Bird of Passage (12 page)

‘I love blaeberries,’ said Kirsty.

Finn scowled at her. ‘Now who’s interrupting?’

‘And he would make her a bed of feathers to lie on, the feathers of the curlew and the corncrake, soft feathers and much more comfortable than any heather bed. And he would play to her, so that she slept deeply and well, and her dreams were sweet because of the feathers and the music.  But soon, this man, the earl of fairyland, came to Grania with a plot that they might kill Dermot, and then she would marry the earl and live with him up at
Dun Sidhe
where old Finn would never find them.

So they made a plan that Dermot and the earl would play at a game of dice  together, and whenever the earl saw his chance, he would kill Dermot, and Grania vowed to help him.’

Finn moved restlessly. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘What’s wrong now?’ asked Kirsty.

‘Why would she kill Dermot when she was in love with him? You said she was mad in love with him!’

‘You have to listen properly!’ Kirsty exclaimed. The other man was good to her. He fed her and made her a feather bed, and he played music for her.’

Alasdair paused to relight his pipe and then continued. ‘Well, they were playing at the dice, all fine and nice, and the earl saw his chance and laid his hands upon poor Dermot. But Dermot was younger and stronger, and they began wrestling together. Dermot got him down on the ground. The earl called out to Grania to save him. She took up Dermot’s own knife and stabbed him in the thigh with it.’

‘She stabbed Dermot?’

‘She did.’

‘I still don’t see why she would do that,’ said Finn, mutinously.

‘Because she loved him more than he loved her. Isn’t that clear to you?’ said    Kirsty.

‘But…’ He saw her face and stopped. ‘Alright. Go on then.’

‘Thank-you,’ said Alasdair. ‘So when Dermot saw what she had done, and he saw the blood running down, he took himself off, more dead than alive, and if they thought anything about him at all, they thought that he was dead.   

But a long time later, Dermot came back to the Dun, and he brought a fine fat salmon with him, and neither of them recognised him, he was so changed. He asked them if he could have leave to roast the fish on their fire, and Grania brought him a wee bowl of water so that he could wash his fingers. Now there was another magic thing about Dermot: anything he might touch would have the scent of honey upon it. He cooked the fish, and then he said to Grania, would she like a morsel, and it smelled so good that she took up a piece of it and put it in her mouth. She thought it had a strange taste for a fish. She took up the bowl of water where he had dipped his fingers and put it to her nose. As soon as she did that, she could smell the powerful honey in it, and she knew that the stranger was Dermot. By then, she was tired of the earl, who had not been by any means what she had thought he might be, so she went to Dermot  and threw her two arms around him and kissed him.

The earl of fairyland leapt up with a roar and attacked Dermot, but Dermot killed him, and he went away from the Dun. Grania followed him, all the way down to the seashore, and she called to him and called to him, but he would not turn round. The corncrake was calling in the reeds, crek crek he was calling. And the heron was flying over the water. And there was Dermot, sitting on a big rock. And Grania said “Are you hungry Dermot? I will feed you. I have food and drink enough for both of us.”

Dermot said “Give me a piece of your bread, Grania.”

She said “Where is a knife, that will cut it?”

Then he said to her “Why will you not search for it in the place where you sheathed it last,” meaning the wound that she had given him in the leg, and at that she was overcome with shame. She went to him and she drew the knife out and gave it back to him, and that was the greatest shame that any woman ever had, when she realised how she had betrayed this man and wounded him, and now wanted him back again.’

There was a moment’s silence. It was always like this, thought Kirsty. It was as though her grandfather had conjured up images from the sea and the land around them. It was a kind of magic; he took the memories of the island, the sticks and stones, the shells and feathers and water, and transformed them into words. It was an old skill and few could manage it like Alasdair.

After a while, Finn said ‘That tune…’

‘What tune?’ asked Kirsty.

‘The tune that the earl played… are there really tunes like that?’

