A excerpt from my story published in Wanderers All: stories from emigrant families. 

My story, On St Abbs Head published in the Borders Writers' Anthology, Border Voices: Coast and Countryside.

It was the woman who saw it first. She was unsure what it was and so she stopped walking, leaning on her hazel stick for support. There was a shape behind a rock on a grassy patch at the edge of the track. Most days she and Archie walked along this way. A second or two later, she resumed walking, talking to her husband in a hushed voice, but Archie being slightly deaf now, didn’t answer. He was already past the shape and away in his own world which he was more often than not these days.

 ‘Archie’, she called, louder this time.

 ‘Whit is it noo?’ He turned to face his wife and said. ‘Wull ye no daunder on wumman, thare’s a storm comin.’

And sure enough, the black clouds were gathering over St Abbs Head and the air had turned cooler. 

 ‘Leuk, ower yonder… next tae yon muckle stane …’

 ‘Cannae see ocht!’

 ‘Ir ye blinn, man? Ower yonder!’ 

Archie took a step backwards and now he could see what was there, almost hidden behind the rock. He shook his head.

 ‘Oo shuid gaun on. Dinnae fash yersel,ye cannae dae ocht for it, Aggie.’

But the woman wasn’t convinced. She leaned over the shape and prodded it.

 ‘Oo maun dae summit… the puir wee burdie’s bin hurtit.’

 ‘Thrapple it, yons whit I wad dae for it.’

Upon hearing his words, Aggie looked up and shook her stick, ever so slightly, but enough.

 ‘Ye’ll dae nae sic a thin, Archie MacDonald. The puir critter. Can ye no see, it’s bracken a weeng.’

And sure enough, that was what she had first noticed; the white shape of a feather lying next to the rock, and the small bird unable to move. Thinking of her husband’s words, Aggie sighed. She was a kind woman. The sight of the injured bird, the gentle black eye looking ever so fearful, the yellow beak open and hissing its vulnerability to the dangers it faced. Aggie, uncertain of what to do, felt her own heart beat faster for she hated to see another creature in pain. All her life she had cared for the unfortunate and less able and, if sometimes, those she looked after appeared ungrateful, this compassionate woman would forgive them, and in no time, she would find another creature, human or animal, to nurture. The bird made a feeble attempt to stand up on its spindly black legs but the effort was not enough and it sunk down again onto the grassy patch. Both Aggie and Archie could see the injury on the wing clearly now. Blood oozed from the damaged wing and some tiny red droplets had settled further down towards the small black triangle on the wing tip. 

 ‘It’s a wee kittiwake… maun hiv bin skaithed somewey whan the ithers flew awa,’ Archie said. 

 It was the end of summer and the sea birds had left the high cliffs. With their going, the tourists and the bird watchers would disperse and calm would return to the St Abbs area. But come the spring the birds would return, to nest once again on the steep black cliffs, to lay their eggs, so precariously balanced upon the ledges, and the cliffs would once again resound to the screams and calls of guillemots, razorbills, kittiwakes and gulls as thousands of birds squabbled for nesting spaces. Then the tourists and walkers would return as well, and be amazed at the sight of so many different birds along the shore and the cliffs as puffins, shags and the beautiful yellow and white gannets swooping downwards, torpedo-like, into the sea, for St Abbs Head was a magic seabird city on the Berwickshire coast. 

 ‘Win awa noo Aggie. Thare’s nowt oo can dae for the wee burdie. This yin wullnae be jynin it’s neebors for the lang journey oot tae the sea.’

Their eyes met, and such a feeling of sadness passed between them at that moment. They had often talked about the migration of their sea birds from the cliffs of St Abbs. It was a fact, Aggie said, that the birds saw so much of the world and it was also a fact, that neither she nor Archie had ventured very far, albeit once across the border to Newcastle and a few times to Edinburgh. They had met each other at the Herring Queen Festival when Aggie was sixteen and Archie, who had grown up in Eyemouth, was seventeen. That had been the beginning of their life together. They were married a few years later at the Eyemouth Kirk. Archie had moved in with Aggie in St Abbs, for Aggie could not leave her poor father, bedridden most of the time with arthritis. 

