Bird of Passage (28 page)

It was as comforting as a blanket. He realised that this was as close as he would ever come to being at home, and the thought saddened him.  He slid into a pew. An old woman, wearing a furry coat and matching hat, moved her handbag along to make room for him. The coat smelled of mothballs. ‘There you go, son,’ she whispered. She had the yellow fringe of a lifelong smoker. He could smell the cigarette smoke off her along with the mothballs. The priest came onto the altar with his servers and the mass began, a simple, Sunday mass. In the gallery behind, a small choir sang  Star of the Sea, a little raggedly to be sure.

Dark night has come down on this rough spoken world,

and the banners of darkness are boldly unfurled,

and the tempest tossed church all her eyes are on thee,

we look to thy shining, sweet star of the se
a.

It had been one of his mother’s favourite hymns. She had always nudged Finn, and whispered ‘I like this one, don’t you?’
Look out for thy shining, sweet star of the sea.
It made him think of being in a boat somewhere, and a dark horizon with a single bright star.

The familiar words of the mass came back into his mind, and he spoke the responses with the rest of the congregation, automatically, effortlessly absorbed into the ritual. The sermon was short. The young Scottish priest seemed hesitant, as though uncertain of the value of any advice he might have to give  his parishioners. This was unlike most of the sermons which Finn had heard, either as a boy or at the school.  There were a few announcements, an invitation to take tea and biscuits in the church hall, and then they were on to the main business, the consecration of the bread and wine.

Take and eat ye, all of this, for this is my body.

The holy wafer, the Host, was raised above them, and then the chalice with its wine. Once, in the school, a couple of the boys, more brave or perhaps just more foolhardy than the rest, had taken a good swig of the communion wine, when they were briefly left alone in the sacristy and had replaced it with water. They said it was sweet  and tasted of raisins but there was no kick to it at all. It had been a nine days’ wonder among the boys, since none of them could imagine what might happen if the sacrilege were ever to be discovered. Hanging would be the least of it. But fortunately, the priest never found out.

Lord I am not worthy that thou shouldst enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.

Finn didn’t take communion. He stood up and let  his neighbour squeeze past him to wait at the altar rail and again when she resumed her place, hands steepled in front of her, head bowed, mouth firmly shut. She was wearing old lady bootees, to match the coat. He remembered how difficult it had been to swallow the wafer, and how the Brothers had told them that they mustn’t chew it, because it was
the body of Christ
, but it stuck to the roof of your mouth, and what were you supposed to do? You were supposed to let it sit there, till your spit moistened it and it dissolved away, and then you could swallow it.

He knelt back down and buried his face in his hands.  He had seldom had occasion to visit the kirk on the island but when he did, the plainness of the place had disturbed him. ‘That’s what’s so fine about it,’ Alasdair had told him, and he couldn’t disagree. There was something very reassuring about the little whitewashed kirk, the only ornament the stained glass window of Saint Columba, but he couldn’t dismiss his own past as easily as all that.  Nor could he deny the comfort of this church and its ancient rituals, now that he was in it.   

Once the final blessing was said,
Go forth in peace
, he went forth and would have headed back to the hostel, but his furry friend from the pew took his arm. ‘You’re new here,’ she said. ‘Come into the hall. Have a cup of tea. Meet Father Kevin.’

Kevin Gleason was the young priest who had seemed so reluctant to sermonise. He introduced himself, shook Finn by the hand and gestured vaguely towards the table where the ladies of the parish were serving builder’s tea and weak coffee in thick white cups, with orange squash for the children. There were plates full of jammy dodgers and rich tea biscuits. Children, released from the constraints of being in church, thundered about the bare boards of the hall, chasing each other, bringing a frown to Father Kevin’s brow. All the same, he seemed determinedly cheerful, as he worked his way round the hall, chatting to his parishioners,  drinking his  tea. Finn sat alone at the end of one of the trestle tables,  reluctant to leave, knowing that the hostel on a Sunday was not a pleasant place. He could only lie on his bed, read the newspaper, maybe go out for chips later.

The priest came over and sat down opposite him with a sigh and a smile. ‘I’m that desperate for a cigarette. You don’t have any on you, do you?’

Finn shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to wait. Do me good. You’re new here, aren’t you?’

‘I am. I’m new to the city.  I didn’t even know this was a Catholic church. I was passing and I thought I might as well come in.’

‘Well you’re very welcome. Are you over from Ireland? On holiday?’

‘No.’ Did he look as if he was on holiday? He very much doubted it. ‘No... I’ve been working on a farm for several years . In the western isles. But  one of my employers died and I thought I needed a change. I’m looking for work.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Not so far.’

‘What can you do?’

‘That’s my problem. I’m a farm hand. It’s not much use in the city. I’m good with machinery though. You have to be when you’re living on an island. You have to be able to fix things.’

‘Well, one of our St Vincent De Paul men here has a garage. I could put in a word for you, if you like.’

‘That would be very kind of you.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘I’m at the YMCA. I have some savings, but I do need to find some work, and then maybe get a room.’

‘I’ll give him a ring. I know he was saying he might need to take on extra help before the winter really sets in. The pay won’t be great though.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll take anything.’

‘Come round to the presbytery tomorrow. I’ll let you know.’

Which was why Finn found himself working as a trainee mechanic and general dogsbody, in a cold garage in Maryhill. His boss was Hugh O’Reilly, known as Wee Shug, and so long as Finn turned up on time, kept his head down and did as he was told, he was treated well enough. The pay may have been low, but it was more than he was used to and the hours were regular. He rented himself a mildewy room in a sandstone tenement for what seemed an exorbitant rent, and he went to mass every Sunday out of a sense of gratitude to Father Kevin, more than from any real resurgence of the faith he had once known when he was very young and it had been possible to believe in almost anything.