‘A melody to enchant a woman? Of course,’ said Alasdair. ‘There are all kinds of fiddle tunes that are as old as the hills, and some of them have been passed down from the fairies themselves. I’ll let you hear it, if you like.’

Back at Dunshee, Alasdair invited Finn into the kitchen. Isabel was away on a shopping trip to the mainland with the minister’s wife and the ladies of the Guild, so there was nobody to object. Alasdair got the old fiddle down from its nail, tuned it up, and played a plaintive melody, which he said was a fairy song .

‘I would like…’ Finn began, and then hesitated.

‘What would you like?’ asked Alasdair.

‘Nothing. No.’ He turned to Kirsty. ‘Can you play that?’

‘The fiddle?’ She shook her head.

Alasdair laughed. ‘Not for lack of encouragement. I always hoped she would try, but she has no patience with it. None at all. She sings sweetly enough but she is no musician. Why? Would you like to learn, Finn? My wee Kirsty will do nothing but make pictures.’

Finn coloured and looked down at the floor. ‘I couldn’t do it.’

‘Why couldn’t you do it?’

‘I’ve no brains, mister.’

‘Who told you you’d no brains?’

‘They tell me at the school. Plug ugly and pig ignorant. That’s me.’

There was a sudden silence in the room. Alasdair gazed at Finn. Kirsty could see that he looked very angry. But not with Finn.

‘Why would you say that?’

‘Because it’s true.’

That’s what they always told him. And he was glad of it. It was safer that way. Nobody looked twice at you if you were plug ugly and pig ignorant. One of the herd. That was the trick of it. That was the way you survived. Look what happened if you were different. Look what had happened to Francie. But he mustn’t think about Francie. Or any of that. Keep your mind on your work. Keep quiet. Survive.

‘Nonsense!’ Alasdair interrupted his  thoughts. ‘You’ve brains enough for two in that head of yours. Look – do you want to learn?’

‘Am I not too old?’

‘Aye, you are a bit. But I can teach you to busk a tune as well as the next man.’

Which was why Alasdair began to teach Finn the rudiments of playing the fiddle. He would never be particularly good at it, but he enjoyed the process of learning. He seldom played for anyone except Kirsty and Alasdair. After a while, he  found that he could coax a simple tune out of the instrument and when, some years later, he mastered the fairy melody, nobody was more delighted with his pupil’s success than Alasdair, except perhaps for Kirsty herself.

CHAPTER NINE

That summer, Kirsty left the island primary school. In late August, she started school on the mainland. Finn was still on the farm, although even the late tattie harvest was nearly done and it was almost time for the visiting Irish to leave too.

‘I’m looking forward to going to the mainland,’ she told him. ‘Looking forward to the company.’ There was a hostel for everyone who had too far to travel each day.

‘Am I not company?’ he asked.

‘When you’re here you are. But you’re away all winter.’

‘And you come home at weekends?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Aren’t you scared?’

‘Why would I be scared?’

 On the first day of term, when Alasdair and Isabel took her to the ferry, Finn rose early and walked down to the harbour to see her off. He needed to see her leave, needed to be able to watch until she was out of sight. He couldn’t have explained this to anyone, but it seemed essential to do it.  It hadn’t occurred to him that she would be gone to what she called ‘the big school’ before he had to go back to Ireland, that he wouldn’t be able to spend his few remaining evenings after work in her company, that he must wait for the weekend to see her again, one last weekend before the tattie howkers went away. And he was all too aware that he might not be coming back. Nothing was certain. Nothing predictable. Nothing was ever safe.

