This Northern Sky Page 16

  At bedtime, I stand for a moment in the other bedroom, where Bonnie will sleep when she finally gets here. The wind’s rattling the skylight windows, shaking and buffeting the house, screeching down the chimney into the peat stove downstairs. Clouds scud across the moon. Bonnie will already be on her way from Spain, a long journey that will bring her steadily northwards. She’ll have no idea how much things are changing every day, Mum and me getting closer together in a way we haven’t been for ages.

  Back in my own room, I get my diary out, ready to fill the next blank pages. They are filling up fast now. Hardly any left. The story of my heart. It’s a story all about change, I realise now.

  The moon’s three-quarters full. For a moment the ragged strips of cloud clear completely and the moon shines directly on to my bed. It’s such a strange and beautiful light. There’s a single bright star – a planet, perhaps.

  Sam would know. Sam, who has never been anywhere other than a city, where the night sky is never properly dark, where you can hardly see the stars and planets, and yet he’d know the name and I don’t. What does that tell me about Sam?

  My mind flips back to that long, horrible night: the accident, the aftermath, Dad shaking with rage and Mum crying silently as I answered the policewoman’s questions.

  ‘You are never to get into a car with him, never even see him again,’ Dad said. ‘You have to promise us that.’

  But Dad didn’t keep his promises, did he? To have and to hold. . . . Till death us do part. All that.

  I lie in bed, unable to sleep, staring up at the square of black sky framed in the window, my mind churning. The wind gets stronger: the whole house rattles and creaks and sighs. There are other sounds caught up in the wind: screams and howls, the roar of pounding waves. It’s as if the house itself is out at sea all night long.

  Even as the day breaks, the storm’s still raging.

  Twenty-seven

  The storm batters the island all of Friday. I don’t mind really: we’ve got lots to do for the dinner. Mum and I spend the day cooking and cleaning and getting everything ready. We make smoked mackerel pâté with cream. We bake bread. We make tomato soup for the vegetarians. Mum cooks two huge pans of lamb casserole and another one with vegetables. I make chocolate mousse for dessert. The little fridge is stuffed full by the time we’ve finished. Just salads and baked potatoes to do tomorrow.

  Mid-afternoon, Mum and I walk down to the ferry terminal to find out what’s happening. The rain’s lifted, but the sea’s grey, the waves whipped into white peaks. Birds cry and drift, swept by the wind that scours and roars and won’t let up. The road is empty. There are no cars or lorries queuing in the car park either. No one outside on the pier, not even the usual ferry men in yellow sou’westers and boots.

  ‘The boat left the mainland this morning,’ the woman in the ferry office says, when we go inside to ask. ‘But it can’t land at the island. Not with the wind and the swell, and the high tide.’

  ‘So what will happen?’ Mum asks.

  ‘She’ll go all the way back again,’ the woman says. ‘Try again tomorrow.’

  Mum looks at me. ‘We’d better phone Bonnie from the call box.’

  ‘You can use the pay phone here, in the waiting room, if you like,’ the woman says.

  Mum finds Bonnie’s number, counts out change for the phone.

  I listen while Mum talks. Bonnie’s voice sounds tinny and strange. ‘No. Yes, really rough. Loads of people are being sick,’ she tells Mum. ‘But I’m OK.’

  ‘We’ll pay for you to stay overnight if needs be,’ Mum says. ‘Find yourself a nice bed and breakfast place. Don’t worry about the money.’

  I tug Mum’s sleeve. ‘Tell her Tim’s on the same ferry as her.’

  ‘Here, Bonnie. Kate wants a word.’ She hands me the phone. ‘You tell her.’

  ‘Hi, Bonnie. You OK? Look out for a bloke on the ferry called Tim. Tall, six foot three or so. Dark hair. Very good-looking; early twenties. He’ll be smartly dressed probably: something like a tweed jacket and jeans. Tell him who you are. He knows me. I’ve spoken about you too.’

  Bonnie laughs. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘He’s nice. Good fun. You can hang out together for the long journey. He’ll know a good place to stay. You can have dinner even –’

  ‘I’m not going up to a complete stranger! Honestly, Kate. What’s the matter with you? I’m fine, in any case. I’ve got my book . . .’

