Graeme Burnet - His Bloody Project

I did not know what to say, so I just looked at her. Flora had changed markedly since our schooldays. Her features had become less childish, her nose and mouth somewhat larger. Her hair was tied up in the way that the womenfolk wore it, rather than in girlish pigtails. Her figure had grown fuller and her bosom now filled out the bodice of her dress pleasingly. Her skirt reached within an inch or two of her ankles and the frilled border of her petticoats was visible beneath the hem of this garment. On her feet she wore a pair of neat black boots. I wondered if they had been bought with the shillings we were paying to her father in compensation for the sheep. She studied me with her head on one side, as if I was a curiosity in a travelling show.

Flora bid me good evening and asked what I had been doing. I replied that it was no business of hers what I was doing, and that I might ask her the same question. She said that if I would not tell her what I had been doing in the barn, I must have been up to some mischief. She then added that her father said I was a bad lot and had told her to keep away from me. I was not surprised to hear Lachlan Broad’s low opinion of me, but it struck me that Flora’s motive was less to cause offence than to convey that in seeking me out she was defying her father’s wishes.

‘And what would your father say if he knew you were talking to me now?’ I said.

Flora shrugged her shoulders and widened her eyes as if it was a matter of no consequence to her.

‘If I was your father, I would give you a sound thrashing,’ I said.

‘Perhaps he would give you the thrashing instead,’ she replied.

‘I have no doubt it would give him great pleasure to do so.’

Flora giggled, as if the prospect of seeing me beaten amused her. She then asked me for a second time what I had been doing in the barn. Feeling now that there was some bond between us, I told her I had been tending a fledgling which, two or three days before, I had found in the grass at the very spot where she was now standing. I pointed to a nest in the gable of the house above her head from which the little bird had fallen.

‘Why did you not put it back in the nest?’ she asked.

I did not know how to answer this question as had I merely wanted to save the little bird; this would indeed have been the simplest course of action. The truth was that I often nursed injured birds or animals, but I did so in secret as my father would regard my hobby as a waste of time, or, worse, as a defiance of God’s will. In any case, more often than not my charges died. Two years previously, however, I had reared a fledgling I found while bringing peats from the hillside. As it grew feathers I realised it was a crow and I named him Blackie. One evening when I went to the barn to feed my charge, he was gone and I assumed he had grown strong enough to make his own way in the world. I do not know whether these birds remain in the vicinity of their birth, but whenever I saw a crow strutting over the stubble of a croft or perched on the dyke by the Toscaig road, I wondered if it was Blackie and if there was some glint of recognition in his eye.

In these parts, crows are an unwelcome sight as they are thought to be an augury of ill fortune. The folk of Aird-Dubh, being mostly concerned with fishing, are particularly ill-disposed to these birds and the sight of a crow perched on one of their vessels causes great consternation among them. I have witnessed fishermen hurling sizeable rocks at an offending bird with no regard to the damage they might cause the boat, as if in repelling the symbol they will avert the misfortune it portends. Yet I have never known a native of Aird-Dubh, or elsewhere for that matter, to alter their course of action when thus alerted to danger. The outlook in these parts is that if one is to be visited by misfortune, there is nothing that can be done to avoid it. If a crew of men were to abort their fishing trip, it might be that one of them would later that day be struck on the head by a falling roof-tree in his house. It is not possible to know in advance what form the misfortune will take and it is thus futile to do anything other than what one intended in the first place. All of which renders the action of hurling missiles at the harbinger yet more mystifying. Crows are, moreover, very numerous in these parts and one might spend a good portion of each day attempting to ward them off. It seems to me that if a person is struck by misfortune, it is quite probable that he will be able to think back and remember that a crow was perched that morning on his gable, but this does not make it reasonable to believe there is any connection between the two events.

I asked Flora if she would like to see the injured bird and she replied that she would. I cast my eyes around to convey that what we were about to do was a secret to which she alone was privy. I then unfastened the rope and Flora followed me inside. I pulled the door to behind us. The only light came through the gaps in the slats of the walls and from a small window high in the gable. I had an impulse to take Flora by the hand to lead her to the rafter where I had hidden my charge, but I did not do so. Instead we stood close together, allowing our eyes to become accustomed to the murk. I could hear the soft sound of Flora’s breathing. I led the way to the corner and drew up the milking stool which I stood on to tend my charge. I indicated that Flora should stand on it in order to view the little bird. She drew closer and held out her hand to steady herself as she stepped onto the stool. She raised herself onto the toes of her little boots, which were laced neatly around her ankles. Her fingers lingered in mine for a moment before she placed both her hands on the rafter. I had built a makeshift nest from twigs and grass and lined it with feathers from the hens. In addition there were some strips of cloth which I had placed over the little bird to mimic the warmth of its mother. Flora gave a little sigh as she saw the fledgling’s head protruding from the bundle of rags and she remained there for some minutes, even though it was sleeping and not much to look at.

‘What do you feed it?’ she asked in a whisper.

‘Insects,’ I replied. ‘And worms from the croft.’

She held her hand out behind her, so that I could support her as she stepped off the stool. Then she made her way back towards the door. I put the stool in the opposite corner of the barn so that my father would not see it and wonder why it was under the rafter. I would have liked to stay longer in the barn with her, but I could not think of any pretext for doing so. I pushed the door open and stuck out my head out to check that there was no one to see us, before ushering Flora out.

‘Thank you for showing me,’ she said.

‘I’m glad to have shown you,’ I replied.

She took a step away from me. ‘I had better be away. Father will be wondering where I have got to.’

‘You will be in for a good thrashing.’

‘If I tell him where I’ve been, it will be you that gets the thrashing,’ she said with a little smile.

Then she disappeared round the corner of the house. I secured the rope around the jamb for a second time and went to the front of the house. I sat down on the bench and watched Flora make her way along the village. She had a way of walking as if her body was singing a song. It was by that time getting dark and the reek hung low over the water. A little later, Jetta came out of the house and sat down next to me with her knitting. I listened to the pleasing clack of her needles in the still air and I asked what she was knitting. She ignored my question and asked me instead who I had been talking to in the barn. I felt my cheeks turn red and answered, ‘To no one.’

She laid her knitting on her lap and looked at me with a serious expression.