It was a fine August morning, with just a hint of a chill in the air, an intimation of things to come. The year had turned. He lurked behind the fuel store, sitting on a pile of old fishing nets with bits of dried weed and crab claws entangled in them, until he saw the farm jeep come rattling down the hill.  Kirsty got out, and Alasdair shouldered her bag and carried it aboard for her. She looked smart and small, dressed in her new school uniform, the blazer several sizes too big for her. Isabel got out of the jeep, gave her daughter a hug and a kiss and then stood  on the jetty, hands in the pockets of her navy blue cardigan. Kirsty turned back and waved, and Isabel raised her hand and blew a kiss. Finn had a sudden pang of some indefinable emotion – a sore place. Nobody ever waved him off. Nor had they. Not since his mother, all those years ago, when he had first started at the school in Dublin. He thought about Sister Rosalie with her pink cheeks and the funny white winged head-dress of the Sisters of Charity. He remembered Sister Rosalie saying, ‘Come along now, Finn!’ and his mother standing at the railing, smiling and waving, with a hankie clutched in her other hand. Wiping her eyes. ‘Just a bit of dust in my eye. I’ll be here at home time, Finny!’ 

Not since then. 

Alasdair got back in the jeep and backed up to the turning place. The ferry was already moving away from the jetty. Kirsty was on deck with a handful of other children, all older than herself. Only when the jeep was well up the road did Finn emerge cautiously from behind the fuel store. He walked down onto the jetty and stood there for a while,  watching. Then, when he was sure that nobody could see him, he raised his hand, and waved, sketchily, self consciously. Did he imagine it, or did Kirsty detach herself from the huddle of children and wave back at him? Had it really happened? He couldn’t be sure, and the ferry was too far off now, leaving a trail of foam in its wake. He watched until it was a silhouette, heading for the mainland, and then turned and jogged back to the farm, taking shortcuts over the muddy fields, mindful of unfriendly dogs and barbed wire and other hazards. He would be late, but he didn’t think that Alasdair would mind too much, and – for the next week or so – it was Alasdair he was working for, rather than Micky Terrans.

After the one-roomed island school, the size of the big school bewildered Kirsty. So many people. So much noise.  Some of the children were miserably homesick and cried themselves to sleep in the hostel every night, although the rooms were comfortable and cheerfully painted, four beds to a room, with a bedside locker, a desk and wardrobe for each girl. There was a matron if you were feeling ill or even sad. The food was plain but plentiful. And there was always bread and jam or peanut butter, fresh milk and cups of tea and cocoa for those that wanted them. All in all, it was bearable. Kirsty was homesick too but she would have died rather than let anybody see her distress. She was afraid of being bullied, had heard tales of newcomers being beaten or having their heads forced into lavatories. But alongside Finn’s infrequent references to his own school, these worries seemed insignificant. Besides, none of them proved to be true and perhaps because of her red hair, the other children credited her with a fiery temper. 

‘See that Kirsty Galbreath!’ they said. ‘She’s mad!’

She made a few new friends but, as far as Kirsty was concerned, the best thing about her new school was Miss Wilson. Jane Wilson taught art, was not long out of college herself and was still enthusiastic about her subject and her pupils. She was slender and striking and she wore fashionable clothes. She stood out like a tropical bird among the other teachers.

‘They didn’t make teachers like that in our day,’ said the fathers, on parents’ night, remembering fierce, middle-aged ladies in lisle stockings.

‘They don’t even make them like that nowadays,’ said the mothers, eyeing up the other female staff members in their grey pleated skirts and neat blouses.

Miss Wilson wore her dark hair long and smooth and straight. In winter she dressed in short skirts and patterned tights and  brightly coloured polo necks,  but when she waited for her bus outside the school gates, she wore a long black coat with a fur collar and fur around the hem. She called it her ‘Zhivago Coat’. Julie Christie, as Lara, had worn one like it, in the film. Kirsty found it immensely romantic and wanted one for herself.

The following weekend, Kirsty was so full of the school and the hostel and her new experiences that it was Sunday afternoon before she realised that Finn would be going away so soon. They were in their usual spot, up at Hill Top Town, when he said, suddenly, ‘I hope I’ll see you next year.’

She gazed at him in utter dismay. ‘Is it this week? Is it this week you’re going, Finn?’

‘I’ve been trying to tell you.’