by Rob Ewing
She looks back at us, shaking her head. She beckons Calum Ian forward. She looks stern, or scared.
Calum Ian holds his head like he got the worst headache ever. He doesn’t want to look at me.
To begin with I don’t understand what his not-looking means. And then I do. And it makes me embarrassed, because I want to cry just like Mairi did.
‘Can’t be left alone,’ I say.
‘Alex can’t stay,’ Calum Ian says, then in a shout: ‘Look. He’ll die, Rona. And Mairi won’t stay. Look at her. Look.’
Mairi has disappeared in the boat.
My eyes give up. I wipe them on my sleeve.
‘Can’t be alone.’
‘You won’t. We’ll come back. Soon as we find help. I don’t know why people haven’t come looking. Only we can’t stay, Rona, we can’t. It might be another six months: and then what? Alex needs his medicine. But just as soon as we can I’ll send help. I promise.’
‘First you said you’d come – now you say you’ll send help – it’s not the same!’
‘OK, OK. I’ll come. I promise.’
‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’
‘On my mum and dad and Duncan and Flora and Elizabeth’s souls. I promise.’
The waves flap, splash.
‘Can we do One Potato? What about a competition to see who can go without blinking the longest? Or we could pick straws, like Elizabeth did when—’
‘Stop it.’
He turns around, showing his back to me, not looking. Maybe that makes it easier.
I go back to the boat and empty out my remaining things. My treasure trove, my best drawings. They got wet. My book of understandings of the world. My one clock that keeps true time. My oldest teddy.
When it’s done, nobody looks at me. Calum Ian coaxes Alex back into the main hull, beside Mairi. But it’s still too much of a jam, especially when they’ve got their lifejackets on. I hear Calum Ian swearing for a better idea.
In the end, one person has to go back in a hatch. Because Mairi’s smallest, and was the quickest to fall out, she has to go in the backwards one.
When she eventually gets seated inside, her lifejacket goes so high it nearly covers her face.
I try to climb into the main hull. But there isn’t any room for me beside Calum Ian and Alex.
So I get back out, and I go back to the sleeping bag, and I wear it, and I get ready to push them off.
The boat looks fine. It’s not too sunken. I nearly didn’t want it to float, but it floats OK.
Alex and Mairi hold up their arms when Calum Ian tells them to, to show that they understand.
They push off, not wobbling.
Calum Ian turns the boat so I can see him. He stays in the shelter-water beside the pier.
‘What’s going to work?’ he says.
I should say teamwork, but I don’t want to.
He hides his eyes, then he paddles nearer to the edge and talks up close: quick, firm.
‘Get some other dry clothes. Remember Elizabeth’s safety rules. Top of the list: keep warm. Always keep warm. Keep your jacket zipped up. Three layers for insulation. Eat from tins – but remember, never ever eat anything that smells bad. Remember the adult leaflet saying: smell a lot, taste a little, wait, eat. And always, always keep your radio turned on. OK?’
I give him my affirmative.
‘We can start some new rules when you bring the adults back. Today, right? Tomorrow?’
I didn’t mean it to sound like a question – especially not a truly desperate one.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he says. Then his eyes screw up and he adds, ‘In case we do take longer – you need to be thinking about water. Elizabeth showed you how to sterilise, right? If you count up more than two days, and we’re not back, go back to your house. It’s the safest place. There’s water in the bath. Only one drop of bleach, OK? And remember to mark with food colouring.’
I tell him over and over that it won’t even get to two days. In the end he just says ‘OK, OK,’ then paddles backwards a bit so Alex can see me.
‘Never thought much of boys,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to think a lot more of them since I met you.’
Alex gives me the double thumbs-up.
‘For bravery you get to the top,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell everybody. You’ll get a medal for it.’
Mairi is in the boat facing backwards. As it goes she’s facing me.
She’s a face getting small; smaller.
She waves to me, then has to concentrate on keeping her balance in the right place.
I hear Calum Ian calling out instructions, checking everyone’s all right, not tipping the boat.
