This Northern Sky Page 6

  We’re cooped up in the house watching DVDs and reading all that time. Dad’s the only one who goes anywhere further than the shop: he puts on all his wet-weather gear and walks through driving rain to the hides on the loch, to see what rare birds have been blown in by the gales.

  Sunday morning, I wake to a pale blue cloudless sky framed in the skylight windows, and the oddest thing: silence.

  No wind.

  We are bound to go today, aren’t we? I listen to the shipping forecast just in case, like Finn said. I’ve heard it so often these last three days I’m starting to know the names of the places, and what the different things mean: wind, sea state, weather, visibility. They do it in the same order each time.

  Dad listens too. He says he likes the sounds of the words: a litany of names. Rockall, Malin, Hebrides . . . He recites a poem to me, by Carol Ann Duffy, which has some of the names in it. Only Finisterre isn’t one of the places in the shipping forecast any more.

  ‘Since 2002,’ Dad says. ‘Now they call it Fitzroy. It’s because there are two places called Finisterre and that might get confusing for sailors.’ He smiles at me. ‘Finisterre is much more poetic, don’t you think? It means land’s end or the end of the earth. The end of the world even.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Anyway, since when have you been so interested in the shipping forecast, Kate?’

  ‘Finn’s going to take me to find cockles,’ I say. ‘But only when the weather’s good.’

  ‘In a boat?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But he’s very experienced. It’s only a rowing boat. We won’t be going far.’

  Dad narrows his eyes. ‘How far exactly?’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘Show me on the map,’ Dad says.

  But I’ve forgotten the name of the island now. Not sure that Finn ever told me. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ll ask him when he comes to collect me.’

  ‘Which is when?’

  ‘When the tide turns. You collect cockles on an ebb tide.’

  Mum’s listening from the table where she’s writing postcards. She smiles. ‘Hark at you!’ she says. ‘Quite the island girl already.’

  ‘Shut up, Mum!’

  It takes me a while to work out why I suddenly feel so cross.

  Island girl. Of course. The pretty girl at the lobster house. Will she be coming too?

  The morning drags. I don’t dare go anywhere in case they come for me earlier than I expect. Mum and Dad make a picnic and set off on a walk together. ‘Be sure to leave us a note,’ Mum says, ‘with all the details. Where you are going and when you are coming back.’

  I watch them go off, side by side, but not holding hands or anything. The sun’s out. Mum’s wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and jeans. Her hair’s loose. She looks younger. I hear her laugh at something Dad says.

  I’m watching from the window when the jeep turns up. Piers is driving; Thea opens her door and jumps down from the front passenger seat.

  I pull on my boots and grab my bag and open the front door. ‘Coming!’ I call.

  Thea pushes the seat down so I can scramble into the back.

  And there she is. But no sign of Finn.

  Thea introduces us. ‘Isla, Kate.’

  ‘Hello,’ the girl says. A soft, island accent. Auburn hair, pale, flawless skin, shiny blue-green eyes.

  ‘Well, we’ve got our perfect day at last,’ Thea says. ‘It’s been awful the last few days, hasn’t it? The worst summer storm I can remember!’ She and Piers chatter away in the front. Isla and I sit quietly in the back. The jeep bumps and jolts and I have to concentrate on not falling against her when the road bends or Piers swerves to avoid a sheep.

  I pluck up courage to ask about Finn. ‘Is he ill?’

  Thea laughs. ‘No! Sorry. Assumed you would know. We’re meeting Finn at the boat, just to save time. He’s getting everything ready. Like he usually does.’

  Isla smiles. Of course, she’d know.

  ‘What’s the name of the place we’re going?’ I ask.

  ‘The island’s called Collay. No one lives there now. Only sheep.’

  Too late, I remember about leaving a note for Mum.

  We have to wade out to get into the boat. Water slops over the top of my boots, so from the start I’ve got soggy feet. Finn holds the rope (the painter, he calls it) with one hand, and with the other, helps each of us to balance as we clamber in. He wades out, pushing the boat and at the last minute he climbs in. The boat wobbles and I squeal. Can’t stop myself.

