This Northern Sky Read online

  Mum is crying, needs me, but I can’t go to her, can’t offer any comfort. All I can think of is myself. My world crumbling, dissolving to dust.

  Dad still has his back to us. He doesn’t try to explain or excuse himself. I want to hit him, drum his pathetic back with my fists and make him yell, or cry or say something.

  Sorry would be good.

  ‘Well. Thanks for a great summer holiday,’ I say as sarcastically as I can manage. ‘Cheers, Mum and Dad.’

  I walk to the front door, open it wide, bang it shut so hard the whole house shudders.

  Fifteen

  The ferry must have come in. There’s a line of cars and vans coming slowly along the road through the village, bumping over the cattle grid. I run past the shop and the telephone box, the telecom mast and the hotel, out of the village. I turn left up the hill to find the one spot where my mobile gets a fragment of reception.

  I try Bonnie first, but she doesn’t answer. Hannah next. But she’ll be at work: her phone’s turned off. Before I know it, I’m calling Sam.

  His phone rings and rings. Then it goes to voicemail. The stupid automatic message. My hands are shaking. I press exit.

  Molly?

  No answer. I send her a text: phone me? Please. Kx

  I want to sit down but there’s nowhere apart from the edge of the road or the grass, and the minute I sit or even walk on a few paces I’ve lost reception again. I stand there, on that one spot just above the road, hoping and hoping for a text or a call.

  The wind’s blowing a gale. I notice for the first time that I’m shivering. A camper van with kayaks on the top goes past and someone waves from the window, as if to thank me for letting them go past.

  My phone stays silent. I start walking again, eyes stinging with tears. I’m totally alone on a stupid island miles and miles from anyone and no one even cares.

  Geese fly low in a V-shape, calling to each other as they fly. Sheep move slowly, cropping the grass and flowers, bleating to the half-grown lambs who are already getting fat. They scatter in all directions as I get closer.

  Where can I go?

  Not Finn’s house. Not when I’m feeling like this. The only other person I know is Isla, but I don’t know her well enough yet and in any case, I don’t think she’d understand. I could run down to the pier and get on the next ferry . . . it will be leaving in fifteen minutes or so . . . only I’ve got no money for the long journey home, don’t know if there are any trains even . . .

  In the end I just keep walking, over to the other side, the way I went once before in pouring rain.

  Today it’s dry, at least. This side of the island is more sheltered. The air is warmer, it’s quieter out of the wind. The road leads down to the shore, the ruined cottage, a patchwork of small fields bounded by rocks.

  The sea’s blue, blue, blue all the way to the horizon. The other islands in the archipelago seem to float, green and inviting. All you’d need is a small boat . . .

  The usual birds are running in and out of the edge of water, pecking at shrimps and insects or whatever, oblivious to me and my problems. A family of seals plays in the surf. I watch them for ages. A woman with a sheepdog walks the length of the beach and smiles at me as she passes. The world carries on.

  I pull out my notebook from my bag and open it. I read through all the pages I’ve written. It makes me feel more substantial, somehow. I do exist. I am me. This is the story of my heart.

  But today, my heart is breaking.

  I sit at the edge of the beach until it’s beginning to get dark. I watch the way the light changes, the pattern of the sun on the sea, the shadows lengthening. The sound of the birds gets stronger as the daylight fades: they call to each other as they fly home to roost. More geese fly over; two swans and a noisy party of black and white ducks bob along on the sea. Swallows swoop for flies. The little wading birds at the water’s edge keep peeping the whole time as if they are doing a running commentary. It seems I’ve disappeared into the background, invisible to this world of birds and seals and insects because I keep almost completely still. I’m cold to the bone, but I don’t feel hungry, don’t feel anything much any more.

  As the sun gets lower, the moon rises, clear and silver and newly minted, a sliver of light. I think of that first night and the full moon framed in the skylight window – how it seemed to signal something exciting, the beginning of something new.

