Little Bird Flies

by Karen McCombie

  “Bridie? Ha! More like birdie. You’re just a little bird, aren’t you, my dear?” the Laird replied, smiling down at me in delight, my sisters assure me, and I have no doubt of it.

  Exhausted as she was, Mother pulled her shawl tight around her and tried to rise from the box bed to properly greet their guest.

  “Our girl may not be whole and hearty, sir,” she murmured in halting English, “but we will love her as long as we have her.”

  Mother understood English nearly as well as Father, but stumbled to say the words of that language out loud, as if they were uncomfortable and dry as pebbles in her mouth. And for his part, Mr Menzies spoke mostly English, like all the landowners and rich gentlefolk of Scotland, but – unlike others of his class – he had an ear keenly tuned to the mother tongue of his tenants.

  “Now, please don’t rise for me, mistress,” Mr Menzies told Mother, as he stroked my weak hand and watched my trembling fingers struggle to latch on to one of his. “And don’t be offended by my words. The small ones can be fighters. What of the linnet; it is not much bigger than my thumb, yet it soars as well as the buzzard. So this little bird of yours … she may yet fly, eh?”

  I will always be grateful to Mr Menzies for trusting in my lust for life.

  For here I am, twelve years grown.

  Yes, I might be scrawny still, my wings somewhat bent, but I am strong.

  And I may be a little bird in name only, but one day, I hope to say goodbye to this island, borne away, as my dream foretells.

  One day I will fly…

  However, this will not be that day. The closest I have come to flying is practically tumbling down the steep side of the Crags with Will.

  “How do I look, Little Bird?” he asks now, when we finally stumble and skip towards the back of the milling crowd at the harbour.

  The very sound of them stirs the heart; folk clap and stamp along as George – the island’s youngest and finest piper – plays a traditional rousing air to welcome the docking ship.

  And though I cannot see him yet, I know Father will be tapping his foot, standing alongside the fiddlers with his whistle, in readiness with a tune when George stands down.

  What I can plainly see is the newly moored steamer, towering over the flat cloth caps of the men and the pretty, crimp-edged, white kerchiefs that the women and many of the younger girls wear.

  “You look fine,” I turn and answer my friend, and begin straightening his cap and plucking sprigs of heather from the good jumper that Mistress Beaton just knitted him. “But keep your arm across the front so your mother doesn’t see the hole there…”

  I don’t ask Will how I look, because I know that I must seem like some savage child that has been living wild on the moor!

  Will has no idea why I am laughing, but joins in anyway, all the while returning the favour and brushing away grasses and twigs and blossom that have stuck to me.

  But we both stop laughing when we see Effie’s furious face. My middle sister might be talked of as pretty, having the rich red hair of Father, and apple cheeks in her soft, round face, but her prettiness is all too often disguised by all the scowling she does. She is like one of the cattle of a summer’s evening when the midges are biting and maddening them.

  Now a smile slips unbidden on to my face, as I imagine fiery-haired Effie as Mr Menzies’ prized shaggy, red Highland cow, the one that stands out among the rest of the bulky black herd.

  It is not a wise thing to do, of course. Effie – in her best skirt and her new-made checkered plaid shawl – steps straightaway from her friends and comes over to berate me.

  “What humours you so, Bridie? Does it amuse you that you are to shame Father today? Where have you been? Why did you not go home and change into your good clothes?”

  Her words come fast as they often do, allowing me no time to answer. Not that I have an answer that will suit her. The fact of it is, I never have an answer for either of my bossy sisters, who – without our mother with us – see it as their job to chide and order me around, as much as they pet and adore Lachlan.

  “Yes, but it is the fault of the visitors for coming early,” says Will, trying to protect me. “You see, Little Bird––”

  “For heaven’s sake, her name is Bridie, Will Beaton!” snaps Effie. “How many times have you been told over the years?”

