Bird of Passage

by Catherine Czerkawska

  His eyes were dark at the best of times, but now they were opaque and cold.

  ‘I expect nothing,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what I’ve got from you, Kirsty? Fuck all. Or should that be less than fuck all?’

  They were facing each other on the open hillside. He couldn’t look at her any more. He turned and strode off in the direction of the summit, leaving her to follow or go back as she chose. She followed him, stumbling into patches of bog where the moss lay livid green on the surface and the mud beneath tugged at her shoes. She almost lost one; the peat only relinquished it with a protesting squelch. She stopped to retie her lace more tightly, and when she stood up again she couldn’t see him. ‘Finn!’ she shouted, but there was no reply. The sun was sliding down the western sky and dazzling her eyes. She climbed again, hauling on the stringy stems of last year’s heather to pull herself higher. And then she was over the edge of the hill fort, with the astringent scent of the sea in her nostrils. She was as familiar with this place as with her own room at Dunshee, but Finn was nowhere to be seen.

  She came running down what might once have been a narrow causeway, carried by her own momentum, tripping over heather roots, falling. She put her hands out to save herself and jarred her whole body on a flat stone, like a flagstone, half submerged beneath the moss, grazing her hands and bruising her knees.

  ‘Oh Finn!’ she said and the sound of her own voice, half sob, half groan at the pain in her hands and knees, stirred some memory in her of another time, years before. She had been ahead of him that time, because he was right, she could always outrun him. His legs were longer but she was more agile. She had been running and laughing and turning back to make fun of him and she had fallen flat on her face, perhaps on this same spot. She remembered biting her lip until it bled, because she didn’t want him to think her a cry baby, but he had come up behind her and picked her up and rocked her in his arms.

  ‘You’re alright. You’re alright,’ he had said, and set her down and patted her back until her breathing steadied and the pain left her.

  Now she began to cry at the memory and at the sadness of time that ruined all things, biting her lip again to try to stop the tears. But they came streaming down her face anyway, and she rubbed them away, making bloody, grimy streaks on her cheeks, because her hands were dirty and grazed. She was choking, sobbing helplessly, and her nose was running and she was trying to wipe it with the back of her hand, trying to stem the salt water. She curled up into a ball, sitting on the cold stone, drawing up her knees and folding her arms around herself, rocking backwards and forwards, chanting ‘Oh Finn, Oh Finn !’ on each sobbing exhalation.

  From nowhere, he was kneeling in front of her. ‘Ah Kirsty!’ he said. ‘What are you doing to yourself?’ He put his arms around her and pulled her forwards so that she rolled onto her knees again and said ‘Ouch, ouch!’ and he said ‘Sorry, sorry!’

  He held her away from him for a moment and looked into her eyes, shaking his head sadly. ‘What are you doing to yourself?’ he repeated.

  ‘I can’t beat you,’ she said. ‘I can’t beat you any more.’

  ‘At what for God’s sake? Beat me at what?’

  ‘At anything. I’d follow you to the ends of the earth and beyond. I’d go to hell in a handcart for you, you know I would.’

  He licked his forefinger and wiped at the grimy, bloody tears and the touch of his damp finger on her cheek gave her a small shock of desire. ‘Oh Kirsty I do love you so much!’ he said. He took her head in both his hands and pulled her towards him, threading his fingers in her hair, kissing her, only just in control of himself.

  ‘Is this what you want?’ he asked her. ‘Is this what you need?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes it is.’

  He kissed her again, biting at her lips. They were mouth to mouth, each breathing the other’s air.

  ‘More,’ she told him, knowing that it was not enough, that it would never be enough. ‘Please!’

  They toppled sideways onto the stone, their lips still searching for each other. She was fumbling with his jeans, tugging clumsily at them, and he was helping her. She cried out to him to hurry, hurry. I can’t bear it, she thought. I can’t wait. I can’t wait any longer. Only when he was inside her could she let go once and for all, cry out, tell him she loved him, had always loved him, would always love him, pushing herself towards him, closer and closer, trembling and crying out with the exquisite pleasure and pain of not knowing nor caring where Finn ended and Kirsty began, forever.

  In the late afternoon, chilled, bruised and battered by too much lovemaking on cold stone, they stumbled down the hill together and into the house, hoping that her grandfather was not up and about to see them. He was no fool and nothing could disguise what they had been doing. Their bodies inclined irresistibly towards one another, two halves of one whole.

  Fortunately, Alasdair was still in bed. Dave had gone home, but he had topped up the range fire before he left, and the kitchen was warm, with a full kettle just beginning to sing on the hob. She crept upstairs to find her grandfather sleeping peacefully, with the cat curled up in the curve of his body, and the mug of tea which Dave brought him, only half drunk and cold beside the bed. She went back downstairs. They spoke in low voices to avoid rousing him.

  ‘You’re not going yet, are you?’ Finn asked her.

  ‘No. No, I’ll stay. I’ll stay the night if you’ll let me.’

  ‘If I’ll let you?’ he echoed, and his smile was almost a grimace.

  ‘I’ll phone Heather and tell her that my grandad needs me here.’

