Bird of Passage

by Catherine Czerkawska

‘He does. Haven’t you never caught it, Kirsty?’

  ‘Not me. My grandad won’t have it. He said if our teacher ever belted me, he would go straight down there and give her a good smack with her own Lochgelly. See how she liked it! But a car tyre, Finn? A car tyre!’

  ‘Would he do that?’ asked Finn, in wonder. ‘Give her a smack?’

  ‘I think he might. I behave myself anyway, so it doesn’t matter. But they don’t hit the wee ones do they, Finn?’

  He frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The wee ones in the primary? They don’t ever belt the wee ones here.’

  He gazed at her in silence for a moment. ‘I don’t remember,’ he said, at last.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t remember? You must remember whether they hit the wee ones?’

  ‘I tell you I don’t remember! Jesus, Kirsty, you’re enough to try the patience of a saint.’

  He stood up and began to walk back up the hill towards the farm, hauling the bag of mackerel with him.

  She ran after him, trying to keep up. ‘So what did you like best about the Wind in the Willows?’

  Finn hesitated. ‘I liked that whole… that whole thing. The picnics. I always wanted to be rowing home in the sunshine like that.’

  ‘Well now you can be.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rowing home in the sunshine like that,’ she told him, triumphantly, ‘And you can be doing it with me.’ Kirsty always liked to live her literature.

  Just as they got back to the farmyard, carrying the bag of mackerel between them, a big car pulled up in front of the farmhouse. Malcolm Laurence leapt out and slammed the door behind him, the sound of it echoing round the old buildings, causing the swallows to rise into the air in alarm. Isabel came running out of the front door.

  ‘Malcolm!’ she said, her face breaking into the kind of smile that Finn had never seen there before. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Issie, I’m glad you’re here. There’s been a bit of an incident in the village. One of your workers got himself into a spot of bother. I thought I’d better bring the lad back. See for yourself.’

  He opened the back door of the car, like a taxi driver, and Francis slid out, staggering, a white handkerchief splattered with crimson, clutched to his nose.

  ‘Oh dear God!’ said Isabel. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I think some of the village lads had a go at him. They’d been in the hotel after work, and there was some kind of altercation going on between the tattie howkers and the local lads. You know how it is?’

  ‘But not Francis.’

  ‘Ah well...’ Malcolm glanced at Francis who had made his way to the stone bench outside the house door and was sitting there, forlornly, with the bloody hankie still clutched to his nose. Kirsty went and sat beside him, offering silent sympathy. Finn hovered in the background, unsure whether to run away or to stay.

  ‘That may explain it. I think they went for a soft target, Issie. They wouldn’t want to take on some of those older men, would they now? The ones that can handle themselves. But there was a skirmish and I think your poor lad here just got in the way. Or didn’t get out of the way quickly enough.’

  ‘Oh, Francie!’ Kirsty slipped her arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Somebody landed a lucky punch, I’d say. He went down like a pair of breeks. Lucky I arrived on the scene. They were so fired up they might have given him a kicking while he was down.’

  ‘Lucky you did,’ said Isabel. She seemed torn between the impulse to help Francis and the pleasure of Malcolm’s attention.

  ‘Well, they slunk off as soon as I put in an appearance. As expected. His friends had all disappeared by that stage. Left him to it.’

  ‘It’s so kind of you to take the trouble to bring him back!’ Isabel moved a little closer to Malcolm and whispered, ‘He’s a poor soul, you know. I sometimes think he’s a wee bit simple. Lights on, nobody home. I don’t know why he’s here, to be honest with you. He’s nothing more than a liability. Oh, but your handkerchief.’

  Malcolm seemed embarrassed both by the confidence and by the mention of his handkerchief. ‘Don’t worry about it. Plenty more where that came from.’

  ‘I’ll make sure it’s washed. I’ll make sure you get it back.’

  ‘No need. It really doesn’t matter.’

  He was already on his way back to the car. ‘I’m pretty sure he hasn’t bled on my seat.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to come in for a cup of tea, would you?’

