Bird of Passage

by Catherine Czerkawska

  When the rain came driving in from the west, Alasdair sent her home although, if it was up to her, she would have soldiered on through the mud. Finn couldn’t help but admire the bossiness of her, the way she laid down the law to everyone, even her grandfather. Finn found Alasdair unnerving. He was always kind to the boys, but there was something uncompromising about him.

  ‘A better friend than an enemy,’ said Jimsy, and Finn could see that he was right.

  Kirsty was not a steady worker. She was too easily distracted by the heron’s long legs trailing behind him as he flew past, or the sight of a boat in the bay. And she sang all the time.

  ‘Do you know this one?’ she asked Finn:

  ‘If I were a blackbird I’d whistle and sing,

  and follow the ship that my true love sails in...’

  Kirsty had a high, clear voice and the lines made him shiver.

  ‘Go on,’ he muttered. ‘Sing it all.’

  ‘I don’t know all the words.’

  His mother had sung the same song. But she had smoked all the time, and it made her hoarse. You could hear it in her voice. It brought back into his mind other songs his mother had sung to him: I Wish I Was In Carrickfergus and You are My Heart’s Delight and Russian Rose. The sound of Kirsty’s voice brought an unexpected lump to his throat. He had to cough, to make it go away. Odds and ends of memory thronged his mind. The least little thing, like a daft song, could bring them tumbling in, distracting him, hurting the heart of him, like the sharp pain when somebody kicked you in the chest, bits and pieces of memory that were neither use nor ornament because he could not make sense of them, and he wished they would go away.

  ‘What are you like?’ said Alasdair, interrupting his grand-daughter in the middle of her song. ‘You’re a distraction to honest working folk, that’s what you are, Kirsty Galbreath! You’re worse than the midgies, always nipping at people’s ears!’

  The older Irish indulged her.

  ‘Come here to me,’ they said when she sat among them as they took their mid-day meal. They gave her bits of bread and cheese or Victory V lozenges, which she always tried to eat, wishing she could like them. But the pungent sweets made her want to retch, and she spat them out, secretly, into the long grass, so as not to seem impolite.

  One day, when they were sitting at the edge of the field, Francis shyly plaited a whip out of reeds for her. Finn wished he had thought to do that, for he could make a whip as well as the next man.

  ‘I could do that,’ he said to her when the whip was finished. ‘I could make you one of those, Kirsty.’

  ‘Why didn’t you, then?’

  ‘Well I will so, next time.’

  Finn was filling out, growing stronger, the outdoor work and plentiful food suiting him, but Francis still looked a bit like a reed himself, as though the merest breath of wind would blow him away. He would hardly ever speak unless spoken to. He was always dropping things, and he still worked more slowly than Micky Terrans would have liked. A weakling. Finn helped him out whenever he could, sometimes doing the work of two to cover up for his friend, but the older men would grow impatient with him and cuff him round the head, casually, if he was too slow. ‘Get that feckin’ basket over here would ya?’ they would say. Once, when a blow caught him unawares, he fell over, and lay stunned on the ground for a moment or two. Micky Terrans came running over, furious.

  ‘Who the feck did that? Did you see who did that, Finn?’

  Finn shook his head. He thought it had probably been Jimsy Murtagh who was very ready with the flat of his hand and his fist too if you didn’t look out, but the blow had been as casual as the punishment a bitch will mete out to her pups, and just as lacking in malice. Besides, Francie was used to it. They both were. You didn’t interfere. And you certainly didn’t tell.

  ‘I didn’t see, Micky.’

  The older men looked at each other, faintly embarrassed.

  Micky helped Francis up and dusted him down. ‘Are you alright, son?’

  ‘Aye, I’m alright, mister. I’m fine. It was nothing at all. Nothing at all.’

  But for an hour afterwards, there was the crimson print of a hand across his cheek, with little bits of dirt from the tatties sticking to it.

