Mackerel Kippers
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Family crises always seem to happen while an old crofter and his wife are doing the mundane task of kippering fish.
_____________________________________________________________________
You can only kipper mackerel about one year in five. By the time the fish arrive in August the weather has become a bit chancy. Given a few days of hot sunshine, the fish will kipper in their own oil. This year looks very promising so Angus took the boat to the mouth of the Ob yesterday afternoon from where he could go out in the gloaming just before the tide turned.
The herring fry started swarming in as soon as the tide began making, followed by the mackerel so filled with the feeding lust that they almost threw themselves onto the hooks. Angus only uses the short ‘murdered’ of six large galvanised hooks adorned with gaudily dyed feathers.
In the evening stillness you can hear the tails of the mackerel slapping the surface as they follow the swarming fry – it sounds like applause. The shoal was so dense that the six hooks were loaded with fish before the line reached the seabed. Before eleven, Angus was back with about a hundred and fifty mackerel.
I went down to help him land the fish and wash the dinghy clear of slimy scales. We loaded them into an old tub and barrowed up to the byre, leaving every gull for miles around yelling angrily and squabbling over the leavings. It was after midnight before we went up to bed and by that time the foreshore was washed clean by the tide and the gulls had gone, more quietly than they arrived!
Today dawned bright and sunny and Angus and I were up at five to get on with the kippering. The truth is that I did not sleep a wink and Angus tossed and turned the whole night. We are not great talkers in the morning at the best of times and today we could not exchange a word. I made brose but there was such a leaden weight of worry in my stomach that I could only eat a mouthful. Angus managed about half of his before he put his spoon down with a great sigh.
He reached for his cap and went outside to let the dogs out. By the time I had washed up the few dishes and fed the hens, he had the fishing net set up to keep the gulls off and had set up the trestle we use for kippering. I fetched the coarse pepper and the old fruit knife we used then we set to work side-by-side. We still did not speak and I could only keep my anxiety in check by avoiding even glancing at Angus’ worried face.
It is the oddest thing, but every crisis in our family, good or bad, seems to coincide with kippering mackerel. The first time was a happy event. Angus and me were standing much as we are today with the fish oil and scales covering our hands to the wrists beside the bucket where we tossed the heads and offal. We were probably not speaking much that day either, but without the underlying tension of this morning.
Our daughter, Morag, who had just finished her nursing training, arrived in a decrepit sports car driven by James, her long-term boyfriend. They had been at a party the night before when, at about two in the morning, James got down on one knee and proposed. As soon as she accepted, the daft pair got into the car and drove up the hundred and fifty miles to tell us the news.
That was a good day. What a laugh we had at James trying his hand at preparing the fish. A town man born and bred he was the willing butt of our jokes. The mackerel have to be split along the back, cleaned and then linked together by making a small hole in the tail of one fish and pushing another tail through it. We stopped James splitting the fish after he narrowly missed taking his thumb off. Even making a hole was beyond him so we finished up with about fifteen mackerel with badly mutilated stumps.
James proved his worth by building a frame and fixing up the old fishing net to keep off the birds. We are still using the frame he made that first day. Morag was in charge of applying the pepper. Liberally applied it keeps the flies off: Morag, as always, was just a wee bit too liberal and finished the day with her nose cherry red and her eyes streaming. I never remember a day when we laughed so much. Angus, who can be a thrawn old devil, took to James and they have been like father and son ever since.
The second family crisis at a kippering was very tense. Like today, Angus and I went about our work in silence: there was too much to say so we said nothing at all. James had called us at midnight after taking Morag to the maternity unit. I packed our bags and Angus fiddled about checking the tyres and the windscreen washers while we waited for James to give the word for us to come down.
As soon as it was light we started on the fish, tying and peppering without even looking at our hands. Unlike today, we looked at each other from time to time; I would give a wee smile and Angus would give me a nod. That day ended wonderfully with a phone call announcing the arrival of Iain Angus weighing just over nine pounds and, like his mother, fit and healthy.