  A great stillness seems to spread over the water, over the sand, as the darkness covers the island. Stars begin to appear. The sea roars from a distance, but close up the sound of the waves is gentle and muted. The calm spreads right over me too, sitting under a blanket of stars.

  Even as late as it is, there is still light in the western sky. Further north, it will be light almost all night. I can imagine that, sitting here.

  There is nothing I can do about Mum and Dad now.

  It’s happened, the worst thing.

  And I’m still here, and the world’s still here, turning slowly, spinning through space: Sam’s glowing blue dot in the black wilderness.

  Sixteen

  When I finally creep back into the house, I find Mum alone on the sofa, sitting in the dark room. She’s not angry with me. She holds out her arms, and I sit beside her, and she holds me close and tight and weeps into my hair. ‘I’m sorry, I am so, so sorry,’ she says over and over. ‘It’s not what I wanted for you.’

  I don’t cry. I rest my head against her warm shoulder. It’s soft, comfortable: I could close my eyes and sleep for a hundred years.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask her.

  ‘Sleeping,’ she says. ‘He’s exhausted. It’s not easy for him either, you know. One day you might begin to understand.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’ I ask. ‘Can you explain what happened, what went wrong?’

  She stiffens slightly. She sighs heavily. ‘It’s very hard to say, exactly. It’s happened over such a long time, so many years. And we still love each other, always will, underneath all the horrible stuff . . .’

  It doesn’t make sense to me. How can she say that?

  ‘And it’s all come to a head, because he’s met this . . . this person, but she isn’t the real reason for us going our separate ways. Not really.’

  ‘What is, then?’ I ask.

  Mum sighs. ‘The differences between us. The lost sense of a common purpose . . . the way we stopped talking, really talking I mean. The way we both gave up on the other, stopped wanting the very best for each other . . .’

  She talks in a sad, loving way about Dad’s isolation, his lost sense of self. How can it be too late, when she can talk about him like this?

  ‘And along comes someone who offers a fresh start,’ she says. ‘A chance to begin anew, without any of the past hurt or the baggage that’s inevitable in a long relationship. Like being offered a lifeline, a chance to be different. I can see how irresistible it might be.’

  She doesn’t sound angry now. Just sad and resigned. It’s almost unbearable.

  ‘Who is she?’ I ask.

  ‘Someone at work,’ Mum says. ‘Younger than him. Pretty, I suppose, in an insipid sort of way. Definitely unencumbered.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I say.

  ‘Well, free. Single, and no children.’

  Me, Bonnie and Hannah. Encumbrances.

  It’s an odd word for Mum to use.

  ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘We’ll go back home at the end of the holiday as planned. I guess we’ll have to sell the house. I’ll buy something new, for us to live in. Me and you, I mean. Hannah and Bonnie too when they want to stay. You can see Dad whenever you want. I suppose he’ll move in with the woman.’

  She won’t say her name.

  ‘It hurts too much,’ Mum says. ‘It’s horrible, all of it. For us all. But please try not to worry too much, Kate darling. It will be all right, in time.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ I say. ‘Nothing can ever be all right ever again.’ I disentangle myself from
Mum’s arms.

  I walk slowly up the stairs. The room is moonlit, waiting for me. I lie in the silvery light, tears trickling down my face, feeling my heart turn to stone.

  Seventeen

  I wake late: Mum and Dad are already up. I can hear their voices, calm and normal, as they potter around downstairs together. For a second I let myself imagine we’ve slipped back in time: everything’s fine, we’re a normal happy family. But I can’t pretend for long.

  I get up anyway and go down for breakfast with them: I’m going to make a real effort today. For Mum’s sake.

  Dad’s cooking bacon, Mum’s clearing the table of books and papers so they can sit down properly. She looks pale, but fine. She’s washed her hair, she’s wearing her favourite blue skirt.

  She smiles at me. ‘Want to sit down for breakfast with us?’

  I nod.

  ‘Bacon? Toast?’ Dad asks. ‘Coffee’s nearly ready.’

