Little Bird Flies

by Karen McCombie

  I half expect the Black Crow to shake her head and stay where she is. But no: almost shielded by Mr Samuel she hurries outdoors before she is told she cannot.

  “Please, this way,” I say, ushering Miss Tulliver over towards the byre.

  Miss Tulliver glides quickly over to it, as if she has set eyes on an oasis in the desert, instead of a humble stool where I sang my songs and filled the pail with the cows’ good milk this morning.

  “Can I fetch you anything?” Mr Samuel asks her as she sits down.

  “No, no…” Miss Tulliver replies, her voice catching in her throat, the way it does when tears have a hold of you. “I am sorry, I was taken aback by the mention of your mother’s loss. My own died last year.”

  The Black Crow is looking up at me, and through the lace of her veil, I make out eyes wide and searching. I suddenly feel so very sure that Miss Tulliver is deeply, frighteningly lonely, locked in her mourning prison.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say politely, matching her gaze instead of lowering it as I ought to.

  “Thank you,” Miss Tulliver replies a little unsteadily. “May I ask what she died of?”

  “The wasting,” I say in Gaelic, since I do not know its name in English.

  “Tuberculosis?” says Mr Samuel, recognising my meaning from the way I clutch my chest. I nod, and try to push the picture of my mother in her last coughing, choking days from my mind.

  So there is my answer. Of course, it would not be polite for me to ask the same question of Miss Tulliver. I know I should be meek in the company of my betters; Mother would tell me so very surely.

  But I also know that I cannot stop my runaway mouth sometimes.

  “What happened to your mother?” I ask her, too boldly, I know.

  “There was a fire, in our house.” Miss Tulliver is kind enough to answer me honestly, and without rancour at my cheek. “Mr Palmer-Reeves is my guardian, so I came to live with his family after that.”

  Ah. Those few short words make me understand Miss Tulliver’s situation very clear. As she is so obviously a fine lady, I imagine her house must have been large. Now, if a candle is left unattended or an oil lamp tipped over in a little cottage such as ours, it can quickly be doused or the tenants swiftly flee. But in a large place, I imagine, a fire could rage and roar with abandon, trapping those inside in faraway rooms. A mother could die. A daughter could be injured.

  But I do not understand what Miss Tulliver says or does next.

  Reaching out to me, she gently takes hold of my weak hand in hers.

  “I envy you,” she says softly, sorrowfully.

  Yes, I am stupidly brave at times and speak when I should be silent, but now I am struck dumb.

  The Black Crow envies the Little Bird? How can that be…?

  “Aaaa-yeeeee! No! Help!”

  At the sound of girlish screams, we all turn in haste to see who is alarmed and the manner of the alarm.

  Father and Mr Palmer-Reeves have heard it too, and are striding at some speed from the spring grass slopes.

  Even Lachlan and the pup stop in their game of fetch-the-stick and stare.

  “Get it away from me! Someone, please!”

  The voice is so very desperate and earnest in its fear that truly you would think something close to murder had befallen its owner.

  But when I see Miss Kitty stumble out of our house, flapping at a startled chicken who is flapping back, I can do only one awful thing.

  I laugh, and cannot stop.

  I laugh, at the silliness of this girl in her bonnet and frills.

  I laugh, because how can anyone not when the cause of the commotion is just a daft bundle of feathers with no more malice in it than the puffball of a dandelion?

  And then I see Father’s face as he draws closer – the look of it is so solemn and strange that my laughter catches in my throat.

  Something is so very, very wrong in this moment, and it has nothing to do with the fussing miss in her finery who is now glowering my way.

  CHAPTER 9

  Hello…

  I see the dream is here.

  I find myself atop the Crags. The never-ending sky so low, so close that I might touch it.

  With joy filling me to my fingertips, I stand, bare tiptoes on the bed of soft moss, stretch my arms out wide and tilt backwards, as if I am angel-born, about to make my bed on the drifting, fluffy cloud that now skirts and flits by me.