  ‘Nicolas will find out.’ He said this with a certain grim satisfaction.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if he does. As far as he’s concerned, I’m staying the night to look after my grandfather.’

  ‘Well I certainly hope he believes you,’ said Finn.

  He made a pot of tea and they sat on the rag rug in front of the range. He set his back against a heavy oak chair, and she leant against him, his long legs angled on either side of hers, her body enclosed by his. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, could feel him breathing. In between drinking his tea, he folded his arms around her, or leant down to kiss her ear, or rub his lips gently against her hair.

  ‘Grow your hair again.’

  ‘I’m too old for long hair.’

  ‘I loved your hair, Kirsty. Every last thread of it.’

  She sighed, leant her head back, pushing it into his chest. ‘I wish we could stay like this forever.’

  ‘I wish we could.’

  She closed her eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of Dunshee, the quiet rustle of coal and wood settling in the grate, the slow tick tock of the kitchen clock, the moan of wind investigating the gables, the distant cries of lambs and seagulls, curiously alike when heard from within these stone walls. Nicolas and Ealachan receded into the very back of her mind. It was as if they had never existed at all. Even her children, her beloved India and Flora, were not the imperative she always found them. She could hardly visualise them just now. A faint twinge of maternal guilt stirred, then that too faded. They were safe and sound, so why worry? Her thoughts drifted into sleep. She woke to find his left hand on her breast, exploring the heavy shape of it, tugging gently at the nipple while he nuzzled his lips into her neck.

  ‘Kirsty?’ he said, and tried to turn her to face him.

  ‘What about my grandfather?’

  ‘He won’t hear anything.’

  So she turned in his arms and they made love again, on the warm rag rug in front of the fire, more slowly this time, and with less desperation. But she was afraid that their cries would wake and alarm the old man who lay sleeping upstairs.

  Later, she took a tray up to her grandfather. He seemed to be feeling much better after his long sleep. She sat with him while he ate his omelette, helped him up to the bathroom, fetched him the radio from the kitchen, and settled him in bed again.

  ‘I’ll be right as rain tomorrow, after all this pamperi
ng. Are you going to have something to eat before you go, Kirsty lass?’

  She said that she was planning to stay the night. She would make supper for herself and Finn, and then she might as well stay. The night had turned wet and windy, and there seemed no point in going home to an empty house.

  ‘Where will you sleep?’ he asked, anxiously. ‘You know Finn has your room now?’

  ‘That’s alright’ she told him, lying effortlessly. ‘I’ll take mum’s old room.’

  ‘But the bed will be damp.’ He seemed querulous and upset. ‘It hasn’t been slept in for years, Kirsty. You know that’s what your mother would say.’

  ‘It’ll be just fine. Don’t you worry. I’ll put fresh sheets on it. And Finn will find me a hot water bottle.’

  ‘Well if you’re sure… It’ll be good to know that you’re under this roof again.’

  ‘I feel like that as well.’

  She kissed him and went downstairs.

  In the kitchen she made more omelettes for herself and Finn. They tried to eat, but it seemed like a waste of precious time, and eventually they gave in to the inevitable and crept quietly up the stairs to Kirsty’s old room. Finn lighted a wood fire in there, screwing up newspaper into twists, like in the old days, while she undressed. She could hear her grandfather’s faint snores as she crept into the soft space in the wall, the feather bed beneath her, the eiderdown on top. Finn slipped off his clothes and stood in the firelight, looking at her as though, even now, he could hardly believe that she was in his bed.

  She loved the very sight of him, the touch and taste of his skin against hers, the familiar scent of his body, his hair, his hands on her face. He was hard and enduring as oak, cool and long and lovely as clean water, sweet as honey. They found themselves murmuring endearments, words and phrases with meanings only for each other, the poetry of longing and loss and enduring love.

  And afterwards, when they lay, exhausted and sated, belly to back, like two spoons, she whispered in his ear, ‘You were right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About India. She’s your daughter. I was pregnant when you left. It was weeks before I realised though.’

  ‘I knew as soon as I saw her. That photograph just confirmed it. How could I not know? How could Nick not see it?’

  ‘Maybe he does know. Or maybe he doesn’t look at her in that way. He loves her, that’s for sure. Are you angry?’

  He turned to face her, pulling her close.

  ‘I can’t get angry with you any more, Kirsty. It’s like getting angry with myself.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do. It was a while till I realised I was pregnant. At first, I thought it was the stress of losing my mum – and you. Then, Nick was there and he was so kind to me.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘It’s over and done with.’

  ‘Do you think we should tell her?’

  ‘What good would it do?’

  ‘Doesn’t she have a right to know?’

  ‘Not if it does more harm than good.’

  ‘You’re a lovely man, Finn.’

  He stirred, uneasily. He had to be honest with Kirsty of all people.

  ‘I’m not lovely at all. Oh God, don’t credit me with more integrity than I actually have. I like India, and I admire her. But I only love you. I can’t be more than I am. I can see that it would be disastrous to tell her. I know what I should feel, but I don’t feel it. I never will now.’

  ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘I know, I know.’