  Piers and Finn take an oar each. They sit on the seat in the middle; Isla goes forward to the front with the buckets and rake, and Thea and I sit in the back. It’s a squash. We seem to be horribly low in the water. Every time the oars lift they send drips of water flicking back over me and Thea.

  The sea is like a millpond. Pale blue, and the sky a milky kind of blue too. Birds fly low over the water ahead of us. It’s unbelievably beautiful in the stillness and quiet. The movement is mesmerising; the rhythmic stroke of the oars, the gentle movement over small waves. Already the beach looks a long way behind us. Further out there’s more breeze, but not much, not enough to whip up waves or anything scary. It’s hazy ahead. Gradually the shape of the island comes into view, and Finn and Piers row harder, pulling across the current, to get to the flat beach where we’ll land. No one speaks. It’s as if we are all under some kind of spell.

  The pale strip of sand becomes wider as we get nearer, the tide ebbing fast. I trail my hand in the clear sea. I can see the bottom as clearly as looking through glass. Green weed like flowing grass, and thicker brown flat weed: the kelp the seals love, Finn says. Small silvery fish in shoals dart away from my hand. A bright orange starfish moves slowly along the seabed. The water gets shallower: nearly there. Isla gets ready with the rope, and when Finn calls out she slides herself off the boat and wades through the shallows, pulling us in. She knows exactly what to do. I guess she’s done it hundreds of times before.

  We all pile out of the boat. Finn and Piers haul it in, up the beach and fasten the rope under a stone.

  Piers hands me a bucket. ‘See here?’ He rakes the sand at the edge of the water and bends down to scoop up a handful of cream-coloured shells. ‘This is what we are looking for. Choose the bigger ones.’

  So. Cockles turn out to be these ordinary-looking shells, creamy white and honey coloured, only they are still alive, with the two halves tight together. Bivalves, Piers calls them. There are hundreds of them, slightly buried under the sand.

  We set to work, scooping them up in handfuls and dropping them in the buckets of sea water to keep them fresh.

  ‘Delicious cooked with leeks and garlic and white wine,’ Piers says.

  I still can’t imagine eating them.

  Isla is quicker than me. She doesn’t seem to get backache from the bending and scooping like I do. I have to keep stretching my back out, to ease my spine. After a while I’ve had enough. My hands are numb.

  ‘Why don’t you go and explore the island for a bit?’ Thea suggests. ‘Collecting cockles is back-breaking if you’re not used to it. And seeing as it’s your first time on Collay, you should have a look round. We’ll have some tea later. We brought cake.’

  I walk slowly up the beach. My feet squelch with every step. I pull off my boots and socks and walk barefoot instead. The sand is white, sparkling in the sunlight with fragments of silvery crystal. I abandon my wet boots, spread my socks over flat rocks at the top of the beach and walk on.

  It’s like a miniature version of our island: a fringe of beaches, short grass studded with little flowers, a carpet of pink and white and yellow. Bees. Flocks of small brown birds. Sheep. No roads though, and no houses except ruined ones: tumbledown stones covered with nettles and taller grass and other weeds. I climb to the top of the island, sit on an outcrop of rock. From here I can see down to the beach, and the small figures of the others, bending, scooping, the shells clattering against each other in the bucket. They look a
s if they are working in a kind of rhythm. They could be from any time at all. Like centuries back. I screw up my eyes to see better against the brightness. Finn and Isla work side by side, slowly moving along through the shallow water, slightly apart from Piers and Thea. I wonder what they are talking about. If they are talking. I try not to mind how close they look.

  The misty, milky sky seems to cut Collay off totally: you can’t see the other islands at all. I close my eyes, listen to the birds and the sea and the bees humming all around. It’s bliss to feel warm sun on my face and arms after so many days of rain. Voices drift up.

  When I next look, Thea’s getting things out of a basket on the rocks near my boots. I make my way slowly back down to join them for tea and cake.

  ‘We should start back, soon,’ Finn says.

  ‘Why are the houses all ruined?’ I say. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Same as on lots of the other islands,’ Finn says. ‘Too harsh living out here in the winter, cut off for days and weeks even. Too small to grow enough food for a family to be self-sufficient.’

