Little Bird Flies

by Karen McCombie

  “Ah, now, here she is!” calls out Mrs Lennox, as I timidly walk behind Effie into the drawing room. “The lovely Bridie!”

  Here in Glasgow, there is no one to call me Little Bird. Even Samuel and Caroline – who old Mrs Lennox knows through their mutual charitable work – have slipped into using my given name, though I never asked them to. It is as if my pet name has been left behind on Tornish, along with dear Will. But I barely register what Mrs Lennox calls me at all; I am too in awe of the room I find myself in. I thought the apartments of Samuel and Caroline to be beautiful, full of lovely furnishings and rich colour, especially the light-filled room that is Samuel’s painting studio, but this splendour is something that my eyes struggle to take in.

  It has been that way so often since I came to Glasgow, of course. I am constantly boggling at the intricate decoration on the five-storey buildings on the main streets, or the arching span of the bridges over the Clyde. I cannot take my gaze away from the trains I have seen growling into the cavernous station. I have stared at the stately statue of Queen Victoria on its imposing plinth in George Square, wishing I might have seen such a regal, if small, person in the flesh, had circumstances been different.

  And this room also is a wonder in itself. Lusciously thick curtains drape like velvet waterfalls to the polished floor, which is covered by a carpet of a most fascinating pattern. (For a moment, I wish I was my barefoot self again, so I could feel the softness of the wool between my toes…)

  Everywhere I look, there are padded and cushioned chairs, and tables – so many elegantly spindly, small tables – decked with ornate knick-knacks and plants in pots. Strange-leafed plants that surely must originate from some faraway place, like a jungle in the Amazon, I should think! The walls too heave with thick-framed pictures and paintings and mirrors and gas-light sconces.

  “Bridie?” Ishbel remonstrates gently, widening her eyes at me from her position on a sofa next to Caroline.

  I realise that my mouth is hanging open in surprise and that I have entirely forgotten my manners.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs Lennox,” I say politely, giving the effortlessly elegant old lady a little bob. “I’m sorry it’s only myself here. My brother could not come, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, that’s a shame … I would have liked to meet him,” Mrs Lennox says with a friendly smile, and a hand that ushers me to sit down. “I’m sure he’s as delightful as his three sisters.”

  As I settle into the nearest chair, I exchange the smallest of knowing glances with Effie as she sets the tray down, and do the same with our elder sister. “Delightful” is perhaps not the most appropriate description of Lachlan these days, we all know. He is no longer a shy pup, but now roams the streets like a cocky stray.

  But – ha! – now I see a hint of a smile playing at Ishbel’s lips at this same thought, and I must struggle not to laugh out loud! How wonderful it is to see Ishbel so changed from the serious, gaunt girl she was. Working for Samuel and Caroline, where she is considered more companion than housekeeper, has lifted the mantle of sternness she always wore back in Tornish.

  “Bridie, Mrs Lennox has had the most wonderful idea, and she needs your help,” says Caroline, gazing at me with excited anticipation from her place beside Ishbel.

  She too is so very changed. Long gone is her garb of the Black Crow. Now Caroline wears pretty dresses of patterned poplin in the liveliest of spring colours. And each one is matched with an elegant hat, which is always styled with a soft, net veil. It is cover enough that strangers passing in the street will not see the detail of Caroline’s face and stare, but for those whom she talks with, the marks she bears are quite clear to see – and she has no trouble with that at all. Caroline’s new confidence, I think, comes from being painted and drawn endlessly by her adoring young husband.

  “Quite!” Mrs Lennox bursts out in agreement with Caroline, rousing me from my momentary wistfulness. “Now, Bridie, you are aware of the cause closest to my heart?”

  “Yes,” I said with a nod, neatly resting my hands together in my lap and trying my best not to wriggle with excitement at the strangeness of being in such a grand room, in such grown-up company.

  I do indeed know the cause closest to Mrs Lennox’s heart. As with Caroline, she despairs of the slum conditions so many people of Glasgow live in. Caroline has spoken of the many years Mrs Lennox has supported the prominent folk of the city who campaign for better sanitation, education and welfare for the unfortunate inhabitants of the Wynds and beyond, especially the children, who often work from tender years in the factories of the ever-growing city.

