A natural stone quay began where the shingle ran out, and Michael’s craft was moored to a steel ring hammered into the rock. At high tide, as now, a wide channel in the floor of the cave floated the boat so that it faced an opening on the sea side of the cliff. At low tide, the craft would be beached high and protected as the sea retreated. A convenient and logical place for the only means of transport on and off the island—secret, too, sort of. If you needed it to be.
The wharf rock must have been used by islanders for a very long time, for there were steps chipped into the stone, and Freya noted, with approval, that a drum of fuel was placed well away from the water. It had a hand pump in the bunghole, and beside it was a new-looking jerrican. She picked it up. It was heavy, full of fuel—excellent backup. There was also a tin trunk and inside that were coils of rope, a rugged flashlight with spare batteries, plus a first aid kit. All good stuff, all well maintained and carefully stowed.
Freya had spent time in boats when she was a kid, and Michael had always insisted on safety checks and well-ordered equipment. It seemed nothing had changed. Some things never did.
As her eyes adjusted to the space, Freya saw the ceiling sloped down as the cave burrowed back into the cliff, its end lost in the dark. Dark—Findnar’s specialty. She thumbed the flashlight anyway, but the battery was dead. Putting a fresh one in, she let the beam show her what was there.
Light played over an odd feature. High up at the back of the cave was a stone ledge; quite wide, it would be a good place to store stuff out of the sea’s reach. Serviceable, definitely serviceable, and a good place to hide too. Freya restowed the flashlight. Somewhere to hide—was that a good thing?
Outside the cave, the sea had muddled to a low chop as Freya jumped down into the cruiser. She was pleased with herself; she’d judged the tip and sway of the boat well, and exploring the cabin, she found a safety vest stowed in a locker between the bunks. Time and salt had faded the sleeveless garment from violent orange to pink. It was larger than she needed, a man’s vest. Freya hesitated but then, impatient with herself, tied it on. Michael had taught her to respect the ocean, for he, and she, knew what it could do. In the end, for him, respect and knowledge had not been enough.
Don’t think about that now.
The wind off the strait pushed the sea higher, and the little cruiser swung on its rope when the surge rushed into the cave. It took Freya many attempts and much swearing to get the inboard engine to fire; like the flashlight, it had been a long time unused, and there was almost no juice in the starter. But as the motor rattled and coughed at last, reluctantly snarling into life, Freya nudged the boat out of the cave with a sense of achievement. Instinctively she picked the best moment to crest the incoming swell, and that pleased her too; things learned in childhood, practiced enough, stayed for life.
Once past Findnar’s sheltering headland, Freya felt the force of the sea against the small hull as the restless swell turned muscular on the open water. It took strength and concentration to hold the cruiser’s nose toward Portsolly when the sea wanted to go elsewhere, yet it was glorious to taste salt on the wind again, and there was nothing in this small bout of weather the cruiser couldn’t handle. Michael had chosen his craft with care, Freya could feel that—he must have understood the strait so well, and yet it had taken his life.
Something nudged her. Something half-remembered—lines from a poem at school.
The sea does not care.
It has no mercy
And no memory,
For what it has done.
It took less than half an hour to cross between the island and the mainland, and as Freya entered Portsolly’s breakwater, she throttled the motor to slow, taking time to putter toward the quay.
This was such a pretty place. White-walled cottages, some painted pastel pink or yellow, and working buildings of sober gray granite were backed and sheltered by sheer cliffs. There was a sense that the people of the town had come to terms with their changeable neighbor the sea long ago; they had anchored their houses to the shore like whelks or oysters—unwilling or unable to leave a place of such wild beauty.
Freya cut the engine and allowed the boat to drift toward the quay, making ready to fend the cruiser off. Could she ever fit in here—really learn to call Findnar and Portsolly home?
“You!”
Freya glanced up, startled. A fat young man of around her own age was glaring down. He was furious about something. About someone. Her.
“Who said you could tie up here?”
“Sorry, I thought this was the public wharf.”
The man spoke over her with volume flicked to loud. “People like you. All the same—don’t even read the regulations.”
Though it galled Freya to retreat, she bent down to start the motor again. She kept her voice polite. “I didn’t see any regulations. Can you tell me where I can tie up?”
“Nowhere. Clear off. Tourists!”
That did it. Freya straightened, gaff pole in her hand. It wasn’t easy to balance against the swell, but at least she was on her feet and more this oaf’s equal. “I’m not a tourist. I live on the island. If you can’t tell me where to moor, I’ll ask someone else.”
“Don’t bother.” He snorted.
Not a pretty sight, Freya’s assailant. Thick lips in a lard-pale face; the very fat nose encouraged comparison with a pig, in so many ways, Freya thought. She raised her voice. “I’d been told Port-solly’s a friendly place. You’ll be the exception that proves the rule.”
“You tell him, lass.”
The loudmouth swung round as Walter Boyne skewered him with a look. “Since when can’t she moor her craft? You don’t own the wharf.”
“Clear off, Boyne,” the bully said. But it was he who wheeled and stamped away.
Walter called after him. “An apology, Robert Buchan, would be in order.”