 He dimly remembered how that had felt. Now, he believed in nothing. He parroted the prayers and the responses and listened to the sermons, but most of it was automatic. The words just came into his head. He was comfortable in the church, but he didn’t examine those feelings. He never went to confession and he never went to communion. But each Sunday after church, he went into the hall for tea and biscuits, and each week, Kevin would make a point of spending a few minutes  at his table, asking how the job was going, was his room alright, how was he settling in? The concern seemed genuine and not just part of his duty as a parish priest. It was perhaps the closest Finn had ever come – since Francis - to making a male friend of his own age. And what a strange and unlikely choice it seemed to be.      

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

In her waking moments, Kirsty felt not just sad, but angry. Surely Finn must have known what this would do to her? Why had he made love to her and then left her? Did he care about her at all?  Her dreams were troubled excursions through the corridors of an unknown house, where ceilings were too low, stairs twisted and turned beneath her dragging feet and doors came off their hinges as soon as she tried to close them. It felt as though the very foundations of her world had shifted. Her mother had been so ill for so many months that she had begun to come to terms with that loss before Isabel died. In some ways, the pain of losing Finn was sharper and more unbearable. He had always been there. She had always counted on him.

Nicolas sent flowers and chocolates and bottles of wine, none of which were wanted. Kirsty refused to see him at first, but eventually she relented and let him in. They would sit and play gin rummy or board games like Cluedo and even Snakes and Ladders, Kirsty, Nicolas and  Alasdair together. For Kirsty, it was a little like recovering after a long illness, although there had been no symptoms other than misery and fatigue. She felt as though the real Kirsty was standing outside herself, watching this other Kirsty, this stranger who was walking and talking and doing what had to be done to survive. Finn hadn’t phoned or written. He had never so much as sent a postcard and at last, she was forced to admit that he was not coming back. She would have to adjust and make the best of it.

 She didn’t think about her work for a long time. Even the effort of wielding a pencil seemed too great.  Nicolas went to the mainland and, as he had done while her mother was ill, bought the best that he could find: not just watercolours but oils and acrylics, and pastels. Kirsty watched him unload a great mass of art supplies from the back of the car.

‘What on earth possessed you?’ she asked. ‘You seem to have bought the whole shop.’

‘I thought it might do you good. Give you something to think about.’

‘Well, it’ll do that sure enough.’

‘I know winter’s on the way, but I could take you out and about and you could draw.’

‘I rather like winter. I like to see the bare bones of things. You can see the landscape the way it really is – the rocks beneath. And the trees, all naked and strong.’

‘Then wrap up warm, my darling, and I’ll take you out.’

Nicolas drove Kirsty up to the north end of the island, where she spent the short afternoons drawing the stunted rowans that grew there, a dozen studies of their bizarre shapes. She became obsessed with a ruin that stood alone, a gable end and two side walls of a big stone house. It was on the old maps, the ones that showed Dunshee as well, but nothing now remained except these three naked walls and a few anonymous lumps and bumps beneath the turf. Nicolas waited and watched as she sketched, reading a paperback, making sure that she was warm enough, feeding her with salmon sandwiches and fruit cake. He could make no sense of the drawings.

‘Can’t you see how it falls?’ she asked. ‘Everything falls in the end!’

Anxious about her, he brought her back and stayed on at Dunshee for supper. Alasdair took himself off to bed early, but Nicolas lingered in the kitchen, helping Kirsty to tidy away the dishes and set the table for morning. She gave him a glass of whisky but refused one for herself. 

‘The smell of it turns my stomach.’

 ‘But you’re feeling a bit better.’

‘I’m better, yes.’

‘You’ve had a terrible time.’

‘It hasn’t been a picnic.’

‘But that… that
bastard
needn’t have added to your troubles. I could have killed him when I saw you so upset.’

‘Don’t talk about it, Nick. I don’t want to talk about it. I’d rather just forget all about him.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. All that fuss about a bloody tinker.’

She sat down at the table and gazed at him, blinking. It was a nervous tic, one she seemed to have acquired since her mother’s death.

‘Shut
up,
Nick. I don’t want to hear this.’

‘I don’t know why you’re still defending him.’

 ‘I haven’t been defending him. But I will now, if you like. Maybe he thought it was all for the best. Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing.’

‘Then he should have done it years ago. Gone away and got on with his own life. He never really belonged here, Christine. But all the same, he could have waited for a better time.’

‘Would there ever have been a right time?’

 ‘I’ve always thought there was something strange about him, you know. He couldn’t interact with people at all. No social skills.  I don’t know why you’re so loyal to him. You had nothing in common. And now you know what he’s really like.’

‘Yes, now I know what he’s really like.’

‘ And you’re much better off without him. Aren’t you?’

‘Much better.’

‘It’s all for the best, you know.’

She gazed beyond him, staring at the kitchen window as though half expecting to see a familiar face there.

 ‘So, have you given any thought to ... my proposal.’ Nicolas seemed faintly embarrassed by the word. ‘You’ll never find a more loving husband than me. I really do mean that. I’ll look after you. Nobody could ever love you more than I do.’

‘You’re right.’

‘So what do you think? Do you think we might make a go of it?’

 ‘Maybe. Maybe we could. Yes.’

‘You don’t sound very positive.’