Authors: Julia Green
This Northern Sky
For Jesse and Jack
With love
Contents
Rockall, Malin, Hebrides, Bailey
Wind southwesterly 5 to 7,
becoming cyclonic 6 to gale 8 later;
severe gale 9 later.
Sea state moderate,
becoming rough or very rough later.
Showers then rain.
Visibility moderate,
occasionally poor.
I’m thinking about this photograph Sam showed me. We were round at his nan’s after school. I’d been worrying about stuff – my parents, as usual. All their arguing, and the silences, which were worse. Sam used to listen, kind of, while I went on about it.
But right now, this particular afternoon in May, he was totally mesmerised by the picture he’d Googled. It was a photo of Earth, taken from the spacecraft Voyager, 3.7 billion miles away: the furthest away point
ever
that a photo’s been taken of our planet.
‘That tiny blue dot is where
we
live,’ Sam said. ‘Where all the people who have
ever
lived have spent their entire lives. It’s smaller than a speck of dust in sunlight.’ He looked at me. ‘What does that make you think, Kate?’
I peered at the picture again. The Earth was just a distant spot, absolutely
tiny
, caught in a ray of light, and around it was space: dark nothing, stretching for ever. ‘I suppose it shows how small and insignificant we are. Like nothing we do or don’t do is so important, in the grand scheme of things.’ I smiled back at him. ‘So maybe I shouldn’t worry about things so much. Is that what you mean?’
Sam sighed. It wasn’t what he wanted me to say, obviously. He carried on scrolling down the screen, reading the text, checking out photos as if I wasn’t there at all. And it was time for me to go home by then, in any case. He was about to have a driving lesson – paid for by his nan, even though she hardly had any money. But she didn’t want him getting a job.
Not while you’re studying. This is your big opportunity, Sam. You’re the first one in this family with a chance of going to university .
. .
So, thinking about it now, perhaps Sam was simply imagining himself in the spacecraft, with that view of the spinning world from far off in space. He was going to be an astronaut, or some kind of astrophysicist, just as soon as he could get away. If he could hang on long enough at school to get his exams. If he could stop himself doing something random and crazy. If he could get the money.
If if if.
We’ve been on this train for hours: Mum, Dad and me. Each hour takes me further from home. After everything that’s happened, you’d think I’d be glad about that, but I’m not. I’m hot, and tired, and I’m trying not to think about Sam, and the mess he
did
make, after all.
I’ve got the window seat, at least. The train flashes past hundreds of small scenes: freeze-frames from other people’s lives. Two kids on a bridge over a river – a park with swings – a toddler in a pushchair holding a balloon. Chimneys – canal – motorway – row after row of brick terraced houses. A party in a sunny back garden – a gang of boys on bikes doing wheelies on a building site . . .
It all changes again. Now there are just fields: mile after mile of green, and acres of sky.
Pine forests.
Bare hills.
Moorland.
Sheep.
Tall pink flowers grow like spears along the railway embankment. Thistledown wafts in the draught from the speeding train.
The train slows down. Signals, I presume. We wait for ages in the middle of nowhere. I stare at a small white house tucked under the bulk of a smooth green hill. With four windows and a door in the middle and chimneys at each end of the tiled roof, it’s like a storybook house, from when I was little and Dad read to me at bedtime and things were happy and uncomplicated. A long time ago.
We pick up speed again. On and on and on.
The crowded train begins to empty out at each station.
Mum falls asleep in the seat opposite me. Her head lolls against Dad’s shoulder and he shifts away slightly. He’s been reading the whole way. There’s this horrible tense silence between them. We haven’t left that behind, then.
I think about what Mum said to make me come with them, and the way her voice faltered, as if she was going to cry.
This might be the last time. Please, Kate. For my sake, and Dad’s. We really, really need this holiday. Perhaps if I can get Dad away from work and everything .
. .
My head aches. Too hot. I lean it against the cool of the glass, but the window shakes too much for me to rest there for long.
The sky gets darker, the shadows lengthen.
Still the train rushes on.
There’s a brief flurry of activity when we have to change trains at Glasgow, on to a smaller one. Mum’s anxious we’re going to miss the connection: it’s the last train this evening. There won’t be another till the morning. Dad’s obviously irritated with her, but he doesn’t say much to me except
hurry up, keep up
. I trail behind them across the busy station concourse, weaving between people, my stupid bag bumping along on its clapped-out wheels.
