Bird of Passage

by Catherine Czerkawska

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The following morning, Kirsty slept later than usual. She had been dreaming about her mother, and had found herself weeping in the dream, but she couldn’t rouse herself. When she woke, she felt exhausted, her eyes as heavy as though she really had been crying. She went downstairs to find the Glasgow cousins all packed up and ready to go. They were eating toast, and bacon and had put the kettle on for more tea.

  ‘We thought we’d let you sleep’ said Beatie.’

  Alasdair came into the kitchen, bringing a gust of sharp air with him. He had been out and about on the farm.

  Kirsty said, ‘I think I’ll do Finn a couple of eggs – who else wants an egg?’

  Alasdair sat down at the kitchen table and pulled off his boots. ‘Well you’ll have to wake him up first. You’re not the only one to sleep in.’

  ‘Why? Is he still in bed then?’

  Alasdair shrugged. ‘I think so. Any other morning, I would have thought he’d gone fishing or something. But there’s no sign of him about the farm.’

  Kirsty went into the lobby by the back door. She climbed up the ladder and through the hatch, but Finn’s room was empty, the bed neat, its covers straightened. She came back down the ladder so quickly that she almost fell, and her grandfather had to catch hold of her to steady her.

  ‘Careful, lass. You’ll break your leg.’

  ‘He’s not there! He’s not up there and he’s made his bed his bed!’

  Beatie was pouring tea into china mugs. Kirsty saw, with a stab of irrational resentment, that one of them was her mother’s mug. ‘What on earth’s the matter, Kirsty? He’ll have skived off for the morning?’

  ‘Maybe he just went out for a walk,’ suggested one of the younger cousins.

  ‘That’s what I said. Skived off for the day’ said Beatie. ‘But why that should throw our Kirsty into a panic, I don’t know. The sooner you marry that nice Nicolas Laurence and set yourself up at the big house the better, if you want my opinion. You need to stop gallivanting about the countryside with a good-for-nothing Irishman.’

  There was, it seemed, no greater insult to be offered, but Kirsty hardly heard it. She cast one horrified look at her aunt, and rushed out of the door, calling ‘Finn! Finn!’ at the top of her voice.

  Her voice echoed about the old buildings and threw the word back at her, the name bouncing from wall to wall in a hollow cadence of sounds. She ran all the way down to the beach, but the tide was out and there were no footprints except the meandering tracks of oystercatchers and dunlin. When the beach yielded no sign of him, she went the other way, climbing the slope behind the house, slipping and slithering over heather and rocks.

  Just before the ferry was due to leave, the farm jeep came rattling down the hill. Alasdair was driving. He pulled up at the terminal and Kirsty came tumbling out, her face white beneath her freckles. In the past year, Caledonian McBrayne had started a roll on - roll off ferry service which made visiting by car much less of an ordeal It was the first ferry of the morning and the cousins were all aboard, disapproving spectators, but the skipper had seen nothing of Finn.

  Kirsty was helpless to control her agitation but as the ferry moved slowly out into the bay, Alasdair managed to coax her back into the jeep.

  ‘He’ll be at home now, for sure,’ he said, but although Kirsty rushed all over the house again, shouting his name, there was no sign of Finn

  ‘Where has he gone? Where can he be? We went up to Hill Top Town last night. He was so quiet on the way back down to the farm. We hadn’t had a moment to ourselves all day.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Kirsty!’

  She looked down at her arms. She had been scratching at herself, compulsively, and her nails had left long red tracks on the white skin.

  ‘I don’t remember what I said to him. Maybe I upset him. I have to find him.’

  ‘Well he can’t have left the island,’ said her grandfather. ‘He wasn’t on the ferry. He can’t have disappeared into thin air, can he? We’ll just go and look for the lad. I’ll drive.’

  They drove the length and breadth of the island, asking people if they had seen him, but nobody had. When they finally got back to Dunshee, Kirsty climbed up into Finn’s loft again. That was when she realised that he had taken the old cardboard suitcase, the one he had first brought with him all those years ago, from Ireland, when he was only a summer visitor to the farm. Most of his clothes were missing as well. Sick at heart, she sat in her bedroom, staring out of the window, willing him to come walking up the path from the shore.

  Later that night, one of the island fishermen, Seamus, came up to the house. He and his crew had set out to the fishing in the early hours of the morning, and Finn had been waiting for them at the harbour.

  ‘He asked if we could put him off on the mainland, anywhere would do he said, because he had to get away for a bit. We thought it was strange, but we didn’t ask him too much. You never got much change out of Finn.’

