Bird of Passage (11 page)

‘Oh Finn!’ She was still not sure who these people were, and why Finn lived with them and not with his mother. She was still shy of asking. She had asked her grandfather, but he hadn’t been able to explain it either.

‘I found it on the muck heap, a few weeks later, but it was all torn apart and the mice had got to the stuffing.’

‘Could someone not have stitched it for you?’

‘Kirsty, will you stop this? I don’t want to talk about it. D’you hear me? I’m saying nothing else. It was just a daft old bear anyway.’

 ‘But will you be able to find a safe place for the book?’ she asked, anxiously, not wanting to see the gift wasted. There was a strong streak of prudence in Kirsty.  She took good care of all her possessions and hated to see anything broken or ill used.
‘I will. I’ll look after it alright. There’s a farm at the school. And there’s an old dresser in one of the sheds. I keep a few things at the back of one of the drawers there. Nobody looks. I’d catch it right enough if they knew about it, but nobody does, not even the other boys.’

Years later, she remembered her gift, and wondered if the book was still there, with ‘to Finn with love from Kirsty xxx’ on the flyleaf, mouldering at the back of a drawer in an old worm-eaten dresser, somewhere in a barn in Ireland.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kirsty’s body was growing and filling out, embarrassing her when she had to change for games with the younger children at school. At the start of the summer, her mother took her on a trip to Glasgow. They stayed with Aunty Beatie and the Glasgow cousins in their bungalow in Newton Mearns. They went to the big Marks and Spencer’s in the city centre, and bought two white nylon bras, which Kirsty found desperately uncomfortable. She got a suspender belt and some American Tan stockings as well, but although she was excited by the idea of these grown up things, in reality they were fiddly and awkward. The plastic buttons dug into her legs. Sometimes they popped out at embarrassing moments, and the nylons wrinkled around her ankles. It was a miserable business and she refused to wear them anywhere, except for going to the kirk on Sundays.

She found herself waking up in the early hours of the morning and staring out of her window, watching the moon over the sea. She kept a notebook beside her bed and had taken to writing wildly lyrical poems, or melodramatic stories, in which she was the heroine, rescued from some fate worse than death (though what that might be, she couldn’t imagine) by a tall, dark, handsome hero. But she still liked drawing best, still liked pictures far better than words.

Because Finn and Francis had managed to come to the tatties for two years running, she had fully expected to see them for a third time. In fact, she had been counting on it.  So when she ran down to the field to welcome them, she was relieved to find Finn, head down, working hard, but surprised that there was no sign of Francis.

‘Hello again, Finn!’

She didn’t rush to hug him, as she had the previous year. Something had changed, in herself, and in him, too.

‘Hello, yourself.’

Where’s Francie?’ she asked. ‘Is he up in the byre?’

Finn shook his head, but he wouldn’t stop for her.  

‘I have work to do.’

‘Can’t you at least say hello to me?’

‘I thought I just did.’

He looked thinner and more gaunt and there were the remains of what might have been bruises on his face, that strange, yellowish colour which always follows on from the black and blue. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

‘What’s happened to you? Have you been fighting already?’

‘No.’

‘Is Francis not here this year?’

‘No.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He couldn’t come. He went away.’

‘Where? Did his sister come for him after all?’

 ‘Don’t talk daft. Nobody comes for you. It doesn’t happen. He would be sixteen now.’

‘So?’

‘So, we all go away when we’re sixteen. We have to go away.’

‘I didn’t realise Francis was older than you. My mum will be sad. She’s been saving up clothes and things for him.’

‘I can’t help that, can I?’

‘Are
you
not glad to be back?’

He stuck the fork in the soft ground, leaning on it with his foot, pushing the tines through the earth. She started to cry.

 ‘Ah now, don’t do that, for God’s sake! Don’t cry!’

‘I’ve been waiting for you all winter!  Hoping you would come back!’