The man’s eyes bulged as he stopped, and his neck swelled.
Alarms went off in Freya’s head; she said, hastily, “No harm done, Walter.” Pork Person, by the look of him, might be on the way to a stroke.
“This incident will be reported. Regulations are there for a reason, Boyne.” One last glare at Freya powered a pompous exit.
Walter muttered, “Oh, get over yourself.”
The hull scraped against the wharf. Freya threw the mooring rope. “Catch,” she said. She was shaking.
Walter tapped his skull as he slung the rope over a bollard. “You did well to stand up to the windy young fool.” He pronounced it full.
Freya muttered, “Something got him going, that’s for sure.” She pulled on the backpack with unnecessary violence.
Walter grinned. Freya Dane, angry, was undeniably an impressive sight—her eyes flashing sparks like those of the welder in his workshop. “Lives in denial, that one. The Buchans were lairds here before the war, and better men than him lost the lot when he was a kid, including harbor rights. Never got over it, our Rob; thinks he’s owed.”
The girl grasped the offered hand as she scrambled up the steps. “Can I buy you a coffee, Walter?” There was a line of interested faces in the windows of the pub. They were enjoying the little drama.
Walter nodded. He said, slowly, “I’ve got a bit of time. Make it a beer.”
He held the door open to the Angry Nun, but his eyes did not quite meet hers as she brushed past.
Freya relaxed. Walter knew what was coming.
Once, long ago, Portsolly had been a much bigger place—a burgh, a seat of government on this wild and remote coast, or so the tourist brochure said. But one glance out of the window and the grand past dissolved—this was just a village now: a long straggle of houses winding from the sea up to the coast road, high above the town.
Toward the end of the summer season, the backpackers would drift off and the owners of the bed-and-breakfasts would reclaim their houses with relief, shake out the duvets and wash the towels with extra disinfectant. For now, though, the pretty harbor was crowded with groups a
nd knots of young people and families, even though a sudden shower was starting to thicken.
Standing at the bar, waiting to be served, Walter inspected the tide of humanity as it flowed past the windows and in through the door. He muttered, “A curse. Locusts, the lot of them.”
“So, Walter, you and Robert. Cousins?” Freya’s expression was innocent. “Thanks. On me.” She nodded to the barman as he handed them both a pint.
Walter laughed. “Fair point. Still . . .” He led Freya to a table in a front window of the Nun. They were lucky to get it. The bar was filling up with pink-faced people—you didn’t expect sunburn in Scotland, after all—and as more pushed in to get out of the rain, the place took on the reek of a wet dog.
“Tourists bring money, surely?”
Walter snorted. “A shirt and five pounds and don’t change either. Looters, pillagers, always have been. English!” His voice cut through the babble, and people stared. Walter grinned amiably.
Freya choked back a laugh; the man was shameless.
Walter’s smile faded. He turned his tankard to the other side for no particular reason and took a cautious sip.
Freya leaned closer. “Did you know my father well, Walter?”
He nodded. The long exhale of a sigh misted the glass. “I would call him my friend.”
Freya said nothing.
Another gusty breath, then, “I thought it best, since we had but met, just to take you to the island. But it troubled me.” He looked down into his beer. “I did not think it was my place to discuss his passing—not then, if you can understand, because—” He stopped.
So, more to the story. But Freya said, “It’s okay.” She didn’t say she understood, because she did not. “But there was a clipping at the house, a newspaper article, and you were mentioned.”
This time Walter looked her in the eyes. “We lost your dad and, very nearly—”
A baby howled, and there was pandemonium. He’d fallen from a high chair and, scooped up by his frightened mother, the child screamed louder.
Walter drained the pint in a swallow and stood. “Shall we?”
Freya was happy to go. The tables were too close for a private conversation.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but it had cleared the crowds from the quay, leaving the world a calmer place.
“Over here.” Walter put his hand under Freya’s elbow, guiding her toward a large stone shed at the other end of the wharf. A working building, it had its own slipway and stood a little apart. Closer, and she could read the sign. WALTER BOYNE & SON. SHIPWRIGHTS.
The place was well kept. There were no missing slates on the roof, and a pair of massive doors was painted copper red, as were the outer frames of the windows under the eaves. The inner frames were brilliant white—a pleasing contrast to the dark stone. From inside there came the tearing whine of power tools.
“Here you are.” Walter opened a small door within one of the larger pair and stood aside, and Freya stepped past him over the threshold. The air inside was thick with resin and the hot cinnamon of sawn timber.
“We use a lot of oak and different kinds of pine. That’s the smell. Other timbers as we need them.” Walter was shouting.
Up close the noise from the equipment was huge, toothshakingly immense. Freya stuck fingers in both ears, nodding. She stared at the half-built boat that reared up toward the ceiling—it claimed most of the space in the center of the shed, and light from the high windows poured across ribs half-clad with overlapping lengths of timber. Walter Boyne & Son built wooden boats out of an ancient tradition; of course he’d been Michael’s friend.