  But what troubles Mrs Lennox the most is the scourge of alcohol. “Life is so terrible, it is no wonder that the fathers, and sometimes mothers, drown their sorrows in drink,” Caroline once told me earnestly. “But Mrs Lennox says that money wasted on drink sees food taken from the very mouths of babes!”

  And so Caroline and Mrs Lennox are in a society called the Temperance Movement. They hold rallies and talks with banners and bugles, all in an attempt to get those who rely on alcohol to see the error of their ways.

  “Well, I have come up with an excellent scheme,” says Mrs Lennox, her eyes shining. “We in the Movement have aimed our words at the men and the women who frequent public houses. But now we have decided on a different path. Next week, we will hold a fair in the garden square by the church.”

  “Like Glasgow Fair?” I ask, talking of the yearly stalls and entertainments that appear on the Green every summer. We arrived just after it last year, but I hope Father permits us to attend this next fair, for it is surely a sight to see, with bands playing and wild animals on show and fire-breathers too, I hear tell!

  “It will be a smaller affair entirely, and will be just for children,” Mrs Lennox explains. “We want to attract as many vulnerable little ones from the Wynds as possible. After some traditional entertainments, there will be a marionette show, which will be amusing and diverting, yet educate them about the perils of drink.”

  “Yes, because if we cannot reach the parents, we can reach the next generation, Mrs Lennox hopes!” adds Caroline, as she takes one of the cups and saucers that Effie is handing out.

  A marionette show … oh, I should like to see that too! It is dolls, or puppets, made to move and talk and dance by wires on a perfect little stage of their own. But still; what do Mrs Lennox’s plans have to do with me being invited here for afternoon tea?

  “Bridie, I have had these handbills printed,” says Mrs Lennox, holding up a colourful piece of paper that advertises the fair. “And I was hoping that I could engage your services, and that of your brother, to hand these out to the children you think at risk. You and Lachlan are so much closer to their age; they may respond better than if some silly old person such as myself tries to badger them to come. And I would pay you both for your time, naturally.”

  “Why, yes … yes, I’d like to help,” I say, taking a cup and saucer into my own hand.

  I am quite taken with the idea of helping Mrs Lennox, not just because it is a good-hearted and well-intentioned notion, but because it gives me reason to escape for a while the important but dreary role of housekeeper to my family.

  While Mrs Lennox and Caroline take the conversation off into the arrangements of the fair, I stir sugar into my tea and nibble at a tiny, fussy little cake, all the while thinking of where I might go with my burden of pamphlets … not just the narrow Wynds where the children play in the dirt and dust, I think. Many little ones – too young yet for the harsh work of the factories – run off to the fresh air and open space of Glasgow Green with their friends, or scuttle around down by the harbour, often begging a coin here and there from cheerful passengers disembarking from or awaiting the steamers. My pulse quickens at the thought of these purposeful wanderings, though I have no expectation that I can persuade Lachlan to join me.

  Now, if things were different, it would have been the perfect time to have the perfect companion with me…

  Where is
he? a whispering creeps into my mind, and I quickly shake myself, lest I am lost in the longing for my old, dear friend Will.

  Blinking quickly, I look off out of the tall, wide window of the drawing room as a distraction – and instantly frown.

  Outside, the front gate – which I carefully and respectfully closed behind me – is now open. And two figures are in the garden, part hidden behind the rose bush.

  A gasp is strangled in my throat when I see a pair of familiar brown eyes lock on to mine … and then Lachlan turns and runs from the garden, followed by the scruffy person of his friend Alec, and with the accompanying bark of an unseen dog.

  And there is worse to come, in this very room.

  “…and I meant to tell you, Caroline dear: I think we may have new recruits to our cause!” Mrs Lennox is saying, quite unaware of the trespassers that have just left her property. “Yesterday, I made the acquaintance of two ladies in a tea room – a Mrs Palmer-Reeves and her daughter – who have taken lodgings in Glasgow for the summer.”

  The saucer I am holding tilts, nearly sending the dainty cup flying. I straighten just in time, hoping Mrs Lennox does not notice.