He let the graip fall and clutched at her fingers so hard that she gasped with pain, but she didn’t pull away.

‘At least
you’re
here.’

‘Bad penny, that’s me.’

She wondered how she was going to tell her mother about Francis, but when she got into the kitchen, Isabel was baking bread, furiously pummelling the dough, as though it were some nameless enemy. She pushed the hair from her eyes with a floury hand, leaving a smear of white on her forehead.

‘You don’t have to tell me because I know. Your grandad told me!’

‘It’s a shame, isn’t it?’ said Kirsty, uncertainly.

‘It’s a shame, right enough, but it was only to be expected. And I suppose Finn’s happy about it.’

‘Why would he be happy? ’

‘Well, he was always the favourite with your grandfather and now there’s nobody to steal his limelight.’

‘I don’t think he’s happy at all.’ Kirsty picked up a box of raisins and began to eat them, tossing them into the air and catching them in her mouth. ‘I think he misses Francie. We all do.’

Isabel said nothing, but punched the soft dough more vigorously than ever.

Finn did much more than dig the tatties that third summer. Alasdair had come to some arrangement with the gaffer again, cash had changed hands, and Finn was often free to help about the farm, especially once the Dunshee earlies were finished. Isabel didn’t approve, but Alasdair wouldn’t talk about it at home, and Finn always steered the conversation away from the subject, even when he was with Kirsty.

‘I’m learning,’ was all he would say.

This year, there was something unsettling about him, some quality which seemed to have intensified over the winter. His natural reserve had grown into a chilly indifference towards everyone except Kirsty and her grandfather. There was something awkward and inept about his interactions with other people. Kirsty was reminded again of Alasdair’s remark about the ill-treated dog that he could do nothing with. Even when Finn was injured or exhausted, he would never complain. Only a week or two after his arrival, he put a fork right through his boot and made a gash in his foot. They had to get the island nurse to come up to the farm to clean and stitch the wound and give him a tetanus injection, but he hardly even cried out.

‘You’d have been bawling the house down, wouldn’t you, Kirsty?’ said her grandfather.

‘Of course she would,’ said her mother. ‘There’s something inhuman about that boy. I can’t think why you and Kirsty like him so much. It’s always Finn this and Finn that!’

But like the grey mullet that swam about the harbour, Alasdair would never rise to the bait.

One July evening, Finn had been out to the creels with Alasdair, while Kirsty had been waiting for them to come in. Alasdair was still tinkering with his boat when Finn made himself comfortable on a flat rock, Kirsty at his feet. She took up a stick and drew a face in the sand.

‘This time last year, we were down here with Francis.’

Finn said nothing.

‘Do you ever hear from him?’ she persisted. ‘Has he got a job now?’

‘I don’t know. They’re mostly sent to work on farms.’

Kirsty couldn’t imagine that Francis would be much use anywhere, never mind on a farm. He had no practical skills whatsoever.

‘Do you miss him?’

‘Like a nail in my boot.’

‘Don’t be mean. He was no farmer, that’s for sure. But he could sing like an angel.’

‘He could do that alright.’

Having made sure that his boat was safely tied up, Alasdair came over, sat beside them, and took his pipe out of his pocket. He mostly smoked matches, but he liked the feel of the old briar in his mouth.

‘Tell us a story!’ It was what Kirsty had always said to her grandfather when she was a little girl, sitting on the rag rug at his feet, picking at the bright flaps of cloth, counting the colours.

‘What story do you want?’ asked Alasdair.

Kirsty looked beyond him, towards the hill which rose above Dunshee, with its vague suggestion of ramparts and earthworks.

‘Tell us about Dermot and Grania. ‘

Finn stirred. ‘Grania? That’s an Irish story.’

‘No it’s not.’

‘’Tis. An Irish name and an Irish story.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked him.

