Page 69 of Little Wing
My beautiful, beautiful baby girl.
My daughter.
Born 21stSeptember 1969, in Harris, at home.
Mo leannan bhòidheach– my darling sweetheart.
Monday
The bridge was only 5 miles from Tarbert, and its single lane with one passing place spanned the 300-metre Sound of Scalpay in a simple, elegant and unobtrusive way. For an island measuring little over three miles by two, Nell was struck at how distinct Scalpay felt with its tighter rolling landscape of mounds and lumps in a very different shade of green. The road here twisted and turned, the rises and falls were more pronounced and the houses were grouped more closely together; denser, jostling for position on little knolls or in small dips. It seemed more populous than anywhere she’d been over the last few days.
Sheltered by a series of small islands scattered like a handful of rune stones along Loch Tarbert, Scalpay’s two natural harbours nestled, protected. Sophia Keaton lived in the North Harbour which, on a Monday morning, was bustling. Nell found the bungalow easily. For a while however, she just sat in the car, focusing her gaze instead on the North Harris hills over the water, the morning light glancing off all that steady grey rock. It was an easier option than trying to remember all the questions she wanted to ask. More difficult still would be trying to keep a check on the surges of emotion that had done away with her sleep and deadened her appetite. But an appointment had been made for her and Nell was now a few minutes late. She left the car, walked to the front door, steeled herself and knocked.
When Sophia opened the door, she and Nell just stood still, lost in a soft silence that transcended time and cancelled out all the sounds around them that spoke of an everyday Monday. Sophia had been anticipating this day for well over three decades, not knowing when it might be. And it was now.
This is Flora’s girl. Here she is. Unmistakable. Unforgotten.
‘You took your time,’ she said at length. ‘But I always knew you’d come.’
‘You’re not Scottish!’
Nell was immediately mortified that this was her opening observation but Sophia just laughed.
‘You’re dead right – I’m not. I’m a Yorkshire lass, from Leeds originally. Come in, Nell. Come in. I’m Sophia. Folk still call me Fire. Your mother always, always called me Nurse Keaton.’
Sophia’s sitting room overlooked the water and two armchairs were placed either side of an occasional table on which was a plate of biscuits and two mugs as if conversation was already under way. Nell said yes to tea. She said yes, the open window was fine. She said yes, her journey here was easy, lovely. She was offered a seat, to which she replied thank you – yet she followed Sophia into her little kitchen. And there they stood together, watching the kettle come slowly to the boil.
‘My mother,’ Nell murmured. ‘I mean – my birth mother.’
Sophia, deep in thought, poured the water into the teapot. ‘Come on through, Little Wing, come and sit down.’
‘Little Wing?’
‘It was your mother’s pet name for you. On account of her being Jimi Hendrix’s greatest fan.’
They sat and looked at each other over the rims of the mugs, the drama softened by the steam from the fragrant tea, the gentle breeze from the open window.
‘I didn’t know about this – about me – about Flora – until pretty recently,’ Nell said.
‘Must’ve been a terrible shock,’ Sophia said. ‘Baffling too.’
Nell took her time to think about just how shocking it all had been.
‘I didn’t even know that my mum – my mum Wendy – had a younger sister.’
Sophia nodded thoughtfully. ‘Is she still alive? Has she said why she never told you? Does she know that you’re here now?’
‘Yes. No. No,’ Nell said. ‘My mum – Wendy – she’s. She’s always been – well, it’s worsened over the last two or three years.’ Suddenly Nell felt like she was betraying Wendy and it made her want to cry. She fidgeted with her fingers and her words. ‘She’s unwell – she’s never been well. She has mental illnesses and the symptoms have been worsening. She’s deteriorated quite a lot.’
They sat quietly.
‘I’m sorry, pet.’
There was something about the timbre of Nurse Keaton’s voice, the way she considered Nell’s words. Nell knew for sure that she’d cared for Flora with those same kind eyes, with this soothing tone.
‘She – Mum – Wendy – had been calling me Florence for a while. That was Flora’s actual name. Or in England, at least.’
‘She was only ever Flora to all of us.’ Sophia cleared her throat. ‘And she spoke only fondly of her sister, I promise you. Didn’t much like the oldest one, I might add. I met her, you know – your Wendy mum.’
