Wednesday 14th August. The island has a different feel today. Even the air smells different. The sky is blue, but a different blue, more transparent, as if the air is thinner. Summer is shorter up here, or perhaps it simply starts earlier. The school holidays are different to ours too. Their Autumn term starts in mid-August rather than September, which explains why the blue school bus is whizzing along the island road first thing, picking up small groups of children along the way.
I watch it through the open front window in my pyjamas, cradling an early cup of tea. I’d no idea there were so many children living on the island. Where have they been all summer? Perhaps they take their holidays elsewhere . . .
A thought strikes me: Isla will be back at school this morning. My mood lifts. I don’t know why. Is it because last time I saw her, I felt she didn’t like me much? As if it was my fault that Finn went off. Anyway, if she’s at school all day, there’s less chance of seeing her. And Finn won’t be moping about, wondering whether he’s going to bump into her and Tim. Only Tim isn’t around either – it seems he had work to do on the mainland. He’ll be back on the Friday boat.
Mum joins me at the window. ‘Can you imagine going to school here?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I actually can.’
‘Really?’
I shrug. ‘Why not? It would be a small school, but that would be cool. You’d know everyone. Easy to get to: the bus picks you up. And after school you could go straight down to the beach.’
Mum laughs. ‘What’s happened to you, Kate?’
‘Your island magic, I guess,’ I say.
Mum sighs heavily. ‘Shame it didn’t work on your dad,’ she says.
‘We’re not talking about him, remember?’ I say.
‘Still? For how long?’ Mum asks.
‘For however long it takes. Till we both feel fine again.’
‘You are such an inspiration,’ Mum says suddenly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Aw, Mum!’ I hug her. ‘That’s nice. But in reality, you’d be fine even if I wasn’t here.’
She doesn’t look convinced. ‘It’s such a big thing, starting all over again, at my age. I never, ever thought this would happen to us.’
‘You’re not that old,’ I tell her. ‘And new starts are good, aren’t they? Like a chance to do things differently, or do things you never did before. It might even be exciting!’
She shivers. ‘Maybe. Given time.’
‘I’m going to cycle to the community centre this morning,’ I say. ‘I want to use the computers there.’
‘Good idea,’ Mum says. ‘I’m going to sort things out here, tidy up a bit. Plan the dinner for Friday. I might have a walk later, if the sun stays out.’
You have to pay to use the computers, so I do a very quick search about the birds, and protected areas and print out the relevant pages to show Finn later. I check Facebook and emails before the money runs out: Molly’s posted photos from Cornwall, and I read the updates on Bonnie’s blog from Spain, but apart from that I’ve not missed anything really. It’s weird how loads of things which seemed so important when I was at home have all dropped away since I’ve been here.
The community café is almost empty: I have to ring the bell at the counter and wait for someone to come and serve me.
A middle-aged bloke with scruffy hair and a beard appears after a while. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Just got off the morning ferry. Catching up with things. What can I get you? Coffee? Tea?’
‘Tea, please,’ I say.
He fills an old-fashioned kettle, takes a china teapot down from a shelf, lays a tray with a cup and saucer. ‘Have a free cake,’ he says, opening up a plastic box. ‘I made them at the weekend: they got a bit squashed on the way back.’
I pick out a cupcake with pink and white icing. ‘Thanks,’ I say.
He disappears out the back again. I settle down at the window table where I sat before with Finn. I read through the pages from the environment site. It looks promising: there’s lots of evidence already about the importance of the island as a habitat for loads of rare birds: the divers, but also corncrakes, and redshanks, ringed plovers . . .
‘Hey, Kate!’
Finn’s standing right in front of me.
‘Talk of the devil,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I called at yours. Your mum said you’d be here.’
‘I’ve been researching your birds.’
‘Thanks!’ he says, sitting down opposite me. ‘I’ve done the same thing. Found masses of stuff. We’ve definitely got a case.’
He tells me that more than forty-two per cent of the British population of the great northern divers have their wintering grounds here. ‘That’s way over the numbers you need to make a case for an SPA. The fact that no one else has even mentioned it suggests there’s been some sort of cover-up.’
I laugh. ‘You’re so suspicious!’
‘You’re not?’
‘Well, what are we going to do about it?’
‘Get the facts. Send lots of letters. Get a proper campaign off the ground.’
‘I’ve been thinking too,’ I say. ‘You should put together your own exhibition, about all the things you love about this place. Photos of the rare birds and the amazing beaches and quiet roads and the peat beds and crofts and all the things that would disappear if the wind farm came too close. The traditions of farming and fishing and all that. We could take loads of stunning photos. Write about it. Collect stuff . . . I don’t know, maybe record sounds, like a sound poem or something – bird calls and the sound of the sea and the wind blowing through the fields of barley, and people talking about what they love about living here . . .’ My voice falters. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Because you’re a genius,’ Finn says. ‘And I’ve never heard you say so much in one go!’ He laughs. ‘It’s a brilliant idea. Tim’s right, calling you clever Kate!’
I blush.
Finn doesn’t notice. He pushes his chair back. ‘Don’t know why I didn’t think of doing something like this before. Guess I’ve not really been thinking straight. Got too gloomy.’
