The wind’s stronger than ever on Thursday. Mum and I listen to the shipping forecast: force 8 winds expected later.
‘Bonnie might not make it tomorrow,’ Mum says. ‘We’d better change the big dinner to Saturday, just in case the ferry doesn’t run. Would you cycle round and tell everyone, please?’
‘What! That’s miles!’ I say. ‘It’ll take me hours! Who have you invited, anyway?’
She shows me her list. ‘Anyone else you want to add?’
My mind keeps flitting to Dad, far away and missing us. Because I bet he is. I bet he goes on missing us. I bet he’ll never really not miss us, however much he pretends otherwise.
I set off on the bike after lunch. The wind’s blowing from the west, so I cycle to the Manse first, with the wind behind me. I lean the bike against the wall.
Joy’s in the garden, trying to peg the washing to the line. The wind tugs at the sheet as she pegs the corners, blows it out and then flaps it back so it wraps round her like a white cloak. She laughs as a pillowcase whips free and blows across the garden. ‘Catch it for me!’ she calls.
I run after it, snatch it up and put it back in the basket.
‘He’s on the computer,’ Joy says through the peg in her mouth. ‘Just go right in.’
‘It’s you I came to see, actually.’ I tell her about Saturday. ‘I’m going round the island to tell everyone about the change.’
‘Why don’t you leave the list of people with me?’ Joy says. ‘I can phone everyone in a fraction of the time it will take you on that old boneshaker! Unless you really want a long bike ride, of course?’
I laugh. ‘No. Not really. It’ll take me hours.’
‘And extra hard work in this wind,’ Joy says.
I help her hang out the rest of the clothes in the basket. We go inside together.
Joy smoothes her hair back where it’s come undone. She starts over again, uncoiling and shaking out her long grey hair before retwisting it, pinning it back up. Her face is pink from the wind and sun, her eyes bright. She’s happy in her own skin, I think. She doesn’t fuss about how she looks. This is how Isla will be when she’s Joy’s age. I feel a little pang of envy.
Joy’s filling the kettle and putting mugs on a tray. ‘He’s so much happier now he’s got a plan,’ she says.
‘Finn?’
‘Yes, Finn.’
‘He seems really happy he doesn’t have to go back to school,’ I say.
‘Well, we’ll see,’ Joy says. ‘The grass is always greener – you know? It’s not an easy life, farming. He has an awful lot to learn. He might be bored out of his skull, living with his aged parents all the time.’
But I know he won’t be. He’s got what he most wanted, after all.
‘And how are you, Kate?’ Joy asks, out of the blue. ‘I’m sorry about your dad leaving, I really am.’
I take a deep breath.
‘It’s very hard, but I’m going to be OK,’ I tell her. ‘Being on the island has helped me in so many ways. I didn’t expect that. But I love it here now. Meeting Finn, and all of you – well, it’s made a big difference to me.’
Joy hugs me. ‘I’m glad,’ she says. ‘You’ve made a difference to us too. Especially Finn. I hope you know that. And you’ll always be welcome here.’
I find Finn in the sitting room, engrossed at the laptop on Joy’s desk. He looks round when I say hello: he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me.
‘I’ve booked the hall for the first week in September,’ he says, as if we’ve been mid-conversation all the while. ‘So now we have to get everything together really quickly. Find a way to display the photographs. It’s got to look professional.’
‘It doesn’t have to look slick,’ I say. ‘The whole point is that it’s ordinary people, talking about what they love and value. It should look home-made. From the heart.’
‘We’ve got to convince people first,’ Finn says. ‘They might not want anything to do with it.’
I think for a bit. ‘Maybe it shouldn’t look too political,’ I say. ‘Maybe the focus should be on celebrating and recording something real and important about the island. Maybe that’s what would bring everyone on board. And that might be the most effective thing of all. People working together.’
‘I’m seeing Isla this afternoon,’ Finn says. ‘I’m going to talk to her first of all.’
I smile, but I don’t say anything. I draw up a chair, and we start looking at all the photos Finn’s taken since I left him yesterday. A sequence of the sun setting behind the off-islands with layers of mist; sea breaking on to the sand in early morning light; sheep and half-grown lambs walking along the road above the Manse. A flock of lapwings taking off in flight above the loch; geese flying in a ‘V’ across a cloud-streaked sky; black and white oystercatchers standing in a row along the rocks, all facing the newly risen sun, like the morning after the party.
‘You’re a natural,’ I say. ‘These are gorgeous, Finn.’
He shows me his notes about people he wants to talk to. Not just the fishermen and crofters, but the people in the ferry office, and the shopworkers and postman and the café owner and the mechanic at the garage.
It really might work, I think. It’s worth trying, at least. It’s good seeing how much energy Finn has for his new project.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ I ask him. ‘Your house seems really quiet.’
Finn shrugs. ‘No idea. I think Jamie and Clara are packing up, ready to go back to London.’
Joy comes in, waving my list in her hand. ‘All done. I’ve told everyone except Isla’s dad who must still be out on the boat.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I say to Joy.
‘You can tell Isla,’ I say to Finn, ‘when you see her later today.’
He nods.
Joy looks from Finn to me and back to Finn again, as if she’s trying to understand something. But she doesn’t say anything. She goes back out.
‘What happened to Isla’s mum?’ I ask Finn. ‘Has she got one? She’s never mentioned her. There was no sign of anyone at the house that time I went there.’
‘She left. She couldn’t stand living here. She went back to Glasgow to live. Isla hardly ever sees her.’ Finn shifts on his chair. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Fair enough.’
Back at home, I start feeling – what is it, exactly? Not homesick, but something a bit like that. A creeping sense of the life going on here on the island being separate from me: the knowledge that I don’t really belong here and never will. I’m just a visitor, passing through. And yet being here has touched me and changed me so much.
At bedtime, I stand for a moment in the other bedroom, where Bonnie will sleep when she finally gets here. The wind’s rattling the skylight windows, shaking and buffeting the house, screeching down the chimney into the peat stove downstairs. Clouds scud across the moon. Bonnie will already be on her way from Spain, a long journey that will bring her steadily northwards. She’ll have no idea how much things are changing every day, Mum and me getting closer together in a way we haven’t been for ages.
Back in my own room, I get my diary out, ready to fill the next blank pages. They are filling up fast now. Hardly any left. The story of my heart. It’s a story all about change, I realise now.
The moon’s three-quarters full. For a moment the ragged strips of cloud clear completely and the moon shines directly on to my bed. It’s such a strange and beautiful light. There’s a single bright star – a planet, perhaps.
Sam would know. Sam, who has never been anywhere other than a city, where the night sky is never properly dark, where you can hardly see the stars and planets, and yet he’d know the name and I don’t. What does that tell me about Sam?
My mind flips back to that long, horrible night: the accident, the aftermath, Dad shaking with rage and Mum crying silently as I answered the policewoman’s questions.
‘You are never to get into a car with him, never even see him again,’ Dad said. ‘You have to promise us that.’
But Dad didn’t keep his promises, did he? To have and to hold. . . . Till death us do part. All that.
I lie in bed, unable to sleep, staring up at the square of black sky framed in the window, my mind churning. The wind gets stronger: the whole house rattles and creaks and sighs. There are other sounds caught up in the wind: screams and howls, the roar of pounding waves. It’s as if the house itself is out at sea all night long.
Even as the day breaks, the storm’s still raging.