‘KIRSTY, THERE’S SOMEONE here for you.’
Mam’s voice called from the living room. It was raining heavily and with all the hard work of recent days, Kirsty was taking a rest. Her mental and emotional turmoil was constant, but she could ease her corporal weariness.
She was alert enough to be surprised. Tying her robe loosely about her, she felt a chill run through her as she put her feet on the cold of the stone flooring. Opening the door through to the living quarters she saw Mam looking perplexed.
‘It’s young Alasdair Morrison. He’s at the door, but he won’t come in.’
Kirsty’s heart lost its rhythm momentarily. Her brain skipped, as if jinking over stones in a burn, making no more than glancing contact with any particular base of thought. Why should Murdo’s brother be at the door? What’s happened? Oh God, what’s happened? Already she had pushed past her mother and was at the door.
The boy’s head was bowed. The rain behind him fell in unbroken greys threads unravelling from the slate grey clouds. He was without a jacket and sheltered under the lintel, his shoulders hunched and his hands gripping the sleeves of his woollen jumper. Kirsty could hear Mam behind her.
‘Bring the boy in. He’s soaked.’
Alasdair looked up as soon as he saw Kirsty appear through the gloom of the house. Although the movement had been sudden, Kirsty saw it in heightened slow motion, feeling every detail as they each jabbed her eyes. The hair clamped close to his head, forming thick cords bound by water. He was shivering, but now that her feet were used to the floor, she knew it wasn’t cold. His face tilted towards her and she saw the red swollen eyes and saw his tears mingling with the rain to run down his face. His mouth was half open and his lower lip hung thickly. He was trying to speak, but he could not. And he need not. Kirsty knew.
‘Oh, not Murdo!’ she cried. ‘Not Murdo.’
The boy looked pathetically at her. She grasped his shoulders and gasped.
‘Is he just wounded?’
Alasdair could not meet her frantic eyes.
‘Oh, God no! Oh God no!’
Mam checked herself from admonishing the blasphemy as she, too, began to understand. Her daughter was screaming and she ran to embrace her. Murdo’s brother’s expression transformed from abject sorrow to fear.
‘Run home to your mother, Alasdair,’ Mam commanded, ‘She’ll be needing you.’
The boy turned and ran, splashing through the puddles as he made for the road. He didn’t know for sure why he was running. He would only be returning to a similar scene at home, where his mother was slumped in a chair. He had heard her howling worse than a wounded dog and had dashed in from the byre to find her leaning on the old wooden dresser, indistinctly repeating Murdo’s name, over and over again, in a wailing sob.
His other brother had gone to get their aunt, who lived three crofts away. The family had been without their father for a long time and the boys had all learned self-reliance, but this was beyond anything they had confronted before.
Their mother had become like an animal; she had sunk to her knees and had pulled Alasdair to her, clamping her fingers to his side as if she were adrift in a treacherous sea and he was all that held her away from oblivion. Her head was thrust back and her eyes screwed tight as if to cut out the harshness of life’s light. Her mouth was now trying to speak, to give some release to her misery, but she could say nothing.
The boy had stood above her, trembling and helpless. He became transfixed by the spittle on her chin and the string of saliva that stretched from her top to bottom lip, barely shivering because no air was being sucked into her mouth.
In one hand there was a crumpled bit of paper and young Alasdair understood. He clasped his mother’s head and held her to him, trying to console her in the innocent way of a child.
‘Mammy. Mammy. Eeesht Mammy. It’ll be alright Mammy, it’ll be alright.’
And as he said that, he knew it would never be alright, and his nostrils flared, his eyes blurred and his voice broke away.
His sister, two years older than him and two years younger than Murdo, came running in. She had known from the sound that her big brother would not be returning. She collapsed on the floor with her mother, wrapping her arms around her. The five-year-old baby of the family stood in the doorway from the bedroom confused, frozen by fear and crying hard because her mammy was crying.
