Follow the Dove

The first time she saw him Isa forgot to breathe.

He was standing in the warehouse doorway of the recently

established Floating Shops of Kirkwall, gazing in her direction.

Low in the sky, the sun slid over his blond hair. For a moment,

her limbs refused to move. She mentally made a note of the date,

knowing she would always remember this day – May 16th, 1899.

‘Get a move on girl. You’re not paid to stand about gawking.’

Samuel Lierstock, the overseer, a big-set man, his skin mottled

and unhealthy, white wisps of hair clinging to his scalp, strode

into view.

Isa jumped and spun around. Wiping her brow, she scuttled

back to the shelf and dragged down another bolt of cloth. She

placed it in the packing case and smoothed the surface with her

fingers until Lierstock walked away. By now, other workers

blocked her view of the door. Once the way was clear, she found

herself looking into the eyes of the stranger. Well aware of her

own attractiveness, she tilted her head, tucked a black curl under

her scarf and allowed a smile to tug the corners of her lips. Small

and wiry she might be, but she had a complexion that glowed

with health and the energy of a fireball. She turned back to her

work, face burning at her own daring.

‘Who is he?’ she whispered to Bella.

Bella, twenty-six, a fair sized woman, married with three

bairns, had taken Isa under her wing from the first day she

started at the warehouse. Without asking, she knew who Isa

meant.

‘Davie Reid. One of the Raumsey lot. Ye keep yer eyes off the

likes of him.’

‘Why?’

‘Ye’re fifteen. Yer mam would go mad. Those lads come here

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to sell the whisky they make on that wee island of theirs and

they’re one step in front of the excise man. Now, there’s still ten

bales to be packed.’

Already Isa felt as if this day had gone on forever. Her muscles

ached, her dress stuck to her back and she had eaten her bread

and dripping sandwiches ages ago. Speed made her clumsy. She

pulled at a roll of cloth. It slipped from her grasp, hit the floor

and rolled open.

‘Careful,’ whispered Bella. ‘Ye don’t want to anger Leirstock

anymore the day.’

With ragged breath, Isa re-arranged the material. This was a

good job, better than being a fisher lassie – gutting and packing

herring – or leaving home to go into service on the other side, as

the islanders called mainland Scotland. However, she could not

concentrate. All she thought of was Davie Reid’s eyes. She glanced

sideways at the doorway, disappointed to find him gone.

After the bell had rung to signify the end of the shift, the

warehouse workers walked home together past the built up area

along the sea front. Weary to the bone, they still found enough

energy to giggle and tease each other. A wind had whipped up

and a few drops of rain splattered against their faces. Isa pulled

her shawl tighter around her shoulders and fell behind the others.

‘Doubt if the ships’ll get out tomorrow.’ Bella stopped to look

up at a sky that pressed downward like a wad of grey cotton

wool.

Isa bit her lower lip, stopping a smile. Bad weather could be in

her favour. A Raumsey yole would never manage across the

Pentland Firth before the storm broke. She asked, ‘Can we not

watch the floating shops being loaded?’ They often did this,

marvelling at the stock of groceries, meats, shoes and clothes

lining the shelves of the large sailing vessels, ready to be ferried

to smaller islands.

‘Na, I’ve got to go tend to me bairns. Ye’d best get off and all.’

Above their heads, the sky had become prematurely dark as a

storm swept from the north. Oil lamps and candles were already

beginning to glow through windows.

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‘Aye, I’ll see ye the morn,’ answered Isa. Albert Street and

home lay before her, but Isa’s steps were slow.

‘Mind, no dallying. I see the mischief in yer brown eyes,’ Bella

called after her. Once her friend disappeared through her own

front door Isa changed direction and ran for the harbour. Here

the wind blew fiercer, beating waves into a frenzy of foam that

rushed towards the pier, breaking over and around the concrete

walls and shooting skyward. Men were busy hauling their boats

across the cobbles to a point well above high tide mark, since the

small harbour was not adequate to protect them.

Abe Olyphant, a friend of Isa’s father, stared from beneath the

peak of his cap and chewed his pipe in the side of his mouth.

Eyes watering with either the wind or regret that he could no

longer assist the younger men, he leaned against a pile of creels.

‘Stay back there.’ He caught Isa by the arm. His hands were

aged and gnarled, but his grip was strong.

