by Katie Munnik
‘And L for Livia,’ she said, putting her finger on a green L-shape hooked inside a heart in one corner of the rug. ‘She put my letter here. One of them.’
‘Well, look at that. So she did.’
‘She must have known I was coming. Before I was born, she knew it would be me.’
‘Maybe she did, youngling. Maybe she did.’
Just perfect. I can’t quite believe how quickly she’s growing or how clever she is. I am so very, very lucky.
Lots of love,
your Felicity
9
I SPENT ALL MORNING READING THE LETTERS AND DIDN’T get through them, just emerged a bit nostalgic, a bit homesick. Not exactly progress, I thought. I was supposed to be sorting Gran’s things, not working myself into a mope. So I decided to take up Muriel’s suggestion of lunch at the hotel and muster more vigour in the afternoon.
As soon as I was out the door of the house, I spotted the goose – or rather, it spotted me. This time, it was up on a tall stump halfway down the path. I’d have to pass right by it. It looked at me and let out an almighty squawk, beating its wings in the air. I froze. Do geese attack? Bas told stories about geese guarding farmhouses in the Netherlands. Said they were loud enough beasts to frighten any intruders, all hissing and strong wings. Geese protect their flock. But would a solitary bird be fierce like that, I wondered. I could stand here all day and not know. Then the Edinburgh bus rumbled past empty-seated and the goose settled down and tucked its beak under its wing. I took my chance and scuttled past it to the road, looking backwards to see if I’d been followed.
There were plenty of cars in the hotel parking lot and full tables in the restaurant. Muriel smiled to see me and asked if it was all right if she sat me up at the bar for my meal.
‘We’ve hordes of golfers in just at the moment. You’ll want to sit away from them anyways, I should think. They’re full of noise and bravado, by the sounds of it.’
She brought me a bowl of soup and a large supply of bread and butter. ‘Do let me know if you would like anything else, dear. Anything at all.’ I thanked her, and she smiled warmly. ‘Lunch-wise or help with the house. I want you to know I’m willing. And if it’s strong arms you need for lifting, I can probably find a name or two to suggest.’
‘I do have a question about geese.’
‘Geese?’
‘Did my gran like them? I mean, did she keep one? At the house?’
‘A goose? I shouldn’t think so. Not that I know of, at least. She didn’t really go in for farming. She helped me with our pig, but that was back during the war. A long time ago. No, she never did mention geese.’
A man came through from the kitchen with a tray of food and set it down on the bar while he checked the orders in a notebook.
‘I was only wondering because there’s one coming into the yard,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘Not a goose, I shouldn’t think,’ Muriel said. ‘It’s a bit late in the spring for geese. They’ll have gone now.’
The man looked up. ‘No, I heard them still this morning. Won’t be long, but they haven’t flown yet.’
‘These warm winters must be confusing them,’ Muriel said. ‘They should be heading up to Iceland by now. But just one, you said? Is it a swan, perhaps. They’re both big birds.’
‘No, it’s absolutely a goose. Do you call them Canada geese here?’
‘Ah, that’s it then. I thought you meant one of the pink-footed chaps out on the sandbar. They’re our winter companions, but they do fly off each spring. Just passing through.’
‘Like the rest of us. Excuse me, ladies,’ and the man picked up the tray and carried it through for the golfers.
‘Well, there’s your answer. A Canadian goose. They don’t migrate, you see. No call of the north in the spring for them. That’s not their way. They’re resident all year round. And noisy pests, but at least perhaps familiar for you.’
I asked at the grocery shop, too, because of a sign in the window for duck eggs.
‘Geese? Well, no, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. These come from Fenton Barns, but they don’t keep geese. But if you are looking for information about them, you might try the library in Gullane. And there’s Goose Green, too, isn’t there? Can’t say I ever saw a goose there, but ask at the library and the girl might tell you something; some history or the like. I do have postcards, if you’re interested. Seabirds and scenery. They sell well.’
The rack by the wall was well stocked and I chose a postcard of shorebirds for Felicity and and a skilful sketch of a local castle for Mateo. Turning the cards over, I spotted the artist’s name: Izaak Nowak. Well, then. That was something off the to-do list. Gran’s artist – found. I thought about buying the duck eggs, too, but worried I might not manage to eat them all on my own. They looked too big and meaty.
All along the coast road, the wind circled me. If it could just pick a direction, I could adjust, but it seemed to come from all around. I pulled my hair into a ponytail to keep it from my eyes and thought about Gran’s curtains. I wished she were here to talk to.
On my return to the house, the goose was standing sentry on the stump again, so I thought I’d go see the bridge. I walked past on the other side of the road, through the parking lot – this one empty – and found an interesting cairn commemorating a local writer who had apparently enjoyed this stretch of the coast. A sign warned about the nesting season and the importance of keeping to the path, and described the local flora and fauna, resident and invasive. At the beginning of the bridge, I found another sign:
Aberlady Bay LNR
No dogs please
Please take your litter home
All those disappointed puppies dragged back home. I could hear Felicity laughing already. She liked wordplay like that. Maybe that’s what I’d write on the postcard.
