Tag: teacher joseph

Transcript

A story of departure, Scotland, 1927.

Neil McTaggart stood at the harbour, hands deep in his coat pockets, watching the steamship as it groaned and shifted in the water. He was 18 years old, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, with fingers that looked older than the rest of him. His boots were worn, his suitcase was heavy, but it wasn’t just the weight of his belongings that slowed his steps. It was something harder to carry: the knowledge that he was leaving everything behind.

It was April, 1927, and Neil was emigrating to Canada. He could barely read the name on the ship, painted in white letters on the black hull. He recognised the letters, but not quickly. Words still came to him like strangers, familiar faces he couldn’t quite place. The truth was simple: Neil McTaggart had never properly learned to read or write.

Not that he hadn’t tried. He had gone to school in the village for a few years, until his father died and the farm needed hands more than books. At 11, he had left the classroom for the fields, and after that letters stopped making sense. Now, at 18, he could sign his name slowly, carefully, and he could tell when something was a warning or a price, but reading a full page? No, that was beyond him.

Still, he carried a letter in his pocket, worn, soft at the edges, written by Uncle Robert, who had settled in Ontario. Neil hadn’t read the letter himself. His sister Annie had read it aloud twice, then copied the address for him to carry.

“There’s work here, Neil,” she had read. “Land, shelter, and a future, if you’re willing to start again.”

He had memorised the sound of the words, even if the writing meant nothing to him. He had listened closely, lips moving without sound, until he could repeat the message in his mind like a prayer. That was three months ago. Now he was on the edge of departure.

The harbour at Greenock bustled with noise and thick grey air. Crates were being lifted by cranes, children clutched their mother’s skirts, the smell of coal and fish hung everywhere. Behind Neil, Scotland waited, hills fading into mist, voices calling out goodbyes, but he didn’t turn around. Looking back was too much.

His mother had given him a stone, round and smooth, from the stream behind their cottage, wrapped in a piece of cloth with his initials stitched in red. She’d placed it in his hand without a word. Annie had packed his case and slipped in a book of poems, though they both knew he wouldn’t read it. Still, he kept it close.

“Just for comfort,” she said.

Neil shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The boat loomed above him, all metal and motion. Somewhere deep inside it, a whistle blew. He thought of the farm, the long days, the smell of wet wool, the way the fire in their kitchen never quite warmed the corners. He remembered his father’s coat, too large for him now, and how he used to sit at the table, humming softly and sharpening a blade.

There was love in those memories, but also hunger, cold, and years with no promise of change. That’s why Neil had said yes. That’s why he had chosen Canada, a place he couldn’t imagine, but somehow trusted.

A man in uniform passed by and nodded.

“Are you boarding?” the man asked.

Neil simply nodded. He reached for his case and climbed the gangway slowly, gripping the railing tightly. The ship shifted under his feet like a living thing. He didn’t know what awaited him across the ocean. He didn’t know how cold the winters in Ontario would be, or how lonely the night might feel. He had never seen snow deeper than a few inches. He’d never used a typewriter or sent a telegram or ordered from a menu. But he knew how to work, and he knew how to listen. And sometimes that was enough.

The ship rocked gently beneath Neil’s boots as he stepped onto the deck. The wind was stronger here, with a sharp, clean scent of sea salt and cold smoke. Behind him, Greenock faded into the early morning haze. He didn’t turn back.

A sailor pointed him below deck. Neil followed a narrow corridor until he found the bunk number written on a slip of paper. He checked the number three times, then opened the door. The cabin was narrow and smelled faintly of iron and damp wool. There were four bunks, two on either side. One was already taken: a lad, a few years older than Neil, already lying back with a small notebook open on his chest.

“You McTaggart?” the boy asked.

Neil nodded. “Aye.”

“I’m Callum from Dunfermline, going to Winnipeg, I think.”

Neil sat on the lower bunk and set his case down. He didn’t answer right away. His heart was still pounding. It felt like it hadn’t slowed since he left the harbour.

Over the next two days, the ship pulled slowly across the grey Atlantic. The sea was calm but endless. Neil spent most of his time on the upper deck, leaning against the rail, eyes fixed on the horizon. He liked the steady rhythm of the engines, the muffled voices of crewmen, the cries of gulls far behind them.

Meals were served below in a long, noisy hall: thick soup, stale bread, tea with too much sugar. Neil ate in silence, listening to the swirl of accents: Irish, Welsh, even Italian and Polish. Some men spoke in broken English. Others said nothing at all.

Each night he lay in his bunk, staring at the wooden planks above him, thinking about the life he had left behind. He thought of Annie reading the letter aloud, of the cottage fire, of the hills after rain. He touched the stone in his coat pocket before sleeping, the one from the stream near his home. He liked its smoothness in his hand. It reminded him that he was not empty, even if everything familiar had been left behind.

One morning he woke to rough waves. The ship rolled and the cabin swayed like a cradle. Callum was already up, trying not to be sick. Neil gripped the bedpost and steadied himself. He made his way above deck and held on to the railing. The sea was dark and angry now, with the sky low and silver. A few other men stood scattered along the ship, collars up, faces pale.

It was the first time Neil felt something close to fear, not of drowning, but of the in-between, of being nowhere. He looked out and realised he couldn’t see Scotland anymore, and he couldn’t yet see Canada. He was between worlds, and all he could do was trust the movement forward.

By the sixth day, the weather calmed. The sun came out for the first time, weak but golden. The sea was calmer now, gently rising and falling like the breath of something enormous. Neil found a quiet corner on the upper deck and sat with his hands in his lap.

A small girl passed by, holding her father’s hand, speaking soft German. She smiled at him. He nodded. He took the letter from his pocket, Uncle Robert’s letter, and unfolded it. The writing made little sense to him, but the page itself gave comfort. He traced the first line with his finger.

“There’s work here, Neil.”

He whispered it aloud just once, then folded the paper and put it back inside his coat.

The next morning, someone shouted from the crow’s nest, “Land ahead!”

Men rushed to the deck. The coastline was still distant, flat and low, but real. Canada. Neil stood alone at the railing. He had nothing to say. He simply watched.