‘I wasn’t going right down.’ Peering past him, she spotted

only local boats, masts swaying. ‘Where’s the Raumsey yole?’

‘The Raumsey lads? Na lass, they don’t tie up here. Sail takes

too long, see. They berth across at Scapa Bay and bring the stuff

over by horse and cart. And they’ll be staying the night wi’ me.’

He pointed at two men she had not seen before. Both tall and

bonny, one was as dark as the other was fair. ‘The Reid brothers,’

said Abe.

She longed to ask the whereabouts of the young lad, but if she

showed too much interest, Abe might tell her parents. Not that

she worried about her dad, but her mam seemed a bit strange

recently as if her mind was on other things. There was little point

in upsetting her further. However, Davie Reid would soon be

gone. She had to see him again. She just had to. The crush she’d

had on a local boy faded like sea mists in the heat of a summer

sun. Her brain raced around the possibilities of where Davie

might be. Maggie-Jean’s shop was the most likely option.

‘Ye’ll no doubt be having something fine for yer tea?’ she

probed.

‘We’ll be having a bit of cod since yer asking.’

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‘Should I fetch ye some tatties to go with the cod?’

‘The Raumsey lad’s away for them.’

She kissed the old man on the cheek and giggled at his

surprise. ‘Ye’ll not be telling me ma’ and dad, will ye?’ Her head

cocked to one side and she grinned.

‘Maybe I will and maybe I’ll not. Get away home and stop yer

nonsense.’ In spite of his expression, she heard amusement in his

voice. With another giggle and a glance towards the boats, she

hitched up her skirts, now sodden around the hem, and hurried

back along the street. She leaned forward against the strength of

the wind as rain began in earnest, battering her face in its fury. At

last, she slipped into the shelter of the shop entrance. Salt

encrusted the glass of the upper door so that she was unable to

make out individual shapes in the interior. Not knowing if she

had missed Davie Reid, Isa wished she had money and an excuse

to go inside the shop.

Her shawl was thin and wet. With a shiver, she shoved her

hands under her armpits. The door handle turned and the bell

jangled above her head. She jumped back, leaned against the wall

and took a measured breath, but only an old woman appeared

bringing with her a blast of warm, paraffin-scented air.

‘What ye doing here lassie, on a night like this?’ she asked.

‘I’m getting shopping for me ma’.’

‘Will ye give me a hand first?’

‘I’m in a hurry.’ Isa would normally have helped, but for now

she jumped from one foot to the other, hugging her body, her

eyes already back on the door.

‘There’s little respect nowadays.’ Lop-sided with the weight

of her bag, the woman sniffed and toiled into the storm,

Above her head, the bell jangled again. Nerves caused her to

stumble and in her efforts to right herself her foot caught in her

skirt hem and she pitched forward. At the same time the door

opened. Someone grasped her by the arms. Once she regained

her balance, she looked up and into the face of Davie Reid. All

she could manage was a stuttering attempt at apology which

sounded like nothing at all.

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‘Are ye all right?’ he asked, his eyes trapping hers.

Taller than she by at least a foot, his eyes were as blue as the

sea in summer, his cheeks and nose, red. Wet strands of hair stuck

to his skin, he smelt of damp clothes and salt air. His breathing

was ragged. His hands burned into her flesh. A mole below his

right eye did nothing to detract from his attractiveness.

‘I . . . I . . . tripped.’ In spite of the storm raging around them,

water running from her hair down the back of her neck and the

wet material of her skirt clinging to her legs, she felt safe and

warm.

‘Were ye going into the shop?’ His grin was wide, exposing a

chipped tooth. In the dying daylight, he appeared more handsome

than ever. What in Orkney, they called a ‘bonnie chiel’.

With her eyes on his lips, she shook her head. ‘I’m . . . I’m

going home.’ Did he believe her? She had been standing in a

shop doorway – waiting.

‘Better pick the tatties up.’ He leaned forward and reached

towards the ground, brushing against her as he did so. For the

first time she became conscious of the empty straw basket and

the potatoes scattered around their feet.

‘I made ye drop them. I’m sorry.’ She hunched down, hands

scrabbling, feeling more of a clumsy idiot than ever.

‘It’s fine, I’ll do it.’ His fingers covered hers and she recoiled as

if stabbed.