  ‘It’s what island people do,’ I tell her. ‘You know, be friendly and open. He won’t mind at all. He’ll be pleased. And he’s not a stranger!’

  ‘Are you OK?’ Bonnie asks. ‘You sound kind of different –’

  The phone crackles as the signal breaks up. ‘See you soon!’ I shout, but the line’s already dead. I put the receiver back. ‘We got cut off,’ I tell Mum.

  ‘It’s the weather,’ the woman says. ‘It does that all the time.’

  ‘What time will the ferry arrive tomorrow?’ Mum asks her.

  ‘Three-ish. If it comes at all. Check the shipping forecast in the morning. There’s only a fifty-fifty chance of it getting through even if the wind drops, because of the swell and the tide.’

  ‘What’ll we do if she can’t get here tomorrow?’ I ask Mum on the walk back.

  ‘We’ll have the dinner without her. We’re not letting all that food go to waste!’

  Back at the house, we light a fire in the peat stove. Mum reads, and I daydream. It seems like a very long afternoon, evening, night. The wind doesn’t give up, not for a moment. It begins to get on my nerves.

  Just as dawn breaks, the wind drops. When I wake properly, the sky is a clear blue, and the sun’s shining on the sea, turning it a dazzling silver. The ferry will be leaving the mainland about now. I imagine Bonnie, beautiful with her tanned skin and blonde hair and open smiling face. Tim will surely have noticed her, even if she hasn’t spoken to him yet . . . perhaps he’ll offer her a lift up to the house when they arrive at the island, the way people do here . . .

  But I want to be there to welcome her. I can’t not be.

  I pull on my jeans and jumper, run downstairs and stuff my boots on and open the front door wide. The sun’s warm on my face, the air full of birdsong. It’s the perfect day, everything bright and shiny. I’m absurdly happy, as if it’s my island, and I want it to look its best for Bonnie, so she’ll fall totally in love with it the moment she steps off the ferry.

  Mum comes out of her bedroom and joins me on the doorstep, still in her nightie. ‘Aren’t we lucky?’ she says. ‘If it stays fine, we could even eat outside tonight, the first time all holiday! We can open out those French doors from the living room on to the patio and people can drift in and out.’

  She puts her arms round me and hugs me close. ‘I know it’s silly, but I’m nervous about having so many new people here. You will help, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will. And you’ll love Finn’s family, honestly, Mum. Everyone’s really friendly and fun.’

  We eat our breakfast outside, even though it’s only just warm enough. Mum pours our coffee into the hare cups. ‘I’m going to buy a whole set before we go,’ she says. ‘A family of coffee cups. For the new house we’re going to buy.’

  I really don’t want to think about that, but there’s something touching about the way Mum’s gathering herself together again, for the next stage of life without Dad. So I make an effort too. ‘What kind of house?’ I ask her.

  ‘Something small, whatever I can afford I suppose. I’ll have to increase my hours at work, get a mortgage again. But it’ll be all right. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see Bonnie,’ I say.

  ‘Me too. I’m really excited,’ Mum says. ‘It’s been three months. She’ll look different: she’s spent that whole time under the Spanish sun. She’ll be brown as a berry!’

  ‘Unlike us!’

  ‘Yes. Though actually you look – kind of healthy.’

  That makes me laugh. ‘Mum
! Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘No, I mean, it suits you, all that time you’ve spent outside. You look better than you have done for ages, Kate. Healthy and bright-eyed. Happier, despite everything.’

  The morning drags. Mum’s all on edge, tidying everything even though it’s already tidy. In the end I give up trying to be helpful and go outside. I find myself wandering through the village and up the hill. I check my phone but there’s nothing from Sam. I try not to be disappointed.

  Just as I’m setting off back down the road in the direction of the Manse I meet the jeep coming the other way. Piers is driving, Thea next to him. They slow down and stop.

  Finn’s in the back. He slides the window open. ‘Hello, Kate!’

  ‘Off walking again?’ Piers teases.

  ‘Not really. Where are you all going?’

  ‘The beach, via Isla’s. Picking her up on the way. Want to come?’

