Barra’s Angel

It hadn’t happened.

Martha, two months past her sixteenth birthday, had wrapped her baby daughter in a blanket and left the Salvation Army home in the dead of night, tramping the long road and the miles from Dundee back to Craigourie. A day and a half later, in the lambing snows of 1925, she’d knocked on her parents’ door.

‘I couldna’ give her to strangers,’ she’d said, pushing Rose into the arms of Bartholomew Sinclair, while his wife Joan stood weeping soundlessly by his side. And with that, Martha turned, disappearing from all of their lives for ever.

Four years later Joan had passed on, leaving Rose in the only arms which had held her fast – ‘Pops’ Sinclair, otherwise known to the folks of Craigourie as Barra.

She remembered the day she had begun school, running home to pluck Joan’s brown-edged image from the mantelpiece.

‘Is this my ma?’

‘No, Rose,’ Barra had answered. ‘She’s yir gran. She died, slowly and with great pain.’

‘Why, Grandad?’

‘Because yir ma turned at the door, and was lost to us for ever.’

Rose hadn’t understood. Throwing herself into her grandfather’s lap, she’d cried. ‘You’ll no’ turn at the door, Pops? You’ll no’ leave me?’

Barra had held her for as long as he could, but he too had had to leave. Months after the wedding, when he so proudly walked her down the aisle, Barra had slipped away.

And the first morning Rose had rushed to vomit into the cracked toilet-bowl, she knew she would have a son. And she knew he’d take his great-grandfather’s name. Her heart had filled to overflowing when she told Chalmers her news, and he kissed her, and held her close in these new arms, the arms she had come to love so much.

‘Barra it is,’ he’d laughed, covering her with kisses. ‘Barra it is.’

‘Right, Barra. We’re off.’ Chalmers strode back into the living room.

Rose pulled herself from her reverie and glanced towards her husband.

‘Sure you won’t come, Mam?’ Barra asked gently.

With a last squeeze of his hand, Rose released her son. She shook her head slowly. ‘No. No, thanks.’

Chalmers had broken his stride only slightly. ‘Yir welcome, y’know.’

‘Am I?’ Rose asked, her head back in her book.

Barra looked at his father. ‘She should come.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t you start,’ he grumbled. ‘C’mon, or the night’ll be over before we get there.’

With a final look behind him, Barra ran to catch up with his father.

Chalmers was already around the path and on to the road before he became aware of his son’s presence at his side. There was no reason to go by the road. It would have been quicker and far more pleasant to cut through the woods. Chalmers was annoyed at himself for having given in.

‘We said we’d take the road,’ he told Barra, shoving his hands deep in his cardigan pockets. ‘We’re no’ wise.’

‘We’re not,’ Barra agreed solemnly. ‘But we promised.’

‘Well, we’ll no’ stay too long. There was no word about not coming back by the woods.’

Barra kicked at a stone. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said, worried at the possibility of breaking a promise.

‘I’d’ve taken note,’ Chalmers assured him.

Barra caught up with the stone, and kicked it again with delight. ‘Great.’

Chalmers smiled to himself. They were needing more time together, the two of them. Away from the womenfolk and all the problems they brought. God, wasn’t it a fine thing to go for a pint on a Saturday night with yir boy at yir side.

‘Aye, we’ll be going back by the woods then,’ he stated. Then he began whistling, a very tuneful rendition of ‘Dark Lochnagar’. He clapped Barra on the back. ‘Join in, son.’

Moments passed before he realised that Barra was silent still.

‘I thought y’knew this one,’ he said.

‘I canna’ whistle,’ Barra answered cheerfully.

Chalmers came to a halt. ‘Since when?’

‘Since always.’ Barra was unconcerned, skipping along ahead of him now.

Chalmers face darkened. ‘It’s time you learned.’

‘I canna’ learn, Da. I’ve tried.’

‘Then yir no’ trying hard enough!’

Barra turned, frowning. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. I just canna’ whistle.’

Chalmers glared at him. ‘You’ll have a pint the night,’ he commanded.

Barra grimaced. ‘I don’t want a pint.’

‘You’ll have one just the same.’

‘I won’t, Da. I don’t like it.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve tried that, too. God, d’you no’ remember? Last Hogmanay? I was sick as a dog.’

It was Chalmers’ turn to grimace. How could he forget? It had been months before Rose stopped bringing it up, how he’d forced the brew on Barra and she’d nearly had to call the doctor as a result.

‘I’ll teach you to whistle, then.’

‘You can’t, Da,’ Barra insisted, exasperated now. ‘I’m good at spitting, though,’ he added as an afterthought.

Chalmers raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you now?’