This Northern Sky Read online

  I watch it through the open front window in my pyjamas, cradling an early cup of tea. I’d no idea there were so many children living on the island. Where have they been all summer? Perhaps they take their holidays elsewhere . . .

  A thought strikes me: Isla will be back at school this morning. My mood lifts. I don’t know why. Is it because last time I saw her, I felt she didn’t like me much? As if it was my fault that Finn went off. Anyway, if she’s at school all day, there’s less chance of seeing her. And Finn won’t be moping about, wondering whether he’s going to bump into her and Tim. Only Tim isn’t around either – it seems he had work to do on the mainland. He’ll be back on the Friday boat.

  Mum joins me at the window. ‘Can you imagine going to school here?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I actually can.’

  ‘Really?’

  I shrug. ‘Why not? It would be a small school, but that would be cool. You’d know everyone. Easy to get to: the bus picks you up. And after school you could go straight down to the beach.’

  Mum laughs. ‘What’s happened to you, Kate?’

  ‘Your island magic, I guess,’ I say.

  Mum sighs heavily. ‘Shame it didn’t work on your dad,’ she says.

  ‘We’re not talking about him, remember?’ I say.

  ‘Still? For how long?’ Mum asks.

  ‘For however long it takes. Till we both feel fine again.’

  ‘You are such an inspiration,’ Mum says suddenly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘Aw, Mum!’ I hug her. ‘That’s nice. But in reality, you’d be fine even if I wasn’t here.’

  She doesn’t look convinced. ‘It’s such a big thing, starting all over again, at my age. I never, ever thought this would happen to us.’

  ‘You’re not that old,’ I tell her. ‘And new starts are good, aren’t they? Like a chance to do things differently, or do things you never did before. It might even be exciting!’

  She shivers. ‘Maybe. Given time.’

  ‘I’m going to cycle to the community centre this morning,’ I say. ‘I want to use the computers there.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Mum says. ‘I’m going to sort things out here, tidy up a bit. Plan the dinner for Friday. I might have a walk later, if the sun stays out.’

  You have to pay to use the computers, so I do a very quick search about the birds, and protected areas and print out the relevant pages to show Finn later. I check Facebook and emails before the money runs out: Molly’s posted photos from Cornwall, and I read the updates on Bonnie’s blog from Spain, but apart from that I’ve not missed anything really. It’s weird how loads of things which seemed so important when I was at home have all dropped away since I’ve been here.

  The community café is almost empty: I have to ring the bell at the counter and wait for someone to come and serve me.

  A middle-aged bloke with scruffy hair and a beard appears after a while. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Just got off the morning ferry. Catching up with things. What can I get you? Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ I say.

  He fills an old-fashioned kettle, takes a china teapot down from a shelf, lays a tray with a cup and saucer. ‘Have a free cake,’ he says, opening up a plastic box. ‘I made them at the weekend: they got a bit squashed on the way back.’

  I pick out a cupcake with pink and white icing. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  He disappears out the back again. I settle down at the window table where I sat before with Finn. I read through the pages from the environment site. It looks promising: there’s lots of evidence already about the importance of the island as a habitat for loads of rare birds: the divers, but also corncrakes, and redshanks, ringed plovers . . .

  ‘Hey, Kate!’

  Finn’s standing right in front of me.

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I called at yours. Your mum said you’d be here.’

  ‘I’ve been researching your birds.’

  ‘Thanks!’ he says, sitting down opposite me. ‘I’ve done the same thing. Found masses of stuff. We’ve definitely got a case.’

  He tells me that more than forty-two per cent of the British population of the great northern divers have their wintering grounds here. ‘That’s way over the numbers you need to make a case for an SPA. The fact that no one else has even mentioned it suggests there’s been some sort of cover-up.’

