This Northern Sky

by Julia Green

  Finn waits while I take my trainers off, but he keeps his own firmly laced up. Isla has gone ahead. The wind blows her thin cotton skirt against her legs, whips her long hair sideways. She fits perfectly here, as if she’s just a part of the landscape. The same colours even: blue and gold.

  Finn’s watching her too, and the expression on his face is one of longing, and pain. He’s in love with her. But she doesn’t love him back.

  It’s obvious to me now.

  We come down the cliff. The beaches I’ve seen already have been beautiful in a vast, windswept kind of way, but this one is totally stunning, like something in a holiday advert for a tropical paradise. This must be what Tim meant, yesterday. White sand, turquoise sea, framed by arms of rock stretching round on either side. It’s almost deserted: one small family group have made a camp at the top of the beach.

  Isla’s already running across the sand, spinning round with her arms out. She looks so joyous and free and wild I can’t help joining in too. ‘Isn’t it the most beautiful beach you have ever seen?’ she says, eyes shining. ‘Let’s swim while the sun’s out.’

  We undress quickly, pulling on our swimming things. We leave our clothes in a neat pile.

  ‘Put a big pebble on top,’ Isla says, ‘to stop the wind blowing them away.’

  She is slim and pale-skinned; in her pale green swimming costume she looks amazing, but you can tell she doesn’t even think about how she looks to anyone else. It’s just not on her radar.

  ‘It’ll be freezing,’ she says. ‘You just have to run in and dive under straight away. But it’ll be worth it.’

  Finn’s walking along the beach vaguely in our direction, but not looking at us. Every so often he bends over to pick up a pebble or a shell or something.

  ‘Should we wait for Finn?’ I say.

  ‘No!’ Isla laughs. ‘Now he’s in a mood I bet he won’t swim. Come on,’ and she grabs my hand and starts to run, pulling me with her.

  The cold takes my breath away. Isla hangs on to my hand, pulling me in deeper, until we both fall, laughing and screeching into the waves. We start to swim, but the waves are breaking right over us and we end up half bouncing, half swimming until we’re through the breaking foam and out into deeper water. She swims like a seal; strong and confident. I swim parallel to the shore, not going out too far, a bit nervous of the waves. I’m exhausted and numb with cold long before she is, and I wade back out, shivering, with purple gooseflesh thighs and arms, and hair in rat’s tails.

  I run up the beach to my towel. There’s no sign of Finn.

  It’s too cold to stay in a wet bikini a second longer than I have to. I dry myself quickly and struggle back into my clothes and my teeth are still chattering.

  Isla joins me. ‘Wasn’t that brilliant?’ she says, shaking with cold. ‘Aren’t you glad you braved it?’

  ‘Sort of!’ I say. ‘But it was totally freezing. I can’t imagine ever going in again.’

  She pulls her jumper over her head and starts drying her hair.

  ‘Have a rummage in my bag,’ she says, chucking it over. ‘I brought us tea.’

  I find the flask. ‘Wow. Amazing.’ It’s the sort of thing Mum would do; bring a hot drink for after swimming. We take turns to sip from the cup. My toes and hands begin to thaw. The blood rushes to my face; I’m tingling all over. ‘Now, it feels good!’ I tell Isla.

  ‘Is he often in a mood?’ I ask her. We’re both watching Finn walking slowly along at the far end of the beach.

  ‘Only since this business with the wind farm,’ Isla says. ‘It’s really upsetting him. But he’s got a bit of a fantasy about island life. It’s because he’s just here in his school holidays. Plus his parents are wealthy; they don’t have to worry about work and earning money or anything real.’

  ‘He told me he’d like to live here all the time,’ I say. ‘And he intends to, when he’s finished with school.’

  She sighs impatiently. ‘Yes, but what will he do, exactly? He can’t just sponge off his parents, can he? He’s just not being realistic.’

  ‘Rich people have this way of making money out of money they’ve already got. Like they buy houses and rent them out, or they invest in business and stuff, don’t they? So they don’t have to do a job like ordinary people.’