  ‘It would be amazing to stay overnight though,’ Piers says. ‘We should come over and camp when the others get here.’

  ‘Are the sheep wild?’ I ask.

  Isla smiles. ‘No. They’re brought over by boat in the early summer, and collected in the autumn: they spend the winter back on the inhabited isles.’

  I try to imagine it: ferrying sheep in a small boat across the water. Like why?

  ‘The grazing here is particularly good,’ Isla explains, as if she knows what I’m thinking. ‘Crofters have grazing rights on lots of the uninhabited islands. But most don’t bother these days.’

  Finn watches her as she talks.

  Her face is pink from the sun. Her hair’s coming undone from where she’s looped it up with a slide; golden-red tendrils curling round her neck. She is really pretty, but in her own way, nothing like the girls back home. No make-up. Old, faded cotton T-shirt and skirt. I wonder how old she is. She’s both shy and confident at the same time, if that’s possible. Like she’s quiet, but she knows stuff. Knows who she is. She’s natural and easy with the boat. No wonder Finn likes her.

  ‘Jamie and Tim and the others will be arriving on the ferry in the morning,’ Piers says. He glances at Isla. She blushes slightly.

  Finn looks away.

  Piers goes on. ‘Two days late, because of the storm. The ferry couldn’t land.’

  The sea is creeping up the beach, lapping at the boat. Thea packs up the remainder of the cake. ‘Come on, time to go.’

  The air has already cooled down. It’s colder still once we’ve left the shelter of the bay and are heading back across the water. Isla takes a turn at rowing; I go forward in the boat so Piers can sit with Thea at the back. The boat rocks alarmingly as we swap places.

  I watch Finn and Isla. They are perfectly synchronised, rowing together, sitting side by side with their backs to me. They lean forwards, lifting the oars, dipping and drawing them back. Drips of water fly off the oars like liquid pearls.

  Mist rises off the water. Everyone’s silent the whole way back.

  I don’t stay for supper, even though Thea invites me to. I walk back alone along the road. As I come into the village, I can see someone in the red telephone kiosk. I know instantly it’s Dad. His tall frame, awkwardly crushed into the small space, talking into the old black phone, running his other hand through his hair. He’s talking fast, intently: he has no idea I can see him.

  He could be talking to anyone. Like Bonnie, or Granny, or someone from work . . .

  But my heart sinks. The way he looks, even though I can’t hear a word of what he’s saying: it’s all so horribly obvious he’s talking to a woman, to someone he cares about, who is missing him . . .

  I feel sick to the core.

  Twelve

  On the face of it, everything looks all right. It’s sunny for the next couple of days; Mum and Dad go out together for walks; they take food with them for picnics. They go on a boat trip and return flushed from sun and the wind, full of stories about the birds they saw, and the basking sharks they watched from the boat on the way back.

  I half wish I’d gone with them. Except that I’ve got that horrible sick feeling in the pit of my stomach all the time now. I can’t stop thinking about what Dad might have been saying down the phone line. My mind worries at it, imagining the sordid details, the words he might have been saying.

  Just wait a bit longer; as soon as this holiday is over I can be with you again.

  Of course, I would rather be with you than stuck on this island with them . . .

  I had to do this, to be sure. But spending this time with her makes me realise that it’s all over . . .

  Kate’s old enough now . . . children are resilient . . . she’ll be fine . . .

  Does Mum know? Is she full of worry and dread too? Surely she’s guessed something? Or perhaps they’re coming to some sort of agreement. He’ll leave, she’ll have the house . . . Perhaps she’s seeing someone?

  Why don’t you ask them straight out? That’s what my friend Molly would say. But Molly hasn’t a clue. Her parents are happy together. Her family talk about everything openly. But we’ve never been like that. If Sam and I were still seeing each other, I could tell him about it. If Sam and I were together, maybe none of this would feel so important . . .

  Only I know that’s not true. Not really.

  Everything – my whole world – is in the balance, about to tip.

  I make myself remember happy times.

