A Rope--In Case by Lillian Beckwith Page B

my scramble along the shore in search of whatever treasure I should be lucky enough to find.
    The island beaches were a repository for every kind of flotsam and jetsam and there were few crofters who did not make a point of roaming the shores several times a week retrieving wood or other objects, some of whose legitimate use they were completely ignorant but which were salvaged because they might be of some conceivable use in the future. Every croft had its hoard and even if an object was not considered worth carrying home it was at least dragged up above high tide in case it should be needed at some time. And how often it was needed! Apart from firewood we found iron bolts and shackles and chains; hinges and odd pieces of metal which even if you had had access to a store you would have found it impossible to buy. We found drums of kapok with which we stuffed cushions and quilts; brushes and brooms; lengths of rope; tins of grease and drums of petroleum jelly. There were pieces of cork of every size and shape; oars and boathooks; enormous hatch-covers and pit-props for building; crates and boxes of every description. We found coir fenders which, if one could resist the importunings of the boat owners, made excellent pouffes, and the children had firework celebrations whenever bundles of cordite and smoke floats were washed ashore.
    I gathered a good bundle of wood, roped it on my back and was about to make for home when I saw an interesting looking object a little further along the shore. Going to investigate I found it to be the washed-up carcase of a young stag. There was no visible sign of injury and I stood pondering how it had got into the sea in the first place. I heard a shout behind me. Yawn came hurrying up. He turned the beast over with his foot and we saw then the great sea-washed gash in its throat.
    â€˜My, my, but that’s a fine beast you have there.’ His tone sounded congratulatory. ‘A fine beast indeed,’ he repeated, ‘an’ not more than a few hours in the water at that.’
    â€˜How would it have got there?’ I asked him.
    â€˜Ach, fightin’, I’m thinkin’.’ He nodded in the direction of the largest of the outlying islands. ‘There’s that many of them over there an’ they get to fightin’.’ He butted his head towards me in imitation of an angry stag. ‘This one must have got the worst of it an’ gone away back till it was over the cliff an’ into the sea,’ he explained. He bent down, examining the carcase more closely and then he looked up at me.
    â€˜You’ll not get it home like this,’ he said. ‘I’d best skin it for you.’ I murmured a doubtful ‘Yes, please,’ and let myself think of the uses of deer skin. He whipped out his knife and made a long slit in the belly. I turned away seaward as his hands plunged inside and detached the guts. There was a splash as the guts landed in the sea in front of me and I recoiled again.
    â€˜A fine beast,’ Yawn mumbled again. I watched his deft handling of the knife as it slid under the skin. When he had finished he threw the skin towards me. ‘Just you wash that in the sea an’ then you can dry it afterwards.’ I did as I was told and when I turned from my task I saw that the head of the beast was off and he was already beginning to joint it.
    â€˜You’ll not be needin’ the butcher for a week or two at this rate,’ he complimented me.
    I felt my mouth drop open.
    â€˜But Yawn,’ I protested. ‘It’s not fit for eating, is it?’
    â€˜Not for a day or two,’ he replied equably. ‘You’ll need to hang it for a wee whiley an’ then it will be ready.’ He glanced up, saw my expression and misinterpreting it hastened to add: ‘I’m tellin’ you, its a young beast so it’ll not need much hanging. You could cook it maybe the day after tomorrow.’
    â€˜But