Past the pier there’s more waves. He gets pushed about a bit, but then he gets it under control.
They stick to the shore, and I run alongside, tripping a few times because I’m not watching where I’m going.
Sometimes there’s rocks and I can’t get close, and it makes me sad; other times they’re right beside.
Then they’re pulling away, far away.
I see the tinsel on the sides of the boat shining as the boat bobs when he paddles.
Then it’s just me and my belongings.
I collect them up. I wave until my arms are sore, until all I can see is a paddle, going up and down like a swimmer’s arm on the water. Then nothing.
Rona Aonranach
Last week
Calum Ian did not come back that night, or the next, or the next. I made a hundred bargains with the sea to bring them home, but the sea never listened.
The first night a shiver went through the air, and it began to rain. The water got moving shapes on it, which I thought were rescuers, but they were only waves.
I stared at the sea until I saw boats, whales, faces. When the rain came I walked to the ferry slip to save Elizabeth and Duncan’s bags. Duncan’s fiddle had got wet, and the strings sounded wrong.
I ate the packed lunch that Elizabeth made for us: oatcakes, pineapple juice, jelly vitamins.
Stuffed beside Duncan’s lunch were other things. The fiddle book he was learning last year: Fiddle Time Christmas. Also clothes, pencils, chalks, a packet of cards, a conjuror’s set, jotters, felt-tip pens.
I made a cairn out of stones to remember them by. I threw flowers in the water and begged the sea to change its mind, to be kind to my other friends.
When a plastic bag flew past I thought it was a person, but then I saw it was just rubbish blown from the lines of junk along the shore.
There were big birds – flying, circling over the next beach along. I didn’t want to look too close at them in case they told me where Elizabeth and Duncan were.
At night I went on lookout, for lights on the sea or maybe from the next island. I looked for Calum Ian flashing his torch. He might have a flare: he could shoot it up to tell me they were safe. But I saw no lights.
I sat on a rock to watch. I imagined a genie, giving me three wishes. I could use all three wishes to make the sea go away, like Moses. Then run to the next island to join them. But each time I imagined the sea bottom it was full of mud, or wrecks, or the bones of whales, and then the water came back anyway too quick, and I didn’t have a raft or armbands to stop me from drowning.
I slept in the ferry waiting room. The sleeping bags they left behind had the smell of them. When I closed my eyes I imagined that everything was back to normal.
‘Why was six scared of seven?’ I asked a bird outside. ‘Because seven eight nine.’ The bird flew off.
Behind the metal screen was the waiting-room café. I tried the door and it was open, so I went in and opened up all the cupboards: but the only thing I found was a giant tin of coffee, plus a stack of plastic cups.
Calum Ian was right, though: I did need water. Being thirsty started to take up all my thoughts. Especially as there’d been rain and I never collected any. I knew you couldn’t drink from the sea – that was a rule no one ever attempted to break – but what about rock pools? No one mentioned
if rock pools were in or out. Maybe not the ones nearer shore: but what about those higher up?
But it was hard to be certain, so I tore open the cartons of pineapple juice and licked the drops from the bottom of them, then from the shiny insides. The taste only lasted as long as it took to unpick the seams.
I looked for puddles, then for water in the cracks of the wood of the pier. There was a rusty crumpled can, but the water in that had gone gritty, sharp-tasting.
I looked in other places: the drain, the toilet inside, the cars in the car park. I remembered from somewhere that you could suck moss, but where would I find that?
I stared and stared at the sea. At the islands. Until my breath misted the glass of the window. I tried to lick the wetness off, but my tongue was too dry to do it.
Sadness came like a pulse in me. Every few seconds I’d remember, and it would be sharp, and I’d have to turn away from the thought, scrub my mind of it. There would be a second without, before the pulse returned.
I thought for a long time, until it got hard to know if I was thinking or talking.
‘This is me talking now,’ I said to the world. ‘And now, and now. And now and now. And now.’
