Little Bird Flies Read online

  “Is that not her?” Lachlan suddenly says, glancing back towards the harbour’s edge and pointing at some particular figure he has spied. “Is that not her lilac dress? Bridie?”

  I do not answer straightaway for two reasons.

  First, it is because my heart races too fast, knowing the frantically waving person who has climbed upon an empty flat cart – the better to see and be seen – can be no one else but Effie. Far away as she is, the flame red of her hair is distinct as a match lit in the dusk.

  And second, because there is the figure of a lad beside her. He waves too, with both arms. For a heartbeat, it reminds me of that hazy moment in Father’s rowboat, when I imagined Will bidding me farewell from the top of the Glas Crags…

  Where are you, Will? the whispering asks, as I laugh to myself at the sheer madness of my thoughts. Of course that is not Will. Of course it is just a boy, waving to some family member or friend who – like Lachlan and I – is arranged along the wooden railings in this raggedy, hopeful yet heart-sore line.

  But would that not be another strange thing? Just as last year my family sailed from Tornish, missing Queen Victoria as she sailed in, what if I left Glasgow, while Will Beaton and his own folks arrived?

  Still, what does it serve me to think of that fancy?

  As I lean shoulder to shoulder with Lachlan and wave as hard and heartily as I am able in Effie’s direction, I finally let my secret self speak the other whisper. The one I have long turned myself deaf to. For now – here on the deck of this ship bound for the horizon, for America, I am free to hear it said.

  Listen, it tells me, as I take a final breath of smoky Glasgow air. Listen.

  I was never meant to be here, in the city, in the east.

  I was always destined to head westwards.

  And now, on drifting, dancing winds, I’ll go.

  On this ship, if not on the wing.

  For I am Little Bird,

  And I will fly.

  CHAPTER 20

  There is talk all around us.

  Talk in languages that are soft and songlike or fast and jagged. Some are made up of hard-sounding words that hammer together like wood upon wood.

  The folk that speak these languages are milling in their hundreds, if not thousands, here in the vast, round hall.

  All of us are equally matched in exhaustion and eagerness, though small details of our clothing mark us out as quite unlike one another. The plaid shawl tied around my shoulders and chest speaks of Scotland. But what of the girls and their mother that sit on the bench in front? What country do their floral patterned headscarves signify? And the men in the heavy fur coats and hats; how cold is their old homeland that they dress like bears?

  I am shaken from my thoughts as Lachlan tugs a corner of my shawl over his eyes. He lies curled on the bench beside me, his head in my lap. My brother wore himself out on the deck of the ship, yelling, jumping, laughing as the whole of New York grew nearer, larger, a dream or a story made real at last. But the queues for the tugboats that were to ferry us from the ship to Castle Garden, the queues to get into the building, the queues to answer questions about where we had come from, how our health was, to register our names, to leave our luggage, to buy food… All these queues, the crush of strangers, they have tired him to the point of desperation. So I told him to shut out the people and this place as best he can till his mind stills.

  My own mind, however, delights in it all. While Father is off in another queue, exchanging our pounds, crowns and shillings for dollars, dimes and cents, I am more than content to sit here and stare about me as I stroke my brother’s head. And I stare not only at my fellow travellers, wondering of their pasts and their futures. I stare up and around at the Emigrant Depot itself, which is not the factory-like building I had imagined it to be. With its tall, supporting columns and ornate ceiling, it has a likeness to a great cathedral. But then, with the seated balcony that swoops around its circular walls, it reminds me of the posters I saw of music halls back in Glasgow.

  Ah, now there is something new to marvel at. A woman has begun to sing, in such a loud, pure voice … but so high a sound she makes! I have never heard the like of it before, each note soaring and dancing in the clear air above the heads of the crowds. The language of it I do not know, but it is so very lovely it hardly matters.

  I am not the only one to find myself entranced. The rush and babble of countless conversations quietens as everyone glances about for the singer among us.

  “Who is that?” asks Lachlan, sitting up now that the woman’s voice has cast such a spell.

  “I do not know,” I reply, narrowing my eyes as if it will help me see her.

  “Sie ist da, siehst du? Ja?” says the lady sitting next to me, whose baby sleeps blissfully in a basket on her lap.

  I do not know her words, but their meaning is clear, especially as her finger jabs towards a mob of folk who are parting, clearing a space around a small, stout woman whose person and dress is unremarkable, though her voice is like that of an angel.

