This Northern Sky

by Julia Green

  ‘So, what have the divers got to do with it? What are they diving for, exactly? Is there sunken treasure: a wreck? Or pearls, or what?’

  He laughs. ‘Not people divers. Birds. Great northern divers. They spend the winter here – but they’re very rare, a protected species, so we can make a case for the sea around the island needing to be protected on environmental grounds. There are rare corncrakes too, and all the migrating birds. There are laws about this stuff already. SPAs. Special protected areas. We’ll have to get all the facts together but I am sure we can make a case. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.’

  I like how he says we. He assumes I’m on his side.

  I really try to pay attention to everything he’s explaining, but I’m so tired, so cold, it’s all I can do to stay standing upright.

  ‘That’s great, Finn,’ I say eventually. ‘Now can we go back?’

  ‘Make the stone ring,’ he says. He hands me one of the pebbles from the beach. ‘Just hit it against the stone.’

  He laughs at my feeble attempt. ‘Again, but much harder!’

  With a bit of imagination, maybe it does sound like a bell ringing out. A soft, muffled bell. But it would be the same with any two stones, wouldn’t it? I don’t tell him that. Maybe there is something special about it, after all. Because something’s changed in Finn, anyone can see that.

  We walk back along the cliff the way we came. When the path’s wide enough for us to be side by side, he turns to look at me. His face is pale in the moonlight. ‘I disappeared once before. For five days, from boarding school. Last year. That must be why they were all worrying about me today. Just so you know.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me that before?’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s over and done with. That’s why. In the past. I want to forget about all that now.’

  I’m too tired to argue. I link my arm with his, and we walk slowly back, stepping over stones, finding the clumps of sedge and reeds over the marshy places. I feel the warmth of his side against mine, and when we have to climb over the boulders to get back on to the narrow footpath he places his hand in the small of my back, to help me up. In my exhausted state, almost sleepwalking now, I let myself wonder what it would be like, to be properly close to Finn, to be the person he tells the really important stuff to. I can almost imagine, in my dreaming state of mind, how it would be. Something more than friendship . . .

  It seems such a very long way back, but at last we’re at the edge of the bay, and on to the single-track road, and there’s a car – headlights – the taxi, I see now, slowing down and stopping. The door’s opening and Alex is running towards us, calling Finn’s name.

  Twenty-four

  In the past. That’s what Finn said.

  But the past doesn’t stay in the past, does it?

  I’m lying in bed, half awake, running over in my head everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  The walk home with Finn’s all a bit of a blur: me stumbling over my feet, tired to the core, and Finn still talking about corncrakes and terns and divers, as if it was normal to be walking back at night talking about birds, as if there wasn’t a whole family – and lots of friends – anxious about him back at the Manse, scared he’s disappeared again.

  The moment when we saw the headlights coming slowly towards us – Alex at the wheel of the old taxi – the hugs and then the awkward silence on the way back to my place, because Alex insisted they drop me home first.

  Mum and Dad waiting up for me, cross and relieved at the same time. And the news that Bonnie is already on her way: she’ll be coming on the ferry on Friday. Dad was talking to Bonnie on the phone last night when I saw him in the kiosk . . .

  It’s nearly midday. I’ve slept all this time. The smell of peat smoke drifts upstairs. Someone’s lit the stove in the sitting room. I think of the neat peat stack at the Manse, the turves laid in layers up the side of the house, arranged in the traditional herringbone pattern: the handiwork of Finn, Piers and Jamie. Three brothers, like an echo of us three sisters: me, Bonnie and Hannah . . .

  I think about that bright, breezy day up on the peat banks, talking to Tim, helping get the sack loads of peat into the jeep. Finn’s spade cutting down into dark brown seams of peat, the layers of grass roots laid down over hundreds and thousands of years . . . Finn slicing it in blocks like chocolate and stacking it to dry in the sun and the wind . . . The skylarks singing their hearts out, rising higher and higher into the sky, and Piers and Clara reciting lines of poetry about the Highland girl. The dark stories about the man found in the bog, perfectly preserved, a noose round his neck and the grains of seed still in his belly . . .

  The past doesn’t stay past, not in a landscape and not in people either. Because we are the sum of all the things that have happened to us, or that we’ve made happen. It’s a living, breathing part of who we are, all of us. It goes on living in us. All the happy things that have happened, and all the sad ones too.

  My head spins with thinking about all this, but I’m not so anxious or angry any more, I realise; not like when we first arrived at the house. Something has settled in me; a rich dark seam of experience, I suppose, being laid down, and other new ones on top, gradually covering up the pain.

  I hear a car slow down and pull up near the house: a knock at the door, and Mum’s voice, talking to someone. I strain to hear who it is.

  ‘Still asleep,’ Mum says. ‘No. OK. I’ll tell her. Thanks. So glad to hear that . . .’

  A car door slams. The car drives away. I could get up, go and look to see who it was – Alex or Piers perhaps, or maybe Tim, on his way to Isla’s house – but I’m still sleepy, and my legs still ache.

  I’m determined to ask Finn what happened to him before, what made him go off, where he went. But not today . . .

  I slip back into sleep.

  At some point in the afternoon Dad appears in the bedroom doorway. He’s wearing his coat; I know instantly what he’s come to say, even though I’m still groggy with sleep.

  ‘I’m just saying goodbye,’ he says. ‘I hoped you’d be up before this; I could have talked to you properly. But the ferry’s nearly in. I need to dash.’

  ‘Bye, Dad.’ I swallow a great gulp of sadness.

