The Shadowy Horses

"I wouldn't tell you lies," said David. "That's the Eye Water. The town takes its name from that wee trickle, ken. Our harbor was built around the mouth of the Eye. Mind the nets," he added, as we drew level with Brian's boat.

I smiled. "You sound just like my mother." But I was careful, all the same, to step around the green and orange mass of netting stretched like some great sleeping beast at the edge of the pier.

At first glance the Fleetwing seemed deserted, but in response to David's call a small, wire-limbed man wearing bright yellow brace-and-bib overalls came out on deck and raised a hand in greeting.

"Heyah, Deid-Banes." He leaned over the aft end to look at us. "Heard about yer mither. Bloody shame. She still in Berwick?"

"Aye. And don't you go thinking of burgling the cottage while she's in hospital, neither."

The other man laughed. "Ye've no faith, lad. I'm no sae tarry-fingert. And I'd no steal fae yer mither."

"You'd steal from yours."

"Aye, but I like yer mither better. Were ye wanting something?"

"Looking for Brian. Is he about?"

"Nah." Still chuckling, the wizened man in the overalls lit a cigarette and shook his head. "He's away the now, the skipper is."

"Left you in charge, then, did he? Trusting man."

“Aye, well, he cannae trust Mick, so that only leaves me."

David tilted his head. "Do I ken Mick?"

"The new lad, fae Liverpool. Ye dinna wish tae ken that one, Deid-Banes. He's a nasty wee bugger."

"Christ, Billy, coming from you—"

"Ah'm dead serious." The older man pulled sharply on his cigarette and the wind caught the smoke, whipping it past his squinting eyes. "The lad's been up the gaol half his life, and it wasna fer thieving. I'll no turn my back tae the bastard." And then, remembering my presence, he shot me a crooked smile. "Sorry, lass. Ah'm no minding my manners."

David folded his arms and looked at him. "Well, now you've switched on the charm, you might offer the lass a wee tour around the Fleetwing, show her how a fishing boat works."

The other man shrugged helplessly, his teeth clamped around the cigarette. "I canna do it the day, Deid-Banes. I'm painting the day, and the paint's no dry yet."

I couldn't see any paint cans on deck, nor smell the faintest whiff of fumes, but David didn't press the point. He did permit himself a smile, though, as we turned and walked on, up the middle pier. "I kent he'd say no," he confessed, "but I wanted to see what excuse he'd come up with. He's a brilliant liar, is Billy."

I tipped my chin up, curious. "What does the 'Deid-Banes' mean, exactly? I mean, I know Wally calls you that, sometimes, but..."

"It's my byname," he supplied. "A kind of community nickname, if you like. A lot of folk have bynames, here in Eyemouth."

"Why?"

"Helps to tell us apart, for one thing. When you've more than one David Fortune running about, things get a bit confusing."

I was openly intrigued. "Is there more than one David Fortune?"

"Oh, aye, there'd be four of us, I think. Or was it five?" He narrowed his eyes, thinking. "No, just the four. My uncle David, and my cousin—he's a few years younger, ken—and then there was another David Fortune at school with me. If I traced the family history back I'd no doubt find he's a cousin as well. But we're nothing compared to the Dougals," he added. "You can't spit in town without hitting a Dougal."

"So how does one get a nickname, then?"

“Different ways. I was always digging things up as a lad, playing at being an archaeologist, so my grandad called me 'Deid-Banes'—dead bones—and it stuck. He'd have called me plain 'Bones' if he'd had his way, but there's a Bones already in Eyemouth, and a Young Bones.''

"Ah," I said.

"Some of the bynames are more obscure, ken. There was Deddy; don't know where that came from. And Pamfy and Racker and Duffs. Now Duffs," he explained, with a broad smile, "that came down from a lad who worked as a cook on a fishing boat. All he knew how to make was plum duff, so Duffs he became. His daughter got the byname, too, and I think her son still gets it sometimes."

Wrinkling my nose, I hopped over another coiled fishing net. "So women get bynames as well?"

"Oh, aye. If you'd been married onto Duffs, you'd have been Verity Duffs."

"No, I wouldn't," I assured him.

David smiled. "That's not nearly as bad as my mother's byname."

"What, Granny Nan?"

He shook his head. "Granny Nan's not her byname, lass. That's just what Robbie calls her—Robbie and a few others. No, she hates her byname. Call her by it and you're asking to get your teeth knocked down your throat." He glanced down at me, his smile broadening. "And you can stop looking at me like that, because I'm not going to tell you what it is. It'd be more than my life is worth."

"She's fierce, is she, your mother?"

"You have no idea."

Encouraged by his openness, and the growing ease of our companionship, I chanced another question. "Your dad was a fisherman, wasn't he?"

"Aye, so they tell me. I can't really mind him. I have this memory of a big man in a gansey—a guernsey, you call it in England—that always smelled of fish; but that might not have been my dad. Everyone smelled of fish, in our house. My grandad was a cadger."