  “They have an estate somewhere in the Isles, but have come to the city as a diversion,” Mrs Lennox carries on blithely, “and so I thought I might interest them in our charitable work!”

  “Oh!” Caroline gasps, choking on the sip of tea that she has just taken.

  “Caroline dear! Are you all right?” asks Mrs Lennox with concern.

  I want to roar “No!”; I want to yell that the Laird’s wife and daughter have not a good, kind bone in their bodies!

  “Ah, I think that would cause some difficulty for Caroline,” Ishbel answers in a more measured fashion, as she passes a lace-edged handkerchief to our friend. “Mr Palmer-Reeves was Caroline’s guardian before she married, and it was … not a happy relationship.”

  “My!” says Mrs Lennox. “Well, in that case, do not worry, Caroline dear. I shall say not a word to them, if I should see them about town.”

  Caroline, my sisters and myself, it is as if we are one … all letting out a slow sigh of relief at Mrs Lennox’s promise.

  And I suppose that is that. There was a brief sighting of ghosts – too close, too real – but the door has been firmly shut on them.

  And yet, even though we are settled in a room that is bright and rich with colour, I suddenly feel as if we four are scuttling, small creatures in the undergrowth, sensing the looming shadow of the sea eagle on the hunt above us.

  CHAPTER 16

  It is uncommonly warm, even with the light brushes of breeze that dance across the slapping surface of the busy river, cooling the crowds that mill about the harbour.

  The pile of pamphlets in my hands is small now; I have been busy the last few days, handing them out between my chores to children at play in the dark, dank Wynds, racing around in packs at Glasgow Green, and now here at the harbourside.

  Perhaps I can take a moment to rest, I think, hunching down against a pile of jute-wrapped lengths of what I think must be fabric, woven, dyed, packaged and awaiting their next journey, I suppose. To where, I wonder? North to the Highlands? South to England? Or further afield … to South Africa, perhaps? The colonies of Australia? Canada or America, even?

  Impatiently, I shake my head to rid myself of whispers that lurk within my secret self, as I gaze about me at the hustle and bustle.

  Wide-eyed passengers mix with weary porters; rough-speaking seamen pass top-hatted businessmen.

  Glossy steamers moor upwind of ugly dredgers; stacked carts and solid ponies wait patiently next to sleek carriages pulled by equally sleek horses.

  Warehouses sit with yawning-wide doors, as the next load is moved in or out; shipping offices keep their smart doors shut, till a customer arrives with the fare that will take them to New York, New Zealand, Nova Scotia.

  I’m not certain of the time now, but we are all invited for supper at Samuel and Caroline’s this evening. There’ll be talk of Mrs Palmer-Reeves and Miss Kitty being somewhere about Glasgow, I am sure, but Samuel keeps reminding Caroline that there is no need for her to fear them; she is legally free of that family forever. Father has said similar to us: “Time has passed, and Mr Palmer-Reeves will have long forgotten nobodies like us, I am sure. And do not forget; Caroline is independently wealthy, and our friend. If ever the Laird found me and tried to press charges, Caroline’s lawyer could raise the issue of what Mr Palmer-Reeves had planned for her future.”

  So we have shields for the ghosts, it seems. But it does not mean I do not carry a dread of bumping into them on the bustling city streets.

  With a shiver, I think to look for the building Father is working on further down the docks, so that we could walk to Caroline and Samuel’s apartments together.

  Effie will make her own way, naturally, and Lachlan … who knows if he will turn up at all, the way things stand. I fear Father will begin to lose his even temper with our brother, if things continue the way they are. For Lachlan sulks and talks to no one, is gruff when asked to do anything, and disappears whenever he can.

  And I am so tired today because of Lachlan; the last few nights, I have been unable to sleep, wondering why he is so unreachable. I spoke to no one else of his peculiar actions the other day in Mrs Lennox’s garden. Lachlan had sought me out later at home and told me he had thought better of coming, that Alec had persuaded him to be polite and accept the invitation, but that he had become too shy as he approached the villa. But something does not sit right here; Lachlan would not say why he and his friend did something so peculiar as hiding in the garden, and as for Alec, well, he does not strike me as a lad who cares much for politeness and manners.