  Isla frowns. ‘It’s not right. It’s no way to live. Working connects you to where you live, to the other people around. Everyone should contribute to their community in some way: that’s what I think.’

  ‘But it all depends on the kind of work you do,’ I say. ‘I mean, there are awful jobs. For some people it’s not much better than slavery. Rubbish pay, terrible hours and conditions. No satisfaction or pleasure in it at all.’

  She looks at me. ‘Well, yes. That’s all true too.’

  ‘What will you do?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’ll do my exams here and then I’ll go to college on the mainland to train to be a midwife. When I’m qualified, I’ll come back to the island as a community midwife. That’s my plan.’

  I’m quiet for a while.

  ‘You look sad,’ Isla says, out of the blue.

  ‘Just thinking,’ I say. ‘Wishing I knew what I wanted, like you do.’

  ‘You’ve got plenty of time,’ she says. ‘You’re younger than me, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m fifteen,’ I say.

  ‘Well, then. There’s no rush.’

  ‘Maybe if I had plans for my own future I wouldn’t worry so much about what’s happening with my parents.’

  She glances at me, then looks quickly away. She doesn’t ask me anything more. It’s slightly odd. Most people would have asked what I meant, wouldn’t they? Would want to help even? Or at least say something comforting.

  We sit in silence for a while, staring at the sea.

  ‘What’s it like, living here all year round?’ I ask her.

  ‘It’s just normal life; I’ve never known anything else,’ she says. ‘I suppose it’s quiet by your standards; we don’t have shops or clubs or cinemas. But there are ferries to the mainland for all that. And we get films at the community centre. There are parties and ceilidhs.’ She smiles. ‘Your face!’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Disapproving.’

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘I don’t disapprove. Not really. It’s just different from what I’m used to.’

  ‘Here, everyone knows you and you know them: it feels safe, in a good way. The weather’s important, always, because it affects everything. But I like that. The electricity goes off sometimes when it’s windy, but it’s no big deal. School’s much the same too, only a bit smaller, so you know everyone.’ She looks at me. ‘What did you think I’d say?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I just can’t imagine being stuck so far away from everything.’

  ‘It’s not far away, if you’re here!’ She laughs. ‘You just need to reset your compass. If this is your actual home, this is the centre of the world.’

  I think about that for a bit.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘there’s the airport. We’re not totally cut off. And telly and phones and internet. It’s not the dark ages.’

  ‘My mobile doesn’t work,’ I say. ‘Only if I climb up the hill above the village, and then only sometimes.’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong network,’ she says. ‘That’s all.’

  Finn comes back and sits down with us, spreads out his treasure of pebbles and shells and feathers on the dry sand. He’s found a skull too: a bird of some kind, possibly a tern, he says, tiny and light.

  I try to imagine what he could do if he lived all the time on the island: work as a naturalist, perhaps, or a warden on the nature reserve, or in that tiny museum? But you probably have to have a science or history degree before you can do anything like that, and I can’t see Finn spending years away at university.

  He could grow stuff on the croft, and fish for mackerel, and live very simply off the land . . . Perhaps that’s the kind of life Dad should have chosen, wa
y back, instead of becoming a teacher. Perhaps that’s where things went wrong for him, and it’s nothing to do with Mum really.

  ‘So. You chickened out of swimming,’ I say to Finn.

  ‘I’m going in now, actually. Do you want to swim again?’

  ‘No way! It was absolutely freezing.’

  But Isla does. I almost change my mind when I see her getting changed, and watch Finn and her walking together down to the edge of the sea. She grabs his hand like she did with mine before, and they run into the waves together. I watch them wade out beyond the surf of the breaking waves, start swimming out to sea, their heads two dark dots in the blue.

  The dazzle of sunlight reflecting off water makes my eyes ache. I close them. It’s warmer, more sheltered, lying down.

  I sit up when I hear voices. Lots of people, coming down the path to the beach, talking and laughing, loaded up with bags. They are silhouetted against the sun so it takes a while before I recognise who it is: Piers and Thea and everybody.