In his helplessness Alasdair had sought to escape. The sorrow in the house was suffocating him and like a cornered rabbit he panicked and ran outside, just as his brother Kenny arrived with their aunt, her face white and hollow. She tried to reach to him but he pushed past. He needed to keep moving, it was as if stopping would engulf him. His hero brother, his idol, was dead, but he wasn’t even sure what that meant. What was it to die? His brother was lost to him, that he knew, but what did it really mean? His father had died five years ago, shortly before his youngest sister had been born, but he could remember little other than the sorrow of that time. His father was a dim figure to him now, resurrected by his mother only in fond memory or admonishment. Was that what it was to be with Murdo? Was the tragedy of that time to be played out again once more? Was Murdo really dead? Was there a chance that a mistake had been made? Murdo couldn’t die.
The boy could not understand. All he did know was that he was agitated and distraught and needed to do something to calm himself, to cleanse the awful truth from his mind. That was when he thought of Kirsty. Somebody would have to tell her. She was Murdo’s girl. It fixed his mind to have a task to do. So he raced up the road to her home, tears that he couldn’t control streaming down his face.
Now he was hurtling back again, shocked by the impact of his arrival at Kirsty’s, concentrating on his running, eyes fixed firmly to the ground trying not to think of what might greet him. But now his jumper was flapping about him, sodden from the cloudburst, his breeches were chafing sore against his thighs and his feet were nipping from rubbing against the hard leather of his shoes. The rain was stinging his eyes and his mother’s heart had been broken and his brother was dead. Swamped in misery, he tripped over a stone and fell full length along the roughness of the road. Scratched and sobbing, he lay, crushed.
Kirsty was no longer screaming, but was slumped on her bed moaning, Mam stroking the top of her arm.
‘He’s dead, mammy. He’s dead.’
Her mother heard but could not respond. She herself was in a state of shock. She had been fond of Murdo, if a bit uncertain about the match between his studiousness and her daughter’s exuberance. Kirsty had been so fond of him, though, and she had not tried to interfere. She was distressed by her daughter’s anguish and upset by the death of a lad she knew. But what had really stunned her had been the unmistakable swelling of Kirsty’s stomach she’d felt through her gown. As she had consoled her daughter she had embraced her as she had done when she was a little girl. The pressing of Kirsty’s distended belly against her had not registered immediately, but when it did it stung her as if a wasp had been inside her head. Brusquely she had led her stumbling daughter to her bed and there they now were; one broken-hearted by the final whipping away of all hope, the other aghast. Her daughter was expecting a bastard child.
She felt torn by anger towards Murdo and guilt that she should think badly of the dead. What could they do? How could she have failed to notice, how could she have been so blind? She found herself thinking that perhaps Murdo was better off dead, he at least would not have to face the disapproval of the community and worst of all, of the church. He had died a hero’s death and no one would think ill of him. But what was to become of Kirsty? She stared at the pitiful heap that was her daughter and her heart fought a struggle between unconditional pity and unforgiving contempt. How could this have happened? Had she not been raised as a God-fearing girl? Had the warnings rumbling from the pulpit not scared her enough? Had she no respect for herself? She looked at her daughter and she saw, not a grown woman, but her own wee girl, needing her mother now, more than she had ever done.
Annie interrupted her train of thought.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Murdo,’ said her mother, her voice fading to a breath. ‘He’s been killed.’
Kirsty let out a loud groan and turned suddenly to face away from her mother. To hear the horror actually put into words was to have raw spirits thrown onto the fire in her heart.
Annie sat down heavily on the bed beside her mother, her eyes wide.
‘What happened?’
‘We don’t know. Alasdair came to tell us a few minutes ago. His mother must have got the telegram. The poor woman. That’s her lost her husband and now her eldest boy. She must be in a terrible state.’
For Annie there was the shock of someone she knew dying so young, more especially following Kirsty’s confessions about their love for each other. She leaned back across the bed and rested her face on the wetness of her sister’s cheek.
‘Oh Kirsty, Kirsty,’ she whispered. There could be no consolation, no comforting words. The best she could do would be to cradle her twin, to let her know that she had someone to hold onto.
She did know for how long she lay with her sister. The sobbing subsided, but tears still pulsed slowly from Kirsty’s staring eyes. Her breaths were irregular and short, as if they were an afterthought. Annie felt her mother’s hand touch her on the shoulder. Her cheek felt like ice as she lifted it from her sister’s face. Kirsty did not move, not even her eyes. Her mother was beckoning her out of the room. Annie lifted herself from the bed and pulled a blanket over Kirsty and stroked her head. She moved through to the living room and saw her mother sitting at the table, one hand clenched, the knuckles knocking rapidly and silently on the wood.