  Ah, but since we were both young children, Will has always mimicked Mr Menzies in calling me Little Bird, in English. Even Mother – who held on to her Gaelic like a treasure – would smile fondly when she heard Will call me so. Perhaps it amused her to hear such unnatural English words spring forth from the mouth of an islander child, or perhaps it was because Little Bird translated to Gaelic as “bìgein-Brìghde”, meaning “St Brìghde’s little bird”, the very name for a linnet.

  But it is not just the English of my pet name that Effie dislikes. It is the fact that both Effie and Ishbel rail against this pet name itself. They worry that people hearing it will think of me as small and to be pitied. But I don’t think folk do pity me, and anyway, I don’t care if they do. I was born into this body and know no other. And if I can manage what everyone else can – even if it sometimes happens a little slower – then what of it?

  “And the mess of your hair!” Effie turns back to me and sighs. “When Ishbel sees she will give me such trouble for not making sure that you were decent!”

  To think of Effie getting a scolding from our eldest sister causes another smile to slip on to my face. At seventeen, Ishbel is only two years Effie’s senior, but being a maidservant for the Laird gives her airs and graces indeed.

  “What is this!”

  At those words my straggly long black hair is near pulled clean from my head.

  Ishbel is not one for nagging chatter like hot-headed Effie. Her scorn is shown by a disapproving and quiet coolness.

  “Effie, could you not have tied a simple braid for Bridie?” I hear Ishbel address our sister sharply, and straightaway feel her tug my grass-matted hair into something less like a broom that’s been sweeping leaves from the door.

  Ishbel’s hair is as black as mine, but is pinned low around her head in shiny coils, the like of which any fine young lady of importance might be proud. She has worn it that way ever since Father took her to the far-off town on the mainland to buy food and cloth stuffs last year, where he said he caught her studying the fashions of a group of English ladies on their Grand Tour.

  “Ow!” I yelp, as the tugging cricks at my neck.

  “Bidh thu slàn mus pòs thu…” Ishbel grumbles as she grapples with my knots and tangles.

  And then I feel my sister hesitate. “You’ll be whole by the time you marry”… it’s a common thing for mothers of the island – of all the Gaelic-speaking places, I suppose – to say to their whining daughters as they drag a comb or brush through their fresh-washed hair. I’ve always supposed it to mean that hair would grow back by and by; that it’s best to be patient and not moan.

  I remember Mother laughingly saying those very words to us three girls often enough. Is Ishbel remembering too? Perhaps I should say some—

  “OW!” I yelp louder, as Ishbel starts back at her task anew.

  “For shame, Bridie!” she snaps at me. “Some things you must just bear.”

  And that sums up Ishbel; she is tall and slight as a sapling, carrying herself with such serious forbearance, resigned to her lot and considering everyone foolish who does not think the way she does.

  In fact, not so long ago, Father proclaimed – to Ishbel’s great pleasure – that she was like a stone statue he’d seen in a book, of some Greek goddess or another. Grand and queenly she was, Father said, with her chin held high and such a certainty about her. Well, the only certainty right now is that Ishbel is practically pulling the hair out of my head.

  “Be still, Bridie, or I’ll—”

  Ishbel’s warning is lost as cheers go up.

  I don’t care whether my hair is tidy or raggedy; feeling her grip relax a little
, I seize my opportunity and pull away from Ishbel’s hold, running from both her and Effie and their glowering. Hurrying forward, I sneak through the crowd – sure that Will cannot be far behind – so that I might see these grand folk from London at last…

  And there they are, two men in long, thick coats and similarly patterned checkered trousers, with grey top hats and silver-tipped canes. Unlike the bearded men of Tornish, they wear just moustaches, but quite twirled at each end! They stride confidently off the steamer’s ramp to shake hands with the Laird, and make some small talk. They also nod at the musicians, some in kilts, within whose number stands, of course, George Beaton playing his pipes, Fergus and Donal Matheson with their fiddles, and my father holding his tin whistle, Lachlan crouched proudly at his feet.

  “Well, you two,” says a warm voice beside me. “What do you think to our visitors?”

  I have found myself by Mistress Beaton. She takes care of the old Laird’s washing, drying his bed linen and clothing on lines by the seashore, so that the Big House must always be filled with the fresh salty spice of the ocean.

