by Rebecca Philp

The ship cast off, Hugh stood on the dock watching the space between the ship and the dock widen. He kept waving as the figures of his son and family grew smaller, until he couldn't make out the difference from the others at the crowded rails. He had clasped them in his arms for the last time. So hard to let go the touch of the wee one's hands.

He sat on a bollard not really believing they were gone from him, 'By heavens, it was a gey sair ca' this yin.'

He wouldn't think about it for a wee while, he'd just sit here and mind the good times till he felt able to thole all of them emigrating.

About when his wife Isobel was alive and the birth of their son. Work on the croft, their wee but and ben. The harmony of their marriage; Hugh used to call Isobel Bluebell after the colour of her eyes. My, but she had been a bonnie lassie.

When they were winchin they used to go a daunner up the brae among the heather and broom. Sit and make their plans, wait for stars and dream their dreams.

The ceilidhs they had, aw the auld stories and songs, the reels. Young yins liked the jiggin; auld yins, the stories of ancient times handed down from generation to generation. Aw the weans quiet as they listened till heavy lids drooped and they were cairried ben the room. The glow and smell of peat fires, the drams; music from fiddles and accordions. Faces bright, hands clappin, feet tappin, great nights.

Hugh thought about the place he belonged for a long time. How the sea ran into the loch and the salmon ran in with the tide. The great leaps, shinin drops fallin from flashin tails; the loch in places a turmoil of fish.

He saw them on the rocky bed flickin their tails to cover the spawn and lyin spent. Some days the loch was bright and shinin, other days, dreich and glowerin.

Rock-strewn hills grew higher and craggier until they changed to remote jagged peaks, lonely and windswept; nothin growin but lichen clingin to the crannies. The majestic summits lost in mysterious grey clouds. Hugh felt small and insignificant beside the grandeur and bulk of them.

It was a harsh wild land, ah but it was braw wi' its purple hills and glens, clear runnin burns like silver. Worn paths aw through the place, forests dark green, the smell of firs borne on the wind. The moors were braw tae in their ain wey; they gave you peat if you ca'ed canny at the bogs.

The hills held you to their bosom and never let you go.

Folk aye said the Scots were an ower prood race. To Hugh, it was jist a kind of possessive, fierce lovin.

The gloamin had come and gone and there was a haar on the way, 'By here, Ah'd better get a move on soon.'

He was cauld, a big cuppy tea wid be awfie guid. Every bit of him was wearied, but his mind hoachin. His family had stepped off the face of the earth and disappeared. Hugh prayed, feart to feel any more.

The old man got up stiffly, fair cramped wi no movin and turned his back to the empty sea,

'Aye aye, rain on the wind.'

Moisture on his face, he started to walk.

© Rebecca Philp

Rebecca Philp is a member of Lanark Writers