The tide was out so the bridge sat tall in the landscape. I looked down through the gaps between the planks at the muddy water below. As a kid, this made me feel dizzy, and I remember gripping Felicity’s hand tightly. We’d count our steps, too, but I was already halfway across. Something for next time, then.
Nettles and thistles grew thick along the path, and further on, there was bright sea buckthorn and yellow prickly gorse. Why do so many thorny plants grow in sandy places? Protection against invasive species? Or tourists? Or was it like cacti in the desert, hoarding water any way they could? Strange to think that could be necessary in drizzly Scotland. Today was clear, at least, and away to the left across the water, Edinburgh sat etched on the horizon, the church spires rising like handwriting. I sidestepped the prickles and followed the path inland where a small lake was edged with nodding, yellow flowers. Islands of seafoam gave it a strange arctic air and a pair of Canada geese floated serenely with their clutch of yellow goslings. I’d never really seen geese up close before. They were sky-birds at the camp, passing over in the spring and again in the autumn, heading north and south with the seasons. We’d hear them before we saw them, a dark string against the sky. Felicity told me they flew day and night, never worrying about the dark. They took turns leading, but the ones who followed were the ones you could hear, clacking encouragement from behind. On this small lake, they looked sculptural, tall and peaceful, but then one of the adults noticed me and clacked in a territorial tone, and the chicks darted off to the shelter of the tall weeds. They didn’t want spectators. I kept walking.
The path led into a hawthorn wood and, stepping in out of the wind, my ears felt muffled, my eyes dim in the shade. No coin of daylight marked the end, only the path stretching on through the trees. It might stretch on forever. Or dimly tunnel right into the earth, down into sunless caverns under the sea. More Felicity-thoughts whispered at me as the branches creaked and swayed close above my head, as startling as voices. Quick strides, hands in pockets, resolute, and then I found a sudden corner, bent like a dog’s leg, like the main street, and the path now was brighter and ran on before me, higher and thick
er with green, and louder with birds overhead. Brambles grew here and something with white flowers. It was an easier path and, with sunlight ahead, I relaxed – or almost. The darker path was still there behind me, a scarf caught on a nail. And I wasn’t sure this path had been here when Felicity and I came to visit or maybe we had just walked a different way.
Out in the wind again, the world was open. Spring-bright and alive with purple, yellow and white splashed through the grasses. All wild flowers Gran would know. Because a resident would know. And what was I? Migratory? By no means indigenous. I knew lady’s slipper, evening primrose, white trillium, Indian paintbrush and pennyroyal with its lingering scent. All those grew in the forest at the camp. The flowers here were only colours to me.
The path cut inland over sandy ground marked with broken shells and pebbles. Far away to the left, sheep grazed, and dune hills formed strange shapes. Like the hawthorn path, I couldn’t decide if they were familiar. The wind must change this landscape all the time. The ever-working wind making everything strange.
A large concrete block sat out among the sheep, and further up the path, more blocks were positioned in lines and groups, manufactured grey against the daylight. They had been planted there during the war to repel German tanks. Now they looked like stepping stones in the long grass. A few wore graffiti, the paint old and worn by weather. I walked between them, away from the path and out to the shore.
Two lines of seaweed lay washed up on the shore: one wet and close to the water, marking the recent tide, and a dried remnant up against the dunes, recalling the last storm. Broken boards and smashed plastic crates were tangled with frayed rope lost from fishing boats and all kinds of seaweeds – bladderwrack, flat wrack, tangleweed and laver. How did I know these names but not the flowers? Everywhere, there were limpet shells, sea-worn branches and pebbles of glass. Mermaids’ tears, Felicity taught me – or maybe Gran. Maybe both.
Scavenging gulls and crows combed the wet wrackline, turning over the tangled weed, searching for good things to eat. The curious goose would have a field day out here. Like me in the house, I thought. Turning everything over. Seeing what came to light.
The letters raised the question of Felicity’s decision. Which must have meant keeping me. A small missed step under my heart, though of course, I’d always known. A free woman chooses. That was what Felicity taught me, and Rika, too. Me and every woman at the camp. Choice of vocabulary, provisions for care, position in labour. They wanted every woman to feel enabled to make their own informed choices. And when the choices were hard – when nothing was easy – Rika still helped. She spent nights listening to scared women talking, crying and questioning, listening to everything they had to say and still there listening even when they were quiet. When they knew their answer and if they needed her help, she took down the jars out of the dresser drawers: pennyroyal and yew – bitter, helpful herbs – and evening primrose for the pain. It would have been the same for Felicity, if that’s what Felicity had wanted. If I had been unwanted. Invasive. But she never told me that story. And here I was.
She had told me about my father. That he was handsome and intelligent. That he was cultured and interested. That he hadn’t known how to love me, but that she did and that mattered. She said that I didn’t look like him. She said that he was gone. Maybe if I read through all the letters, I would learn more. Gran might have meant me to find that. Maybe she worried Felicity hadn’t told me enough and that I might want to know.
