A Rope--In Case by Lillian Beckwith

him?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Well, then, I doubt he thinks he’s made a bargain with you.’ Erchy slapped on more tar.
    â€˜I certainly didn’t say anything about buying his boat,’ I said anxiously. ‘I can’t possibly afford it yet.’
    Erchy carefully placed the can of tar on the fire. ‘An’ supposin’ you could afford a boat yon’s no good to you. Not if you’ve any sense,’ he confided. I waited for enlightenment. ‘He got that boat at the beginnin’ of last year an’ then he went away to a job an’ he just left her there on the beach without nothin’ so much as done to her at all.’ There was strong disapproval in his voice and expression. ‘This year when he tried to put her in the sea she was just like a colander. The only reason he thinks it right to try an’ sell her to you is because he knows you can swim.’
    â€˜Well, thanks for telling me,’ I said, realising that the decision to warn me and thus betray his friend must for him have been a much considered one. ‘I’ll remember to be careful what I say next time he comes to try to buy a hive of bees.’
    â€˜You’ll no say I told you.’ It was a statement, not a question, and he needed no reply. He dipped the brush into the can and then held it poised so that a line of black scribbled itself over the stones. ‘I don’t see him ever sellin’ the boat hereabouts,’ he said. ‘The only way he’s likely to get rid of her is by puttin’ her in the papers.’
    The sea was calm; the tide was well out and I picked my way down to the shore and waded into the shallow water, intent on collecting carragheen moss to dry in preparation for making jellies and puddings. The moss grew on craggy sea-washed boulders which were exposed only at low tides and the more inaccessible the boulder the more nutritious the moss was considered to be. It was a congenial task for a perfect day. The sea washed languidly around my gumbooted feet; the smell of the barnacle-stippled tangle was fresh and strong. Convinced that I could feel the beneficial effect of every lungful I practised taking long deep breaths while I wrenched handfuls of moss from the abrasive rocks. When my bag was full I bent to dip my bleeding knuckles in the sea. The water was crystal clear and I could see the long thick stems of sea-wrack genuflecting with the lazy surge of the tide. Deeper down grew the secret jungle of other weeds in which no doubt all specimens of sea life awaited their prey. There would be lobsters, I knew, and crabs and perhaps a conger eel threading its sinuous way. I recalled the piece of chart from an echo-sounder which Angus, the fisherman, had once brought me and which stayed pinned to my kitchen wall for many weeks. The tints of the chart varied according to the atmosphere from a dark sepia to a paleness that left the outlines scarcely distinguishable, but on its sepia days it revealed the, to me unsuspected, peaks and valleys that make up the sea bed. It had never struck me until then that the sea conceals a land as rugged as the land we see. Angus had pointed out small smudges of sepia and interpreted them as shoals of fish. One shape of smudge showed the herring they were seeking; another showed a shoal of mackerel which was of little commercial value; yet another he distinguished as being ‘horse mackerel’—a fish they cursed not just because of its unsaleability but because its sharp fins made it difficult to shake out of the net. Eventually the piece of chart had faded permanently but while it was there it had proved as much a source of interest to my town friends as if it had been an expensively acquired painting.
    I looked up as I heard a faint quacking and saw a proud shelduck appear leading her newly hatched family on an exploratory tour among the rocks. The drake followed and was the first to discern my presence. With