotten the memory of them.
The left boot rubbed the skin from his softened heel and he was limping by the time he reached the slipway.
The small playground sat next to the inn.
Flash had installed it in the eighties, thinking it would draw more families to visit.
There were two swings on a creaking frame.
The plastic seats, which were once a vibrant fire-engine red, were now cracked and faded to a soapy pink.
Next to the swing set was a rusted roundabout.
Cal spun on it in the dark, slowly at first, then pumping faster and faster.
The sea air felt good in his hair. He leant back and for a moment he felt like he was elsewhere.
But as the roundabout sped up, it started screaming for oil and mercy and he fell from it, and struggled to stop its terrible screeching.
He was ashamed of the Sabbath chains. They had been mentioned on a BBC news programme and ever since the mainlanders had latched onto them as a symbol of Presbyterian dourness.
The other students had seen the programme and had mocked him for it.
He could argue all he wanted about working the land, about the relief of slowing down for one single day, but all they heard was that the Wee Frees didn’t like the sound of children’s laughter.
He was certain they were one of the last parishes to use them and he wished he could talk to his father about that.
But he had once asked him why they worried so much about the Sabbath and John had said that to ignore the Fourth Commandment was to do away with the Word of God, and if you were to do that, then you might as well ignore the Sixth and kill whomever you pleased.
So, he fastened the swings to their own frame. Then he threaded the chain around the small roundabout and secured it to the hawser cleat the elders had embedded in the concrete.
The next morning, as Cal came down the stairs, he could tell instantly that John was in a thrawn mood. His father ran his eyes over him in grim appraisal. “I was clear about my expectations.”
“Wait. I can close it.” Cal exhaled fully as he tried to button his blazer.
He had outgrown the tweed suit. The collar chafed his neck and if he bent to tie his shoes, he feared the trousers would split.
When he put his face to the sleeve it had the dank, mildewy smell of forgotten cupboards.
The compact weave had exhausted the most industrious moth and as he picked a gummy cocoon from the seams, he was impressed that the cloth had lasted despite his years of neglect.
“That’s not what I mean. And you know it! I told you to cut your hair.”
“And I told you I had no intention of doing so.”
John was standing by the front door with his Bible clutched to his chest. He looked dignified in his Sabbath suit.
In another life he could have been a banker, an industrialist, a politician.
He picked up the brass shears from the sideboard and held them out to Cal.
That the weaving shears were by the front door told Cal that John had been expecting his disobedience.
It was clear he had been preparing for this fight.
“Fine,” said Cal. “Then I won’t go to church.” As soon as he said it, he was surprised to feel disappointed. He had no real desire to go, but after two weeks in the house he wanted a change of scenery. He wanted a glimpse of Doll.
“You will go!” spat John. “We have darkness in our hearts. We need the searchlight of scripture.” John stepped towards him.
The shears spun in his hand and, with his elbow raised, he thrust them at Cal.
It seemed for a moment like he might stab him in the heart, but at the very last second, he twisted his wrist and slammed his fist against Cal’s chest. He pressed the scissors upon his son with such force that Cal staggered a little.
They were designed for thick fabric, sharp enough to slice ten thousand threads with a flick of the wrist. They had never seemed so violent before. “I wish you cared less about what our neighbours thought.”