  And I will be happy, so very happy to let the westerly wind lift and glide myself and my cloud-bed to wherever it fancies. I have no fear where that might be, for soon the comforting hand will slip into mine and I will trust it to keep me safe…

  Only the wind has a wildness to it, my cloud-bed buffets and bumps me.

  The fingers of my weak hand reach for the guiding hand … but it is not there. There is nothing there.

  There is nothing anywhere. No cloud-bed beneath me, no sun to warm me, no America in the distance, no island below me.

  There is only the sound of dark thunder and I am falling, falling, falling.

  And calling, calling, calling my sisters’ names.

  “Oh!” I gasp, and sit upright in the bed, with the slumbering bodies of Ishbel and Effie on either side of me, I am relieved to see.

  The hour is very early, I think. For a moment I long for the wakeful company of my sisters, however bossy they are, so that the loneliness of my dream can be shooed away. But Ishbel and Effie were so alarmed and laid low by Father’s news yesterday that I only wish them the comfort of their undisturbed sleep before the day’s work calls them.

  Luckily, the fine summer weather meant the doors of the box bed were left open overnight, and I am calmed by the sight of sunlight spilling across the floor of our room. In no time at all, the queerness of my dreaming drifts away, before it has a chance to feel like some omen that Effie would believe in, I think to myself.

  Turning my back on my middle sister and her tousle of red hair, I slowly lift myself up and over the sleeping form of Ishbel, her long black plait like a dozing snake on the pillow. My stronger foot stretches down for the cold firmness of the flagstones Father laid with such care so long ago, while we – such small versions of ourselves, my sisters and I – watched with fascination at his speed and skill and strength. How proud Mother looked, coming to join us with Lachlan wrapped small and safe in her plaid shawl.

  But today, nothing feels safe any more.

  For yesterday, the Laird did not come just to converse with Father for politeness’ sake. What he did was look over our well-built home and well-run croft and deem it so very, very good a place that Father must pay much, much more rent for the privilege of continuing to live here!

  “Bridie?”

  Father’s voice calls to me softly, as I clutch my billowing nightgown and pitter-patter into the main room.

  I had thought to be useful. To quietly make the fire up and set the dishes for breakfast and have the porridge simmering before anyone else awoke. To make a little comfort this morning when it felt like comfort was a thing flown last night.

  But here is Father now, sitting in his chair by the flickering fire, up before any of us. Though I notice he is full dressed, boots and all. Perhaps he has not been to bed! He does have a dark-eyed look of someone who might have stayed awake all night. I could imagine that is so. I could imagine the Laird’s words would be rattling around his head. I could imagine what the other menfolk of our township thought when Father went off to meet with them after the Laird took his leave…

  “Hello, Father. Is there tea? Shall I make you some?”

  It is a small thing to say. What I really want to ask I cannot, in case it injures him more to think of the decision he was told of yesterday.

  “Come here, Bridie,” Father says softly, and pats one leg. I am grateful for the offer to sit there and have his arms around me. And I am grateful for being small for my age so that I can nestle in and feel the comforting pound of his heart and the rough brush of his beard as he
plants a kiss on my forehead.

  “Must you really go away, Father?” I ask him.

  I know that he must. He said so yesterday, did he not? He will not touch the money put away in Mother’s tin box in the eaves, so it is decided that he will take work on the mainland till harvest at the end of summer. That we will just have to manage without him while he earns extra. Some of the township menfolk will help us, he says, if the work is too heavy for us. But I do not say what is truly on my mind – that if the Laird is prepared to put up our rent, then he will no doubt be telling the same to our neighbours by and by. And then their menfolk will have to find work away too.

  For certain, Tornish will eventually be townships of old folk, women and children. All of us left would have our wits and determination, all of us would pull together, but the loss of the strongest men for the weightier tasks around the crofts will make life that bit harder than it often is already.

  “Yes, there really is nothing else, my dear,” says Father, resting his cheek on the top of my head. “But I will not go straightaway. I will tell the ferryman to put word out that I am looking for stone-work. And till then I will do what needs doing and mend what needs mending so you are left in a good position here.”

