Mum and Dad are having some sort of horrible row downstairs. It’s been going on and on for hours, it seems. Shouting first, and then quiet sobbing, and now raised voices I can hear even with the pillow wrapped round my ears. Words fly out like sparks.
No!
Why not?
Trust . . .
Unbearable.
I stand on the bed so I can push open the skylight and let the sound of the sea wash over me instead, and feel the air – sharp as a blade this early morning. I get dressed – jeans, jumper, even though it’s summer – and run down the stairs and out of the door so I don’t have to see either of them or hear any more angry words.
I don’t care where I go – I just need to get away fast. A bike would be good but there isn’t one so I start running. The sheep sheltering next to the fence scatter, baaing at me as I rush past. ‘Stupid things!’ I shout, and the wind whips my words away like the gulls, blown and buffeted as if they’re just scraps of white paper.
I’m already in the village – village is a huge overstatement – before I even think where I’m going. I’m suddenly self-conscious. People outside the shop are staring at me. I slow down. I guess they don’t see that many strangers. They nod when I get nearer, and say Good Morning in that soft accent they have here. I keep my head down, don’t say anything. Soon as I’m past the shop and the telephone kiosk I start running again.
The road goes over a cattle grid and up a hill. I keep running until my ribs ache. At the top I stop to catch my breath. You can see for miles. The road ribbons its way over the rough moorland; a narrow track forks off and winds all the way back down to the sea and along towards a large white house set on a higher bit of ground. That must be the Manse; Mum pointed it out when the ferry came in, all lit up even at that late hour.
I can see someone fishing off the rocks. I suddenly wish I’d brought a book or something to do, and then I remember the notebook shoved in my pocket so that’s OK. I can just go and sit by the sea somewhere and write and I won’t look too weird. Then I can work out what to do next. There’s no way I’m going back yet.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Up here you can get a signal, then. For a second I let myself hope it’s from Sam.
It’s a message from Bonnie.
U OK? Have fun! Hope sun shining. xx
I send one back. Windy! No sun yet. I pause. I can’t tell Bonnie that Mum and Dad are arguing already. I think what to say instead. Do you remember twin boys at the Manse?
Bonnie’s working this summer on some organic farm in northern Spain. Hannah has a proper job in London. I thought I’d got used to my sisters being away, but it’s been much harder this year. Sometimes I make myself think what to do if things get really bad. Like if Mum and Dad actually split up. There’s no way I am going to choose which one to live with. I might go and live with Hannah in her flat in London, if she’ll have me. Bonnie and I are closer really, but Bonnie lives in a messy student house and there’s no spare room.
Another text from Bonnie. Yes! Weird, remembering. Have u met them?
I start walking towards the Manse. Might as well go that way as any other. I try sending a reply to Bonnie, but there’s no signal. I guess I’m not high enough now. I feel like a tiny ant, a dot on the landscape. No trees. Nowhere to hide. Anyone looking could see me arriving for miles. The figure fishing off the rocks has disappeared.
Closer up, the Manse looks a bit tatty and dilapidated. It’s a big house with a walled garden, but the plaster’s peeling off the walls. There’s no sign of any one there. But it’s early enough for people to be in bed still on a Sunday morning. Or at church. Maybe they all go to church. Everyone’s very religious on the island, Mum says. You can’t work on a Sunday: you’re not even supposed to hang out the washing.
The sound of a car makes me stop. It’s an old black taxicab, slowly bumping down the track. I stand back to let it pass, and the driver slows right down, winds down the window and does that old-fashioned thing of lifting his hat, being ever so polite. An old bloke, about fifty, with grey hair and a tweed hat and a weather-beaten face.
‘Much obliged,’ he says. ‘Can we offer you a lift somewhere?’
‘No thanks,’ I say.
‘Enjoying the views?’
‘Yes.’
The woman in the passenger seat leans over and smiles. ‘You’re here for the holidays?’
I nod.
‘We’ll see you again, then.’
They drive on, bouncing and juddering over the rough ground. I watch them go. The car – taxi – turns into the space by the edge of the Manse and the man and the woman get out and go into the house. The woman’s small, grey-haired, wearing a green woolly jumper and a purple skirt. They don’t look smart or rich or anything like what I expected from what Mum said.
The boy with the fishing rod walks across the grass and goes into the house too. I’m pretty sure it’s the same boy I saw before. Thin dark hair, blue jumper.
