Page 15 of Taming the Highland Misfits

Isla frowned at him, puzzled. “Then whose is it?” she asked.

“It is yours,” Finley answered. “I made it for ye.”

“Made it?” Isla turned the object around in her hands. It was very simply made, carved from a rectangle of wood with a few dozen long teeth in it, each about two inches long. It had no embellishment and was strictly functional, but Isla could see the skill and effort that had gone into making it.

She looked around the room suddenly at the ornamental carvings on the shelf around the walls, then looked up at Finley in astonishment. “You made all these too, did you not?”

“Aye,” he answered, glancing around the room. “I have been whittlin’ since I was a wee boy. I cannae remember a time when I didnae dae it.”

“You are so clever!” she exclaimed in admiration. “You should sell these, Finley. You could make money from them, I’m sure.”

He shrugged. “I dae it in my free time, sometimes give them away as presents.” He became brisk. “Dae ye need me tae help ye wi’ your hair?”

“In a moment or two,” Isla replied. “When my headache is gone. Tell me what has been happening in your life, Finley. How is your mother?”

“My mother died,” he said sadly, “no’ long after yours, Isla.”

“Oh, Finley.” She put a hand out to grasp his. The skin was rough and hard, and she could see dozens of tiny cuts all over them, no doubt the result of his carving. They were big, bony, masculine hands, about twice the size of her small dainty ones.

“I am so sorry for your loss.” She was sympathetic. “What happened?”

Finley frowned. “Naebody really knows,” he answered bitterly, putting his head between his hands. “I came home one night tae find naebody there, an’ so I went down tae the tavern.”

His memory took him back to that horrible day eight years ago as vividly as if it had been happening to him at that moment. When he entered the tavern, he saw a group of half a dozen men and women crowded just inside the doorway. One of the women was weeping and the other looked completely dazed, as if she had just received a huge shock.

As soon as they saw him, the biggest of the men who worked at the bar came over to him and put an arm around his shoulders. Finley only knew him as Brian, and he was usually not a sociable or demonstrative man. The fact that he had made this comforting gesture sent a dart of alarm through him, and he asked fearfully: “what is wrong? Where is my Ma?”

“Sit down, son,” Brian said gently, helping him into a chair.

Finley shook the man’s hands off angrily, and faced the rest of the gathering, frowning with annoyance. “Where is my Ma” he demanded. His heart was thumping so hard he could hardly bear it, and looking at the faces of the people around him, he had a premonition of doom.

One of the women who worked at the tavern, the one who was weeping, came up to him and took hold of his hands. “Finley, your mother isnae comin’ home. She died a wee while ago. I’m that sorry.”

Finley stared at her in disbelief. His Ma could not be dead; he had seen her only that morning as she said goodbye to him before she left for work. She had kissed him and told him she loved him, as she always did, and he had expressed his love for her too. He was glad that they were the last words they had ever exchanged.

A feeling of unreality swept over him, and he felt his knees begin to weaken, but before he could collapse, Brian’s strong arm came around his shoulders and finally sat him on the chair. At that moment, he felt nothing but a horrible emptiness. He would never see his mother again, never kiss her or receive one of her comforting hugs. She would never cook his favourite meals again, and he would never hear her melodious voice singing as she worked around the house.

“Where is she?” he asked. “I must see her.”

He was suddenly aware of tension around him, and as he looked around him, he saw that all the faces wore an identical expression of wariness. There was something they were not telling him, he decided. “Where is she?” he demanded again, a little more loudly. “I want to see her!”

“She has been taken away tae be prepared for burial,” Brian answered. “Ye willnae be able tae see her yet, son. Wait a wee while.”

“How did she die?” he asked, looking carefully at the faces around him.

“We dinnae know, son,” Brian replied sadly. “We just found her. But she looked peaceful, as if she was sleepin’.”

“Where is my Da?” Finley asked desperately.

All the members of the small gathering exchanged glances and eventually, Brian spoke.

“He is drunk, Finley. He couldnae handle the news o’ your mother’s death, an’ he poured whiskey doon his throat ‘till he passed out. He will have an awful bad headache in the mornin’ but he will be fine. We are keepin’ him here since it’s too far tae carry him.”

“Come an’ stay at my house,” Brian offered. “The wife an’ I will look after ye.”

Finley nodded and let himself be led away by Brian and his wife. He trudged along the road for a while, but as they drew level with his house he suddenly stopped in the middle of the road to look at it, and everything crashed down on him at once.

His mother, the most beloved person in his life, was gone; he would never see her again, and the weight of his grief was so crippling that he sank to his knees on the road and burst into tears.