‘We should get everyone involved,’ I say. ‘Even people like Mackie, and Isla’s dad, as well as your family.’ I’m getting even more carried away now, ideas spinning round my brain. ‘Tim’s always wanted to do broadcast journalism; this could be his chance. And your brothers could compose music – an island symphony or something. We could ask the museum people to help, and the school. Isla – we have to have Isla, because she belongs here properly, she was born here. Her voice counts for more than any of us . . .’
It’s Finn’s turn to blush. ‘Of course, Isla.’
‘I’ll help a bit,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve only got another week here, but I can help you get started. When do you have to go back to school?’
Finn gets up without answering. He rings the bell at the counter and orders a coffee for himself. I watch him. What have I gone and said now? He’s so oversensitive. Was it me mentioning Isla?
He comes back and sits down. He runs his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t think I am.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not going back.’
I wait for him to explain. He doesn’t speak for ages. He sips his coffee, I pour another cup of tea.
‘I had a long talk with my parents,’ he says. ‘About the time I went off before, and how much I hate being at boarding school, and all that. And they said I can stay here. Don’t have to go back to finish A levels at school if I really can’t stand it. And I can’t. So I’m going to live here, get a job of some kind. I can always go to the island school later if I change my mind about getting exams.’
‘You lucky thing!’ I say. ‘Your parents are amazing. What did you say to convince them?’
‘I talked about what I really feel, being away. Boarding. And about what makes me happy. And they listened, and at last they understood.’
‘Have you told Isla?’
‘Not yet. I haven’t seen her.’
‘The thing with Tim won’t last,’ I say.
He looks up. ‘What makes you say that?’
I shrug. ‘Just a feeling. He’s gone over to the mainland for a few days. And he’ll have to go back to work properly soon. Out of sight, out of mind. And now you’ll be here all the year round!’ I smile at him, teasing. ‘How could she possibly resist?’
I look at his red face. ‘You two are meant for each other, Finn. It’s obvious. She just hasn’t seen it yet, but she will.’
Bonnie’s a much more sensible age for Tim. I don’t tell Finn that, but it’s what I realised ages ago. Not that I’m matchmaking, not really . . . and Tim’s not the sensible responsible person I first thought he was, so maybe he wouldn’t be right for Bonnie either.
‘What job will you get?’ I say.
‘We’re planning to start farming the croft properly, me and Alex,’ Finn says. ‘Start with a few sheep, chickens. Grow some vegetables. And maybe I’ll get an apprenticeship with one of the island builders, or learn to do plumbing or something useful.’
‘It’s such a good plan,’ I tell him. ‘It seems absolutely the right thing for you.’
He smiles at me. He suddenly looks so happy I can’t resist leaning over and giving him a kiss.
‘What’s that about?’ he says.
‘I’m happy for you,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’
We cycle back to the village together; Finn asks me back to his house for tea. I call in at home to tell Mum where I’ll be. Dad’s old camera is hanging from one of the coat pegs in the hall: I pick it up to show Finn. ‘Let’s practise taking photos,’ I say, ‘all the way to the Manse.’
We take it in turns, stopping along the road to take photos of the things we pass: traditional thatched houses with thick walls; two ruined chapels; a wooden gate tied with blue string and the blue sea behind. I laugh at Finn when he lies right down on the machair to photograph bees on wild flowers at eye level. He does the same with the dune grass blowing in the wind, catching the pattern of light and shade. We leave the bikes at the top of the beach and walk out along a finger of rock, photographing rock pools, interesting rock formations and colours, a washed-up lobster pot. I try to take a panoramic view of the wide bay: the expanse of sea and sky and wind-whipped clouds that I’ve grown to love so much. We cycle slowly on to the Manse. Finally we get there, park up the bikes. Finn photographs the two bikes leaning in together, against a backdrop of wall and peat stack.
Joy smiles as we come in to the kitchen. ‘You look cheerful,’ she says to Finn.
He tells her about our plan. He shows her the photos on the camera.
‘Not bad,’ she says. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘Can we borrow your laptop?’ Finn asks.
‘Go right ahead. It’s on my desk, under a pile of papers.’
Our pictures look even better on the laptop screen. Finn’s are a million times better than mine. He sees things differently: his are all more focused, closer up: the detail of a wild flower or a shell or the strange patterns made by tides on the sand. The close-up of the bee is amazing; you can even see the crumbs of pollen on its furry back.
‘We’ll need to get photos of those diving birds,’ I say, ‘seeing as they are crucial for getting the special protected area thing.’
I leave the camera with him when it’s time for me to go back. ‘It’s Dad’s,’ I tell him. ‘He left it behind. Mum won’t even notice. You can bring it back when you all come over to ours for supper on Friday.’
Joy says she’s looking forward to meeting Mum. ‘And it will be lovely to see one of your sisters again. I wonder if Piers and Jamie will remember her?’
On the way back I stop at the hill to check my phone. No new messages. At last, I send my reply to Sam.
You’d love this northern sky, and the stars you can see here: you should come, one day. I’ve even seen the aurora borealis! Hope you’re OK. Miss you. Kate