The Monster's Wife(47)

Granny walked up, already out of breath. They left the croft and Oona shut the gate behind them to keep Toby from following them to the kirk.

“Och, Toby, we don’t fancy jawing wi’ her now do we?” The little dog sat watching Granny from the other side of the fence as if he knew just what she was saying.

Oona glanced up at the grass track leading from their front door to the kirkyard and saw what Granny meant. Mad Bridget stood in the middle of the path holding counsel with a russet cow. Bridget was the same age as Granny, a fair-haired scarecrow who’d blow away if the wind hit her hard enough. She was never seen without a bundle of grey rags she cooed to like a baby. Those that were mean-minded enjoyed asking her how her bairn was getting on, to which she replied, “My Wully loves a nip of whisky and a suck of the tit just as much as his Da does.” Her tormentors would reel off laughing while Bridget smiled. If there’d been a Da in her life once upon a time, he wasn’t there to lead her home any more.

“Good day Mrs Scollay. Good day young lassie. Mrs Umbesetter has been telling me your news.”

“Good day to you Bridget,” Granny pulled her shawl tighter round her shoulders, as if it might keep the madness at bay. “What news from Mrs Umbesetter?”

Bridget turned back to the cow and patted its dewy nose. “I heard tell all about the lassie’s bride-cog. She said everyone will sup their fill at the wedding, even the likes of me, didn’t you Joan?”

Oona looked from Bridget to the cow. “I fancy the likelihood of my being wed is far smaller now than ever it was.”

Granny gave her a look.

“Can Wully come too?” Bridget cradled the rags tenderly.

“He can come to my funeral, both of you can, and have a sup there for me!” Oona smiled brightly and chucked the rag baby under his grimy chin.

“Heavens, Oona.” Granny gripped her arm hard. “Come, we are already late.”

“Farewell Bridget!” Oona waved, undeterred by Granny’s disapproval.

“And a very good morning, a very good, good morning to you. Now, Joan, on the subject of my husband—“

When they were through the kirk gates, Granny dropped Oona’s arm and turned to face her. “Why must you say such foolish things?”

Oona’s eyes followed the stately shapes of Quoy women moving inside the kirk. “They all know I will soon die. It may be a matter of weeks.”

Granny’s voice shrank to a whisper. “Whatever they prate about is their business, but for God’s sake don’t give them—”

“The truth? If I speak my mind will I be cast out like poor Bridget?”

“Oona, you do not know what it is to die like that, with everyone talking and shaking their heads as your coffin sinks under the earth.”

“Nor do you.”

Oona’s head was light with anger. She saw spots of white and colour spill from the sun behind Granny’s head when she said, loud as she pleased, “In any case why should I not? It is our family tradition. Everyone talked ill of Ma the day she was buried, how she was with the men, how Da’d rather freeze in his boat than stay by her side, how you hated each other. Everyone says you could have helped her that day by the burn and you damn well left her to—”

Granny raised her hand, staring Oona down through narrowed eyes. “Shut your bone box girl, before I slap you quiet.”

She turned and placed a trembling hand on the fence and straightened her back until her head was high, then marched towards the clanging bell and the open door, where the people of Quoy nodded their hellos and she nodded back, superior as she had been her entire life.

“Die,” said Oona, to the flies and the loons and the sunlight, “everyone knows you left her to die.”

She followed Granny, smiling and nodding, laughing a bit inside at her poor imitation of a lady. Even fewer people than usual returned her greeting. They were wary of her since May’s wedding day.

She sat on the Scollay pew, far enough from Granny that she would not provoke her. She’d never spoken such harsh words before. She’d never dared. She still trembled from it, a chill sweat slicked over her, and yet, as the rest of the village filed in and squeezed themselves onto the hard, narrow seats, preparing for worship, for obedience, she felt a certain triumph at using her prerogative. For the dying may speak their minds.

Hamish Yule stepped into the pulpit. “Take out your Bibles and turn to Genesis 4 verses 1-16.”

There was a thump of heavy books, a chirr of dry pages.

“When Cain killed his brother Abel, God spoke to him and said, Where is your brother Abel? What have you done? For he had killed his brother and the blood cried out for vengeance! When a man does evil, God speaks to him through his soul and convicts him of his sin. What have you done? he asks. He judges us more harshly than fire or storm when we do bad, yet he is gentler than the summer rain when we do good. A man must do what is good even if it grieves him.”

A shout made Oona sit up straight. It sounded like the blood of Abel crying out. But it was Stuart, not Abel, who stood up unsteadily. “I must do right by May.”

Everyone stared at him.

“May’s been gone more than a week.” Stuart’s white-knuckled fingers clutched the pew like the legs of a crab. “And still we’ve done nothing to find her.”

Big Dod stood. “Minister, may I speak?” He turned to face the congregation. “Stuart, lad, we’ve searched for her everywhere - the caves, the cliffs, the valley. We’ve done what we can to find her, torn ourselves to bits doing it...”