 ‘Weel, aw the kittiwakes ir awa noo, cept this yin,’ sighed Archie. ‘Oo wullnae be seein thaim agane tul the spring, thaim aw feedin on the weeng an gan tae furrin airts oo’ll nivver see.’

 ‘Ay I ken.’

There was an air of finality about the statement, the certainty of life’s transience. They were both nearing the end of their lives together.

 ‘Oo’d better leave the wee burdie noo. Leuk at the sky, the wund’s stertin tae blaw coorse … thare’s stormy wather on the wey.’

A few drops of rain had already fallen and the feathers of the injured bird were sprinkled with moisture. The rain droplets had caused some of the blood on the bird’s broken wing to trickle downwards onto the white feather.

 They were about to move away when the kittiwake suddenly moved. It thrust its tiny body upwards, trembling, and for a poignant brief second it stood on frail little legs. The tip of the broken wing, now dangling and helpless, lay on the soft earth. The bird then let out an almighty squawk.   

 ‘Leuk, Archie, the wee burdie’s leevin. Whit a fechter this wee yin is. Gin I wes to tak it hame wi iz…mebbe I cuid mend it’s weeng…I’ve clooted up a wheen o puir wee critters in ma time, hiv I no juist?’

 ‘That ye hiv, Aggie. That ye hiv.’

 ‘I cuid leuk efter it for the wunter… an in the spring…?’

 ‘Ay. Whan its sibs cam hame…?’

 ‘Oo cuid gie it a wee shot, div ye no think?’

 ‘Haud ma stick for iz, Aggie.’

With a sudden movement Archie knelt over the kittiwake, cradling the bird ever so gently in his large fisherman’s hands. He ran his index finger downwards from the head of the bird to the tip of its tail, and all the while the captive bird hissed and trembled. It tried with one last valiant effort to bite the fingers of Archie’s hand. He murmured softly as if saying a prayer, and then in a flash, it was all over. 

 ‘Och, Archie…’

 Gently was that moment between life and death as Archie laid the dead kittiwake next to the rock where they had first noticed it, and this time, he positioned the little bird so that the broken wing was on the ground and the good wing was visible.

 ‘Ye cuidnae hiv saufed this yin, lass. It widnae hiv lested throu the nicht, whit wi the trashie rain an mebbie a tod oot leukin for its denner, the burd had nae hope.’

Archie took his stick from Aggie, and held her hand like they always did on their walks together, for both of them were less steady on their feet these days, and it was good to have each other. 

 ‘Pull yersel thegaither lass an haud yer wheesht! Oo’ll mak oor wey hame for the tea. Oo dinnae want to be caucht in this haar, div oo noo?’

 Aggie nodded. Her face, wet from the rain drops and the tears that ran down her cheeks, looked towards the mist covering the cliffs of St Abbs Head. There wasn’t a seabird to be seen. She gave Archie’s hand a familiar squeeze and the old couple turned to walk back along the track that they had walked together for so many years; this same track where once Aggie had skipped as a child, and in all weathers. She often thought that she knew every blade of grass, every pebble along the way, for was it not so that her whole life had been contained within these few miles? She imagined the young kittiwake and how it might have been for it on its first journey away from the cliffs that she, too, called home. How wonderful it would be to be able to soar upwards to the sky, and turn and fly down to the endless sea below, then duck and dive and feed on the wing and find your way, by some miraculous compass, to foreign shores so far, far away from the cliffs of St Abbs. 

 Archie’s hand was firm in hers. He was a good man. Had always been a good man, and that was something after all.

 ‘Ay, Archie,’ she said to him when their cottage came into view, ‘it wis for the best, ye ken. It wis a cannie thin thit ye did for yon wee burdie.’

And all Archie could do was to nod his head for he, too, had been thinking of the little dead kittiwake and his own life, and life’s journey for all living things.

Copyright Iona Carroll 2019

Border Voices - Coast and Countryside

An Anthology from the Borders Writers' Forum

First published 2019

£4.99

ISBN: 978-0-9926261-7-4