This Northern Sky (7 page)

Dad doesn’t say anything.

‘Tea, Mum?’ I ask. ‘Shall I run you a bath?’

She nods. ‘Thanks. You made the right choice, staying here. I’m completely soaked. And the bike was rubbish.’

‘It was you who said we didn’t need to bring the car over,’ Dad says.

Mum glares at him. ‘I said I didn’t want to drive on the island. What’s that got to do with anything?’

I leave them to it.

From the bathroom I can hear their voices: Dad’s horribly level, rational tone of voice going on at Mum, while she gets more and more upset and angry . . .

The downstairs bedroom door slams.

I can’t stand this any longer. I find my jacket, and pull on boots, and go out.

I walk fast. My heart’s racing, my stomach twisted with worry. By the time I’ve been walking for half an hour I’ve calmed down a bit. The rain’s stopped; the wind’s dropped too, so the air is filled with different sounds: birds, and the waves, and the hum of bees on the machair. I walk past an old man and a boy herding three shaggy black cows out of a field and down the road, and the man raises his hand to me and says hello. It’s like a scene in a film, or a book, or something. It could be happening a hundred years ago. Perhaps it is. I glance back: they’re walking slowly, man and boy: the man’s holding the last cow’s tail in one hand as if he is steering it along. The boy’s dressed the same as the man: waterproof jacket, cords, boots. But they are real, and it is now.

I remember what Finn said about that stone. Places where time
collapses
. That would be weird, wouldn’t it, if you could be somewhere and just walk into the past like that? Not time travel exactly but to do with the way things go on happening in one place . . . like stepping through a gap in time, or because of some sort of emotional connection . . . when you are feeling something very strongly . . .

I realise there are tears on my face; I’m actually crying as I walk along. What’s happening with Mum and Dad . . . watching everything unravel . . . and there’s nothing I can do about it . . . I know it happens to lots of people, their parents split, and I’ve always thought it was the worst possible thing to happen and now it is going to happen to me.

Bonnie says all couples argue; it’s perfectly fine and healthy and normal in a relationship. Arguing doesn’t mean everything’s wrong. But she’s hardly ever around these days. She doesn’t hear what I hear. I never see them make up after they’ve argued. Dad’s so distant and cold. And Mum doesn’t even try to make things fun any more. It’s as if she’s given up. They seem more and more different from each other. They don’t even want to do the same things on holiday.

Luckily no cars pass me and there’s no one to see me crying. Eventually I stop.

I have never been anywhere where the sky seemed so huge. Mum says it’s because the island is almost flat. Sea in every direction. It’s so far out in the ocean the weather changes all the time, and the light changes too, so you see things that were invisible before, like the other islands in the distance. They seem to come and go, as if sometimes they are there, and sometimes not . . .

Nothing stays the same for long.

I hear a car engine, getting closer. I stop to look back. It’s a Land Rover or a jeep, I see now, and my heart gives a little leap. I stand back at one of the passing places to let it go by. It clatters over the next cattle grid, and then slows down, and I can see I was right to be hopeful. Piers is driving, and Finn is in the front passenger seat.

‘Where are you off to now?’ Piers asks. ‘Can we give you a lift?’

‘Just walking . . . not going anywhere in particular.’ It sounds lame.

Piers laughs. ‘We called for you this morning,’ he said. ‘But you were out walking then too. We thought you might come with us on a wee boating trip. To get cockles. Tomorrow or the next day, depending on the weather. When the wind drops, at least.’

‘Yes please,’ I say.

‘Why don’t you get in? We’re off to get fresh lobster from Isla’s dad. Come for the ride.’

‘Kate’s wanting to walk, Piers!’ Finn says.

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘’I’d like to come with you. Thanks.’

Piers turns the music up so loud there’s no point even trying to talk. It’s good, bowling along in the jeep, leaving my sad thoughts behind for a while at least.

We turn off up a narrow track and bump all the way to an old white cottage at the top. There’s a sign:
Fresh lobsters for sale
. While Piers goes in, I stay in the jeep with Finn. He switches off the music.

‘Sorry,’ Finn says. ‘Piers is impossible sometimes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The way he just crashes over anyone else’s plans. But he means well.’

‘I know that,’ I say.

‘Where were you going really?’

‘Just walking. To get out of the house. It’s unbearable. My parents . . .’

Finn turns so he’s looking at me. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Arguing and stuff. It’s always like this now. I think they’re going to split up.’

He doesn’t say anything.

A girl comes out of the house and stands there a moment. She’s really pretty. I glance at Finn, but he hasn’t seen her. The girl goes back inside.

Piers comes out carrying a plastic bucket and passes it to me to put on the back seat. The lobsters are still alive, clattering over each other, shiny blue. He puts the lid on and clicks it tight. ‘Can you hold the bucket steady so the water doesn’t slop everywhere?’

‘I’ll do that,’ Finn says. ‘Swap seats?

‘Isla was asking after you,’ Piers says to Finn. ‘I gave her your best wishes. I invited her to come out with us in the boat too.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said she’d love to.’

Piers starts up the engine. He turns the jeep in front of the house and skids on loose gravel. I see a face at the window: that girl again, who I imagine must be Isla. For a moment our eyes meet but neither of us smiles or waves or anything.

‘You’re quiet,’ Piers says to me.

‘She’s fine,’ Finn says. ‘Don’t take any notice, Kate.’

I haven’t got anything interesting to say . . . my head’s a blank. But Piers doesn’t seem that bothered, he chats on to Finn about wetsuits and windsurfing, and I look out of the window. The lobsters clatter and scrabble in their plastic bucket. It’s a horrible sound.