“Dan . . . turn it off. Dan!” Walter cupped hands to shout to a hunched figure at the other end of the workshop. He and another man were feeding a piece of timber through a benched power saw; both had ear protectors on, and both were oblivious to the newcomers.
“Excuse me, Freya.” Walter strode the length of the shed, waving both arms. “Oi!” Finally, as the lumber completed its journey past the blade, one of the men signaled to the other and the power was switched off. As the howl died, the saw disk slowed and grew impressive teeth.
“I can see you, Dad.”
Daniel Boyne was taller than his father. He took the ear protectors off and shoved safety glasses back on his head. Unshaven and dark-skinned with bright, cold eyes, he flicked a glance at Freya before he leaned down to speak to Walter. “What do you want? We’ve got a lot to get through.”
Freya felt the impatience from forty feet. Walter said something in a low voice, and Freya looked away as Daniel Boyne glowered in her direction; the structure of the ship suddenly became fascinating. She wandered down the flank closest to the wall, running her fingers along the smooth wood. Someone loved this work.
“It’s a long way from finished.” Uttered like a warning.
Freya stood back, suddenly guilty, but she recognized the voice this time. Workshop Man. Of course. She forced a smile. Intense eyes, grayer than a cold sea, stared at her with no expression.
“Hello, I’m Freya. I think we might have spoken earlier? When I was trying to find Mr. Boyne. Walter, that is.”
“Yes.” Not even the ghost of an apology or a smile.
Freya’s face stiffened.
This was news to Walter. “You should have let me know, Dan; it was Freya’s first time on the island last night, I told you that. I was worried for her.” He coughed and waved toward his son, the gesture some kind of apology. “He’s not always like this.”
Daniel Boyne cast Freya an unfriendly glance, then stared at his father. With an edge he said, “We’re behind.”
Freya blushed like a child. The hostility was hurtful and strange, and she felt her eyes well up. What was it with men in Portsolly?
Walter spoke sharply. “Freya’s come a long way, a very long way. She deserves to know more about her father.”
Daniel Boyne opened his mouth—and closed it with a snap. He moved rapidly away down the length of the workshop toward his assistant. “Denny, time for lunch.”
It took Freya a shocked moment to register that Daniel was leaving, and then she saw he walked with a cane, compensation for an awkward, rolling limp.
Walter touched her arm. “Come to the office, child.” He sighed. “You being here, I’d hoped that Dan . . .” Walter’s face worked.
Freya linked an arm through his. “So it’s not me, then, it’s him.” She found a smile. “I was starting to worry.”
The office at the far end of the workshop was tiny, and Walter shoved the door hard. It opened protestingly. “A bit of a trick to it. In you come,” he said and gestured to a wooden stool that stood between two elderly desks. One depressed office chair and a couple of dated computers completed the furnishings, though paper was strewn across every surface.
Perhaps Walter saw the room through Freya’s eyes. He said defensively, “Put things on the floor when you can’t find room on the desk—that’s my system. Dan won’t file, says it’s not his job, and I keep forgetting.” He looked away. “Sally used to do the books; place was tidy then. But I can still put my hand on what I need when I need it.”
Freya smiled cautiously. “I shared a house with a girl once who dropped stuff out of the window—that was her filing system. True story. Drove the neighbors mad.”
Walter filled a kettle from a sink in one corner. “Tea?” He splashed water everywhere. “Hold on, I’ll just . . .” He mopped the puddle ineffectually. Freya resisted the urge to fix it for him.
“Tea would be nice.”
There was a moment’s awkward pause as mugs were rattled from a cupboard and the kettle burbled its way to a scream.
“Milk?”
Freya nodded, and Walter pulled a bar fridge open. He stared inside, perplexed. “I could have sworn . . .” He raised his voice above the kettle. “Sorry. No milk. There’s sugar, though.” He flipped the switch, and the howl sputtered to spitting silence.
“No worries. Black will be fine. No sugar.”
Freya might have smiled—the lad was certainly past thirty—but Walter was struggling. “I’m sure he’s not; people don’t like being interrupted.”
“It’s not that . . .” Walter’s voice trailed away.
Freya sipped the scalding liquid.
Walter tried again. “I walked you into this, lass, and I am sorry for it. But I thought speaking with you about the night your father died”—he stumbled, getting that word out—“might help him. Dan’s proud, you see, and he will not talk to me about it.”
Freya said, softly, “Go on.”
“He tried, he really tried to save your dad, and me as well, but the sea beat us all. He’s the one left with the damage of it and not just what is physical. And now here you are.” Walter shrugged, helpless. “You have a right to know what happened. Sally, now . . .” A sad shadow passed across his face. “She was my wife, Dan’s mum. Sally would know what to say to you and to him. She got on well with Dan—better than I do—but she died three years ago.”
Freya murmured, “I’m sorry to hear it.” She was; Walter’s face had softened when he said his wife’s name.
Walter turned the mug in his hand. “We say the wrong things to each other, you see. I try too hard; he thinks of it as prying.” His smile was pained. “Fathers and sons.”
Freya might have replied Mothers and daughters, but she didn’t.
Walter stared out into the silent workshop. “He’s been locked away since then, if you can understand.”
The Island House Page 7
