Free Fate and Fortune by Shirley McKay Page B

though whether to the smaller boy, or Hew, was far from clear.
    ‘She was though,’ his brother insisted. ‘And she begged you take her to the fair.’
    ‘You shut your mouth.’
    ‘’Cept her daddie wouldna let her. Wee hoor that she was, ye’d take her richt enough, save you were feared of big Rab.’
    ‘ Shut yer mouth.’
    ‘Who is Jess Reekie? Is she missing?’ Hew persisted.
    Davey shrugged. ‘And if she is, it’s nought to do wi’ me. You’re deid, son,’ he informed his brother, who continued undeterred.
    ‘That’s her mammie, Jeannie Muir, jangling with the fisherwives.’
    There was nothing for it but to broach the women, and Hew did so with a sense of trepidation. Already, they had noticed him, and paused their gossip to admire the stranger, brave and fair and dainty in his fancy coat. As he came closer, one of them called out, coarse enough to make him blush, for though he scarcely understood her, he had caught the drift. The others stood cross-armed. They did not suspect him. Death did not come over land, bonnily clad and on a dun horse. It came from the sea, and they were used to it, focused on a point beyond the waves. Therefore Hew was a welcome diversion , a toy for them to stare upon, gross and mocking in their gaze. It did not seem likely, after all, that such a fragile girl could have come from such stock, or from anyone known as Big Rab . Hew’s courage almost failed him. He did not want to have the telling of it, now the trail had come abruptly to its end. He did not want that lass to have her ending here, in these bitter-weathered women, their faces filled with scorn.
    He cleared his throat. ‘Which one of you is Jean Muir?’
    There was a moment’s consternation, before a black-haired woman stepped out from the rest. ‘I am Jean Muir,’ she answered warily. The women stood alert and watchful. Jean stared blankly, eyes dark with dread. He knew then that he had found her, though he tried to tell himself it was some other girl.
    ‘There was a lass found dead on the beach at St Andrews, a day or two past.’ Hew kept his voice low, out of reach of the fisherwives, gathering like crows. Nonetheless, they cawed in chorus, ‘I telt you, she’d went to the fair.’
    Jean Muir did not waste glances, she did not waste words on them, but pursed her lips tightly and pulled close her shawl. ‘The dead lass,’ she whispered. ‘What was she like?’
    And what could he tell her? No one, the coroner said . He answered her bleakly, ‘Slender, and small. The doctor thought she might be sixteen years of age. She had on a strippit blue gown, and a white linen cap. Her hair …’ He trailed off. He could not tell the colour of her hair, made dank and dark by the sea.
    ‘Fifteen,’ Jean said, vaguely.
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘She was fifteen,’ Jean Muir murmured, walking on past. ‘I’ll go an’ fetch my bairn.’
    She walked as though asleep, sure and heavy in her trance. And Hew had no doubt that she could, that she was fierce enough and strong enough and proud enough, to scoop up the lass in her tight muscled arms and shake off the sea-water, shaking off death, to carry her home. The crow women scattered, scowling at Hew. And one of them – sister, mother, friend? – stout and braver than the rest, called out, ‘Wait, it’s almost dark. The men will fetch her home tomorrow in the boat.’
    ‘And lose a day’s fishing?’ Jean Muir scoffed. Even in grief she was scornful, thought Hew. But perhaps more especially in grief. It was a hard little core of defensiveness, gathered inside her, gathered around like a shawl, all of her close-set and weathered grimly, fierce and hard and small. She said, ‘Whisht, Nancy, whisht. Let me go.’
    ‘Mistress … it’s twelve miles … and soon it will be dark. And likely they have buried her … and still, it may be possible, that this was not your daughter after all,’ Hew reasoned hopelessly.
    ‘It’s Jess,’ Jean replied, with a dull