  “Vöglein, was singst du so laut? Warum, warum?” the lady with the baby trills softly along with the woman in the crowd.

  I turn to smile at her, but perhaps she sees me frown a little, unsure why the woman is singing, uncertain why this beautiful thing is happening.

  “English?” asks the lady.

  I do not correct her. She talks about my language (well, one of them), not the country of my birth.

  “Yes,” I tell her.

  “Castle Garden – this was a very famous concert hall once,” she tells me. “Jenny Lind sang here.”

  I frown again.

  “You do not know of Jenny Lind?” the lady says in obvious surprise. “She was the greatest operatic singer in the world. They called her ‘The Nightingale’. Kings, queens, presidents, they would come to see her perform.”

  “So the woman mimics this famous singer?” I ask.

  “Yes. She is wünderbar ja?” she says with a smile, slipping back into her own language. “And this song is so very pretty. ‘The Bird’s Song’ it is called. In English, she is saying…”

  The lady pauses, tuning in to the woman in the crowd, and then sings snatches I can understand.

  “Sweet bird, why so loudly you sing? Ah, why! Ah, why!

  I sing, I sing, I sing but know not why.

  Sweet bird, your little heart seems glad. Ah, why! Ah, why!

  I sing while life is given to me, careless if any hear or see, I sing!”

  I smile to myself, for here I am, a Little Bird listening to the song of The Nightingale.

  And now I am here in America, my little heart is glad, and I sing.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’m lucky enough to call two places home: London, where I’ve lived for many years with my Scottish husband and English daughter (and lots of cats!) and Scotland, where I was born and brought up. Returning to Scotland means visiting our families in the cities of Aberdeen and Dundee, but whenever we can, we take off and become tourists, soaking up the spectacular scenery of the countryside and coasts.

  These getaways remind me so much of my childhood. My parents weren’t very adventurous when it came to travelling, so summer meant a week in a caravan here or a day trip in the car there, all fairly close to home. But I loved it; the drama of the mountains, forests and lochs, the ancient castles steeped in stories. (And I really liked the regular stops for chips and ice-cream too!)

  Sadly, Mum and Dad aren’t around to thank personally, but I still owe them one for those excellent outings around Scotland when I was growing up.

  As for research, I read a ton of fascinating books for this project, including Highland Folk Ways by I.F.Grant, who set up the amazing Highland Folk Museum in Kingussie, near Aviemore. Do go, if you ever get the chance – it’s an outdoor museum comprised of different historic Scottish buildings, from blackhouses to school rooms to sweet shops. It’s even been used as location for the hugely popular “Outlander” series!

 
But while books about the people and places of the region were invaluable, I really needed the input of one particular person to make sure I was getting my Highlands and Islands references as authentic as they could be, and that’s the multi-talented and gorgeous Gaelic-speaking Mairi Kidd. Thanks for all your incredibly useful comments and pointers, Mairi!

  I’d also like to thank my lovely, long-time friend Louise, who has always been my moan-listener, motivator and personal cheerleader when it comes to all things book-ish (and life-ish).

  Then there’s Sheena, Martin and Ruby, friends who years ago invited me and my family to visit the beautiful island of Ulva, near Mull. Although Tornish is a fictional island, I think there’s definitely a hint of Ulva in there.

  Lastly, a huge thank you goes to my husband Tom, who always told me I should tell this tale, and of course to Kirsty Stansfield and Kate Wilson at Nosy Crow, who read Little Bird’s story and helped her to fly…

  SCAN THIS QR CODE TO READ MORE ABOUT THE INSPIRATION BEHIND LITTLE BIRD FLIES

  COPYRIGHT

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Nosy Crow Ltd

  The Crow’s Nest, 14 Baden Place

  Crosby Row, London, SE1 1YW

  Nosy Crow and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Nosy Crow Ltd

  Text copyright © Karen McCombie, 2019

  Cover and chapter opener illustrations copyright © Jasu Hu, 2019

  Map copyright © Hannah Horn, 2019

  The right of Karen McCombie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved

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  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of Nosy Crow Ltd.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

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  Papers used by Nosy Crow are made from wood grown in sustainable forests

  ISBN: 978 0 85763 910 3

  eISBN: 978 0 85763 951 6

  www.nosycrow.com