  “We will be just grand,” I tell him, for I know that is what he needs to hear.

  “I have no doubt you will,” Father replies with a crack in his voice. He quickly coughs to clear it and more robustly adds, “Now, off with you and see if those hens have an egg for my breakfast!”

  Of course I do as I am bid.

  And later, after we are all dressed and breakfasted and about our business, I find myself in the company of the hens again, this time chasing them away from the wooden tub of oatmeal I sit grinding in the sunshine of the yard.

  Father is long gone, off to check the crops. Ishbel left an hour since for the Big House. And Effie is fiercely beating the straw mattresses flat and cleaning everything in our cottage as if that will make all well, so I am happy to be out of her way, happy that soon Lachlan and myself can escape. For Will should be here very soon, and Mr Samuel too. Before the Laird’s party left yesterday, after the daft little chicken frightened Miss Kitty so, Mr Samuel was very firm again in his wishes to tour the island. And to start, he bid me take him to my favourite spot this very morning.

  And where else would that be but the top of the Glas Crags? I do not know if Mr Samuel plans to take his easel contraption and his bags and boxes of paint too, but between the young gentleman, Will, myself and Lachlan, we will manage to get the equipment to the top of the—

  The sound of voices joined in chatter causes me to look up from my pounding of oatmeal and scolding of silly chickens.

  And there, coming towards me, is a surprising grouping of folk.

  I am not so surprised that Will and Mr Samuel have met up and walked in harmonious companionship.

  I am surprised at who walks with them.

  For it is the Black Crow, Miss Tulliver, with her grumpy maidservant Maude stomping behind.

  “Little Bird! Look who I found on the way!” Will calls out, though I know my good friend must have waited and sought out Mr Samuel deliberately, since his township is in the opposite direction of the Big House.

  “And look who has come to take the air and see the sights this beautiful morning!” Mr Samuel calls out, nodding his head at the shrouded lady whose black arm is linked in his maroon-coated one. “I found Miss Tulliver taking a turn around the gardens, and she was most intrigued by our plans for the day. At first she was a little shy at the thought of accompanying me, but when I pointed out that she would have not one but four chaperones, she was quite persuaded.”

  I don’t have enough English to know all of the words Mr Samuel uses but I can guess at their meaning; at “chaperone”, he motioned at Maude, myself, Will and Lachlan, so I suppose he means that our presence makes it decent for Miss Tulliver to be in his company.

  Speaking of Maude, the maidservant is trailing behind, glowering at the back of Mr Samuel’s head as he talks. My sister Effie is sweetly plump of cheek, but this miss is of a largeness and with such an ill-humoured manner that makes me think she would rather stay home and look at four walls than tramp around the countryside. She for one will not be scrambling up the Glas Crags this fine morning, decency or not.

  But then, I think perhaps that none of us will be. Miss Tulliver is surely too ladylike to come clambering the Crags…

  “Good morning, Mr Samuel, good morning, miss,” I say, as I get to my feet and put a lid over the oatmeal. “Can I … can I get you some tea?”

  “Tea?” says Mr Samuel with a frown and a smile. “Thank you, no. I hoped you would be ready to show us the view from your special hill, Little Bird?”

  “She is! We are!” Will replies brightly, and goes to continue on.

  “But, sir,” I say to Mr Samuel, “you have no painting things.”

  “This is all I need for today,” says Mr Samuel, patting the book in his pocket that he had with him inside our cottage yesterday.

  “But – but Miss Tulliver might not be of a mind to climb to such a height,” I add, more to the point.

  “Ah, but you are wrong there,” Mr Samuel says with a wide grin. “For when I told Miss Tulliver our plans, she was very keen to come.”

  “When I was young, before my father died, my parents and I often took walking tours in the Lake District,” says the soft, girlish voice from behind the veil. “I would very much like to do something like that again.”

  Where and what is the Lake District, I wonder? Before I can ask, there comes a mumbling from behind Mr Samuel and Miss Tulliver.