  Christmas, Hannah’s first year at uni. We rented a cottage in Northumberland with Molly’s family. It didn’t snow, but it was freezing cold. Temperatures plummeted every night, and hoar frost furred every twig and stem, almost as thick as snow. The paths and lane were iced to a slippery polish. We walked on Christmas morning in thick white mist, Dad and Molly’s dad leading the way, using their navigation skills and the map and compass, and we got hopelessly lost, and everyone laughed and it didn’t matter. Not one bit. Mum and Molly’s mum and Hannah cooked Christmas dinner and there was nearly a disaster when the duck fat got too hot and the kitchen was full of smoke but Mum just laughed and laughed and we had to open all the windows and doors and we froze for about two hours, but the meal turned out fine and Molly’s dad cleaned the oven and everything got sorted. After dinner we played silly games and turned off the lights so we could sit with candles and the light from the fire and everyone was relaxed and happy. Mum and Dad cuddled together on the sofa. Dad sang Mum a song he’d written . . .

  It’s nice remembering that. Dad, writing songs . . . Dad, happy. Mum’s face glowing in the firelight . . .

  Or that summer we went to the beach in Wales, where Dad climbed down the cliff quicker than everyone else, so that as the rest of us came over the edge of the hill we looked down and saw the words he had written in the sand: I LOVE YOU!

  It was the most romantic thing we’d ever seen him do for Mum. She had tears in her eyes.

  But that was all years ago. It hasn’t been like that for a long, long time.

  The squeal of bike brakes makes me look up. Finn’s skidded to a stop outside the house. I jump up, check my face quickly to make sure he can’t tell I’ve been crying, and go to the door.

  ‘Hello, you! Busy?’ he asks.

  My face goes hot. It’s so obvious I’m not doing anything. Wasting my day.

  ‘Want to come and help get the peat? Everyone’s coming. You can meet them all. Tim and Jamie and the others.’

  I nod. ‘OK.’

  ‘It’ll be hard work, mind.’

  He’s remembering what I was like with the cockle picking.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I say. ‘I’m not used to it, that’s all. Not like your Isla.’

  Her name slips out before I’ve really thought. He gives me a funny look. ‘She’s not mine,’ he says very quietly.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘I know I’m rubbish at practical things.’
>
  ‘Stop that,’ Finn says. ‘You’re just fine, Kate. Stop putting yourself down.’

  Tears well up again. I turn my head so he can’t see, grab my scarf and a jacket from the hooks in the hall.

  Is that what I do? I wonder. Put myself down?

  ‘I’ll give you a backie if you like,’ Finn says.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A ride on the back of the bike. It’ll be quicker that way.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, OK.’

  He waits for me to clamber on behind him. ‘Hold on tight!’ he says. ‘It’s a bit of a bumpy ride. And you’ll have to get off for the hill.’

  We wobble along through the village, me trying to balance and laughing so much I nearly fall off. I have to walk the next bit, which is uphill. The very last bit is the best: a long freewheel down the track to the Manse. At the bottom, the bike slows, stops and I get off. I can’t stop smiling.

  Finn grins. ‘You should get yourself a bike!’ he says. ‘You’d really enjoy it. You could get around the whole island then, and see the best places.’

  ‘Mum hired one from the man at the garage,’ I tell him. ‘But it was rubbish. Old and cranky and she got a puncture.’

  ‘We might have one you could borrow,’ Finn says. ‘We’ll look in the shed later.’

  Alex waves from the door of the Manse. I wave back. Piers and Thea are putting tools into the back of the jeep. A dark-haired, good-looking bloke in a tweed jacket and jeans is leaning against the stone wall, a mug of coffee in one hand which he raises as if in greeting.

  ‘That’s Tim,’ Finn says. ‘Jamie and Clara are somewhere around too.’ He waves vaguely in the direction of the house.

  ‘We won’t all fit in the jeep,’ I say. Duh! Obviously.

  ‘No. So you and I can go on the bike, and the others will walk up.’

  ‘What do we have to do exactly?’

  ‘Piers and I will finish cutting the peat. You can help shift the stuff that’s already been cut and dried; put the peats in sacks so we can bring them back down in the jeep. Then we build the proper peat stack next to the house. I’ll show you: there’s a special way to do it, so the peats can dry out and then make a weatherproof skin to last the winter.’