  I hesitate.

  ‘Do come,’ Finn says. ‘Please, Kate.’

  ‘OK.’

  I climb in the back next to Finn. He squeezes my hand. ‘We’re planning to swim,’ he says. ‘Want to stop off and get your stuff?’

  I run into the house, grab my swimming things and run out again. Mum comes out to the jeep. ‘Will you be back in time for Bonnie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Will you go straight there?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum. I haven’t thought yet. I’ll come home first if there’s time.’

  ‘We’re looking forward to the dinner this evening,’ Thea says politely. ‘Thank you so much for inviting us.’

  Mum smiles. ‘You’re welcome,’ she says. ‘Have a lovely morning at the beach.’

  Isla seems more friendly; she and Finn get on fine. I wonder briefly what happened when he went to see her yesterday. They are much more relaxed without Tim being there. They swim together, and Piers swims too.

  Thea and I watch from the beach.

  ‘I thought at one point that maybe you and Finn would get together . . .’ Her voice trails off.

  ‘Just friends,’ I tell her. ‘Lovely friends, but he’s besotted with Isla. And now he’s going to be staying here, something might actually happen.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Thea says. ‘But Isla’s quite ambitious. She’ll be off to Glasgow soon as she’s done her exams. And I’m not sure you’re right about Finn’s feelings.’

  ‘Isla will be back, soon as she’s finished her midwifery training.’

  ‘Is that what she wants to do? I’d no idea.’ Thea looks thoughtful. ‘You know her better than I do.’

  I lie on my stomach, sifting dry sand through my fingers. The breeze off the sea sends a shiver over my bare flesh, even though it’s the middle of the day, the sun at its highest point.

  ‘What do you think about Finn giving up school and his A levels?’ Thea asks.

  ‘I think it’s wonderful. Totally the right thing for him.’ I say the words so firmly there’s no room for any further discussion. Even so, it’s obvious Thea doesn’t agree. But Piers is running up the beach now, dripping wet, his skin red and raw from the cold and she clicks into action. She finds his towel, organises his dry clothes, pours him tea from a flask.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift back if you like,’ he says to me. ‘Soon as I’ve got dressed. So you’re not late for your sister.’

  He drives fast, but I’m not bothered about the speed any more. It doesn’t feel dangerous because I know how few cars there are, and how far ahead you can see. No sudden bends or corners.

  ‘I’ll drop you at your house,’ he says. ‘It’s still too early for the ferry.’

  ‘Do you think it will make it this time?’

  ‘Depends on the mixture of swell and tide. Probably. Say hi to Tim, if he’s there. Tell him we’ll see him back at the Manse later this afternoon.’

  Mum’s filled the house with flowers: wild ones, picked from the fields. They’re in jugs and jam jars all over the place, spilling pollen on to the clean surfaces of the windowsill and the table and the bookcase. Upstairs in Bonnie’s room Mum’s put a small posy of wild roses and grasses on the shelf next to the bed.

  I wander into my own room. I pick up the blue-grey shell that Dad gave me, stroke my finger over the smooth mother-of-pearl inside. I put it back next to the pebble from Finn. I lie on my bed to write some more of my diary.

  ‘Ready?’ Mum calls up. ‘Time to go.’

  We walk fast.

  ‘Look!’ I point. The ferry’s coming along the bay, hugging the coast, almost here. As we watch, it slows down and begins to turn. We can hear the roar of the engine as it manoeuvres ready for docking.

  We break into a half-run. Cars and cattle trucks are queuing in the car park: two days’ worth of traffic. We join the small line of foot passengers. Already, the ferry’s reversing, ready to tie up, and up on deck I can see Bonnie, waving madly. And she does look amazing, just as we imagined, Mum and I.

  We’re waving, and staring, and my heart does a funny leap, because Bonnie isn’t alone. Next to her, hair pinned up so she looks older and much more sophisticated, is Hannah!

  Mum gives a little cry, and rushes forwards. She looks as if she is about to sob her heart out. The ferry bloke makes her wait, to let the cars off first. But Bonnie and Hannah are already running down the gangplank, and hugging Mum, and as I catch up they hug me too.

