Page 55 of Little Wing
But today we did see our eagle. I was so awe-struck that I called out to it. Hey! Hey! You’d been asleep but suddenly you were awake, jiggling around inside me. We both waved at the bird, you and I. She was wheeling and soaring and with just a tilt of a wing feather she was slicing fast through the air, controlling the wind, flying for the thrill of flying, heading without a care to wherever she wanted to go.
And I said to you, I said to you this: see all that strength and that freedom? See the confidence she has in herself? See how she makes her way to where she needs to be? See how she can move so fast or stay so still? See how she makes all her own choices? See how she flies for the sheer joy of it?
I said:
That is what I want for you.
That is what I hope you’ll find.
This is how I hope you’ll be.
That’s what I said to you, Little Wing.
Nell
Al had nothing for her other than a warm smile the next morning but Nell knew it would have been unrealistic to hope for more. Just knowing she had an assistant made her mission seem not quite so overwhelming now. She wondered whether she should phone England – someone, anyone – but the scant signal relieved her of the obligation. If they were not missing her, it would assuage any guilt of her not missing any of them. Of course she could use the landline in her room, but today she wanted to be out and about, following footsteps, picking up leads. She walked the short distance to Tarbert briskly, her head up, attempting eye contact with strangers and discovering that smiles and nods were readily given. The main grocer’s seemed like a very good starting point but the sales assistant was around her own age.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you – I just wondered if anyone else works here?’
The assistant looked confused. ‘There’s Mrs MacDonald who works part-time – and young David who works Saturdays.’
Nell took a moment. ‘And Mrs MacDonald – she’s—?’
‘Part-time.’
‘She’s – older?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I need someone older than us. Than you. Anyone, really.’
‘Is it a medical matter?’ she asked Nell covertly. Not often that someone came in with a query like that. Usually they came in wanting to talk about a verruca, an opinion on nits, to know whether they should pop this blister or let it do its thing. Sometimes they came in red in the face, looking at their shoes, and mumbled intricate synonyms. But what was it, then, that afflicted this English girl much her own age, that only the older generation could help?
‘No,’ said Nell. ‘Not really. Sort of.’ She looked around hastily and picked up a lip balm and some herbal pastilles. ‘Um – just these.’
‘Shall I tell Mrs MacDonald you were looking for her?’
But the door had closed behind Nell’s answer, if indeed she’d given one.
So, which café to choose? She fully intended to visit each before she headed home next Tuesday. Nell opted for the one nearest, ordered tea from a teenage waitress and gazed thoughtfully at the older woman, busy with her crumb-collecting, behind the counter. It was an excellent brew but after one sip Nell left her table.
‘Everything OK with your tea?’
‘Did you know a girl called Florence Lawson? About thirty years ago?’ Nell’s words came out in a tumble and the woman looked befuddled. ‘The tea is amazing,’ Nell said. ‘But—?’
‘Do I know who?’
Nell sighed. The sentences came out by rote. ‘She was sixteen and she came here in 1969. Her name was Florence Lawson.’
‘Florence Lawson you say?’
‘Yes! Did you know her?’
‘Where did she live, Florence Lawson?’
‘In Harris!’
The woman’s expression softened. ‘Do you have an address? Not all of Harris live in Tarbert.’
