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Chapters (142)
  1. About the Author
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. NOTEBOOK 1
  6. Brukie’s Sandy
  7. April 1972
  8. 1
  9. May 1972
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. June 1972
  13. 4
  14. July 1972
  15. 5
  16. 6
  17. 7
  18. 8
  19. October 1972
  20. 9
  21. 10
  22. 11
  23. October 1972
  24. 12
  25. December 1972
  26. 13
  27. December 1972
  28. 14
  29. December 1972
  30. NOTEBOOK 2
  31. Brukie’s Sandy
  32. January 1973
  33. 1
  34. 2
  35. 3
  36. 4
  37. 5
  38. 6
  39. March 1973
  40. 7
  41. 8
  42. 9
  43. 10
  44. April 1973
  45. 11
  46. 12
  47. 13
  48. 14
  49. June 1973
  50. 15
  51. July 1973
  52. 16
  53. 17
  54. 18
  55. 19
  56. August 1973
  57. 20
  58. 21
  59. August 1973
  60. 22
  61. 23
  62. 24
  63. August 1973
  64. 25
  65. August 1973
  66. 26
  67. August 1973
  68. 27
  69. NOTEBOOK 3
  70. Brukie’s Sandy
  71. March 1974
  72. 1
  73. 2
  74. 3
  75. 4
  76. 5
  77. April 1974
  78. 6
  79. 7
  80. June 1974
  81. 8
  82. July 1974
  83. 9
  84. August 1974
  85. 10
  86. August 1974
  87. 11
  88. October 1974
  89. 12
  90. October 1974
  91. 13
  92. October 1974
  93. October 1974
  94. 14
  95. October 1974
  96. 15
  97. 16
  98. November 1974
  99. 17
  100. November 1974
  101. December 1974
  102. CODA
  103. Brukie’s Sandy
  104. 1
  105. 2
  106. 3
  107. 4
  108. 5
  109. 6
  110. 7
  111. 8
  112. 9
  113. 10
  114. 11
  115. 12
  116. 13
  117. 14
  118. 15
  119. 16
  120. 17
  121. 18
  122. 19
  123. 20
  124. 21
  125. 22
  126. 23
  127. 24
  128. 25
  129. 26
  130. 27
  131. April 1975
  132. Brukie’s Sandy
  133. 28
  134. 29
  135. 30
  136. 31
  137. 32
  138. 33
  139. Glossary
  140. Note
  141. Acknowledgments
  142. Works Cited

Well, Ma had no intention, none at all, of seeing Kitta wanting for something to do. Kitta would tramp the rounds with the creel. She would do her share of shelling and baiting. She would make herself useful when Unty Jinna had sheets and fine linens from the big houses to wash and dry. And she would get that mumpin’ frown from her face for what did she have to be feelin’ sorry for herself about?

Whenever we could, we’d escape to the braes, Kitta and I, to lie on our backs and watch the grumbling sky. Sometimes I would read to her from the Forget-Me-Not Annual. Kitta liked the story of ‘The Angel of Buccleuch House’ but didn’t think much of Mr Keats’s poem with the Frenchy name, his sorry Knight palely loitering.

What mannie’d trifle about with GARlands, she sniffed. And what do it even mean, Meggie, LOITERing?

I wasn’t sure I had it right, I had to check Miss Birnie’s dictionary, and when I told Kitta, she pursed her lips and her opinion of Mr Keats took a plummeting. From then on, she would often affect a dramatic pose up on the braes, leaning against the sheddie wall, all mock wistfulness. Eh, Meggie mine, she’d say with a flutter of hands, look at me, I’m woe-beGONE, I’m LOITERing!

It was good to hear Kitta laugh. Things were hard for her. Even then, I could see that. My sister had had a taste of thinking for herself, making up her own mind without asking anyone’s leave, and here she was again, being told what to think and what to do. And it was made that wee bit worse by the looks she got from some in the village who thought they knew who Kitta was and knew nothing at all.

I fancied, too, there were other things Kitta was pining for, things past my grasp, that she wasn’t willing to share, no. But the more I searched her face for them, the more I asked questions and gave her the chance to tell me, the more her eyes slid from mine to a place I could not follow.

I walked into the face of the wind up on the scaur one night, alone and unsettled. Crusoe! Cru–soe!

I stopped. There was no use calling, was there? Crusoe wasn’t coming back.

I turned for home, I pulled the shawl tighter around me, I bowed my head.

Change.

Again.

December 1972

December 1972