  ‘My girls!’ Mum says, over and over. ‘My three gorgeous girls, safe and here all together.’

  In all the rush and excitement I forget about Tim. He must have driven past without us noticing. We walk back to the house, everyone talking at once, and Bonnie and Hannah saying how beautiful it is and remembering things from when they were little, and all of us laughing when Hannah drags her case on wheels through a big dollop of sheep poo.

  ‘There it is,’ Mum says as we cross over the cattle grid past the shop. ‘The small white house on the right with the big window.’

  I help Hannah tug her case over the grass and Mum helps Bonnie with her bag. There’s so much laughter and talking as we go inside and they dump their stuff and then suddenly, for a moment, we all go quiet at the same time.

  The sense of someone missing is overwhelming.

  Four of us, instead of five.

  Mum smiles bravely. We’re all so obviously thinking the same thing.

  Bonnie breaks the spell. ‘Dad’s an idiot,’ she says.

  ‘His loss,’ Hannah says.

  ‘We’re going to be fine,’ Mum says firmly. ‘We’ll miss him like mad, but we will be all right. I promise you.’

  The weather’s changing by the minute. Clouds, sun, the wind picking up, singing along the telephone wires and sending white clouds of thistledown over the grass. It’s too cold to sit outside for long so we set the table in the living room. Hannah polishes the wine glasses with a cloth, fills jugs with water while Bonnie and I make the salad. Mum opens a bottle of wine and pours a glass for Hannah and herself.

  ‘Does everything look OK?’ Mum keeps asking.

  ‘It’s all fine,’ Hannah says. ‘It doesn’t matter what it looks like, in any case.’

  Joy and Alex and everyone from the Manse, except Finn, arrives bang on time, and as soon as they are all talking and laughing and pouring drinks I relax completely. Alex makes a point of looking after Mum: he’s courteous and gentlemanly in a way that delights her and makes her sparkle. Almost flirting.

  ‘Go, Mum,’ Hannah says, watching them.

  ‘That’s Alex!’ I tell her. ‘Married to Joy. Married for ever.’

  Tim’s talking to Bonnie, of course. They did meet on the ferry. He’s being charming too. He listens to her talking about the farm in Spain where she’s been working, and about her plans to do some sort of environmental work next year. Hannah thinks she remembers Piers and Jamie from when they were little and played together on the beach. She and Thea and Jamie talk about living in London.

  Finn finally turns up. He hands me Dad’s camera. ‘You could take
some pictures tonight,’ he says.

  I hang the camera in the lobby and wander after Finn. I introduce him to my sisters, and he tells them about the wind farm almost immediately. Bonnie has lots to say about it, being Bonnie. She explains why it’s so expensive having offshore wind turbines – maintaining and operating them, sub-sea cables and stuff, which is why the operating companies prefer the option closer to land . . . and that gets Mackie and the man from the café heated up, talking loudly about disruptions to fishing and birds . . .

  I watch Finn’s face light up as he tells them about the great northern divers, and the special protected status, and our plans to fight back. Tim joins in: he says he can imagine a fantastic island broadcast project about listening to the sounds of the Hebrides. It’s really going to happen, I think. And I’m a tiny part of it too. Standing up for something good. Making a difference.

  I help Mum get the casseroles and potatoes out of the oven, just as Isla turns up with her dad. Fiona arrives soon after, her arms full of bottles of champagne. ‘Never seen so many people in this room before!’ she tells Mum, who immediately starts apologising.

  ‘Stop that!’ Fiona says. ‘It’s a lovely thing to bring people together. And what a wonderful spread.’ She knows most people already, of course, but she’s surprised that we have made so many friends this summer.

  Just as it’s beginning to get dark, I wander out through the French doors on to the little garden at the side of the house.

  Bonnie follows me outside. ‘Let’s light the candles,’ she says. One by one she lights the candles in the small coloured glasses which we arranged earlier in a line down the centre of the wooden garden table.

  ‘So pretty,’ she says. She turns and hugs me suddenly. ‘Oh, Kate! It must have been awful for you, all alone with Mum and Dad, and all this stuff going on.’