Neil McTaggart’s Crossing – Part 4: First Morning
The small back room smelled faintly of pine boards and woodsmoke. Its single window was frosted at the edges, letting in only a sliver of moonlight. A narrow bed, a wooden chair, and a shelf were all it held but after the ship’s hard benches and the cold hall in Halifax, it felt like his own corner of the world.
Neil lay on his back, staring at the dark beams above. In his palm, the stone from his mother rested warm from his grasp. He rolled it slowly between his fingers, as if by doing so he could hold on to her voice, her laugh, the smell of the hearth at home. Already his memories were decaying, revealing to him more about the world than his family back home ever could see, gaps where voices blurred, faces softened, and the world beyond Kilbirnie grew sharper in their place. His suitcase sat in the corner, the smell of home still could be smelt inside between two folded shirts. He kept his suitcase closed to preserve that scent.
It was quiet enough to hear the faint tick of the clock in the kitchen. Somewhere in the distance, a barn owl called once, then fell silent.
Then came the creak of floorboards in the main house. A soft murmur of voices. The slow scrape of a chair. Footsteps, and the rattle of the stove door being opened. The air began to carry the scent of porridge and fresh woodsmoke.
Neil sat up, the cold biting his arms where the blanket had slipped. He pulled on his shirt and boots quickly. He could feel the day waiting for him outside strange, wide, and full of work he didn’t yet know how to do.
He picked up the stone once more and whispered, “I’ll try.”
Then he slipped out into the dim light, where the sound of the waking house was growing, a cough from the hall, the clink of crockery, and the steady steps of Uncle Robert Jefferey beginning the day.
The kitchen was warm with the glow of the stove. Aunt Agnes stood at the table, ladling porridge into thick bowls. She gave Neil a brief nod toward a chair. Thomas and Edward were already seated.
The day began with a short, quiet pause for personal reflection before eating, a habit of the household. Then everyone set to their bowls. Heads down, spoons in hand. Anna was pouring milk from a jug, her hair tied back neatly.
Robert was at the head of the table, the steam from his bowl rising in front of him.
“Mornin’, Neil,” Agnes said. “Eat up. You’ll need it.”
The porridge was thick and hot, sticking to his ribs. Neil ate slowly, listening to the rhythm of the household: the scrape of spoons, the faint drip of water from the sink, the wind against the window.
When the bowls were empty, Robert wiped his mouth and looked at Neil.
“You’ll go with Thomas this morning. Chickens first. Then the water barrels. Then fence check.”
Neil nodded. “All right.”
“After dinner, you and I will take the calf pen. And this evening, we’ll start on your reading.”
Neil hesitated. “My reading?”
“Your name first,” Robert said simply.
Neil lowered his gaze. “I understand.”
Robert pushed back his chair. “Put on your coat. Gloves if you’ve got them. Winter’s not kind to bare hands.”
The cold hit Neil hard as they stepped outside. The snow crunched under their boots, and his breath rose in clouds. Thomas walked ahead without speaking, leading the way to the chicken coop.
The birds clucked and shuffled as Thomas opened the door. “Grain’s in the sack there. Don’t spill it.”
Neil reached for the sack, surprised by the weight. He scattered the feed awkwardly, the chickens darting in and out of his way.
“You’ll get used to them,” Thomas said shortly.
They carried water from the pump to the barrels by the barn. The pump handle was stiff, and Neil’s fingers ached in the cold. He didn’t complain. He just kept moving.
By mid-morning, they were walking the fence line. The fields stretched out white and silent, broken only by the dark posts and rails. Neil’s boots sank into the snow.
“Here,” Thomas said, pointing to a loose rail. “Help me lift.”
They fixed it together, the cold numbing Neil’s hands despite his gloves. By the time they were done, his breath came in short bursts.
“Not bad,” Thomas said, almost as if it surprised him.
Neil gave a nod of thanks, though his arms ached. Thy rested for a moment.
“You look a lot like my brother Peter, back home” said Neil, catching his breath.
“Yeah well, we’ve no time for sentimentality here, otherwise nothing would get done”. Thomas stood up and walked back over to the water pump. “Listen, we don’t have a lot of talk here about memories, it just makes everyone sad, Peter you say? Well I was a lot like my sister Maggie… but….”. Thomas quickly corrected hinself, stood up wiped his eyes and said “Let’s get back to work”. Neil saw a vulnerability there, just for a moment, of sadness expressed from the young man. He never knew how old Thomas was, but he was strong. Neil only ever saw his Father cry when he was drunk, here he was in a brand new world, giving him the same idea as home, that weakness was for for the women folk. He had a feeling that Thomas and him were going to get along just fine.
After the midday meal, bread, cheese and tea, Neil followed Robert to the calf pen. The animals were restless, stamping in the straw.
“They need clean bedding,” Robert said. “And keep your hands steady. They’ll sense if you’re nervous.”
Neil worked slowly, copying Robert’s movements. The smell was strong, the work heavier than he expected, but there was a rhythm to it. Shovel, straw, water. Shovel, straw, water.
By the end, sweat clung to his back despite the cold air.
Robert looked over at him. “You’ll sleep well tonight.” leaving no room for vulnerabilities as Neil’s mind went back to Thomas and whoever Maggie was.
Supper was stew and boiled potatoes. Neil was too tired to speak much, but he listened to Robert discussing tomorrow’s work with Thomas, to Agnes reminding Anna to finish her sewing, to Edward asking if he could help with the horses.
Afterwards, Robert slid a scrap of paper and a pencil across the table to Neil.
“Write your name.”
Neil stared at the paper. Slowly, with Robert guiding him, he scratched the letters:
N E I L
It was uneven, the lines shaky. But it was his.
Robert nodded. “Good. Tomorrow, we’ll add your surname.”
Neil folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket, next to his stone.
That night, in the little back room, Neil lay under the blanket, muscles aching but mind clear. The day had been hard, but not impossible. And for the first time, he thought maybe just maybe he could make a life here.
He closed his eyes, the stone in his palm, and drifted into sleep with the faint warmth of the kitchen still in his bones.