Straightening up, she noticed a flush on his face. Surprised,

she realised he too was shy. She rubbed her wet hands down the

sides of her dress. The fabric, soaked by rain, did nothing to dry

them. She nodded towards the road. ‘I’ll have to go.’

He retrieved the last potato. ‘I’d better go with ye, for ye

might trip again. Where do ye live?’

‘Top of the street.’

Once out of the lee, the gale pushed them together.

Simultaneously they gave a short embarrassed laugh. He placed

an arm across her shoulders, tentatively at first then with more

confidence, and they struggled uphill past rows of terraced houses

to where she lived. Never having had a boy’s arm around her

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before, she became aware of his strength and of the extra pressure

of his body each time he drew a breath. Everything else vanished

from her mind. She wished she could ask him in but this was

impossible. Her parents wouldn’t be happy to know she’d been

alone in the company of a boy not known to them. Ambitious for

her girls, her mother harboured an inner terror of one of them

having a child before she wed and, as she said, ‘ruin her life’.

‘Ye’re safe,’ he said at last. ‘I’d best go help with the boats

before they swamp.’ He let her go and the warm places where his

arm and body had been, remained.

‘Th . . . thank ye.’ Her mouth dry, her mind searched for

something clever to say. She needed to keep him, to hear his

voice one more time.

He hesitated then spoke too quickly. ‘I’ll be back before the

weather breaks. I’ll see ye then.’

‘Yes.’ Her hands twisted together and she breathed in, terrified

least she sounded too eager.

‘I don’t know your name,’ he said.

‘Isa Muirison.’

‘Goodnight, Isa Muirison.’

Darkness swallowed him up and the space where he had been

left an emptiness. Taking control of herself, she walked through

the doorway and into the reality of her life.

The murmured voices Isa heard as she entered fell silent when

she opened the door. A tense atmosphere hung in the air. Her

mother’s eyes were wearier than usual, the planes of her face

seemed to droop and her mouth pursed in a line of displeasure.

She bunched a cloth in her hands.

Curled up in the only armchair, Annie, her sister, bent her

head low over a piece of needlework. Sandy, her father, sat at the

table, smoke billowing around him, his face animated.

Surprisingly, he smiled at her. Isa had imagined her parents’

concern or even anger at her late return.

‘We’ve something to tell ye, lass.’ He removed the pipe from

his mouth. Martha, her mother, turned to the kitchen range.

Cleaning the stove was a chore she performed with zest when

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agitated and tonight the stove shone like new.

‘What?’ Isa’s eyes flitted from one face to the other.

‘We’re emigrating to Canada.’ As if he expected her to be

pleased, he grinned.

‘Canada?’ The word stuck in her throat.

‘We’re selling the boat, the house, everything. The passage is

assisted so it’ll not cost us much.’ Leaning back, he drew on his

pipe.

‘Canada . . . when?’ Isa stared at her mother in dismay.

‘Boat sails at the end of the month.’ A martyred sigh escaped

Martha’s lips.

‘Ye can’t want to leave . . .’

Her mother’s slim shoulders rose and fell. ‘It’s nothing to do

with me. When does anyone ever listen to me?’ Isa was well

aware of Martha’s belief that it was a woman’s duty to obey her

man regardless of her own wishes, then punish him with her

sour attitude and silence.

‘Dad?’ She turned to her father.

‘Next year we’ll be in the twentieth century. A time of change.

Canada needs willing workers.’ His face lost its vitality. ‘Say

ye’re pleased, lassie.’

‘No, I’m not pleased. We can’t go to Canada – we can’t. It’s too

sudden.’

Was it so sudden? Since he left the navy eight years ago Dad

had been restless, always telling them stories of the places he had

visited, especially Canada. And he was so impulsive. It was just

like him to make up his mind and expect everyone else to share

his enthusiasm.

‘Annie?’ Isa appealed to the older girl.

‘We always talked about going across the sea one day.’ Annie

coughed and pressed her hanky to her mouth.

‘We were wee then. Well, I’m not going!’ Isa rose and ran to

the room she shared with her sister, banging the door behind her.

‘If I’d spoken to my folk like that I’d have gotten the back of a

hand. But she has a point. Ye shouldn’t have sprung this on her,

Sandy.’ Her mother’s raised voice carried through the wall.

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Her father, quieter, calmer, far more immovable, had made up

his mind.