What now? I’m cold and starting to get hungry. But it’s too soon to walk back. I walk on, past the Manse, and along next to the sea, and on, and on, even though my feet are tired and I don’t know where I’m heading any more.
I find a sheltered place to sit, out of the wind and hidden from view. I write in my notebook for a while. When I next look up, the ferry’s crossing the Sound, coming slowly towards the island. I watch it come closer, turn and manoeuvre to get into position for docking at the tiny island pier.
I’m so caught up with it that I don’t hear the sound of bike wheels until they’re right up close and the boy has got off and is coming towards me, smiling. One of the bike wheels spins slowly where he left it on the edge of the track.
‘Hey!’ he says. ‘You again!’
He climbs on the rock next to mine. ‘The ferry’s nearly in,’ he says. ‘My brother will be arriving.’ He looks at me. ‘You’re staying in the village: Fiona’s house.’
It’s a statement; I don’t need to answer luckily. For some reason I’m suddenly feeling shy. I notice his eyes: clear, grey-blue. I twist my messy, wind-blown hair back from my face.
‘I’m Finn,’ he says. ‘From the Manse.’
‘My sisters knew your brothers,’ I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
He looks at me more closely.
‘Way back, when they were seven and nine,’ I add. ‘I was just a baby.’
‘Ah. Ages ago, then,’ Finn says. He sounds English; only the very slightest hint of something else. ‘You look cold. What are you doing? You’ve been there for ages.’
I look at him sharply. What business is it of his? I don’t like the thought of being watched. I’d thought I was hidden, leant against the rock.
‘Why do I have to be doing anything?’ I say. It comes out wrong, makes me sound crosser than I am.
‘You don’t,’ Finn says. ‘Sorry. Anyway, I’ve got to go down to the pier now or I’ll miss them. Nice to meet you.’
‘You too.’ I’m embarrassed now about sounding rude. But I can’t think what else to say.
He’s still hovering there, as if he’s waiting for something.
‘I’m Kate,’ I say, to break the silence.
‘Nice name,’ he says. He picks up the bike, gets on, pedals off.
I get up, pick up my bag. Meeting him has unsettled me, somehow. I’m too restless to stay sitting there by myself. Too cold. If the ferry is in, the café might open up, and I can get a coffee at least. I make my way along the shore: a short cut back to the village which I couldn’t see before. Only it’s hard work, walking on damp sand into the wind, and it takes almost as long as the road in the end. I think about the boy called Finn: well-spoken, a bit like the man in the cab who I guess is his dad. Private school, loaded. You can tell that from how confident he is. So, they’re one big happy family all on holiday together. About as different from me as I can imagine.
The café is open. It’s like something out of the 1950s. No cappuccino machine or anything, just coffee from a tin and big china teapots and cups and saucers and tablecloths. At least it’s warm and out of the wind and the man behind the counter makes me a toasted sandwich with bacon and the whole thing costs less than £2.50 which you’d never get back home. No, we can’t sell you a whisky, he tells some old bloke off the ferry; not on a Sunday. You know that.
I sit at the window. I’m half looking out for Finn and his brother. Three cars go past with older couples in, and then a muddy jeep driven by a bloke about Bonnie’s age with a girl in the front passenger seat and I can’t see who else. I guess that might be them, but there’s no sign of Finn or his bike.
I finish my sandwich. The café fills up with more people who stare and smile. They all seem to know each other; it’s really obvious I don’t belong. I decide to go back to the house. Fiona’s house, Finn called it.
It’s dead quiet inside.
‘Mum?’ I call out as I take off my sandy shoes.
No one’s home. Mum’s left a note on the table.
We’re walking to Hynish Bay. Join us when you wake up! We’ve left you the map. It’s easy to find the way. Hope you slept well. xx
I spread out the map, to see where they’ve gone. It’s miles away. Still, they can talk and sort things out without me having to hear it all. It’s weird that they didn’t have a clue I was already up and out hours ago. Odd they didn’t check. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe they made up after their argument and were so wrapped up in each other . . .
There’s no point just sitting around here all day. I put my jacket back on and pick up the map and a bottle of water. I find my swimming things too, just in case, and shove everything in my bag. I put on proper walking boots this time and pull the door shut behind me.
The air smells of salt. The wind has dropped a bit and now the sun’s higher it feels almost warm. Tiny brown birds flit from one clump of heather to the next. It’s so flat you can see for miles. Sea in all directions. The bluest sky, thin wisps of high cloud.