He hesitated. ‘I heard it told once when I was at the tatties. Not this year but our first time here. One of the older men, he told about this man called Dermot, and this woman called Grania, and she was engaged to this other man, but she fell for Dermot instead and she ran away with him. He had this little mark on his face, a love spot the man called it. Anyway, she got a sight of it, and she was mad for him, and they ran off together.’

Kirsty looked over at her grandfather, who was smiling quietly to himself.

‘Is he right, grandad? Is it an Irish tale?’

‘That’s about the long and short of it.’

‘But what about Hill Top Town? You told me they lived up there.

‘Not in the story I heard,’ said Finn.

‘Who asked you?’ said Kirsty, turning on him, irritably.

‘Shush,’ said her grandad. ‘Leave the lad alone.’

‘Well… Anyone would think…’

‘What?’

‘That he knew more about storytelling than you do.’

‘But he’s allowed to tell his own story, Kirsty. Everyone has his own tale to tell.’

‘He doesn’t have very much to say for himself at all, this summer!’
‘Can I not answer for myself?’ asked Finn.

‘Apparently not,’ said Alasdair, with a chuckle. ‘You should know by now. You have to get in quick or Kirsty will always answer for you.’

Kirsty started to giggle, stole another sidelong look at Finn and saw that his lips were twitching. It was the first time he had smiled in weeks.

‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Dermot and Grania.’

Alasdair made himself comfortable, puffed briefly at his pipe, and began his tale.

‘Well, you had it right. There was this girl called Grania, and she was in love with Dermot, so she was, madly in love with him, because it was an enchanted love, and there was nothing that could break the spell, no matter what. Dermot was a great hero. It was said that he was never weary, that his step was as light at the end of the longest battle as it was at the beginning of the day.  But he had this wee spot on his face, it’s true, and once any woman saw it she was enchanted by him. So Grania caught a sight of his beauty spot and there was nothing for her but that they must run away together.

Now he was an honourable man, and besides, he had been a good friend to Finn, and this Finn was the man that Grania was supposed to marry.’

‘Finn!’ Kirsty dug her companion in the ribs. ‘That’s you!’

‘I know.’

‘So who was Finn then?’

‘Oh, he was a great hero, Kirsty. A great hero. There was not his like in the whole of Ireland.’

‘Ireland?’

‘Yes. Finn’s right. This is an Irish tale, but it is a Scottish tale as well. I’ve told you before,
a’graidh
, we are the same people. Anyway, to get back to Dermot, although he went away with her right enough, they lived apart and not as man and wife, which was what she would have liked, with the enchantment full on her.  But they travelled all over the place, even sailing over the sea to Scotland, sleeping here and there, at hill forts, or in the wilderness, on beds made of heather, just as the fancy took them. Her man Finn McCool was after them both by this time, and threatening that if he found them he would kill Dermot and punish Grania.’

Alasdair pulled on his pipe, discovered that it had gone out, lit it again, and blew out a stream of blue, vanilla- scented smoke. ‘So at last they came to the island, and up to the old fortress at Hill Top Town there, which was called
Dun Sidhe
, or the Hill of the Fairies.

‘Why the hill of the fairies?’ asked Finn.

Kirsty nudged his knee. ‘Just listen will you?’

Alasdair winked at Finn and resumed his story.

‘There was a lord who lived up at
Dun Sidhe
, an earl of fairyland.  And that was why the place was called the hill of the fairies, and that is what our own house, down below, is called to this very day. ‘

‘See,’ said Kirsty, nudging Finn. ‘Now go on with the story, grandad, for those that want to hear it.’

‘The earl was a wealthy man for those times, and he set out to charm Grania. Like many of the fairy folk, he played the fiddle and he played it well, a fairy tune that filled her head with dreams. And because poor Dermot was paying her scant attention, she took a liking to this other man, this earl of fairyland, partly to make Dermot jealous, and partly because he was kind to her. He would bring her gulls’ eggs to eat, and fish from the sea, and blaeberries from the moors.’