  ‘Toast, please,’ I say. I watch him slice the loaf, put it in the toaster, pour milk into a pan to warm for Mum, the way she likes it.

  It’s as if yesterday never happened.

  That’s what I think at first, watching Mum and Dad talk about plans for the day, do that domestic dance round the kitchen – the way people who have known each other for years move around a small room together, close but not touching. And then I work out it’s because of what happened yesterday that it’s like this now: the air cleared, nothing secret now, the truth laid bare.

  I try to imagine what happened after I left the house, yesterday. Did they talk properly and truthfully at last? Is it a relief, now it’s all out in the open?

  Even so, this . . . this strange calm, the ordinary conversation . . . it’s weird.

  I don’t know how to be. Like I can’t rant and stomp and fight if they are being sweet and reasonable and nice to each other . . .

  But there’s so much I haven’t said, yet.

  So many questions.

  Dad sits down. He pours coffee for everyone, hands Mum the jug of hot milk.

  ‘Do Bonnie and Hannah know?’ I blurt out. ‘Have you told them?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Dad says. ‘We thought we should talk to them face to face, not over the phone. And there’s no hurry. I mean, nothing is going to change immediately.’

  ‘We will try and make things as easy and harmonious as possible for you and Bonnie and Hannah,’ Mum says. ‘We both still love you, the same as always. We still love each other, actually. Despite how it looks –’

  ‘Why are you splitting up, then? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  Mum is unnaturally calm. ‘I know. It’s very hard to understand.’ She looks at Dad, as if she wants him to help her explain.

  He puts down his mug of coffee, clears his throat. ‘I know it’s hard, Kate. But these things happen. Relationships change over time. It’s inevitable. People change. Want different things. Your mother and I . . . well, we will always be your parents, nothing can change that, and we’ll go on sharing that, even if we’re not actually living together. We both want the best for you and Hannah and Bonnie. Living in the middle of conflict and tension isn’t good for anyone, especially you, we both know that. And this way, at least things can settle down and be a bit calmer. A fresh start all round. You girls will be fine.’ He walks over to the window, stands there with his back to us, staring out.

  It’s so quiet in the room I can hear the sea outside. My heart’s pounding. I don’t know if I am simply furious or just deeply, horribly sad. Both, probably. In my head I count slowly to a hundred, and another hundred. I take deep breaths.

  Dad starts speaking again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘One day I hope you will understand. When you fall in love, perhaps, for the first time –’ He says something about the woman, but I put my hands over my ears.

  ‘I don’t want to hear anything about her, ever,’ I say. ‘I think what you have done to Mum, and all of us, is terrible. How can you possibly think anyone in the whole world is more lovely than Mum? You don’t know what love means.’

  ‘Kate!’ Mum says. Her hands are white, clenched fists.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Dad says. ‘I understand you’re angry.’

  ‘You understand NOTHING!’ I yell. I push the table back, run upstairs into my room.

  I fling myself on to the bed.

  I can hear them moving around downstairs. Mum’s sobbing. Dad’s voice, muffled. I lie on the bed, staring up at the squares of blue cloudless sky, try to wipe my mind clean so I don’t have to think about anything.

  I hear the sounds of someone washing up the breakfast dishes. The click of the radio being turned on. Voices. A door opens and bangs shut again. Silence.

  I turn my face into the pillow.

  I don’t know how long I lie there. I must have gone back to sleep at some point. When I wake up, I assume they’ve both gone out, but eventually I hear feet padding up the stairs and Dad comes into my room.

  He sits down on the end of the bed.

  I keep my face pressed into the pillow. I won’t look at him.

  ‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ Dad says. ‘I never meant things to turn out like this. I really didn’t.’

  ‘Why can’t you try again?’ I ask. ‘You and Mum.’

  Dad doesn’t speak.

  When I turn over to look at him, he’s got tears running down his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry before. It makes me start crying all over again.

  He takes my hand in his. He holds it tight.

  ‘It’s too late for Mum and me,’ he says. ‘But I’ll never stop loving you, Kate. You know that, don’t you?’

