Extract from "To Pick up a Stone," by Meaghan Delahunt. Forthcoming in The Book of Iona: an Anthology, edited by Robert Crawford. (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 2016)
A solitary gull surveyed her from the ferry handrail. It fixed an eye on her as if it knew her intimately, knew everything: What is the point of makin amends, takin stock, callin yerself to account? She reached for her sunglasses and the seagull flew off; the question trailed in its wake and she shut her eyes for a moment. It was a question that wouldn't let her be. That night in the long ago, for example, one night among many. She remembered the drive across the border, herself ten weeks pregnant and how she'd delivered Callum, her childhood friend, to the dark. She’d left him there and kept driving. But what would it even mean, to call herself to account? Brigid opened her eyes and put her sunglasses on although the day was not bright. She could see the island coming closer. She glanced around the deck, looked at people looking. No one paid her any attention. There was a young boy sitting apart from his family, head down, swiping at a small screen. A teenage boy. Could be the age of her grandson. Might even be her own grandson, how would she know? She looked around but couldn't see the boy's father. Sometimes, she was caught out like this and her thoughts strayed to a different life. Against all expectation, after that night, after she'd driven over the border, she'd had the child, and afterwards, she’d given the child up. By then she was in London with a new name and a new address and had started work in the English Department. It was a big job. The exact co-ordinates of the park; the bandstand; where the soldiers would be; how to minimise civilian casualties.
The rest, as they say, is history.
But gettin back to that night: she'd said to Callum, I’ll meet ye at the church, I’ll pick ye up after the cards. There was nothin unusual in that. They'd all been friends since they could walk. And every Wednesday night, Callum and her brother Brendan the priest, and the card game at the Priest's House. For years it'd been a fixture. There was a meetin down south, she'd said. We'll go together, drive back the next day. And Brendan hugged Callum before he got into the car, she remembers that clearly, the light above the door, the long shadows cast: it lacked only crow of the cockerel, the palm of silver. Callum folded his big frame into the car, an overnight bag at his feet, its leather strap wound tight around his wrist, not lookin at her, lookin straight ahead even when she took the unfamiliar route from Derry, he didn't protest, and he could've done somethin, what with her brother the priest and that rough embrace -- but Callum knew the score, knew what was what and when she drove over the border and slowed the car and the men stepped out from the trees, he looked at her, direct, ‘Brigid’, he said. ‘I know.’ He was twice her size; he could've taken the wheel, taken her by the throat. And she'd delivered Callum to the sure red-dark and the men with the guns. Was he a tout now, or was he not? The words like a noose round his neck and there was no way that state of affairs could continue -- an informer? -- that kind of uncertainty. Not with the Brits on the streets. Not with a war goin on.
The rest, as they say, is history.
But gettin back to that night: she'd said to Callum, I’ll meet ye at the church, I’ll pick ye up after the cards. There was nothin unusual in that. They'd all been friends since they could walk. And every Wednesday night, Callum and her brother Brendan the priest, and the card game at the Priest's House. For years it'd been a fixture. There was a meetin down south, she'd said. We'll go together, drive back the next day. And Brendan hugged Callum before he got into the car, she remembers that clearly, the light above the door, the long shadows cast: it lacked only crow of the cockerel, the palm of silver. Callum folded his big frame into the car, an overnight bag at his feet, its leather strap wound tight around his wrist, not lookin at her, lookin straight ahead even when she took the unfamiliar route from Derry, he didn't protest, and he could've done somethin, what with her brother the priest and that rough embrace -- but Callum knew the score, knew what was what and when she drove over the border and slowed the car and the men stepped out from the trees, he looked at her, direct, ‘Brigid’, he said. ‘I know.’ He was twice her size; he could've taken the wheel, taken her by the throat. And she'd delivered Callum to the sure red-dark and the men with the guns. Was he a tout now, or was he not? The words like a noose round his neck and there was no way that state of affairs could continue -- an informer? -- that kind of uncertainty. Not with the Brits on the streets. Not with a war goin on.