within a fortnight, began to question the delay. A few days later the explanation arrived in the form of a telegram. âSend no more whelks,â it instructed. âMarket glutted. All buying ceased temporarily. Letter following.â The letter following upon the telegram brought even gloomier information. Their last two consignments had arrived at the height of the glut and as a consequence had had to be dumped.
After the first exclamations of resentment the whelk gatherers, conditioned all their lives to frustration and disappointment, accepted the situation with philosophical good humour. But since it was the first time they had known the whelk market to become glutted they repaired to Peggy Beagâs cottage and drank tea while they discussed the possible reasons for the glut and mocked their presumptuous plans with hard-edged laughter.
âIt was that otter,â asserted Anna Vic. âDidnât I say at the time that it wasnât a good sign?â
âAch, thatâs nonsense just,â repudiated Peggy Ruag. âItâs more likely it was those pyjamas Kirsty was wearing that put the ill luck on us.â Kirsty smiled coyly and immediately wiped the smile away with her hand.
âOr maybe itâs just the fullness of the English bellies thatâs at the back of it,â continued Peggy.
âMaybe before the next tide theyâll be wantinâ whelks again,â Kirsty suggested.
âWeâll take good care anâ find out whether they do or not before we send them off,â Anna Vic insisted. âGettinâ no money for our whelks is bad enough but payinâ to send them to London to have them dumped is a terrible thing.â
Fiona looked across at her mother who, having gathered the largest quantity of whelks, would have the highest transport charges to pay and she knew that if the demand for whelks revived that season her first earnings would go not to buy âJanetteâ but to help her mother.
âAye well, Iâd best be away,â said Anna Vic. She stood in the open doorway looking out across the sea. âI was thinkinâ maybe with the money from the whelks I would get a bit of waxcloth for the floor,â she told them. âWhatâs down now is as full of holes as a cod net.â She giggled. âI wouldnât care for ourselves but for my cousin thatâs cominâ from Glasgow in the spring.â
âAye, right enough, you could do with it,â Peggy Ruag told her. âWhen folks come from Glasgow they think if you havenât a bit of waxcloth on the floor youâre livinâ in a pig sty.â
âWe all had our plans, I doubt,â interposed Kirsty quietly.
âPlans?â echoed Peggy Beag. âWhat wasnât I planninâ to buy? Why, I was for gettinâ one of them pressure lamps that gives such a lovely light, anâ I was for gettinâ some new overalls the way Iâd look more respectable when the minister comes. I even thought at one time I might get one of them fancy quilts for my bed.â She bubbled over with derisive laughter.
âWas the new quilt for when the minister comes too?â Anna Vic shrilled.
âOh, the Dear!â remonstrated Kirsty, sucking back a threatening smile.
Neither Fiona nor her mother referred to the subject of the dumped whelks and in her candlelit bedroom that night Fiona stuffed the mail order catalogue into one of the boxes under her bed. She wouldnât be needing that for a while, she told herself and for a few moments she let her body sag with dejection. She looked at the grazed skin of her hands and thought of the hours she had laboured in the bitter cold and of the racking burden of the dripping sacks of whelks as she had carried them up the brae. She leaned her elbows on the chest beneath the tiny window of her room and stared at the dark peaks of the hills where silver ribbons of cloud were stretched tight across the