  I nod. I do, deep down.

  Something’s different, after that. A weird kind of equilibrium and peacefulness comes over the three of us. We all make a huge effort to be gentle with each other, and although it’s incredibly hard at first, it gets easier as the day goes on. It’s as if now everything is out in the open, we can all relax a little.

  I go with them for a walk. We take books to read at the beach and buy picnic things from the shop. Dad brings the binoculars and I try to learn some of the names of the birds he points out. Tern. Sanderling. Curlew . . .

  The wind has dropped. Tomorrow is Saturday, Tim’s birthday. The weather is perfect.

  ‘Can I go to a beach party tomorrow evening with Finn and his brothers and friends?’ I ask. ‘They’re taking tents so we can stay overnight.’

  ‘Does it involve boats?’ Dad asks. ‘Or cars?’

  ‘No.’

  Dad looks at Mum. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘It sounds like a lovely thing to do. A perfect way to spend a midsummer night. Of course Kate should go.’

  ‘But no drinking alcohol,’ Dad says. ‘They’re much older than you, remember. You don’t have to join in with everything they’re getting up to.’

  Mum smiles sadly. ‘Honestly, David!’ she says. ‘Listen to yourself. Try remembering what it’s like being fifteen. You were, once!’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ Dad says. ‘I remember it only too well!’

  Mum and I paddle in the sea: later, I actually swim. It’s freezing, of course, like last time, but it’s easier to swim when the waves aren’t breaking and crashing. It’s almost completely calm.

  I let myself float on my back for a moment: the sun’s warm on my face, all I can see is blue: blue water, spangled with sunlight; blue sky arching above.

  Mum watches me from the water’s edge.

  ‘Come in!’ I call to her.

  She shakes her head. She walks slowly away along the beach, paddling in the shallow water. She walks further and further away until she’s just a dark, solitary figure silhouetted against the light.

  Dad’s watching her too. But he stays put, his book open beside him on the picnic rug.

  I stay in as long as I can bear to. But I’m shivering, my hands blue with cold, feet numb. I stumble out of the water; Dad comes to meet me with my towel.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’
I wrap myself in the towel, walk back up the beach with him. He picks up his book, carries on reading.

  Mum’s just a dot in the distance now.

  ‘You’re always reading,’ I say to Dad. ‘Why don’t you ever write things yourself?’

  He looks up from his book. ‘I write all the time. It’s part of my job, Kate.’

  ‘I don’t mean reports and lesson plans; I mean your own, creative things, like poems, or stories. Or songs even, like you used to do.’

  ‘Do you remember that? Me writing songs?’

  ‘Mum told me. She said you used to take photographs too.’

  ‘I wasn’t much good,’ Dad says. ‘I did it for myself really.’

  ‘Exactly! For yourself, for fun. Isn’t that the point?’

  He laughs suddenly. ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings . . .’ He notices my blank face. ‘Don’t you know that expression? About the wisdom of the young.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  Mum and Dad decide to go back via the local pottery; I turn off towards the Manse. I’m half expecting them all to be out, but no, the cars and jeep are parked outside and I find Joy, Alex and Tim at the garden table drinking tea.

  ‘I came to find out about the party,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll collect you about seven,’ Tim says. ‘Didn’t you find the note I left at your house?’

  ‘No,’ I say, blushing. ‘I’ve been out all day with my parents. Thanks.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Joy asks. ‘Do you want some tea? Shall I go and find Finn for you?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I say quickly. ‘I need to get back.’

  ‘You must bring your parents round for tea sometime,’ Joy says. ‘We’d love to meet them, wouldn’t we, Alex?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I understand your dad’s a bit of a naturalist himself.’

  ‘Fiona mentioned it,’ Joy explains. ‘Nothing stays secret for long on an island like this!’ She smiles.

  What else have they heard?

  ‘I can cycle over here tomorrow if that makes things easier,’ I say. ‘I’ve got the bike now. Finn lent it to me.’