Wrigglers

Grimur Passer had come to rescue the Littlewoods on now more than one occasion.  How could one possibly pay off such a debt?  Might the Littlewoods possess some valued heirlooms they could send Grimur’s way.  Yes, such treasures did exist.  Back in Killybegs.  But sadly, there was nothing of ample worth to be found on the boat.  What about the boat herself?  No, no, that was out of the question.  As he racked his brains for a token of affection he could impart unto the philanthropic fisherman, Littlewood suddenly recalled he would require more assistance – in the way of fuel – before they set off again.  Despite the priests having the financial means to take care of that (fancy silver British pounds, as a matter of fact), he felt that no amount of coinage would make for an equitable response to Grimur Passer’s gallantry.   And even though the priests had, only moments before, felt slighted by him, they too were now beholden, as Grimur had become the prototypical host, walking the four of them through his hometown, and going out of his way to signal as many places of interest as he could.  There’s the cathedral, and over there the old town hall.  And there’s Jakobsen, Jakobsen and Jakobsen – where you can purchase the finest wools on Streymoy and where Grimur’s father-in-law had a heart attack last year and died.  And there’s Dagny’s – where you can have a brandy and let the local sots observe you from their stools and stoke that fear of God in you.  And over there.  One of the many fish factories you’ll find in town where the fish are gutted and handled for export.  ‘Oh, look,’ Grimur said.  Outside the factory, standing in the doorway, was a woman in blood-marked blue overalls smoking a cigarette.  She was tall, blonde, busty, rather hatchet-faced.  ‘There.  A beautiful fish girl.  You’ll get lots of them in there.’ 

‘It’s all fish fish fish,’ said Geissel, frivolously.

‘It certainly is,’ said Grimur.

‘And whales and dolphins,’ said Stinson. 

Littlewood shot him a disapproving look.  A can of live wrigglers. 

Most people, generally speaking, those he knew anyway, had no issue with whaling but in the last few years it had been featured in the news a lot what with governments signing regulations and all the rest.  And he knew Father Stinson’s type well.  So bloody angel-faced.

But it turned out there was no need for concern.  ‘And them too, above all others,’ replied Grimur, and that was the end of it.

After dropping the priests at the hotel and instructing them to drop their holy collars also if they chose to go out for a drink in Dagny’s (‘We’re mostly protestants around here, but the alcoholics among us are atheists – as well they should be,’ he’d told them), Grimur and Littlewood then turned back towards the harbour and walked down into the Tinganes area of the town.  They passed many pretty but humble grass-roofed homes along the way but none were as humble as the Passers’ damp-looking brown cottage, when it finally came into view, after taking a few almost mystical bends in the road.  Once inside the house however, all notions of dampness disappeared.  Red flecks skittered up and down the living room walls as a huge fire burned away like a wild and infamous carnival.  Although aggressive in movement, the resulting light was not.  It was a room loved passionately by flame.   Littlewood felt for a moment he might have been right back in his own childhood home as the house was decorated in much the same way: framed photos marking victories at sea, old newspapers stuffed down the sides of seats, and was that really a draughtboard he could make out on the shelf?  

Fishermen the world over were sharing domiciliary tips.

Grimur’s wife, Halda, was an elegant and attractive woman, younger-looking than her husband, but in fact older by four years; she had a hardened mood about her which said she knew she had married a fool.  Halda was the first female Littlewood had seen in weeks, and she couldn’t speak a word of English.  Only Faroese, a complex language derived from the Old Norse.  Littlewood half-expected a scent of gaeilge in it considering it was the Irish who had apparently settled on the islands first. 

But there wasn’t a trace of it. 

Ah, the tongue was a more volatile thing in the old days.