It helped to imagine where they were. How tall were the adults? Were teenagers taller? Did the ladies have soft voices? Hopefully they wouldn’t mind that our clothes were dirty, that we had scars on our faces (except Mairi), but anyway, Calum Ian would do a quick job of telling our story. And Alex would be all right once he got his medicine. And Mairi would begin to speak again.
It got to three days: then I had to leave. I packed my teddies and clothes, and took Duncan’s fiddle. Then I used his chalks to write a message on the slipway:
HERE IS RONA
But it didn’t seem clear, so in the end I changed HERE IS to RESCUE. Then after that I used Duncan’s jotters to write a message, which I stuck inside the window of the waiting room. The message was: my name, age, parent, the class I grew up in, the family of children I belonged to.
The road was dotted with grass and sheep shit. There were trees blown into tangles. I didn’t want to look at them, because their shapes made me uneasy.
Every hundred steps I chalked a new arrow to show the way I was going for everyone to see.
It didn’t matter that the arrows wouldn’t last, because they’d be coming soon enough.
Her front door was open. Somebody broke it. There were trails of sheep shit going into the hall, which made me think they should’ve taken better care. Once animals get into your house then it stops being a home.
I thought I saw an old green blanket spread out on the stone steps. It was only when I got up close that I realised: it was the body of a somebody.
Then there was another person: just inside the hall, seen through the broken door. Normal brown hair, but with the face shrunk to a skull. A hand with black fingertips.
I ran away to the far edge of the garden.
Counted twenty.
Watched the bees on the flowers, the seagulls miles away, the slow clouds, to help my eyes forget.
I went around to the back door, and found that they didn’t need to break the front one: the back was open. Or maybe Elizabeth opened it later? But the instant I put my head in there was a smell – a very bad smell.
I didn’t have a perfume-hanky, or goggles, so I decided to run in and out quick, so the stink wouldn’t stay.
The kitchen: a big mess. Cupboards open, drawers crashed to the floor. Plates smashed, tins of food under the table. I had to get out – to breathe.
I went back. Checked under the sink. The water wasn’t where Elizabeth said her mum and dad kept it, so somebody must’ve taken that.
I found one empty bottle, that’s all. I had to get out.
I went back. Found a tin of kidney beans on the floor. Plus a jar of beetroot. And a card on the fridge which said: Jesus loves you – but I’m his favourite.
I tore the card into tiny pieces, not caring that for the time it took I had to take a breath.
Back outside, I drank the juice from the jar of beetroot. The taste was very queer. I opened the can of kidney beans with my opener, but the juice was like glue.
I remembered Elizabeth’s rule for food: smell a lot, taste a little, wait, eat. Only maybe it didn’t matter the same for the water that you got in food?
‘It’s hard without a sidekick,’ I said to the world. ‘It’s not easy to tell yourself you’re thirsty.’
After wrapping a T-shirt and scarf around my nose I went back in. I ran upstairs.
Elizabeth’s bed was made. She had a desk, a CD player. Her pencils stacked neat, in the correct rainbow order, waiting for her to come back and use them.
She kept her achievements on the wall beside her desk. Learn to Swim – Level 5. Beginner’s Gaelic Gold Prize. Well done! You Kept our island Tidy. Summer Star Pupil. RESPECT AWARD PRESENTED TO ELIZABETH SCHOFIELD FOR SHARING HER STORY WITH CLASS P1 READING GROUP.
Just beside, a picture of Elizabeth on the wall. Her skin looked normal: it was from the time before. She looked young. But the main thing was: she smiled. I’d never seen her smile with her eyes taking part.
I took the picture, to show the others when they came back. To show them how strong her smile could be.
So I knew what happened. The people came. ‘They ransacked,’ I said, remembering the exact word.
They were looking for medicines, not food. But Elizabeth’s mum and dad were gone: they were sick at the gym. And anyway, they didn’t have medicine. It was all on the boat, which nobody knew about.
Then I knew why Elizabeth didn’t want to go to her home: because it had been spoiled. We all had clean homes, perfect homes, but she didn’t.