Then there was the afternoon when we had finished kippering and were getting in each other’s way as we tidied up. James, Morag and the two kids arrived totally unexpectedly in their new Range Rover. Iain and Sheila were very excited and jumped out the car to tell us all its wonderful features. James got out quietly and took the children down to the shore leaving Morag still sitting in the passenger seat. She got out as we approached the car. Flung one arm around her father’s neck and the other round mine then dissolved in floods of tears.
“It’s the Big C, Mum,” she spluttered through her sobs.
My heart sank so I could not get a breath and Angus staggered back with his hands over his face,
“I have a lump on my left breast.”
“Oh, but it may not be, you know, the C word?”
“We got the result of the biopsy this morning, Mum, There is no doubt.”
Angus was rocking back and forward with his hands still covering his face although they could not hide his sobs.
“Pull yourself together, man, and go and help James with these poor wee bairns. They’re the ones you should be feeling sorry for!”
Good man that he is, he went off like a lamb, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He and James between them told the children. It was a more subdued pair of youngsters that left an hour later. They had to go so that the treatment could start at once.
We had so much to learn about mastectomy, lumpectomy, chemotherapy and radiation but Angus bought us a wee laptop computer so we were able to look everything up without bothering Morag and James.
She was amazing: more often than not she was the one who was comforting and reassuring the rest of us
James was her rock. He saw her when she was at her lowest points: he held her when she was wretchedly ill from the treatment; he kept her hoping when she was despairing; he motivated her in the darkest days when she was ready to give up the fight and accept death.
Yesterday Morag went through a battery of tests and at two–thirty today she and James would get the results from her consultant.
So while we waited, Angus and I saw through another family crisis gutting and preparing mackerel for kippering. We were working side by side in silence, the same loving, caring supportive silence that has seen us through the good days and the bad for more than fifty years with our mobile phone on the bench between us.
When the phone rang his face drained of colour and he gestured for me to answer it. I took a deep breath and let it ring once more before I picked it up. I would know the answer just from the tone of voice.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Family crises always seem to happen while an old crofter and his wife are doing the mundane task of kippering fish.
_____________________________________________________________________
You can only kipper mackerel about one year in five. By the time the fish arrive in August the weather has become a bit chancy. Given a few days of hot sunshine, the fish will kipper in their own oil. This year looks very promising so Angus took the boat to the mouth of the Ob yesterday afternoon from where he could go out in the gloaming just before the tide turned.
The herring fry started swarming in as soon as the tide began making, followed by the mackerel so filled with the feeding lust that they almost threw themselves onto the hooks. Angus only uses the short ‘murdered’ of six large galvanised hooks adorned with gaudily dyed feathers.
In the evening stillness you can hear the tails of the mackerel slapping the surface as they follow the swarming fry – it sounds like applause. The shoal was so dense that the six hooks were loaded with fish before the line reached the seabed. Before eleven, Angus was back with about a hundred and fifty mackerel.
I went down to help him land the fish and wash the dinghy clear of slimy scales. We loaded them into an old tub and barrowed up to the byre, leaving every gull for miles around yelling angrily and squabbling over the leavings. It was after midnight before we went up to bed and by that time the foreshore was washed clean by the tide and the gulls had gone, more quietly than they arrived!
Today dawned bright and sunny and Angus and I were up at five to get on with the kippering. The truth is that I did not sleep a wink and Angus tossed and turned the whole night. We are not great talkers in the morning at the best of times and today we could not exchange a word. I made brose but there was such a leaden weight of worry in my stomach that I could only eat a mouthful. Angus managed about half of his before he put his spoon down with a great sigh.
He reached for his cap and went outside to let the dogs out. By the time I had washed up the few dishes and fed the hens, he had the fishing net set up to keep the gulls off and had set up the trestle we use for kippering. I fetched the coarse pepper and the old fruit knife we used then we set to work side-by-side. We still did not speak and I could only keep my anxiety in check by avoiding even glancing at Angus’ worried face.
It is the oddest thing, but every crisis in our family, good or bad, seems to coincide with kippering mackerel. The first time was a happy event. Angus and me were standing much as we are today with the fish oil and scales covering our hands to the wrists beside the bucket where we tossed the heads and offal. We were probably not speaking much that day either, but without the underlying tension of this morning.