  I laugh. ‘You’re so suspicious!’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘Well, what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘Get the facts. Send lots of letters. Get a proper campaign off the ground.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking too,’ I say. ‘You should put together your own exhibition, about all the things you love about this place. Photos of the rare birds and the amazing beaches and quiet roads and the peat beds and crofts and all the things that would disappear if the wind farm came too close. The traditions of farming and fishing and all that. We could take loads of stunning photos. Write about it. Collect stuff . . . I don’t know, maybe record sounds, like a sound poem or something – bird calls and the sound of the sea and the wind blowing through the fields of barley, and people talking about what they love about living here . . .’ My voice falters. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Because you’re a genius,’ Finn says. ‘And I’ve never heard you say so much in one go!’ He laughs. ‘It’s a brilliant idea. Tim’s right, calling you clever Kate!’

  I blush.

  Finn doesn’t notice. He pushes his chair back. ‘Don’t know why I didn’t think of doing something like this before. Guess I’ve not really been thinking straight. Got too gloomy.’

  ‘We should get everyone involved,’ I say. ‘Even people like Mackie, and Isla’s dad, as well as your family.’ I’m getting even more carried away now, ideas spinning round my brain. ‘Tim’s always wanted to do broadcast journalism; this could be his chance. And your brothers could compose music – an island symphony or something. We could ask the museum people to help, and the school. Isla – we have to have Isla, because she belongs here properly, she was born here. Her voice counts for more than any of us . . .’

  It’s Finn’s turn to blush. ‘Of course, Isla.’

  ‘I’ll help a bit,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve only got another week here, but I can help you get started. When do you have to go back to school?’

  Finn gets up without answering. He rings the bell at the counter and orders a coffee for himself. I watch him. What have I gone and said now? He’s so oversensitive. Was it me mentioning Isla?

  He comes back and sits down. He runs his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t think I am.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not going back.’

  I wait for him to explain. He doesn’t speak for ages. He sips his coffee, I pour another cup of tea.

  ‘I had a long talk with my parents,’ he says. ‘About the time I went off before, and how much I hate being at boarding school, and all that. And they said I can stay here. Don’t have to go back to finish A levels at school if I really can’t stand it. And I can’t. So I’m going to live here, get a job of some kind. I can always go to the island school later if I change my mind about getting exams.’

  ‘You lucky thing!’ I say. ‘Your parents are amazing. What did you say to convince them?’

  ‘I talked about what I really feel, being away. Boarding. And about what makes me happy. And they listened, and at last they understood.’

  ‘Have you told Isla?’

  ‘Not yet. I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘The thing with Tim won’t last,’ I say.

  He looks up. ‘What makes you say that?’

  I shrug. ‘Just a feeling. He’s gone over to the mainland for a few days. And he’ll have to go back to work properly soon. Out of sight, out of mind. And now you’ll be here all the year round!’ I smile at him, teasing. ‘How could she possibly resist?’

  I look at
his red face. ‘You two are meant for each other, Finn. It’s obvious. She just hasn’t seen it yet, but she will.’

  Bonnie’s a much more sensible age for Tim. I don’t tell Finn that, but it’s what I realised ages ago. Not that I’m matchmaking, not really . . . and Tim’s not the sensible responsible person I first thought he was, so maybe he wouldn’t be right for Bonnie either.

  ‘What job will you get?’ I say.

  ‘We’re planning to start farming the croft properly, me and Alex,’ Finn says. ‘Start with a few sheep, chickens. Grow some vegetables. And maybe I’ll get an apprenticeship with one of the island builders, or learn to do plumbing or something useful.’

  ‘It’s such a good plan,’ I tell him. ‘It seems absolutely the right thing for you.’

  He smiles at me. He suddenly looks so happy I can’t resist leaning over and giving him a kiss.

  ‘What’s that about?’ he says.

  ‘I’m happy for you,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’

  We cycle back to the village together; Finn asks me back to his house for tea. I call in at home to tell Mum where I’ll be. Dad’s old camera is hanging from one of the coat pegs in the hall: I pick it up to show Finn. ‘Let’s practise taking photos,’ I say, ‘all the way to the Manse.’