Her home had strangers who had died in it, which was why she never wanted to take us there.
Past World
The metal shutters are down at the surgery, even though it’s daytime. There’s a lot of people waiting outside, standing at the front entrance, looking cold and wet.
Mum drives past and parks on the going-down shore road. She checks nobody followed her, then sends a message on her phone, then waits.
In ten minutes someone opens the side door. It’s Morven, who works on reception. She doesn’t say anything or get too close, just shows us in.
As soon as the door’s locked we hear a person running up to it and banging on the other side.
‘Will ye at least look?’ a man, shouting. ‘I’m not sick, you can look can’t ye? Need our son’s medicine.’
Morven asks the man to be quiet, not to draw attention to himself. Then she goes upstairs ahead of us to ask the doctor what to do.
She comes back – and unlocks the door, lets him in. It’s Mr Gillies who works on the ferry.
When we get to the waiting room Dr Schofield is there. She’s wearing strange clothes: a white paper suit, with blue gloves and covers over her shoes something like the covers they wear at the fish factory.
I see her daughter, Elizabeth, from the big class P7, looking out from one of the nurses’ rooms along the corridor: watching us, her mum.
Mr Gillies looks impatient when he asks the doctor about deliveries and boats and rations. Then he says, ‘Much can I take?’ with a voice that sounds too keen. ‘Away with me, right now? How much?’
Dr Schofield takes off her glasses, rubs at her eyes. ‘You could have all of it.’ Then: ‘But I don’t know, would have to check—’
‘There’s a boat coming day after tomorrow. I could get more to boost up your stock, right? Fair enough? There’s nothing here, you know as well as me. If you give me a note for your supplier—’
‘Look, there’s a dozen others – same as you, same situation. Then the others, with chronic illnesses. Everyone has their own want. We’re trying to provide for everybody. There needs to be some reserve …’
Her voice goes small, until it’s less than a whisper. Mum is trying to listen in: I can see by the way she tilts her head, not looking away for one second.
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Dr Schofield goes back into the dispensary. Finally, she returns holding a white paper bag.
‘This needs to be kept cool,’ she says. ‘You know about cold chain? You have a generator – no. Outdoors, then. These are mixed – long-and short-acting. You can dose twice, same units. Or if you want to ration: fine, as long as maybe half is going in each day? If there’s some insulin that stops ketosis. You know about that.’
Mr Gillies holds out his hand. His voice is broken up, jagged, when he says, ‘Look: Alex needs his medicine. I had to take this chance, OK? He’s at the Cròileagan. I’m not allowed. Can you get someone to hand it in there for him?’
Dr Schofield looks at Mr Gillies’ hand for a long time, then doesn’t shake it. ‘I will see,’ she says.
Mr Gillies leaves: then Morven goes downstairs to make sure the door is locked behind him.
We hear Dr Schofield calling on Elizabeth.
Then we hear her explaining about the boy. She talks about pens: how to dial up numbers. How to inject into a person, where to inject, how often.
Then she comes to talk to us. I notice her hands are shaking, as if she’d been out too long in the cold.
‘How’s Dr Schofield?’ Mum asks.
This confuses the doctor: because it’s her name, too. When Mum adds, ‘Your man? Your husband?’ Dr Schofield closes her eyes and says, ‘He went to hospital.’
‘I am so—’
‘Really need not to think about this just now.’
She goes away, then returns with a box. In the box are lots of smaller white boxes, plus leaflets.
‘One each house,’ Dr Schofield says. ‘If they open the door get back to your car. Don’t touch the gates, the letterboxes, the handles. Use gloves, always. Keep your mask on. Hand hygiene – you’ve got scrubs? There’s a recording on our answering machine. Let them know about the D.E.C. Also world service, long wave.’
‘We couldn’t get the computer—’
‘Get a wind-up radio.’
‘They’ve all gone from the store … Doctor, do you need more help? Will I come again, deliver again?’