  Francis had few real friends among the tattie howkers other than Finn. But over the weeks that the tattie howkers had been at Dunshee, Isabel seemed to have developed a rough partiality for the boy, although she had never taken to Finn in the same way. If she came down to the fields with a bit of left over baking, stale scones or maybe a fruit cake – a rare enough occurrence – she would make sure that Francis had the first pick from the tin.

  ‘Take another piece,’ she would tell him. ‘Take one for later. Put it in your pocket, lad!’

  If Alasdair took Finn and Kirsty fly fishing at Ealachan, she would always make sure that Francis went too.

  ‘Don’t you be sneaking off without that poor boy!’

  She even came back from the kirk jumble sale with a suit of clothes and a pair of nearly new shoes that she thought might do very well for him, since – so she said - they had belonged to an islander who was almost as tall and skinny as Francis himself. Francis responded to these small gestures with a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude. He couldn’t understand them, but they seemed like blessings, and he basked in the thin light of Isabel’s regard as though it were the blazing sun of real affection.

  Almost every Sunday, during his first summer on the island, Finn would contrive to spend time with Kirsty, often with Francis tagging along behind them. The days always seemed to follow much the same pattern. Kirsty would go down to the kirk with her mother and grandfather, all three of them dressed in their best clothes. After the service, there might be tea and biscuits and a little gossip in the village hall, while a few of the men lingered in the doorway, smoking and chatting about fishing and farming matters.

  Occasionally, Malcolm Laurence would put in an appearance, expansive and charming in his Sunday suit, drinking tea, eating a scone or two with butter and raspberry jam slathered on top, passing the time of day with his tenants. His light brown hair was thinning, his face long and patrician, and he swallowed his consonants so that you had to listen hard to know what he was saying. But his absolute self confidence was attractive. He could be surprisingly flirtatious. When he laughed, he would throw back his head and fill the room with sound. Isabel, who had worked in the kitchen at Ealachan House before her marriage, always merited a special smile and a few kind words. Alasdair would watch these exchanges from a distance, wondering how such small attentions could please his daughter-in-law so much when she was so thoroughly sensible in every other way.

  Later, when Isabel could tear herself away, they would come back to Dunshee, and eat their Sunday dinner, accompanied by Family Favourites on the wireless. Dinner was usually a joint of lamb or beef which had been cooking slowly in their absence. There was always a steamed pudding on Sundays as well: ginger or chocolate or apple sponge with custard. Then Kirsty was allowed to change into her old clothes so that she, Finn and Francis could go down to the beach or climb up the hill behind the farm. There was an unspoken pact between them at this time that they would not go down to the village where there would be disapproval of the friendship between Kirsty and the two young tattie howkers, no matter how much it was sanctioned by Alasdair. But they would sometimes walk beyond the confines of Dunshee, taking the tracks along the western side of the island, where there were the remains of half a dozen settlements, ruined cottages, abandoned at the time of the clearances.

  One warm Sunday, Alasdair came down to the beach below Dunshee. The two boys were sitting on a rock, watching a single swan as she paddled smoothly along the shallows, while Kirsty drew pictures on the flat sand. She loved this smooth canvas that refreshed itself each day, loved how the sea sometimes left her a mysterious picture of its own, a scattering of shells, a few strands of seaweed arranged like so many question marks. Alasdair sat beside them, watching his grand-daug
hter for a bit and then said ‘Can you handle a boat?’ He addressed the question to all of them, but his eyes were on Finn.

  Kirsty looked up. ‘I can row, can’t I grandad? I’m a good rower!’

  ‘I know fine you can row. But I meant the lads here.’

  Francis said nothing. Finn shook his head. ‘I’d never even been in a boat, mister, till the day I came to Scotland. That was the first time.’

  ‘Would you like to learn?’

  Finn glanced behind Alasdair to where the wooden rowing boat rested on the sand, tied up to an iron stanchion in the rock. He saw Alasdair going out to his creels each day and wondered what it would feel like to be in charge of the little vessel.