  ‘No, no – thank-you very much but I’d best be getting home. Things to do, you know. Busy, busy, busy.’

  Isabel watched the car until it disappeared around the bend in the track and then – galvanised into action - turned her attention to Finn.

  ‘Where were you, when all this was going on?’ she asked, furiously. ‘Why did you leave him alone? I thought you were his friend.’

  Kirsty leapt to her feet. ‘Mum! He was with me. On the boat. You know where we were. We were fishing for mackerel. And Francie didn’t want to come. We asked him, but he wanted to go to the village instead.’

  ‘Oh you!’ said Isabel. ‘You’re always defending him!’

  ‘But he hasn’t done anything. The village lads hate the tattie howkers. That’s why they only go down there in groups. You can’t blame Finn.’

  Alasdair had come to the door by this time, and overheard the tail end of the exchange. He pushed past his daughter-in-law and bent over Francis.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said, pulling the boy’s hand away from his nose. The handkerchief was sodden with blood, but the flow seemed to be easing. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Dizzy.’

  Francis was trembling and swaying a little, even though he was sitting down. He looked as though he might be going to faint.

  ‘I think it’s Francie here who needs the cup of tea,’ said Alasdair, mildly. ‘Never mind Malcolm Laurence. Go and make a pot, Isabel, strong and sweet. And put a wee dash of whisky in it as well. And a key to put down his back for the nosebleed. Never had you down for a bonnie fighter,’ he teased. ‘Kirsty, come back and sit beside him, and you too, Finn. I think he needs a bit of support. Pity it wasn’t Finn here who was down in the village. You might have given them a run for their money, eh?’

  ‘I might yet,’ said Finn, mutinously.

  ‘No, no. We’ll have no feuds here. They’re a bunch of idiots and you don’t rise to the bait. Do you hear me now?’

  ‘I do,’ said Finn, although he still looked rebellious.

  Isabel brought the tea and a clean rag out of the kitchen, taking away Malcolm Laurence’s bloody handkerchief. ‘I’ll put this to soak in some bicarb. Otherwise I’ll never get the marks out.’

  Alasdair watched her go and pulled a face. ‘Malcolm’s hankie,’ he said, shaking his head and grinning. Then, suddenly serious, he turned his attention back to Francis.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘There was a group of lads and they saw us coming out of the shop and started swearing at us and calling us dirty, thieving left footers. Why do they call us left footers, mister? One or two of them picked up stones. Jimsy and the others rushed at them but I didn’t know which way to go. I thought I should help them, but I was frightened, to tell you the truth, and then one of the Scots lads said, “Here’s scabby heid,” and the next thing I knew I was on the ground, and this big car pulled up and everyone ran off.’

  Francis sipped his tea. His face was a mass of pink scars this year, the skin blotched and peeling. Isabel had given him ointment to put on it but it didn’t make much difference. She worried that Kirsty might catch something from him, but Alasdair said it wasn’t infectious. It was down to nerves. Whatever the cause, the cold winds that blew over the island exaggerated the condition. And there were bald patches on his head where the hair had come out in tufts.

  ‘Just as well Malcolm was on the scene.’ Alasdair nodded to Finn. ‘They’d be scared of him, at any rate, seeing as how he’s landlord to mo
st of them. Wet that rag at the tap and wipe his face for him, Finn. When he’s had his tea, make sure he’s put to bed. He’ll have a nice pair of black eyes in the morning. And I’ll be having words with the other men. They should never have left him behind. Wipe your eyes, Kirsty, my wee lass. There’s no harm done. I’ve seen much worse when I was a young man. You wouldn’t believe the fights we used to have on a Saturday night. Fists flying. Black eyes and bloody noses. Something and nothing. Wipe your eyes, and come inside and give your mammy a hand to wash the holy handkerchief.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For the rest of that summer, Finn and Kirsty made sure they kept Francis close beside them. Sometimes, she and Finn went out in the boat, and left him sitting down on the beach. Sometimes, Kirsty wandered about and Finn and Francis, glad to be resting, watched her as she searched for treasures, things that she would take home and maybe draw later: a banded agate, a chunk of rose quartz, a curly shell.