  Tim waves and comes over. They all follow him, plonking themselves and their bundles of towels, blankets, windbreaks and bags next to me on the sand.

  ‘You here with Finn?’ Tim asks.

  I nod. ‘And Isla. They’re swimming.’

  Thea and Piers start hammering the windbreak stakes into the sand. They spread out blankets and get boxes of food and drink out of the bags. ‘Lunch,’ Thea explains. ‘Have you had yours?’

  ‘No. I’m not very organised about that sort of thing,’ I say.

  ‘Well, help yourself. We brought loads.’

  She opens the lid of a tin full of chicken drumsticks, and a plastic tub of salad: proper food. She hands round plates and forks. Bottles of beer. Fresh homemade bread.

  Finn and Isla are walking up the beach.

  Tim picks up one of the towels and goes towards Isla, wraps her round with it. She smiles at him; he holds her for a second too long.

  Finn frowns. He picks up his own towel and rubs his hair. ‘Did you see the seals?’ he says to me. ‘They came right up close to us.’

  I shake my head. ‘You were too far out for me to see anything.’

  Isla takes her clothes with her and goes to find somewhere more private to change. Finn watches her go; he glances at Tim. But Tim’s busy tucking into a large plate of chicken and salad as if he’s already forgotten all about Isla.

  After lunch, everyone lazes in the sun. Even Piers and Jamie are silent. At one point, Tim gets out a notebook and pen and a pair of old-fashioned binoculars. He watches the birds along the edge of the water, makes notes. No one comments: it’s just what he does, I suppose. My own notebook stays hidden in the bottom of my bag.

  The sky clouds over, mid-afternoon. Thea and Piers pack up the lunch things, Jamie and Clara take down the windbreaks.

  ‘We’re planning a party – camping overnight, at another beach,’ Tim says. ‘Want to come, Kate?’

  I look at Finn. His face doesn’t give anything away.

  ‘OK. Thanks. When?’

  ‘At the weekend: Saturday night, if the weather’s good enough.’

  ‘I don’t have a tent or sleeping bag or anything.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Alex and Joy have one of those huge old canvas things like a marquee and everyone who wants to can sleep in there.’

  ‘We’re heading back now,’ Thea says. ‘See you later, Finn.’

  Tim kisses me and Isla goodbye: two kisses, on the cheek. ‘Take care,’ he says. ‘Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.’

  Finn ignores him.

  ‘It’s Tim’s birthday,’ Isla explains, once he’s gone. ‘That’s why he’s arranging the party.’

  ‘How old will he be?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘Ancient,’ Finn says. He pokes at the sand with a stick, flicks it at the tiny flies buzzing round the drying seaweed along the tideline.

  He’s jealous, I think. Jealous of Tim. About Isla. It’s all becoming clear to me now.

  ‘Let’s go back via Martinstown,’ Finn says. ‘Have a look at that exhibition.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Isla says. ‘You’ve already made up your mind.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ I say. ‘I’d like to find out more.’

  Isla shrugs. ‘I need to get back in any case. I’m going out with my dad on the boat at high tide.’

  We climb back up the cliff to the bikes and cycle the first bit of the way together before Isla splits off to go home. Finn doesn’t say much. We’re cycling into the wind: it’s hard work. The road is long and straight and exposed.

  I’ve not been to Martinstown before: it’s a surprise to see lots of new houses, and a café, a children’s playground and a big grey hall: the community centre. It’s an ugly building; more like something you’d see on the mainland. There are cars parked along the grass verge. Lights on in the building.

  We lock the bikes.

  Finn’s in a bad mood even before we go inside.

  It’s crowded with people, talking as they go round the exhibition. I follow Finn round, looking at the stands: big panels of photographs, planning drawings, text. It’s all very professional. Like loads of money has been spent on making it look really good. Statistics about the number of jobs that will be created, the benefits the project will bring to the island; even how they plan to stop birds flying into the structures. Seems they’ve thought of everything.