  ‘I would so,’ he said.

  ‘What about you, Francis?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Francis frowned, screwing his eyes up against the sun, and Alasdair thought for a moment that he might be going to cry. Anything new seemed to terrify him.

  He hastened to reassure the boy. ‘Maybe next year, eh? If you come back here?’

  Francis brightened. ‘Maybe next year.’

  Alasdair got to his feet. ‘Come on, Finn. You can help me get her into the water.’

  ‘Can I come too?’ asked Kirsty, standing up and brushing the sand from her fingers.

  ‘No, no, no. Not the first time. I know you all too well, my Kirsty. You’d be queening it over him, and telling him everything he was doing wrong. You stay here, and keep Francis company. I’ll show Finn what he has to do.’

  Finn helped Alasdair drag the boat towards the water. He could see the few floats that marked Alasdair’s creels bobbing about and a line of waves, further out, where the sheltered waters of Dunshee Bay gave place to the open waters of the sound.

  ‘Now,’ said Alasdair gently. ‘First things first. You must never turn a boat against the sun. Always clockwise, lad. Always with the sun.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For luck, I suppose. I don’t know for sure. But it was what my own father always did, and so it’s good enough for me! Once I’m in, you can step in too, but mind you step into the middle of the boat. And quickly with the other leg. We want no disasters, do we?’

  Once Finn was settled, Alasdair seized the oars and pulled strongly away from the shore.

  ‘Were you sick on the ferry?’ he asked.

  ‘No. But I felt sick.’

  ‘Aye well, not surprising for your first time. It’s a lucky man who doesn’t have a touch of the mal de mer. I’m no great shakes myself on a rough day.’ He chuckled and shipped the oars. The boat slopped about, gently, but there was little movement on this fine day. The water was clear beneath them. Finn could see great fronds of seaweed down there, an underwater forest. On Alasdair’s instructions, they changed places, and soon Finn was rowing, clumsily at first, with a good deal of splashing, but with growing confidence. When a grey head popped up only a few yards away from them, he was so surprised that he almost dropped an oar.

  ‘Steady,’ said Alasdair. ‘No disasters mind.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Alasdair turned around. ‘It’s just a seal. Do you not know a seal when you see one? One of the selkie folk come to check if we might be doing any fishing today.’

  Finn shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen one. I thought it was a man, so.’

  ‘Well, they do have a kind of human look about them. You’ve never seen one?’

  ‘I’ve never been so close to the water.’

  ‘And do you like it? Being in a boat.’

  ‘I like it fine.’

  ‘I can never tell with you, Finn. It’s hard to tell whether you like something or not.’

  Finn didn’t know how to reply. What was he expected to say? You had to say and do what was expected of you. That was the trick.

  ‘Well, once you get the hang of the rowing you can maybe help me lift my creels. Do you think you could do that? Help me haul them in, and bait them again?’

  ‘I could try. But I’m not supposed...’

  ‘Ach don’t be telling me what you’re not supposed to do, Finn. I’m sick and tired of supposed. I’ll have a word with your gaffer. It’ll be alright. Might as well teach you to be useful, eh, Finn? Might as well teach you some useful skills while you’re here. That way, if you come back again we might manage to find a better job for you.’

  Finn stared at the horizon, but said nothing.

  ‘Would you like to come back here?’

  ‘I would like it fine.’

  ‘You might show a bit of enthusiasm, wee man.’

  ‘But I don’t know if it’ll happen.’

  ‘How come you’re over here this year? You and your pal?’

  ‘I don’t know, mister. One of the Brothers said he would arrange it.’

  ‘The brothers?’

  ‘One of the teachers at the school. He was from Enniskillen. Brother Patrick. I think he was sorry for us. I think that must have been it. He said he would see what he could do. See if they would send us to the tatties. He knew Micky Terrans from before. I think his da must have been a farmer.’

  Alasdair sat quietly, listening. This was the most he had ever heard Finn say.

