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.