The train’s waiting. We’ve got booked seats, but it’s not crowded like the last one. The two carriages rattle up the valley next to a loch for miles and miles. It’s late, but there is still light in the sky, enough to see by.
Finally we’re at the end of the line. We get off and join a huddle of people making their way to the ferry terminal. I veer off, to walk to the end of the pier next to the terminal building. Lights stretch out in wiggly lines over the dark water. It’s blowing a gale.
Mum comes after me. ‘Pull your hood up, Kate, for goodness’ sake! Or take my scarf.’
I don’t say anything.
‘And please come back in a minute and wait inside, like everyone else.’ She hurries back to the brick building at the edge of the car park.
We’ve been travelling all day and we’re still not there yet.
The men on the ferry shout to each other, coil huge ropes, hose down the deck. Finally everything’s ready. They let the cars on first, then the foot passengers. I wait till the very last minute before I turn back and join my parents at the back of the queue.
Dad’s furious. ‘Why do you always have to go off at exactly the wrong moment?’
‘So?’ I say. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I? What’s the problem, exactly?’
‘Stop it, both of you,’ Mum says. ‘Everyone’s tired; let’s all make an effort. Please.’
We dump our luggage in the special compartment on the middle deck. I go up the stairs and outside on to the deck at the back of the ferry. The horn blasts out and there’s a stink of engine diesel. The ferry swings out across the water. I stand right at the edge, leaning over the rail. If you fell off, no one would know. The wind is like ice, and this is high summer.
Mum again. ‘Come and sit down in the warm, Kate. There’s another three hours at least. You’re making me nervous, doing that.’
The water is deep and dark. It shines like treacle in the lights from the boat. You’d go down, down, down.
Mum gives up on me and goes back inside. I watch her and Dad through the window. At least they’re talking, now, even if it is about me. Mum gets up and goes to the bar. Dad opens his book again.
Black water.
Grey-black sky.
The ferry creaks and sighs. On the car deck below, the cars and vans slide and clank as the ferry ploughs on, out across the open sea.
Dark shapes loom against the grey – other islands.
Every so often, a tiny light winks out into the darkness.
The crossing takes hours. Finally the low shape of the island looms ahead; Mum points out a white house on a headland. The engine roars as the ferry slows down and turns to reverse into position to dock. We stumble off down the gangplank once the cars have disembarked. A taxi’s waiting for us. Dad helps the man load our bags into the boot. Mum slides into the back seat and leans over to hold the door open while I climb in.
The taxi man says something to Mum but his accent is so strong I can’t understand a word. I could die from tiredness.
‘Yes, four weeks. Lucky us,’ Mum says back. ‘It’s good to be here again. It’s been a long time.’
Dad watches the road ahead intently. The man’s driving too fast: Dad’s having to stop himself saying something. I know because of the way he’s hunched up and silent, and because I can’t bear it either. I’m thinking of Sam, of course, and that horrible night, the glare of lights . . .
Here, there are no street lights, no houses or anything. Rain spatters against the windows like handfuls of gravel. We rattle over a cattle grid and the taxi slows down and veers off to the right, on to a bumpy track. It stops. The engine’s still running. He piles the luggage on to the grass and is off again the minute Dad’s paid him.
We stand there a moment, all three of us, watching the red tail lights fade and disappear into the night. There’s this rushing sound, like white noise.
The sound of nothing.
‘Well, this is it,’ Mum says. ‘We’ve arrived.’
Dad picks up two of the bags, Mum opens the unlocked door. She has to shove it with her whole body. ‘Wood’s warped,’ Dad says. ‘Damp.’
I follow them in.
‘Choose either room upstairs,’ Mum says to me. ‘We’ll take the double room downstairs, won’t we?’ She glances at Dad, only for a second, fleetingly, but I notice all the same. Something flickers across his face too. He doesn’t say anything. In the electric light his face looks washed out.
I stand at the top of the stairs to examine the rooms. Each has a sloping roof, Velux skylight windows, bare wooden floor with a sheepskin rug, a single bed, a chair, a chest of drawers and a shelf for books. I choose the one at the front, with an extra low window you can see straight through when you lie down on the bed. It’s a square of black right now.
It’s the middle of the night. I kick off my shoes, undress and climb under the duvet. Voices drift upstairs: a kettle flicks on; a door closes.