  “I think they look very smart!” I say, my heart surging with the excitement of having strangers from the outside world touch down on our shores.

  “Have you found out who these kin are to Mr Menzies, Mother?” Will asks, catching me up.

  “The first gentleman is the son of a long-dead cousin of the Laird, it seems,” says Mistress Beaton, with some satisfaction at knowing this detail. “I think the second gentleman is a friend, accompanying the family.”

  I am listening keenly to Mistress Beaton’s words, at the same time as straining to watch the gentlemen turn their attention back towards the boat, holding their hands so that the ladies – oh, the fine ladies! – may descend safely from the ramp and on to dry land. The first two to step ashore wear bright-coloured dresses that puff out so, with many layers of fine cotton petticoats underneath their braid-edged skirts. With ruffles of intricate lace rippling softly at their wrists and necks, I feel I am looking at wondrous birds of paradise from the far Indies.

  It gives me pleasure to see that one is quite young, perhaps the same age as Effie. I wonder, might I sometime be able to approach and talk to her during her visit? I would so like to hear what it is like to travel the whole length of the country in a steam train! What a strange affair that must be. My, she must have seen such things in her life: the sights and sounds of London, and of Glasgow too, where the train terminated. And on that journey alone, what wonders of towns and villages and valleys and hills did she see?

  Oh, I know that in many places it might not be natural for a young lady of her kind to converse with a girl of my type, but the Laird is not a man to stand on ceremony. I am already a favourite of Mr Menzies’, so perhaps he might think to introduce me to her…?

  “What is this about?” I hear Will mutter in confusion, and switch my glance to a lady who now follows, in such a strange guise! After a moment’s surprise, I guess it to be full black mourning, from dress to cape, from gloves to lace veil. I have heard that this is done, but never seen such a thing. This woman – a widowed grandmother perhaps? – reminds me of the crows that make the thick woods behind the Big House their shaded home. And aiding her is a maidservant, holding her elbow. Though it seems to me the maid is being a little rough with the old lady…

  I am staring so hard at this odd pairing that it takes me a moment to see that I am also being stared at.

  The younger of the ladies in layers and lace is casting her eyes over me in a way that makes me see quite clear how I am to her.

  A peasant girl in torn and tatty clothes.

  A child with a bent foot and one arm weak and withered.

  She sees all that is me and sees no one of worth.

  The warmth of day leaves me as a brisk wind lifts off the sea and bites to my core.

  CHAPTER 3

  Flutter and flap, flutter and flap.

  The wet cotton I’m hanging slaps against the breeze, like a rhythm you could sing to. I toss the dancing hair from my face and begin to hum.

  “Are you listening to me, Bridie?” scolds Effie.

  “No,” I mutter, so she can’t hear me.

  My sister is always telling me something. Some way I should behave, some chore I should have done differently, some story that turns into a lesson I’m meant to heed.

  “After you’ve finished here, you’ll need to fetch the water,” Effie orders, as if I didn’t know that I must. As if I hadn’t already been to the burn and brought back two buckets of clean, cold water. If she bothered to look she’d see the early sun turning the wet of my skirts to clouds of steam.

  Folk might think I have been set ablaze, I think, as I look down at the damp mess of myself and laugh.

  “Bridie! This is no time for foolishness. Everything must be done well today. You wouldn’t want Father shamed of our home, or old Mr Menzies shamed of us all, would you?”

  “Effie, the Laird’s London visitors will not care about our home!” I say, knowing I should stop there, but I don’t. “The cows could be sitting inside our cottage, having some broth and a chat, and those fancy folk would know nothing of it.”

  Effie’s nostrils flare at my mocking, like a stag about to charge. Perhaps I’m lucky that she has thick red braids about her head and not antlers.

  “Bridie, you know Father said Mr Menzies will no doubt take them for some air now that they are rested from their travels yesterday. And as our township is the closest to the Big House, his visitors may well––”

  A sharp whistle bursts through the air, and I spin around at the sound of it.

  It’s Will.