Isa’s knuckles pressed against the sill until they turned white.

The window misted with her breathing.

How dare he decide her future! What she thought never

mattered.

For a long time she stood watching the mad dance of the

ocean and the white capped waves glinting in the moonlight.

Cloud formations seemed less dense as the wind tossed them to

shreds and dragged them about the sky. The storm was losing

ferocity and there was every chance of it blowing itself out by

morning. Somewhere in this town was a boy who made her

experience new and disturbing feelings and come first light he

would be gone. By the time he returned she would be half way

across the Atlantic Ocean.

‘Someday I’ll take ye over the sea,’ Dad used to say and the

promise had been so exciting – once.

With the money saved during his sailing days, Dad bought a

herring boat and moved them all to Kirkwall from their home in

Shapinsay. They thought that would be the end of it.

‘For God’s sake,’ he had told his unhappy wife, ‘Kirkwall’s

not the back end of the world. And what’s here for the lassies?

Marrying poor crofters or fishermen. Ye’ve always said ye wanted

better for them.’

‘Aye, I do, but will ye settle then?’ Mam had asked. ‘We’ll be

over to the other side next.’

Money had been tight for the first few years. Then the herring

swam into his nets, so he had said, and his gamble paid off. Isa

knew Mam had always looked forward to getting a proper house

and moving from this flat beside the grocer’s where she had

managed to get a few hours’ work a week.

This was not a move to a bigger house, nor to the mainland –

it was to the other side of the world.

‘Isa?’ Annie came into the room. ‘It might not be that bad.’

‘I’m not going!’ Isa said, yet knowing in her heart that she had

no option. ‘And what about ye – what about Luke?’

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‘Ach I don’t love him – not really.’

Isa chewed on the edge of her lip and looked at her sister’s

face. Annie, the good one, the sensible one, her mother’s favourite.

‘How do ye know when it is love?’

‘I know it’s not Luke.’ She sat down on the bed. ‘Is that what’s

wrong? Have ye met a lad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who – when?’

‘Today. One of the Raumsey boys.’

‘Today. Then it’s nothing. Isa, your dress, there’s mud on the

skirt.’

A vivid memory of rubbing her earth-covered hands down

the sides of her dress flashed through her mind and with it the

emotion of the moment. Tears pooled in her eyes and trickled

down her cheek.

‘Aw, come on. It mightn’t be that bad.’

Isa gulped. ‘I’ll never clap eyes on him again.’

Annie took her sister’s face in both her hands, wiped the tears

away with her thumbs and gave short laugh. ‘Was it not the lad

from the lighthouse last week?’

‘That’s different. What’s more, I like Kirkwall. I like working

for the floating shops. And ye like the clothes shop – ye’re that

good with a needle.’ She did not add that Annie was not strong

enough for anything more physical. ‘If we both tell him we’ll not

go – he’ll maybe listen.’

The older girl gave an unhappy laugh. Annie was six years

old when Isa was born, and because their mam had been ill for

some time after, became more like a little mother. Then came

another baby, a boy that died, and Martha had never been quite

the same again.

‘Ye know he won’t. And ye shouldn’t upset Mam.’

‘Aye, well, ye’ll never need the back of her hand will ye?’

‘I think we should accept things. And ye’d best come through

for yer tea. There’s black pudding and tatties.’ Annie coughed, a

deep, tearing cough and pressed her fist to her chest. ‘I’ll go and

see if Mam’s got any camphor.’

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Annie’s bouts of bronchitis were getting worse.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Isa said, looking away.

Later that night, when Sandy Muirison opened the bedroom

door, his younger daughter, wrapped in a blanket, stared out of

the window.

‘The storm’s dying.’ He touched her hair.

She jerked her head away. Her dreams had taken flight in

these last few minutes and she resented the intrusion. She had

imagined herself on the ship, watching Scotland vanish in the

mist, when she heard a voice at her elbow. ‘I couldna’ let ye go

without seeing ye again.’

Davie Reid stood behind her. He was coming with them to a

big new future. They would have all the time in the world during

the long sail to get to know each other.

‘Mam’s put yer tea in the oven.’ Her father’s hand remained

in the air where her head had been. When there was no answer,

he gave a deep sigh and dropped his hand. ‘Ye’ll love Canada.

Wait and see.’ Whether she would or not, there was little she

could do about it; there was little any of them could do.

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