  There are photos of other wind farms, off the northwest coast of England, to show what it will look like. Nothing too bad . . .

  But Finn’s fuming. ‘It’s outrageously misleading! These wind farms are tiny compared with what they want to build here! They’re totally different constructions, with different bases and everything. The landscapes are completely different too. Those ones are all near places which have had heavy industry before, not somewhere beautiful and unique and unspoilt . . .’

  A woman nearby stops to listen to his rant. I recognise her, from the checkout in the village supermarket.

  ‘So what’s the alternative?’ I ask Finn.

  ‘Find another site, one which won’t spoil the lives of a whole community. Or put it much, much further out to sea: properly offshore instead of a couple of measly miles. But it’s a million times better to use tidal energy instead of wind – it’s much more efficient and reliable. Like the scheme being planned near the Orkneys. That’s the proper way forward.’

  ‘They should just go the nuclear route,’ the woman says. ‘It’s the obvious solution to the energy problem. Just get on with it, like they do in France.’

  Except even I know that’s not right. How can it be? When no one knows how to store the waste safely, and it lasts for thousands and thousands of years? And who would want a nuclear power station to be built near them?

  Other people are watching and listening now. An older man says something about jobs for islanders. Finn looks as if he is about to explode.

  I tug his arm. ‘Can we get a coffee? I’m dying for one.’

  I drag him away from the exhibition into the café next-door. ‘I’ll buy. What do you want? Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?’ If I keep talking maybe I can stop him really making a scene.

  His face is white with anger.

  ‘Get us a window table, Finn,’ I say. ‘I’ll bring the drinks over.’

  By the time I’m sitting down with him at the table, his mood has changed. It’s as if the fight’s gone out of him: now he just seems crumpled, defeated.

  I try to come up with something positive, anything to make him cheer up a bit.

  ‘Well, at least lots of people are taking an interest,’ I say. ‘That hall is packed. So, perhaps people are more open-minded than you think. Now might be a good time to present the other side of the argument. I mean, you know so much, Finn: you could make people really think.’

  But he’s lost it. He sits in glum silence. We cycle back without talking at all.

  Fourteen

  ‘Sit down, for a moment!’ Mum says. ‘You’re a
lways rushing off out somewhere, or coming back from somewhere! We’ve hardly seen you for days.’

  ‘And? Your point is?’

  ‘Kate!’ Dad starts saying, but Mum interrupts him.

  ‘No, David. I’m handling this, thank you very much’.

  She turns back to me. ‘It would be nice to talk to you for a change. More than a brief good morning or goodbye or goodnight. We’d like to hear about what you’ve been up to. About your new friends. And we need to make a few rules about you telling us where you’re off to, and when you’ll be back.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should tell you anything.’ My words come out more stroppy than I intended.

  Dad can’t contain himself. ‘Good manners cost nothing,’ he says. ‘Show us a bit of respect, Kate.’

  That does it.

  ‘Me? Respect you! When you and Mum are so catastrophically disrespecting our family with your horrible rows and silences! And you tell me nothing! You must think I’m stupid not to see what’s really going on. This pretence of happy families when you are on the verge of splitting up . . . And you, Dad! Total hypocrite; phoning some woman every chance you get to go off to that phone box –’

  ‘Stop! Enough!’ Mum spits words through tight lips. She’s shaking with rage.

  Dad walks away to the window and stands there with his hands in his pockets, fiddling with the coins in them, making the annoying chinking sound that drives both me and Mum mad on a good day.

  But Mum’s crumpled down on the sofa, her head in her hands, weeping softly.

  ‘You phoned her? How could you, David?’ she keeps saying. ‘After all we discussed. All your promises that you’d really try, for these few weeks of summer.’

  So. I guess that means my hunch was right. There is someone. Dad has been phoning her.

  Even though I’ve imagined this over and over, as if to prepare myself for the worst, the realisation that I was actually right still comes as a horrible shock.

  Dad doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even try.

  The room feels suddenly airless, my chest tight with pain.