  ‘I don’t think Micky wanted to take us, but Brother Patrick persuaded him an’ all. He’s a great one for persuading folk is Brother Patrick.’

  Finn thought about Brother Patrick, bull neck, hands like two hams. A gentle giant. The son of a farmer. Good with the beasts, they said. The Brothers ran a farm as well as the school, and they always sent for him if there were any problems. He had smiled all the time when he first came to the school, but didn’t smile so much now.

  ‘Why you two?’

  Finn shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Well, I think he might have been sorry for Francie. You know, Francie has a hard time at the school, mister.’

  ‘I’m sure he does. And what about you? Do you have a hard time?’

  ‘It’s kind of bad for all of us. But Francie has it worse. I think Brother Patrick could see that, but he was looking for somebody to go with Francie. He couldn’t just send him on his own, could he? I mean he knew fine Francie couldn’t lift a graip to save himself.’

  ‘So he sent you too.’

  ‘Aye. He sent me too. I’m strong. He said they would be glad of the money at any rate. Micky Terrans keeps back most of our pay and sends it to the school. He just gives us something to buy sweets in the shop.’

  ‘He does, does he?’

  ‘He says that was the arrangement. With the Brothers.’

  ‘And are you glad, Finn? Are you glad to be here?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so. I think I’m glad, mister. It’s better than the school. And I hope they send us back here again next year, so I do. ’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Each year, the swallows returned to Dunshee from wherever they chose to spend their winter months. Kirsty always looked out for the first pair of them in late April or early May. One evening, they would come swooping over the house in long curves, inspecting the rows of old nests under the eaves. Kirsty liked to imagine these early visitors deciding which would be the most suitable for their needs. She pictured the nests, comfortably lined with strands of her own hair. Whenever Isabel trimmed the ends, she always deposited the hairs on the windowsill for the birds. One winter’s day, when Kirsty was five years old, her grandad had come home, carrying a robin’s nest which he had found tucked into one of the field hedges. It was lined with a fabric of closely interwoven red hairs. She had taken it down to the school, where it sat on the nature table for years. New infants would look at it and say, ‘That’s Kirsty Galbreath’s hair!’

  ‘You couldn’t make one of those, however hard you tried!’ said the teacher. Kirsty knew that she was right, because she had tried and it was impossible. She had assembled the materials, sure that she could do it, but everything just fell to pieces beneath her fingers. In May, Kirsty heard the sad song of the curlew over the farm by night as well as by day. Her grandad told her that curlews
were residents, not summer visitors, like the martins and swallows and the mysterious corncrake with his strange, sawing cry that Kirsty often heard when she was in bed, on summer nights.

  ‘Where do they go in the winter then?’ she asked him, and he said ‘Oh they lie low, Kirsty. They just lie low.’

  She waited anxiously for Finn to return, wondering if he had been lying low as well. The island climate was very mild, and the potato harvest started early, but she worried. Perhaps he wouldn’t come back. Perhaps ‘they’ – whoever they were - wouldn’t let him. Isabel brushed her daughter’s long hair every night. She was very gentle, holding it twisted in her left hand, and combing it carefully with her right, to get the tangles out first, so that it didn’t tug too much.

  ‘You have lovely hair, God bless it!’ she would say.

  ‘Mum?’ said Kirsty, watching her mother’s reflection in the mirror. ‘Do you think the Irish boys will come to the tatties this year?’ She felt her mother’s grip on the thick strands of hair tighten and then relax.

  ‘I have no notion. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I thought you liked Francie,’ said Kirsty, cunningly. ‘He’s a nice lad, isn’t he?’

  Isabel sighed. ‘He’s a poor soul right enough. And I was sorry for him last year. But there was nothing I could do about him.’

  ‘You used to try to feed him up a bit.’

  ‘Aye, I did. But maybe they’ll not come this year.’

  ‘You mean Finn, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t mind if Francie came back, but not if it means Finn comes too.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t go on like this, Kirsty!’

  ‘You’re tugging!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’