When I was little, I wondered who I looked like because my dark hair wasn’t like Felicity’s or Gran’s, and judging your own face is difficult. I studied photographs of Granddad and squinted into the mirror, wishing I could remember his face. I remembered his funeral, but that was all. I’d only been small, and Felicity had tried hard to explain about his special box. She said that he didn’t need his body any more. That they had put it in the box instead – a beautiful box, see? – and everything was all right. But she wasn’t. She held my hand too tightly, and looked up into the sky.
I’d seen a dead baby once. Blue and purple all over, like a bruise. It was born that way, with its cord in knots. I imagined Granddad like that, lying in his box with a cord like a necktie. People at the camp didn’t wear neckties, so they looked dangerous to me. Perilous decorations.
The baby was buried in the forest in a box Bas made from cedar wood. It only took a morning to make, and in the afternoon, he dug the hole with the baby’s father, a tall, dark man named Gordon. He and Betty had arrived at the camp in a station wagon at the beginning of the summer and slept in their car, on a mattress in the back.
‘It’s lovely,’ Betty told Felicity. ‘When it’s hot, we can just leave the back up and then the breeze comes right in. And we can always see the stars, you know.’
‘Don’t the mosquitoes get to you?’
‘Yeah, but I’d be awake anyway. This guy’s a real kicker.’ She rubbed her hand across her belly, her smile broad and open.
After the birth, she’d held her blue baby all morning long. Rika said that Felicity and I should go back to the cabin to sleep, but we couldn’t leave. We sat together on the porch outside the birthing house singing a bit and Betty cried a little, rocking her baby in her arms. Felicity’s voice was beautiful. Betty told her baby stories, held him close and kissed his still fingers, then after a long time, she took the white shawl from around her shoulders, wrapped it around her baby’s body, and passed him over to Rika.
‘Thank you,’ Betty said. ‘I mean that. Didn’t think I could ever say it, you know. But I can.’ Rika held him carefully and smiled, slow and sad.
I was almost back across over the bridge when he called out to me. ‘Do you know you’re being stalked?’
I looked up and saw a man on the Aberlady side, grinning.
‘No, not by me,’ he said. ‘Turn around. There’s your fellow.’
Forty paces behind me, the goose stepped out, flat-footed and tall as the handrails. I flapped my arms and it stopped its parade, watching. I clapped my hands. It took a few shuffling steps away. I clapped again and it crooked its muscled neck and barked, low and threatening.
‘Go!’ I called out and the goose stopped. It gave me a curious look, a sort of nod, then shook out its wings and flew, tracing a wide circle over the mudflats.
‘Do you two know each other?’ the man asked, leaning against the railings. He rolled his Rs, but didn’t sound Scottish. I couldn’t place the flatness of his accent. He looked old and white-headed, but stood straight and held a large white sketchpad. The pockets of his tweed jacket bristled with pencils.
‘Quite possibly,’ I said. ‘There’s been a goose mucking about in the yard of the house where I’m staying. It might be that one. Unless all the geese here are so affectionate.’
‘They can be right pests at times. Curious, noisy things. We tend to let them be out here, though. Not like in cities where their eggs get oiled or pricked. To keep populations down, you understand. Not to be vindictive. Mostly out here there is enough space and they’re let be.’
‘I wish that one would let me be.’
‘I wonder if it recognized a fellow Canadian and wants company. Did I get that right? I used to be better at identifying accents.’ His pencil hovered over the paper, but he looked at me, quizzically, then smiled. ‘But, I will let you off the hook. My accent, it is Polish.’
‘Thanks. I don’t know that I would have guessed.’
‘It is an old accent and rusty. Scottish rain, I’m sure.’
A few ducks took off from the water and flew overhead, cackling and calling their way across the bay, and I followed their flight. There was no sign of the goose now.
‘Are you here for the birds?’ he asked. ‘You do not strike me as a golfer.’ He put his pencil in his pocket and turned the notebook towards me. ‘What do you think?’
The lines of the bridge were good, and he’d sketched the swimming ducks, too. Beyond the water, the land was flat, the low hawthorn wood dark agai
nst the land. ‘It’s not right yet,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it is, but I cannot see how it isn’t.’
‘Well, it looks balanced to me. And the shapes are good,’ I said. ‘Maybe the distancing? Is that what’s causing you trouble?’
‘Perhaps. Yes, perhaps.’ The man took out a charcoal pencil and held it elegantly in his fingers. ‘Do you draw, then?’
‘No. I don’t. But I look at a lot of paintings. I work at a gallery. In Canada.’
‘You see? I knew.’
‘And you are Izaak Nowak, aren’t you? The bird sketches.’
A shy smile. ‘Pleased to be identified. And by one far from home. You must have been buying postcards.’
‘Yes, but I knew your name before that. My grandmother told me to keep an eye open for your calendar. She lives … used to live in Aberlady.’
A pause and the intermittent calling of birds on the water.
Then he smiled again. ‘I know your grandmother, perhaps. Are you Jane’s, then? I should have guessed. All the way from Canada.’
‘Yes. And she mentioned your sketches in a letter. She said you were good at drawing light.’
‘Is that what she said? An interesting summary. Ah well, Jane was never very good at telling the whole truth. She did not lie; she was not that kind of lady. But she didn’t tell the truth.’
