GATHERINGS

My brother arrived, on the Northlink ferry last Saturday, on one of his occasional northward sojourns, to see his mother and siblings, and to breathe the sweet air of his birthplace for a little while. Whenever he comes north, the two of us usually take a trip down to Sandwick, to attend the morning service in our old church, and just to take a look at the old parish. While looking from a distance, it looks pretty much like it did when we were residents there; on closer inspection it has changed practically beyond recognition in the thirty-five years or so since we stayed there as a family. There are several new housing schemes there, and many private homes have also been built. Many of the little wild places, which I enjoyed as a child, have been reseeded or built on. The Broonies' Taing pier, on which I regularly wafted my "piltock waand" to catch copious quantities of coalfish, was one of the first casualties of the oil era. It was redeveloped, along with all the ruinous old pre-war herring stations which were a wonderful playground for a growing boy, as an oil industry supply base which, in the event, was hardly ever used as such. It is now rotting, like the herring stations before it. The only time I ever visit the old place is when Arthur is home - I could cry whenever I look at it.

On this occasion, we visited our father's grave at the Sannock cemetery, which is looking well-tended and has plenty of room to cater for new tenants for at least the next century, even allowing for an outbreak of plague or genocide (anything is possible in Sandwick!). We attended the service in the U. F. kirk, which turned out to be their harvest thanksgiving. This had brought about two dozen of the faithful from their beds on a bright chilly morning. My brother rang the bell to announce the service, and I'd like to think that a few more ears would have inclined and a few more bleary eyes would have opened in the community at the unfamiliar sound - apparently the bell is only rung if he rings it.

After the service, we took a run down to the compact settlement of Hoswick, where the only sign of life was a family playing on the beach. We then came back to Stove, where we found our nephew Kenneth (who had taken a weekend off from his studies at university) resting from his home-refurbishing labours at Victoria House, the Edwardian pile he inherited from his father. He made us a welcome cup of tea before we continued on our way to Whiteness, where we were to have our midday meal with other family members at our mother's house.

I helped prepare the feast by doing the vegetables, and we all enjoyed our roast lamb with trimmings. My sister Mary was in charge of the catering operation, and we were joined by her daughter Caroline and grandsons Robbie and new baby William, who slept through most of our joviality. I took charge of the ensuing clearing-up afterwards and, within an hour, were it not for the satisfied feeling in our stomachs, we would scarcely have known that the meal ever took place. In the late afternoon, Arthur ran me back to Lerwick in the car he had hired for his short stay.

There was a certain inevitability about the fact that the next day was Monday, and the day on which the twice-yearly meeting to dicuss my mother's care package was scheduled. These bunfights are usually fairly relaxed and pleasant affairs, and resultant serious injuries are rare. On this occasion, my two available sisters (the third is teaching in Saudi Arabia), my brother, my mother (of course), two representatives of the home care authorities, and myself were of the assembled company in my mother's living room. There was little to discuss, as the system is working smoothly, and, after half-an-hour or so, the meeting ended and I was left to prepare a meal for the family (a look of abject terror came over the faces of the two care representatives when I suggested that they stayed for lunch - I took this to be a "no"!).

From the sound of contented mastication emanating from the diners, I deduced that my culinary efforts had been successful again. I had prepared whiting fillets, cut up into sections and fried in batter, accompanied by potatoes (from my sister's garden) and melted margarine - an example of the standard traditional Shetland fare which we, as a family, were raised on. After clearing up, I helped Arthur with the task of pruning the rose-bushes in the greenhouse, after which we took the prunings to the dump at Rova Head, and he dropped me off at my flat, before making his way back to Whiteness.

My brother will be heading south on the ferry "Hjaltland" tonight, and his leaving will make me sad, as these things always do. We who are left will dig ourselves in for another Shetland winter. It would be nice to think that we'll all meet up again when the gales die down and the snow clears at the other end of it. We have always had such a good time together.