Our daughter, Morag, who had just finished her nursing training, arrived in a decrepit sports car driven by James, her long-term boyfriend. They had been at a party the night before when, at about two in the morning, James got down on one knee and proposed. As soon as she accepted, the daft pair got into the car and drove up the hundred and fifty miles to tell us the news.
That was a good day. What a laugh we had at James trying his hand at preparing the fish. A town man born and bred he was the willing butt of our jokes. The mackerel have to be split along the back, cleaned and then linked together by making a small hole in the tail of one fish and pushing another tail through it. We stopped James splitting the fish after he narrowly missed taking his thumb off. Even making a hole was beyond him so we finished up with about fifteen mackerel with badly mutilated stumps.
James proved his worth by building a frame and fixing up the old fishing net to keep off the birds. We are still using the frame he made that first day. Morag was in charge of applying the pepper. Liberally applied it keeps the flies off: Morag, as always, was just a wee bit too liberal and finished the day with her nose cherry red and her eyes streaming. I never remember a day when we laughed so much. Angus, who can be a thrawn old devil, took to James and they have been like father and son ever since.
The second family crisis at a kippering was very tense. Like today, Angus and I went about our work in silence: there was too much to say so we said nothing at all. James had called us at midnight after taking Morag to the maternity unit. I packed our bags and Angus fiddled about checking the tyres and the windscreen washers while we waited for James to give the word for us to come down.
As soon as it was light we started on the fish, tying and peppering without even looking at our hands. Unlike today, we looked at each other from time to time; I would give a wee smile and Angus would give me a nod. That day ended wonderfully with a phone call announcing the arrival of Iain Angus weighing just over nine pounds and, like his mother, fit and healthy.
Then there was the afternoon when we had finished kippering and were getting in each other’s way as we tidied up. James, Morag and the two kids arrived totally unexpectedly in their new Range Rover. Iain and Sheila were very excited and jumped out the car to tell us all its wonderful features. James got out quietly and took the children down to the shore leaving Morag still sitting in the passenger seat. She got out as we approached the car. Flung one arm around her father’s neck and the other round mine then dissolved in floods of tears.
“It’s the Big C, Mum,” she spluttered through her sobs.
My heart sank so I could not get a breath and Angus staggered back with his hands over his face,
“I have a lump on my left breast.”
“Oh, but it may not be, you know, the C word?”
“We got the result of the biopsy this morning, Mum, There is no doubt.”
Angus was rocking back and forward with his hands still covering his face although they could not hide his sobs.
“Pull yourself together, man, and go and help James with these poor wee bairns. They’re the ones you should be feeling sorry for!”
Good man that he is, he went off like a lamb, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He and James between them told the children. It was a more subdued pair of youngsters that left an hour later. They had to go so that the treatment could start at once.
We had so much to learn about mastectomy, lumpectomy, chemotherapy and radiation but Angus bought us a wee laptop computer so we were able to look everything up without bothering Morag and James.
She was amazing: more often than not she was the one who was comforting and reassuring the rest of us
James was her rock. He saw her when she was at her lowest points: he held her when she was wretchedly ill from the treatment; he kept her hoping when she was despairing; he motivated her in the darkest days when she was ready to give up the fight and accept death.
Yesterday Morag went through a battery of tests and at two–thirty today she and James would get the results from her consultant.
So while we waited, Angus and I saw through another family crisis gutting and preparing mackerel for kippering. We were working side by side in silence, the same loving, caring supportive silence that has seen us through the good days and the bad for more than fifty years with our mobile phone on the bench between us.
When the phone rang his face drained of colour and he gestured for me to answer it. I took a deep breath and let it ring once more before I picked it up. I would know the answer just from the tone of voice.
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned five novels and many short stories. His two latest novels, The Island and Pilgrimage of Grace, are McStorytellers publications.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned five novels and many short stories. His two latest novels, The Island and Pilgrimage of Grace, are McStorytellers publications.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.