‘Annie, did you know?’ her mother asked sternly.
Annie was taken aback. ‘How could I have known? You told me yourself.’
‘Not about Murdo, about Kirsty.’
Annie thought for a moment. Kirsty had sworn her to secrecy, but her mother clearly knew.
‘You mean about America?’
Mam looked confused. ‘America? What about America? I mean Kirsty. I mean Kirsty and the baby she’s carrying.’
Annie was stunned and her mother could see it.
‘She’s carrying a baby,’ she explained in a softer tone which immediately hardened as she said, ‘And the father of it is now dead.’
Annie tried to take in what had been said. The fire crackled and the clock ticked as they always had, but in a matter of moments life had changed forever. Annie dropped herself into a chair. Her mother went over to the large, blackened kettle that hung permanently over the fire and poured boiling water into the teapot, which she placed on a grid on top of the peat fire. Water sizzled down its side towards the open flame. She returned to her chair at the table.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘What has Kirsty said?’
‘Nothing. She never told me. She doesn’t know that I know. I wonder if she even knows herself?’
Another drop of water sizzled on the fire. Mam stared at the floor and sighed deeply through her nose. Annie bit her bottom lip, her eyes darting from the floor, to her mother, to the table. She had seen her mother every day of her life, had seen her every facet through joy and misery. She knew her better than she knew anyone. Now, though, she did not understand her mother’s reaction and it made her desperately uncomfortable.
‘If I didn’t know,’ Mam thought aloud, staring now at the fire, ‘then nobody else can know. If her own mother couldn’t tell, how could anyone else?’
Annie looked at her uncomprehendingly. No one may know just yet, but they soon would.
‘I’m thinking that no one need ever know.’
‘How are they not going to know, Mam?’
‘If we can get Kirsty away over to town, or maybe even the mainland. She could have the child and come back. No one would know about a baby.’
‘But Mam, won’t they ask where she is?’
‘Yes, yes. Well we tell them that she has gone away because of what’s happened to Murdo. Maybe she followed the fishing, or maybe we tell them she’s gone south to help with the war. Mairi Isabel is working in a munitions factory in Glasgow. That’s what we can say.’
‘But Mam, these are awful lies we’d be telling.’
‘I know,’ Mam snapped. ‘What else can we do? She can’t have the baby here. She’s only a young girl. What’s going to happen to her if she’s got a baby without a husband? God forgive me, but I don’t see what else we can do.’
The minister was already on his way to see Murdo’s mother. Word had spread through the village and one of the elders had come to the manse to inform him, catching him unawares. He’d been agitated. His mornings were usually his own, and the whisky he surreptitiously supped late at night when the prayers were done and the flock dispersed could fade away. Another lad dead since he’d sent the boys off to war. This was where he had to prove his worth as a pastor. In the pulpit the serried ranks before him were attendant if not always attentive. He was preaching to the converted. They were in God’s house and they were there to hear His Word. Now though he was trudging through the rain to soothe suffering, to try to explain why God had allowed this tragedy. The truth was that he would do so by rote. He himself was struggling to comprehend and to understand; he had been for some time.
He had come to God at his own personal nadir, soaked in alcohol and urine and flailing for something to cling to. God had called to him from the distant teachings of his childhood and he had seized Him with the zeal of the convert. It had saved him literally and, he had believed, spiritually. But now doubt was stalking him, whispering to him in the darkness and unsettling him.
Always in the darkness, always when he felt most alone. As God had been there for him before, so the whisky whispered to him again, ‘Just once more, just the one.’ And he had tasted its burning kiss once again.
Now he walked through the rain, the elder by his side repeating how terrible it was. How awful that a house that had already lost its father should now lose its eldest boy. Reverend MacIver inclined his head in solemn agreement, the rain soaking his neck, making it rub against his stiff dog collar. He was trying to remember what Murdo looked like. He had a vague picture of a quiet young man with intelligent eyes, but he was not one of those who eagerly grasped his arm after every sermon. He knew his mother though, an honest, genuine, respectful woman, like so many in the congregation. What could he say to her?
