So Far From I Expected

The bright, winter sun fights its way through the cracks in the drafty window of our small cottage. Squinting at the light shining directly into my tired eyes I hear my youngest brother Thomas stirring in his basket. The last of the embers glow in the fireplace, fighting to stay alight. Mama and Papa snore lightly on their small bed and I rub my tired eyes. Scrambling out from under my blankets and my brothers Jack and Bobby cuddle up to eachother. Tommy reaches his arms up for me and blows bubbles through his smile. Cuddling him close I poke at the embers in the fireplace and will them to stay alight. Looking down at my brother's bright, green eyes and smiley, dribbley mouth makes me laugh into myself. You're a delight, where'd we get you from! Rocking my baby brother, I begin to think of the sleeping family laid around me and of my poor dead brother Frankie. He'd be 13 now; nearly a man. I remembered his red hair, blue eyes and freckled face. Always full of fun and laughter; a cheeky one, but a kind and gentle soul. I look down at the twins, identical in looks but so different in personality. Although their auborn hair, freckeled noses and green eyes identified them as brothers; Jack's impish behaviour and Bobby's tenderness made them more different than two people could possibly be. As my brothers stirred I replayed the day of Frankie's death in my mind and held Tommy tight. The noise of the horses hooves, the eyes of the men, the gasps of the mothers in the street, the screams of the toddler twins. Frankie's little hand help limp in mine. My heart pounds in my chest and tears well in my eyes. Frankie and the twins played with the dogs outside. Two highborn on horseback raced into the yard, shouting and yipping at each other. One had swarthy skin, dark eyes, and a black hat with a white feather. The other pale and short with a cross face. They dismounted their horses and looked around, obviously liquored up and looking for entertainment. The man with the feather in his hat looked to our cottage and his face softened. He looked young, no older than sixteen. His face was kind. He tipped his hat at me and smiled when I blushed and realised I had been staring. Why did I worry about that? Everyone in the village was staring! I turned on my heel and grabbed the broom, trying to hide my embarrasment and pretended to sweep the dirt out of the door. My brothers and the other children playing outside ran to the horses abandoned in the yard. I shouted to the boys to be careful. Frenkie's last words echo through the cottage as I sit holding the baby, 'I'll keep them safe Caireann, I'll look after the twins!' If only I'd known! The familiar anger I feel when I think about it wells up inside me and my breath catches in my throat. Tommy squirms for some freedom and I realise I'm clutching at him tightly. I relax my hold on him and continue the slow torture that is the memory of that day. The swarthy man made his way towards the door of our cottage.  I kept my head down as the man obscured the light in the small doorway. ‘Aren’t you a pretty thing?’ a malicious voice sneered at me. I looked up in surprise, the man in the hat looked pained and turned around to see his friend had joined him. He had messy mousy brown hair; a pointed nose and jaw which made his eyes look very close together. His voice was rough and accented; one I’d not heard before. His companion removed his hat and smiled at me reassuringly. He was handsome and I had to fight the urge to smile back. I blushed nervously and stepped back, intimidated by the one who had spoken but intrigued by the man who's smile was so kind. I had opened my mouth to ask if I could help them or ask them to leave, I’m not sure which; when I heard little Bobby scream at the top of his lungs. The cries and gasps of children followed and calls of my name resounded in my ears. The man with the hat caught me as my legs gave way when I saw my poor little Frankie lying on the grass, limp and not moving. Mothers emerged from their cottages at the sound of screams adn covered their mouths in horror whilst their children lutched to their skirts. I pushed the man off me and ran towards my twin brothers, their little faces pale as ghosts and their eyes full of fear. 'It's all right, shhh, it's ok.' I tried to comfort them but tears spilled down my cheeks and they knew I was frightened. Dear old Mr Avital's stick dragged on the ground as he apporached and tugged on the twins hands and his fatherly words tried to coax me away but I needed to go to Frankie. Eventurally my arms let go of the twins and they went quietly towards Mr Avital's cottage and he closed the door. I stared at Frankie's little body and as tears burned in my eyes and I struggled to breathe, I stood up and walked slowly towards him. I could hear angry shouting behind me and the sound of hooves racing off In the background. It was obvious by the horseshoe shape of the cut on Frankie’s head that one of the horses had kicked out. I knelt beside my brother. 'I'll keep them safe Caireann, I'll look after the twins!' His words repeated over and over in my mind. I was supposed to keep you safe! I touched his chest and he wasn’t breathing. An anguished sob escaped me, and I collapsed onto the top of him and cried loudly as I realised my little brother was dead. No one moved around me, tried to help me or comfort me. Everyone was in shock and stood silently in their doorways. After a spell, I lifted my head and stroked his freckled cheek, it was still warm. I dabbed at the wound on head with my shawl and my tears flowed freely. The man with the hat knelt in front of me and tried to hand me a handkerchief. ‘Caireann, is that your name? Will we get your brother inside?’ He had a strange accent like the other man. I looked at him blankly and began to notice my surroundings and the people staring. They were whispering, children were asking questions. I looked disappointedly around at the crowd of women, children and elderly people that had gathered. People who had known me and Frankie my whole life and were letting a stranger try to help and comfort me. I nodded at the man and he helped me to my feet before he lifted Frankie and followed me towards the cottage. He laid little Frankie’s body down on Mama and Papa’s bed and turned to me. Before I could ask him to leave me he was out of the door, calling at people in the street to help me. His hat with the feather lay on the bed and I pulled the white feather out of the top and ran it through my fingers absentmindedly. I kissed Frankie on the forehead and as if from nowhere was handed a bowl of water and a cloth. I bathed his face and straightened his little shirt and shorts. I could hear the women gather outside the door having been called by the stranger to help. Refusing to look at these people my family called friends I asked them quietly for help. ‘Mrs Mackin, would you getting someone to fetch Mama from Grannys? And Mrs O’Driscoll could one of your boys try and find my Papa? He said something about pitching in with the boys at the harvest. Mrs Amendola, Father Cassidy. Please.’ I couldn't say any more. As soon as Mama came racing through the door I sank into a corner and wept. The stranger stayed until Papa came in and left silently without a word, leaving behind his hat and the feather. My eyes drifted up to the rafter that had tied to it the single white feather and a tear slipped down my cheek.