  When the weather was very fine, there were parts of the beach that became infested with pink algae that stank in the sun. It only improved when the rain came down and washed it away. But the rain made the tattie howking a misery, so nobody welcomed it.

  Once they found an old green bottle with a piece of paper inside, but the water had got in and the message, whatever it might have been, disintegrated in their fingers.

  ‘It could have been a treasure map,’ she said, disappointed.

  ‘It could have been a message from somebody stranded on a desert island,’ said Francis, suddenly. ‘Maybe he was looking for his relatives. Trying to get word to them so that they could come and rescue him.’

  ‘So it could.’ Kirsty looked at him in surprise. It was so seldom that he said anything interesting. ‘Maybe he threw it into the sea years ago. And now it’s washed up here, but we can’t read the message.’

  ‘So he’ll just have to stay put,’ said Finn. ‘On his desert island. I would like that fine myself.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘To be cast away on a desert island.’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t think I’d like to be all on my own.’

  ‘There are worse things than being all on your own.’

  ‘You’d be like Robinson Crusoe.’

  ‘Who’s Robinson Crusoe?’ asked Francis

  ‘Just a man who got cast away on a desert island.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘How should I know? He’s in a book.’

  ‘Have you read that as well?’ asked Finn.

  ‘No. But my grandad told me about him. And he said that there really was a man like that, once upon a time.’

  ‘So maybe this was his last message.’

  ‘Maybe it was. His last will and testament. And now his forgotten bones are whitening on the sand!

  ‘Don’t say that,’ said Francis, with a shiver.

  ‘Why not? It’s just a story.’

  ‘I don’t like to think of it, that’s all. I like to think of nice things.’

  ‘What nice things do you have to think about?’ asked Finn, brusquely.

  Kirsty nudged him. ‘Don’t be rude.’

  ‘It was nice before my mammy died,’ said Francis, thoughtfully. ‘We had porridge in the mornings. She always lit the fire before we got up so that it would be warm for us. I think about that sometimes. But that was when I had the other name.’

  ‘What other name?’ Kirsty asked, intrigued. ‘How could you have another name? I thought you were Francis O’Brien. Only ladies change their names, when they get married.’

  ‘No, my name was Michael back then. But when I went to the orphanage, at first, they said they had two more boys called Michael, so I had to be Francis to save confusion. That was my confirmation name.’

  ‘What’s confirmation?’

  ‘You go into the church and there’s a bishop comes to do it and you take another name. A saint’s name.’ Finn was impatient with her lack of knowledge. ‘Do you not have that in your church?’

  ‘I never heard that we did.’

  Francis joined in, eager to explain. ‘And then, when I went to the school, from the orphanage, they said I’d better just keep that name. Francis O’Brien. Because everyone was used to it.’ He smiled at them. There was a gap where one of his front teeth had fallen out.

  Kirsty looked at Finn again, raising her eyebrows. Finn nodded.

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘I still don’t feel like Francis. I feel like Michael. Besides...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What if my sister comes looking for me? What if she does? She won’t know who I am.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’

  ‘I had three sisters. They were all older than me.’

  ‘And your mother died?’

  ‘She got very sick. They took her to hospital and they said she’d died. I went to the orphanage with the nuns, but my sisters had to go to a different place.’

  ‘And your name was really Michael?’

  He nodded. She turned to Finn. ‘What about you? Is Finn your real name?’

  ‘Tis.’

  ‘So if anyone comes looking for you, they’ll be able to find you.’

  ‘Nobody will ever come looking for me.’

  ‘How can you be sure.’

  ‘I just know, that’s all.’

  The next wet Sunday, Kirsty got out her copy of The Wind in the Willows, and took it into one of the barns. She had brought her grandad’s old plaid, a long piece of black and white wool, darned in many places. She and Finn and Francis wrapped it around them and made themselves snug on a bale of hay, with the wind making music in the rafters, and she read aloud to the two boys.