  My mind really is quite worn out with trying to fathom the truth of it. Before I try to give away the last of my pamphlets and attempt to find Father, I could just close my eyes and rest awhile, with the sun to bathe me and the chatter and clatter blurring, buzzing, fading all around me, till … till…

  I am scrambling up a rocky outcrop, lungs burning from the effort.

  Heart pounding fit to burst, fingers stinging, ripped by stone.

  Grey sea mist swirls around as I climb, like a sickly, wet cloak.

  Above, I hear my unseen brother cry for help.

  Below, I hear my sisters’ voices, calling.

  Calling my name, so mournfully.

  As if I am lost.

  So very lost.

  Lost to them?

  A wetness on my hand wakes me from my brief, unpleasant slumber.

  “Patch?” I say in surprise, as I shake myself awake on finding my hand licked by a scratchy little tongue.

  The dog wags his tail, nay, his whole bottom, in delight at finding me so unexpectedly. And now I delight at knowing my brother – a vital part of that dreadful dream I just had – is unexpectedly near too.

  “Lachlan?” I mumble, pushing myself upright.

  I glance around, trying to make out his spikes of rough, red hair in the milling crowds.

  A smile forms on my lips as I suddenly settle on my brother – until I make out the shocking thing he is doing. For Lachlan is behind a casually sauntering young man, and appears to be slipping his hand into the man’s coat pocket, unseen!

  I swear, I have never moved so quickly in all my life. With the remaining pamphlets scattered to the ground and the puzzled pup in my wake, I run like a girl possessed, as if Mother herself is with me, her energy in my very muscles and veins, doubling my speed.

  “Oof! Ow!” yelps Lachlan, as I charge into him, my arms wrapping around his waist, spinning him clear away from the man and his coat before anything can be taken.

  I am aware that the young man looks over his shoulder, laughing a little at the sight of what he must think to be squabbling, scrapping children. Better he thinks this, of course, than the truth of what I saw.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss at Lachlan, only loud enough for my brother to hear. Though my words will no doubt
be masked to those around, due to the frenzied barking of Patch.

  “I – I – I am doing nothing!” Lachlan explodes, his face red, tears of anger and embarrassment threatening, I can see, like in those shared, dark days of ours in Mr Simpson’s classroom.

  “Do not lie to me, Lachlan!” I hiss again, raging at my little brother, though he is already taller than me.

  But Lachlan continues to hold that he was doing nothing but strolling along the quayside with Alec and Patch, idly watching the river traffic. I know this to be far from the truth, since I see the dark head of Alec bob away with much haste into the crowd. If nothing was untoward, why would he not stay by his friend’s side?

  Lachlan’s protestations continue in a similar fashion as I march him to Samuel and Caroline’s apartments, his ire ebbing to a brooding silence by the time we arrive.

  “Bridie, come on in! Hello there, Lachlan!” says Samuel, as he opens the door to us, and bends to ruffle Patch’s ears.

  I hesitate a little before ushering my brother in ahead of me. Samuel seems … odd. He is always friendly, of course, but today he is excited, agitated even. And it is most unusual for Ishbel not to answer the door, since that is naturally one of her duties.

  “Come away in, do!” Samuel exclaims, waving us into the studio, rather than the drawing room. That is not so unusual; we are just as likely to take tea in here as in the drawing room, while Samuel shows us his latest work, whether that be a commissioned, posed portrait of a rich merchant, or some new, tender sketch of Caroline.

  It must be said, though, it is quite unnerving to be in the room and see yourself mirrored back. The quick sketch Samuel did of me at the top of the Glas Crags, my black hair spinning and tangling at the wind’s will, has now become a work-in-progress oil painting, fixed on an easel by the window. Drawings of Ishbel, Effie and myself are pinned to the walls, awaiting a future time when Samuel can translate them into something more. (I like the most finished of them, with a watercolour wash. It is the first time I can truly see the resemblance between myself and my sisters, as three sets of Mother’s pale-grey eyes stare out of the page.)