  Just the sight of my friend gladdens my heart; he has rescued me.

  “Little Bird!” Will calls. “Are you coming to spy on the English visitors with me afore school?”

  “No, she is not!” Effie answers for me, as she shoos him away like some daft chicken trying to roost on our mantleshelf among the ornaments.

  “Oh, yes I am,” I reply, fastening the final piece of washing, and knowing my work is done. I tuck my unkempt black hair behind my ears and go after Will.

  It’s true that yesterday’s sighting of Mr Menzies’ guests left me with a sour taste in my mouth, but perhaps I was being unfair to them, especially the staring, unsmiling girl. Perhaps she was tired after such a long journey. She may have been seasick for all I know, like lads are when they first go on the fishing boats. And perhaps in my messy, torn state I reminded her of some destitute London street child, instead of just a careless girl that forgot herself.

  “What am I to do with you, Bridie MacKerrie?” Effie shouts after me.

  “Nothing,” I laugh in reply. “There’s nothing to be done with me! I’m fine as I am.”

  And I’m off along the path in the rough grass worn by the cattle’s feet.

  “What is she bothering about?” asks Will, holding a hand out to me as I catch him up and go to leap the wee burn.

  Yes, I might’ve almost stumbled a little there, but I have no need of his help. Will should know better; I can manage. I always do.

  “Effie and Ishbel are like hens with new feed, they are so excited about these visitors,” I say, ignoring his hand and grabbing up my skirts instead, to better find my footing.

  Ishbel was very particular about her appearance this morning when she rose, spending so long at Mother’s mirror braiding and coiling her hair before slipping on her intricately crimp-edged cap that she was almost late setting off for the Laird’s house. As if his visitors will be interested in a girl who will be lugging their coals and cleaning their chamberpots for them!

  Though I admit I am afire to take a closer look at these people; to gawp at their wealth and finery, perhaps to see the girl or her widow-woman grandmother in her crow’s mourning.

  “Bridie! Bridie, wait for me!” comes a reedy voice behind us.

  “Ah, we have our shadow with us today.” Will grins at me, showing off the gap where his front too
th should be.

  “Indeed,” I sigh, though I am not wont to grumble when Lachlan seeks out our company. He has precious little of his own, unless you count the very youngest children of the township or the animals in our keep. The boys around his own age have little time for him. At eight years old he is as clever as any of them, cleverer in fact, and sweeter too, but he will not join in their rough-and-tumble and that confounds them. He is like a skinny-legged lamb, barely able to keep its balance as fledgling goats batter and ram each other in jest.

  “Where have you sprung from?” I ask him, as he catches us up, and finds his shoulders a resting place for Will’s arm.

  “I was making an eel!” Lachlan says excitedly. “I took some hair from the tail of the black-and-tan pony and have weighted it down in the stream with a stone. How long do you think it will take to be changed?”

  Will and I smile over Lachlan’s head. It’s an old practice the children tell each other of. Left in the water of the burn, over time, slime will attach to the hair, and sure enough it looks as if an eel is wriggling in the ripples.

  “A long while. You must be patient,” I tell my brother, rubbing my knuckles through his scrubby mess of red hair.

  It’s not just the children who tell him tales like these. The worst is Effie; she is in thrall to all the old superstitions. She will happily sit of an evening at the fire, telling Lachlan wonder tales of the fairies and the Little Folk and Brownies that make mischief, turning milk sour and cattle skittish and all manner of nonsense.

  “Where are you and Will headed, Bridie?” my brother asks, blinking from one to the other of us. “Are you not going to school today?”

  He sounds hopeful. Clever as he is, Lachlan hates school. He has all the correct answers in his head and can say them clear enough, but ask him to write and it is as if all reason is stuck somewhere between his head and his hand. Nothing comes but a scrawl. It is because by nature, he leans towards writing with his left hand. Which is incorrect, according to Mr Simpson the schoolmaster. He lets Lachlan know this over and over again, by smacking his clutched hands with a cane in front of the whole class, and by rapping Lachlan’s knuckles with a thick wooden ruler in between times.