Open Writing

After spending all his life at sea, my husband had finally turned his back on it to work on land, not an easy thing to do. John had been going to sea for over 30 years, as a fisherman and serving in the Royal Navy during the war. He had left school at 15, much against the wishes of the teacher who wanted John to go to college, but that wasn’t possible. So he followed his father and grandfather.

However, times had changed, and now the bigger and more powerful boats were catching the fish before they got into the nearer fishing grounds, not to mention the Russian fleets with their factory ships. So gradually the boats were being sold. From 35 in the fleet there were now about 12.

Financially I was much better off now, as I was assured of a regular income, something I had never known all my married life. The sea is a fickle mistress. December was always a bad month. There was often a shortage of fish, which meant the men could work a whole week, 12 hours a day, and not catch enough fish to pay for the oil -- far less the men’s wages. These were the times when the men would say we needed a storm. But storms could last from several days to six weeks, and by the time the boats got out, the fish had been washed into further grounds.

So it was for me a much more stable and secure time. The only drawback was that John was now working in Dounreay and came home every other weekend. But, as he often had to go away to work when fishing, it wasn’t a new experience.

So here we were 13 years married and now three children, and up to now our Christmas dinner had been a chicken or a roast of pork. But this year we were to have a turkey. One of John’s workmates also had a croft up in Caithness and was taking orders for turkeys -- wonderful!

The day arrived and the man brought in the sack containing the bird, but to John’s horror the sack was moving. The turkey was alive.

“What the hell do you expect me to do with that?” said he.

The man said he had ordered a fresh turkey, and that is what he got.

Now I have to tell that my big strapping highland man had the softest heart imaginable and hated violence of any description. To ask him to kill an animal was unthinkable. So he talked the man into killing it, and came home complete with bird still feathered and undrawn.

It so happens that my teenage years were spent next door to a poultry farm, and my sisters and I could clean and dress a bird pretty well. The plucking was always left to the men folk, but as the saying goes, ‘Needs must when the devil’s driving.’

So John and I got down to the job in the kitchen with instructions to keep the doors closed. What a hope! Our girls had never seen anything like it before. So the feathers were all over the place. But when it came to the cleaning and drawing everyone vanished, leaving me to do the dirty deed. “Oh, Mum, that awful smell. I don’t want any of that!” was the cry.

But when the handsome bird had been stuffed and cooked, nobody turned up their nose at it. It was enjoyed by everyone, and they all remember the first time we had turkey for Christmas. Never since has one made such an impression, or tasted better.

Peggy MacKay