  In the night, she awoke, roused from sleep by some sound outside the farm, and, just for a moment, wondered where she was, alarmed by the strangeness of it, but instantly comforted by the familiarity of her surroundings. She was curled around his body, and he was warm and relaxed in sleep. She lay quietly and listened. The call of the corncrake, nesting somewhere in the reeds by the shore, floated in at the window.

  In the morning she went back down to Ealachan, told Heather that she had to look after her grandfather for a few days more, packed a bag, not forgetting drawing paper and charcoal, and returned to Dunshee, where she stayed until the day before Nicolas was due to come home. Every day she drew pictures of Finn, and herself, a series of strange sketches of the two of them as children. Every night, she pretended that she was sleeping in her mother’s room, while in reality she joined Finn in her old bed in the wall. They did not sleep very much. They tossed and turned like seals in the water and cried out with pleasure. In their element.

  Later in the week, though, thoughts of India and Flora stirred her conscience.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ said Alasdair, who had been up and about for a day or so and was, frankly, puzzled by her continued presence. ‘Time you got back down the hill, Kirsty. I know you’re enjoying being at home again but India will be coming home too, looking for her mother.’

  Finn had overheard this conversation. He had been standing in the doorway listening, and he shrugged, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there when India comes back.’

  Nicolas telephoned. He too sounded faintly puzzled by her prolonged stay at Dunshee. ‘Is your grandad very ill?’ he asked.

  ‘He was quite poorly. But he’s much better now. In fact I was planning to go back to Ealachan today. Get ready for the girls.’

  ‘That’s what I’m phoning about. India’s been invited to stay with a friend outside Oxford for a week or so. And Annabel’s flying into Heathrow with Flora, so she thought they might as well go to Maida Vale for a while. India’s going to join them there.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No. No that’s alright.’

  ‘So I’ll just be coming back on my own.’

  There would never be a better time, she thought, but how could she bring herself to tell him?

  When she went to her mother’s old room, half heartedly packing up the bag she had kept there, for appearance’s sake, Finn followed her and pressed her against the wall, kissing her hungrily.

  ‘What will you do?’ he asked. ‘What are you going to do? Hadn’t you better just leave your things here?’

  ‘I can’t bear to hurt the girls.’

  ‘It isn’t a choice between me and the girls. It’s a choice between me and Nicolas. I would never, ever ask you to abandon your kids. Me of all people. You should know that.’

  ‘I do know that.’

  ‘Please don’t choose him all over again. I can’t bear it if you do.’

  ‘I think I’ve already chosen, don’t you?’

  The inevitability of it swept over her. Finn had the prior claim. Fear for her daughters, guilt over what she was about to put them through, flooded her mind but didn’t change anything.

  ‘We can do this Kirsty. We can make it alright, you know. For the girls as well as you and me.’

  ‘But nothing can make it alright for Nicolas. And I have to tell him about us,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I have to tell him properly. To his face. I owe him that at least.’

  ‘But you will tell him?’

  ‘I have to. I can’t carry on like this. I can’t tear myself in two like this. Not any longer. Not even for another day.’ She looked around. ‘Alright. I’ll leave my things here. And fetch the rest up later.’

  ‘I’ll put them in my room.’

  ‘What about my grandad?’

  ‘He’s not daft, Kirsty. He must have an inkling. I mean look at us. We can’t keep our eyes or our hands off each other. Do you not think he might have noticed?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t think straight.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you? We could face Nicolas together.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? He’ll be angry.’

  ‘He will. And he has every right to be angry. But this is something I have to do all by myself.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  She didn’t know how to start.
It would have been much easier to have blurted it out in the middle of a row, but Nicolas wouldn’t argue with her. Whenever she lost her temper, he simply removed himself from the situation until she had calmed down, although he could be sulky when he chose. Kirsty would flare up and have done with it. Nick could keep a disagreement going for days, waging minor wars of attrition which wore her down. So she waited until the evening, when they were alone together, and then she just came right out with it.

  ‘Something’s happened.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Christine?’ He looked up from his paperwork. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine. But I have something to tell you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve decided to move back to Dunshee. To live with Finn. ’

  He shuffled the papers together, as if he hadn’t heard her properly.

  ‘What?’ he said again, so she was forced to repeat herself.

  ‘I’m leaving you,’ she told him and the words sounded over-dramatic, a childish threat rather than a promise. But then, perhaps the language of separation was always like this, banal, a parody of itself.

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you, Kirsty?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Nicolas, but I’m going back to Finn. ’

  ‘Back to Finn ?’

  He pressed his pen – one of those flimsy, topless giveaways with which charities try to inspire guilt - so hard into the pad that the plastic broke.

  ‘I mean I’m going home.’

  Worse and worse, she thought.

  ‘I thought this was your home.’

  ‘It was. It is.’

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Her heart was pounding with anxiety, her mouth dry. He turned around and looked at her, really looked at her, gazing into her eyes for a moment, his thin face flushed and angry. He had never looked more handsome.

  ‘This has been going on ever since he came back, hasn’t it?’ he said, slowly.

  ‘No. No it hasn’t.’

  ‘How long then?’

  ‘Just this last week.’

  ‘Do you take me for a fool? Do you really expect me to believe that?’