  We take it in turns, stopping along the road to take photos of the things we pass: traditional thatched houses with thick walls; two ruined chapels; a wooden gate tied with blue string and the blue sea behind. I laugh at Finn when he lies right down on the machair to photograph bees on wild flowers at eye level. He does the same with the dune grass blowing in the wind, catching the pattern of light and shade. We leave the bikes at the top of the beach and walk out along a finger of rock, photographing rock pools, interesting rock formations and colours, a washed-up lobster pot. I try to take a panoramic view of the wide bay: the expanse of sea and sky and wind-whipped clouds that I’ve grown to love so much. We cycle slowly on to the Manse. Finally we get there, park up the bikes. Finn photographs the two bikes leaning in together, against a backdrop of wall and peat stack.

  Joy smiles as we come in to the kitchen. ‘You look cheerful,’ she says to Finn.

  He tells her about our plan. He shows her the photos on the camera.

  ‘Not bad,’ she says. ‘Not bad at all.’

  ‘Can we borrow your laptop?’ Finn asks.

  ‘Go right ahead. It’s on my desk, under a pile of papers.’

  Our pictures look even better on the laptop screen. Finn’s are a million times better than mine. He sees things differently: his are all more focused, closer up: the detail of a wild flower or a shell or the strange patterns made by tides on the sand. The close-up of the bee is amazing; you can even see the crumbs of pollen on its furry back.

  ‘We’ll need to get photos of those diving birds,’ I say, ‘seeing as they are crucial for getting the special protected area thing.’

  I leave the camera with him when it’s time for me to go back. ‘It’s Dad’s,’ I tell him. ‘He left it behind. Mum won’t even notice. You can bring it back when you all come over to ours for supper on Friday.’

  Joy says she’s looking forward to meeting Mum. ‘And it will be lovely to see one of your sisters again. I wonder if Piers and Jamie will remember her?’

  On the way back I stop at the hill to check my phone. No new messages. At last, I send my reply to Sam.

  You’d love this northern sky, and the stars you can see here: you should come, one day. I’ve even seen the aurora borealis! Hope you’re OK. Miss you. Kate

  Twenty-six

  The wind’s stronger than ever on Thursday. Mum and I listen to the shipping forecast: force 8 winds expected later.

  ‘Bonnie might not make it tomorrow,’ Mum says. ‘We’d better change the big dinner to Saturday, just in case the ferry doesn’t run. Would you cycle round and tell everyone, please?’

  ‘What! That’s miles!’ I say. ‘It’ll take me hours! Who have you invited, anyway?’

  She shows me her list. ‘Anyone else you want to add?’

  My mind keeps flitting to Dad, far away and missing us. Because I bet he is. I bet he goes on missing us. I bet he’ll never really not miss us, however much he pretends otherwise.

  I set off on the bike after lunch. The wind’s blowing from the west, so I cycle to the Manse first, with the wind behind me. I lean the bike against the wall.

  Joy’s in the garden, trying to peg the washing to the line. The wind tugs at the sheet as she pegs the corners, blows it out and then flaps it back so it wraps round her like a white cloak. She laughs as a pillowcase whips free and blows across the garden. ‘Catch it for me!’ she calls.

  I run after it, snatch it up and put it back in the basket.

  ‘He’s on the computer,’ Joy says through the peg in her mouth. ‘Just go right in.’

  ‘It’s you I came to see, actually.’ I tell her about Saturday. ‘I’m going round the island to tell everyone about the change.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave the list of people with me?’ Joy says. ‘I can phone everyone in a fraction of the time it will take you on that old boneshaker! Unless you really want a long bike ride, of course?’

  I laugh. ‘No. Not really. It’ll take me hours.’

  ‘And extra hard work in this wind,’ Joy says.

  I help her hang out the rest of the clothes in the basket. We go inside together.

  Joy smoothes her hair back where it’s come undone. She starts over again, uncoiling and shaking out her long grey hair before retwisting it, pinning it back up. Her face is pink from the wind and sun, her eyes bright. She’s happy in her own skin, I think. She doesn’t fuss about how she looks. This is how Isla will be when she’s Joy’s age. I feel a little pang of envy.

