This Northern Sky (13 page)

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.’

‘OK. That’s a good idea. Then you and Finn can make your own way to the beach. But if there’s anything heavy you want to bring, we can shove it in the back of the jeep easy enough.’

‘Just bring yourself!’ Tim says. ‘That’s all that’s needed.’

‘And some warm clothes!’ Joy smiles. ‘It’ll get chilly at night, even with a fire. We’ll bundle a whole load of sleeping bags into the jeep, just in case.’

I walk back to the village. A boat trip’s about to leave: a crowd of people are standing at the end of the old pier waiting to go on board. There’s a family with three little girls in straw sunhats. I swallow hard. That’s how we must have looked once: a happy family on holiday together.

Someone’s in the red phone box. For a second I’m thinking
Dad
and then I see it’s not: some man about the same age, but wearing a suit. Weird. He’ll be someone to do with the wind farm project, I guess. Someone official. Poor Finn, I think. Wanting so much to stop things changing. And you just can’t sometimes.

Mum looks up as I go inside the house. ‘Everything OK?’

I nod. ‘How was the pottery?’

‘Interesting. Lots of lovely things. See what we got?’ She shows me two coffee cups.

Blue, gold.

A hare, running.

They’re beautiful.

‘Dad bought them for me,’ she says.

He’s watching birds through the binoculars, as usual. But there’s a notebook open beside him on the windowsill, a pen beside it; something scribbled in black ink.

Something shifts inside me, seeing that: almost a click, like a key turning in a lock. Hard to say what it means: just the tiniest bubble of hope.

At bedtime, I lie awake under the open window, watching the stars. This time tomorrow, I’ll be out all night, on a beach. Anything might happen. Anything at all.

Because nothing stands still.

Nothing.

Not people, or feelings, or the world itself, turning, turning.

Eighteen

Finn is waiting for me at the Manse: I’m late. The others have already left.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It took longer than I thought by bike.’

‘I’m not surprised, with all that on the back! What on earth have you brought?’

‘Just a cake, and a bottle, and extra clothes in case it’s cold.’

‘How sensible you are,’ he says, in a way which makes me wish I wasn’t.

‘I’m thirsty already,’ I say. ‘Can I have a glass of water before we set off?’

Joy’s in the kitchen. She runs the tap for me so the water’s dead cold and fills the glass.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

Suddenly the Manse kitchen seems so cosy and familiar and warm I wish I could stay longer. A bit of me longs to tell Joy what’s happened to me and Mum and Dad. I just know she’d be kind and put her arms round me and hold me for a moment, make me feel safe.

But Joy’s busy. She waves us off. ‘Have a lovely night. It’s absolutely perfect: almost balmy. You’ll see the sun set, and the stars come out, and before you know it, it’ll be dawn.’

‘Is it far?’ I ask Finn.

‘Five miles or so,’ he says.

We push up the hill towards the road. Finn seems distracted.

‘Have you had a nice day?’ I ask him. ‘Did you do lots of birthday things for Tim?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘He was out most of the day, getting stuff ready for his party. He’s Piers’s and Jamie’s friend, not mine, in any case.’

We plod on up the hill.

‘I went back to that exhibition,’ he says.

‘And?’

‘And nothing.’ He looks at me. ‘Why don’t you give me that bag? It’ll make your bike easier to push.’

‘OK. If you’re sure. Thanks, Finn,’ I say.

He waits while I untie the bag and hand it over. I can’t work out what’s the matter with him. Is it the wind farm stuff, or something to do with Tim, or is it me?

He seems happier as soon as we get to the road and can actually cycle. The road flattens and straightens; we bowl along at a good speed, the wind behind us. The sky is deep blue, fading to turquoise and green. The road is empty; the fields either side are gold with ripe barley; all I can hear is the swish of the bike wheels, the occasional baaing of sheep, the wind in the grass. It’s as if we are cycling to the end of the earth. What was that word?
Finisterre .
. .

‘OK,’ Finn says, slowing down. ‘The beach is just over there. We can go the long way round by the road, or take a short cut over the grass. Short cut?’

I nod.

We get off and push the bikes over the machair and down a steep bank of dunes. There’s no proper path. The bike wheels stick in the sand; the sharp edges of marram grass scratch my bare legs as we push our way through. Should’ve worn jeans, like I usually do, but Isla always wears skirts, and this once I thought I would. It is a party, after all . . .

‘Oh, wow! It’s beautiful!’ I say, as we come over the top of the dunes to the other side. It’s another amazing beach, with gleaming white sand: crushed shell, and turquoise sea. I can see people swimming, way out.

Tim’s set up camp further along the sand: the jeep’s parked up on a strip of grass where the track comes down to the beach from the road. We push the bikes along the beach in that direction. It’s hard work, through soft sand.

Piers and Jamie are building a fire at the top of the beach next to an outcrop of striped rock. Bags and boxes are piled up nearby.

Tim waves as we get closer.

I wave back. ‘Happy Birthday!’ I call.

Isla’s already here, looking amazing in a pale green dress, her hair loose down her back. She’s sitting next to Tim, opening bottles of beer and handing them round. She passes a bottle to Finn.

‘Kate?’ She offers me one but I shake my head. She laughs. ‘I forgot; you’re only fifteen.’

‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘I don’t like beer, that’s all.’

‘Well, there’s plenty of other stuff.’ She waves her arm towards the boxes stacked on the rocks. ‘Help yourself.’

The fire starts to crackle and spit and send up sparks. The damp bits of wood sizzle and steam.

Thea and Clara run up the beach, dripping from their swim, and dash off again, playing tag and larking about, laughing. Piers and Jamie watch them.

Tim does too. He grins at Isla. ‘Surprised you didn’t swim. You usually do.’

‘I am full of surprises.’ She’s blatantly flirting with him. ‘There’s plenty of time for swimming, in any case.’