  “I’m sorry, Maude, did you say something?” Mr Samuel asks, turning to speak to the maidservant with an unexpectedly cool countenance, for one who I have previously only seen smiling.

  The maid tilts her chin up defiantly. “I said I shall not go up that hill. You cannot make me.”

  “No one is making you,” says Mr Samuel, with a touch of steel in his voice. “I’m sure you can wait here.”

  “Of course,” I hurriedly agree. “Please have this stool, miss, and my brother can get you water.”

  As I look around and see Lachlan hurrying towards us, I lift my hand and point to the water bucket so he understands my meaning. At the same time, I hear the maid’s complaining voice again.

  “Very well. But Miss Tulliver should not be going either. She did not ask permission.”

  I turn to see that timid Miss Tulliver must now be a little vexed, as the black lace of her veil puffs out as she speaks her next words. “Who would you have me ask permission of, Maude? The Master is out around the island this morning visiting some of his tenants, and the Mistress and Miss Kitty will not rise for two hours or more yet.”

  Maude the maid looks chastened yet furious at Miss Tulliver’s words.

  Mr Samuel, I suppose, is neither a servant nor gentry. It would not be done for him to tell Miss Tulliver that he is pleased she has spoken up for herself. But the small smile he gives her says as much as any words might.

  As for Will and I … we look at each other in alarm. From what Miss Tulliver says, can we expect that her guardian is delivering news of rent increases to more of the islanders…?

  “Then it is fixed. Shall we be off?” says Mr Samuel, once more in a genial tone.

  And so I set aside my task, and once Lachlan warily offers a tin cup of water to the sulky Maude, we all set off. On reaching the first, gentle green slope at the foot of the Crags, I turn to see Maude perched on the tiny stool, staring after us. She is unaware that she herself is being stared at; by Effie, who is poised with hands on hips in the cottage doorway, finished with pummelling the mattresses and now no doubt wondering what this maid is doing sitting in our yard.

  Effie may not be best pleased to find herself with an unexpected and ungrateful guest, but she will do her duty and make sure the girl is comfortable enough while we are gone.

  And I must do my duty and take
the Laird’s guest and ward where they wish to go, though it takes longer than usual. Where Will and I would scamper straight up the jumbled, uneven steps of rocks, this morning we must take the more meandering paths worn by the feet of sheep and goats, which are easier – though not by much – for Miss Tulliver’s voluminous skirts.

  But perhaps the longer route makes the arrival at the summit all the more of a reward.

  “Oh, my!” gasps Miss Tulliver, as we stand on the flat place with its carpeting of moss and a view that takes your breath away – even mine, with all the times I’ve viewed it.

  “Here, I will name for you the places and mountains you can see!” Will tells Miss Tulliver, as they walk forward to face the mainland, with its ragged, great fingers of rocks reaching out towards us and the grandeur of the mountain ranges in the distance. Lachlan happily follows them, like a puppy in boy form.

  Mr Samuel hangs back a little, though, so I keep him company. He is taking his book out of his pocket, and a pencil too. He flicks through to a page that is clean and new and free of marks – and immediately begins to draw. But he does not draw the view of sea and sky and towering peaks as you may expect; with a few short strokes he captures the form of Miss Tulliver, of her tiny waist and billowing skirts. Of her hand lifted in wonder to her mouth that is hidden behind the trailing veil.

  “How can you do that?” I ask him, since such an image appearing so quickly seems almost magical to me.

  “Because I love to capture people when they are at their most natural,” says Mr Samuel, his eyes darting from his book to his subject and back again. “It is so much more of a pleasure than doing stiff portraits, though they are what pays my rent.”

  “You are not enjoying painting the Laird, then?” I ask, as I watch his pencil dart about the white page.

  “I am not enjoying painting the Laird, no. He makes it quite clear that I am a nuisance he must put up with for the sake of his vanity,” Mr Samuel mutters as he concentrates. “But at least I need only stay a short while here; long enough to do my work and be paid for it. Poor Miss Tulliver is treated in the household as just as much of a nuisance, but she is forever bound to stay with her unwelcoming guardian and his family.”