‘Come back for tea with us,’ Finn says, when we’re almost back at the village.

‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

He’s being kind. He knows I don’t want to go back to my house.

‘Can we stop a minute, so I can tell my parents where I am?’

Piers slows the jeep down as we get to the house, and pulls up on the grass in front.

Dad’s reading in the front window seat. He waves through the window.

I run inside.

‘I’m having tea at the Manse,’ I tell him. ‘They’re waiting for me in the jeep so I can’t stop.’ I run out again before he has a chance to say anything.

Nine

The Manse sitting room is cosy with old sofas and soft chairs and a green carpet, and on every surface there are piles of newspapers, letters and bits of paper.

Finn seems distracted. He leafs through a pile of papers on one of the chintzy armchairs. ‘You know about the wind farm project?’ he says.

I shake my head.

‘There’s a plan to build a huge wind farm just off the west coast of the island.’

‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ I say.

‘No!’ Finn huffs. ‘It most certainly is not. It’s a massive disaster on every count. It will totally ruin this island. And the so-called public consultation’s a joke. There’s big money involved, of course. There always is. Business interests. Politics. It’s totally corrupt.’

I think for a bit about what I can say that doesn’t make me look like a total idiot. ‘I thought wind energy was a good idea,’ I say. ‘Like it’s green, and renewable, and better than nuclear power stations. Isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes, but it’s the scale of this project, and where they are planning to put it,’ Finn says. ‘Each turbine will be HUGE, built up on a platform, and they’ll be lit up at night. Because the island is so flat you’ll be able to see them from all over the island. Five kilometres is ridiculously close. And they’re planning maybe five hundred turbines, could be seven hundred. Bigger than any of the existing wind farms. The government want to pour money into it because it’s part of some strategy for renewable energy for the UK, but they haven’t thought any of it through. For a start the waves round this island are too high: even the maintenance boats won’t be able to get through most of the year. And wind power’s incredibly inefficient.’

Piers comes in. ‘Talking about the wind farm by any chance, Finn? Kate’s got that glazed-over look!’

I so have not
, I’m about to say . . . but just in time I realise it’s only banter between brothers. He’s winding Finn up.

Finn scowls. ‘You’ll be the first to complain when they do build it, Piers.’

‘If.’ Piers sits down with us at the table and pours himself tea. ‘Urgh. Cold!’ He leans forwards. ‘So, Kate, what’s your view?’

‘I – I don’t really know. I’ve only just heard about it.’

‘Well, you’ll hear a lot more. Finn’s obsessed. But don’t let him brainwash you.’

Finn looks furious. ‘Have you finished?’ he says to Piers. ‘Why don’t you go and cook your lobsters or do something useful?’

‘Good idea.’

Finn’s quiet once Piers has left. I don’t know what to say. I finish my tea. Perhaps I should just go.

‘About the boat trip,’ I say. ‘Is it still OK for me to come?’

He looks up. ‘Yes, of course. We’ll go tomorrow if it’s fair. Everything depends on the weather here. I expect you’ve noticed.’

I nod.

‘Sorry about your parents,’ Finn says. ‘You know – the arguing and that. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Thanks though.’

I’m embarrassed now. As if my worries are of any interest to Finn. ‘I’d better go back,’ I say. ‘I’ll walk. I like the walk.’

‘Listen to the shipping forecast,’ Finn says. ‘Late tonight or early tomorrow morning on the radio. So you can tell whether we’ll be going or not. If the wind’s dropped enough, and it’s dry, we’ll come for you on the ebb tide – three-ish. Yes?’

I nod. ‘What do I need to bring?’

‘Waterproofs, boots – if you’ve got them. You’ll get wet in any case.’

On the way back I stop to check my phone when I get to the hilly bit. There’s one bar of signal: I wait for my messages to flash up, but there aren’t any. Not one. Not even from my sisters or Molly, my friend from school. The urge to send one to Sam is so strong it’s all I can do to stop myself. Is he allowed to have his phone with him? I don’t even know that. But I promised myself I wouldn’t phone him first . . .

Now I’m remembering a happy time, under the tree in the park near his nan’s house, about a week before he passed his driving test. Early June, hot and sunny in the late afternoon. I’m lying with my head on his chest, we’re both dozing in the heat. I open my eyes, and for a second I can’t work out what I’m seeing. Leaves falling? Petals? But no, it’s white butterflies, hundreds of them, as if they’ve just hatched out from their chrysalises, and they are floating and spinning in the sunlight that filters through the tree. ‘Look, Sam!’ I say, and he opens his eyes and watches them with me. And then he sits up and leans over my face and he kisses me, and all around us the air is full of fluttering white wings.

A tree full of white butterflies.

A long, soft kiss.

It’s the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me.

I didn’t tell anyone about it; not even Molly. And I’m glad now, seeing what happened after.

Ten

Hebrides

Southwesterly

gale force 8 expected later.

Sea state rough

or very rough.

Occasional rain or showers.

Visibility moderate or good,

occasionally poor.

Hebrides

Gale warning.

Southwesterly

gale force 8, veering west,

severe gale 9 to 10,

violent storm.

Rain, then squally showers.

Visibility poor,

becoming moderate.

Hebrides

Westerly

veering southwest 6 to 7,

gale 8 expected later.

Rain.

Eleven

The storm lasts three days. Rain and wind batter the house. The sea is slate-grey, the waves lashed with white. We light the peat stove in the sitting room: it feels like winter. The cloud is so low you can’t see more than a few metres out to sea; the windows fog up and even the air inside the house feels salty damp.

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.