  Joy’s filling the kettle and putting mugs on a tray. ‘He’s so much happier now he’s got a plan,’ she says.

  ‘Finn?’

  ‘Yes, Finn.’

  ‘He seems really happy he doesn’t have to go back to school,’ I say.

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ Joy says. ‘The grass is always greener – you know? It’s not an easy life, farming. He has an awful lot to learn. He might be bored out of his skull, living with his aged parents all the time.’

  But I know he won’t be. He’s got what he most wanted, after all.

  ‘And how are you, Kate?’ Joy asks, out of the blue. ‘I’m sorry about your dad leaving, I really am.’

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘It’s very hard, but I’m going to be OK,’ I tell her. ‘Being on the island has helped me in so many ways. I didn’t expect that. But I love it here now. Meeting Finn, and all of you – well, it’s made a big difference to me.’

  Joy hugs me. ‘I’m glad,’ she says. ‘You’ve made a difference to us too. Especially Finn. I hope you know that. And you’ll always be welcome here.’

  I find Finn in the sitting room, engrossed at the laptop on Joy’s desk. He looks round when I say hello: he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me.

  ‘I’ve booked the hall for the first week in September,’ he says, as if we’ve been mid-conversation all the while. ‘So now we have to get everything together really quickly. Find a way to display the photographs. It’s got to look professional.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to look slick,’ I say. ‘The whole point is that it’s ordinary people, talking about what they love and value. It should look home-made. From the heart.’

  ‘We’ve got to convince people first,’ Finn says. ‘They might not want anything to do with it.’

  I think for a bit. ‘Maybe it shouldn’t look too political,’ I say. ‘Maybe the focus should be on celebrating and recording something real and important about the island. Maybe that’s what would bring everyone on board. And that might be the most effective thing of all. People working together.’

  ‘I’m seeing Isla this afternoon,’ Finn says. ‘I’m going to talk to her first of all.’

  I smile, but I don’t say anything. I dra
w up a chair, and we start looking at all the photos Finn’s taken since I left him yesterday. A sequence of the sun setting behind the off-islands with layers of mist; sea breaking on to the sand in early morning light; sheep and half-grown lambs walking along the road above the Manse. A flock of lapwings taking off in flight above the loch; geese flying in a ‘V’ across a cloud-streaked sky; black and white oystercatchers standing in a row along the rocks, all facing the newly risen sun, like the morning after the party.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ I say. ‘These are gorgeous, Finn.’

  He shows me his notes about people he wants to talk to. Not just the fishermen and crofters, but the people in the ferry office, and the shopworkers and postman and the café owner and the mechanic at the garage.

  It really might work, I think. It’s worth trying, at least. It’s good seeing how much energy Finn has for his new project.

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’ I ask him. ‘Your house seems really quiet.’

  Finn shrugs. ‘No idea. I think Jamie and Clara are packing up, ready to go back to London.’

  Joy comes in, waving my list in her hand. ‘All done. I’ve told everyone except Isla’s dad who must still be out on the boat.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say to Joy.

  ‘You can tell Isla,’ I say to Finn, ‘when you see her later today.’

  He nods.

  Joy looks from Finn to me and back to Finn again, as if she’s trying to understand something. But she doesn’t say anything. She goes back out.

  ‘What happened to Isla’s mum?’ I ask Finn. ‘Has she got one? She’s never mentioned her. There was no sign of anyone at the house that time I went there.’

  ‘She left. She couldn’t stand living here. She went back to Glasgow to live. Isla hardly ever sees her.’ Finn shifts on his chair. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Fair enough.’

  Back at home, I start feeling – what is it, exactly? Not homesick, but something a bit like that. A creeping sense of the life going on here on the island being separate from me: the knowledge that I don’t really belong here and never will. I’m just a visitor, passing through. And yet being here has touched me and changed me so much.