  ‘He’s always going on about comfort and contentment,’ said Finn.

  ‘So he is. That’s why I like it.’

  ‘You said you liked disasters.’

  ‘Well I do. But I like people being happy as well.’ She struggled to explain. ‘When Moley’s in the wild wood, it’s terrible, but when they find Badger’s house and everything’s alright, it’s even nicer because he’s had such a bad time.’

  Francis was tucked in between them. He had been listening, snuggling down into the plaid. He was drowsy, soothed by her words. There was a smell of unwashed clothes off both boys, but Kirsty had got used to it and hardly noticed it. She looked over his head at Finn.

  ‘Which one would you be, Finn ?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you were somebody in the book. Who would you be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Who would you be?’

  ‘Maybe Ratty, because he can do things. I want to be able to do things. You know? Or Otter. I might be Otter. Because he’s not afraid of anything.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of anything.’

  ‘Are you not?’

  ‘There’s nothing else for me to be afraid of, is there?’

  Later on that evening, she related this conversation to her grandfather, when she was sitting cross legged on the rug, drawing pictures of Ratty and Mole in their boat, rowing along the river.

  ‘Why wouldn’t Finn be afraid of anything?’ she asked.

  Her grandfather shook his head. ‘I don’t know, my lamb. Maybe so many bad things have happened to him already that he knows he can put up with whatever else they throw at him.’

  ‘What about Francie?’

  Alasdair sighed. ‘I’m not sure. He’s not as strong as your friend Finn. Finn has a wee wall built around him. He’s a tough one. Francie looks as though he could do with a few more layers of skin, in more ways than one.’

  Afterwards, she pondered this conversation. She was afraid of a great many things including hell and – to a lesser extent – heaven, which she didn’t think would suit her at all. She found the idea of sitting at the right hand of God, singing his praises faintly alarming. ‘But I can’t play the harp’ she had protested, anxiously, when she first attended Sunday school.

  That wet Sunday marked the start of a long spell of rain, which l
asted almost to the end of the potato harvest and the fields were awash with mud. The boys’ boots were caked with it. Worse, their hands and all their clothes were permanently dirty. The sandy earth was so engrained in their fingers that when they washed them in cold water they bled profusely. Kirsty wanted to invite them in to use the proper bathroom with warm water and scented soap instead of carbolic, but Isabel wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘It’s bad enough trying to clean it up after you’ve been in there, without inviting all and sundry in to use it!’

  ‘It isn’t all and sundry,’ said Kirsty. ‘It’s only Finn and Francis.’

  But her mother was adamant, so the boys had to make do with the cold tap in the outhouse. Kirsty wondered if, had it just been Francis, her mother might have relented. But she couldn’t invite Francis in without inviting Finn as well, so neither was allowed.

  Later that summer, just before the tattie howkers were due to leave, Kirsty wrapped up her copy of The Wind in the Willows in a sheet of fancy paper from the Post Office. She presented it to Finn, one evening, when Francis was asleep.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘It’s a present for you. Don’t open it till you get back.’

  ‘I’ll keep it for my birthday.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘October, I think. The tenth.’

  ‘What do you mean, you think. Do you not know your own birthday?’

  ‘Not if it was up to the Brothers. Who would tell us things like that?’

  But Finn did remember his birthday. He remembered it from his first school, what he always thought of as his real school, when he had been in Dublin with his mother. Sister Rosalie used to bring in a cake when it was your birthday and everyone would have a little piece of it. And he could remember the date from her. She had written it up on the blackboard for him. She had said it was a big race track, with a finishing post to one side, and that was the number ten, and Finn had remembered it, ever since.’

  I’ll have to try to find a hiding place for your present though or they’ll have it off me!’ he said.

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘We don’t get to keep things, Kirsty. Not presents. Not even sweets. We sometimes get sweets at Christmas but they’re always taken off us. We got oranges once, and we never got a suck of them.’