  ‘Was he alright? Did he look alright?’

  ‘He looked much as he always does, Kirsty. Perhaps a bit more serious than usual, but then he’s not a man who smiles very much at the best of times. We’re only just in. When I went down to the pub for my pint, Sandy behind the bar asked me if I had seen Finn O’Malley, because you had been going demented all day looking for him. I came up as quickly as I could. But we put him ashore first thing this morning. We thought he was on some errand for your grandfather.’

  Seamus went away, puzzled. It was well known on the island that Kirsty and the sullen Irishman were as thick as thieves and always had been. Finn wasn’t well liked. He was too taciturn, had never been one of the lads, but he was known to be a good, conscientious worker. Why would he desert the farm on the day after her mother’s funeral? It made no sense at all, and would be a subject for gossip and speculation, for many weeks to come.

  ‘Perhaps he’ll call,’ said Alasdair.

  ‘I don’t want him to call. I want to see him now! ‘

  ‘Kirsty, you’ll just have to be patient. He knows where you are. And how much we need him here. The phone will ring in a day or so, and it’ll be Finn. You’ll see.’

  Ever since he first started to work at Dunshee, Finn had been saving most of his pay in a Post Office account. He had the pass book in his pocket and he knew that he had enough money, if he was careful, to be able to live in cheap rented accommodation for several weeks, if need be. But he wanted to get a job as soon as possible. And he had other plans too. At first, he had thought about looking for work on one of the many mainland farms, but he rejected this plan almost as soon as it occurred to him.

  Instead, he found himself heading in the direction of Glasgow. He handed the little brown case, containing all his worldly possessions, to the driver, to stow away in the luggage compartment, and climbed onto the bus to complete the last part of his journey. He gazed out of the grubby window, trying to put all thoughts of Kirsty out of his mind, watching as the road wound alongside mountains and sea lochs, then gradually gave place to something busier, threading through the outlying factories and the suburban clutter of the city. He had been here only a few times, years ago, when he was a tattie howker and they would skirt the city on the way to the island, but he couldn’t claim to know the place. Still, there was a certain comforting familiarity about it, and he supposed it must be because somewhere in his head, he remembered Dublin, the broad artery of the river running through the heart of the place.

  For a few days, he took lodgings in a YMCA hostel, not far from the river and walked around the city by day, eating fried food or sandwiches in small cafes and wondering how to set about finding work. The place was full of shops and offices and they were all full of people working, but he was at a loss as to how he might become one of their number. Sometimes he would see a notice advertising a job, but they were always looking for experience and he had none. Once or twice, he plucked up enough courage to make an enquiry, but it seemed that his appearance, his worn clothing
and perhaps also his accent – for he was aware that he still sounded Irish – went against him in a city which had always been divided along sectarian lines.

  In the evening, with the nights drawing in, and the autumnal chill flooding the streets with pinkish mist from the river, he might find his way into a pub and have a couple of pints, but he was no big drinker and the ale was sour in his mouth. The other young men staying in the hostel were students, on their way back to university and college courses, as well as people coming to the city – like himself – in search of work. But they were better qualified. Better dressed. Better equipped to negotiate the hurdles. He felt very lost, and very miserable. More than once, he was on the verge of packing his bag, finding his way back to the bus station and returning to the island, but he always stopped himself. He was in the habit of this kind of self denial and it came easily to him.

  He missed Kirsty constantly, with a terrible sadness – but then he was in the habit of missing her, so it was nothing new and he could cope with it. Almost more than Kirsty, he missed the routine of the farm and Alasdair’s quiet, undemanding presence. He missed working with the beasts and the sight of the sea from the hill above Dunshee, and the sound of the lonely birds flying over the farm in the evening.

  On a rainy Sunday morning, he went out to buy a Daily Record so that he could search through the situations vacant columns, and he found himself passing a church, a lowering brick building with a tall tower, the whole place black with the grime of years. There was a patch of ground in front where thin grass struggled through the clay, and dying willow herb gave forth a mass of fluffy seeds. The little precinct was bounded by a privet hedge and the sweet-sour city scent of it reminded him of his childhood. The doors were open and people were going inside, couples in their Sunday best, individual elderly women, whole families. On impulse, he followed them into the warmth, and was engulfed in familiarity – the subtle darkness, the muted organ notes, the scent of incense and lilies, the flickering candles at the side altar where Mary spread her arms wide, her blue veiled head crowned with spiky metal stars.

  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 sea.

  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.