There was a stillness around, unusual for a weekday, despite the rain. The church stood on the main road that ran away past the lochside to other parts of the island. Four other roads joined it within yards of each other forming a staggered junction; three leading to other villages and one to the pier. On any day you would expect to see people on the roads. Not today. Only one figure, whom he recognised as one of his elders, was hurrying towards him. That was all. Some of the houses did not even have the smoke from the fires curling from them. It was unsettling.
‘Oh minister!’ gasped the elder as he reached him. ‘You’ve heard then. What a terrible day it is. Three of our boys are gone.’
‘Three?’
The minister was startled.
‘Three telegrams today. Three of them have gone.’
‘Who? I know of Murdo Morrison. Who else?’
‘Murdo Nicolson. And Donald Martin is missing.’
‘Oh Lord have mercy on their souls.’
Three of the village’s young men swept away. The death of Calum Morrison before had shaken the district, but this was cataclysmic. Almost half of the lads who had proudly strode away barely nine months before were now dead. He had seen them off, grasped their hands and told them that the Lord was with them. Now they were with Him and would not be returning. Four young lads dead, and for what? The Germans weren’t landing on the shore here. They weren’t even landing on the shores of the English coast far south. Why had these four lads died?
The minister came back from his doubt and saw his elders looking at him. In the distance he could now see movement stirring throughout the village; news was spreading. These were not names on a list, these were boys whom everyone knew, names and faces that were the future of the community. And now they were gone. No one would be unmoved. And in the homes of the boys who were lost there would be misery unknown before. He must go and minister to their anguish.
Other elders had gathered at the door of Murdo’s home, talking with a knot of neighbours. They parted as the minister approached and then followed him, uninvited, into the house. The scene was one of tragic peace. Murdo’s mother sat rocking gently on a chair, gazing at the fire in the middle of the floor, holding a young child tightly on her lap. A youth sat drenched and bloodied, his eyes empty. Another, younger boy stood helpless at the dresser. The eldest daughter was preparing food. She did not want to eat, but it kept her busy and there would be visitors.
‘Oh, Minister. Hello,’ she said gratefully as he came through the door.
Murdo’s mother looked startled, absurdly anxious that she had not been at the door to greet him. She made to stand, grasping his hand.
‘It’s alright, it’s alright,’ he said kindly, ‘You just stay where you are.’
‘Children. Children, give the minister a seat.’
The sisters and brothers of the dead man made way for the men of God who had come to bring comfort. They lowered themselves solemnly into the chairs and onto the bench that ran along one wall. The children now stood and watched.
‘It’s a terrible thing that has happened to you,’ Reverend MacIver said presently. ‘I take it there is no doubt?’
‘No,’ said his mother, barely able to say the word.
‘It is not for us to know why the Lord has chosen Murdo,’ he began softly.
He saw the bereaved mother clinging to his words, her eyes filling with tears, the fingers of her left hand tightly wrapped in her right hand. His was the power to guide her through her grief and it made him feel strong. Through the mumbled prayers and the readings from the Holy Book, he was in command. He, Reverend Calum MacIver, was given unquestioning respect and though he would deny it to himself, it chased the doubt and made him feel good.
Murdo leaned over and kissed Kirsty softly on the cheek. Her hand moved to touch his touch and hold it to her so that he never left her. She gazed at him, but the harder she looked the more indistinct he appeared. She stretched out her other hand to him, straining into the mist for him, but he was walking slowly backwards into the gloom and she felt her fingers scrape against a cold hardness. She strove all the more to reach him, calling to him piteously as he drifted into a blur, his smile beckoning, but with tears in his eyes. She twisted her body to try to rack her arm ever closer to him and then suddenly she felt a sharp chill and the touch of a worn palm on her head.
‘Eeesht, my darling, eesht.’
Murdo was gone from sight. Her fingers scrabbled against the stone wall and her calls to him now sounded like nothing more than the whimpers of a wounded dog.
‘Mammy is here, my darling, mammy is here,’ a voice soothed.
Reality swooshed over her again like a splunge in a wave. Murdo was gone. America was gone. Life stretched ahead into grey nothingness.
She could not bear to think of how Murdo had died. Had he been alone? Had there been pain? Had he thought of her as the last breath slipped away? She could not deal with that now. The emotional agony seemed to bring with it a physical pain. Her lower back ached and her breathing was uncomfortable. She became aware too, that although her body was sweating beneath the blankets of her bed, her groin and her legs were wet, very wet. And her back ached some more.