  He steps right into the little room, leans over and kisses the top of my head. ‘I’ll see you back at home,’ he says. ‘We’ll start sorting things out. Please don’t worry, darling. Love you.’

  And with that he’s gone.

  I watch the light change in the square of window above my bed. Clouds scurry across; at one point a squall of rain hits the glass. It clears again. Through the small window at the front of the room, I see the sea, grey waves topped with white. I drift in and out of sleep, dreams, thoughts. I have to go to the loo eventually: it’s the only thing that will make me get up. It’s quiet downstairs: Mum must have gone with Dad to the ferry. I imagine her waving him off, the tears on her cheeks. This particular goodbye is just the first of a whole series, taking him further away from our lives . . . out of hers for ever maybe.

  I get dressed. My legs are still aching from the walking yesterday, and stiff from being in bed too long. I take my jacket from the hook, stuff my feet into my walking boots, go outside. The wind snatches the door, buffets me in the face. I put my hood up, shove my hands into my pockets, set my back to the wind.

  The ferry’s already left the harbour: it’s ploughing across the Sound, appearing and disappearing in the swell and spray. It edges along the coast to make the most of the shelter, before it sets out over the open water.

  I meet Mum coming back up the road from the ferry, head bent against the wind, her face red. She doesn’t see me until I’m close up. I hug her; she holds on to me, tight.

  ‘Shall we get a coffee?’ Mum says. ‘I can’t face going back to the house, not yet.’

  The café’s warm inside; the windows are all steamed up. We order coffee and hot chocolate, and we sit together at a table with a
bright red tablecloth, hands round the shiny red mugs. We don’t say much but it feels comforting sitting there together. Around us, families talk and drink tea and children squabble: just a normal day.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Mum says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘We’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She laughs, a hollow laugh. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea.’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ I could cry buckets, but for her sake I won’t.

  ‘Let’s hope the weather picks up again. Everything’s more bearable when the sun shines.’

  I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. ‘I’m glad we’re staying, anyway.’

  ‘Really?’ Her face brightens. ‘You don’t hate it here? Hate me for making you come?’

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘It’s an incredible place. I’m having an amazing time. Honestly. Now, I understand why you wanted to come back here so much. And we won’t let Dad spoil it for us.’

  ‘You sound more grown-up than I do,’ Mum says.

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Did someone call round earlier?’ I ask her after a while.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I was meant to tell you. A young man called Tim. Very handsome!’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That everything’s fine at the Manse – Finn’s well, and to say thank you for finding him, and that he – Tim – is going to the mainland for a couple of days – in fact, he’ll be gone already. He’ll have been on the same ferry as your dad. Who is he, exactly?’

  ‘One of Finn’s brothers’ friends.’

  ‘The one who had the beach party?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mum sips her coffee. ‘So, tell me some more about Finn. Did you find out why he went off like that?’

  ‘Not really. He seems to need time away from people – he goes off to think. He gets upset about stuff, and then he needs to be alone for a bit, to sort things out in his head. And maybe he was upset about Tim and Isla getting together at the party. He didn’t admit that, mind.’

  ‘Isla?’

  ‘She lives here. Her dad’s a fisherman. She’s pretty, with auburn hair.’

  Mum nods, as if she’s taking it all in. I know she’s miles away really.

  ‘Anyway, Finn didn’t mean to worry everyone. I don’t think he had any idea they’d be so anxious. But it seems he’s disappeared before, which is why they reacted like that yesterday.’

  Mum’s quiet, thinking. She looks at me. ‘We’ve not talked much about Sam, have we? Are you over him now?’

  I’m immediately defensive. ‘Over him? Like forgotten about him, you mean?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that, Kate. I know how important a first boyfriend is.’

  ‘Really?’ I look at her.

  She smiles. ‘Of course. You never forget the first one. But I’m sad for you, that you can’t have happy memories of Sam . . .’

  ‘Don’t say that! I do have happy memories. You don’t even know him. It wasn’t like him – how he was that night –’

  Mum can’t stop herself interrupting. ‘It was shocking. Truly terrible. He could have killed you. And the woman in the other car. The people in the car behind even. Nothing can excuse that behaviour.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘You do?’ She seems surprised.

  ‘I’ve had lots of time to think about it,’ I say. ‘It was really scary. And I will never understand why he did what he did. I know he was unpredictable sometimes. But he was really lovely too. He listened to me. Cared about me. He talked to me about things like the stars and the world and science. He’s really intelligent. I know if he’d had a better start then things would be different for him now –’

  ‘Oh, Kate!’ Mum sighs. ‘But you can see how worried it made me and Dad, can’t you? That night, you not coming home and it getting later and later and then finally that phone call, from the police . . . You can imagine what we thought.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, Mum.’

  Her eyes fill with tears. ‘All we want is for you to be safe and happy – and I know how ironic that sounds, with everything that’s happening now – but it’s the truth, Kate.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘You do know that? How much we love you?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘can we talk about something else now? Not Sam, or Finn, or Dad? No boys or men at all.’

  ‘All right.’ She smiles. ‘Yes, I’ll try.’

  We sit in silence.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Complete change of subject. What do you know about Special Protection Areas? For birds, habitats, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Mum says. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the next stage for our campaign.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a campaign. For what?’

  ‘Saving the island from the wind farm.’

  Mum looks even more confused.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Mum! The issue everyone on the island is talking about! The thing that might change this amazing place for ever if we don’t do something about it!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mum says. ‘I guess I’ve been a bit preoccupied with my own personal tragedy.’

  ‘Well, never mind,’ I say. ‘You can catch up now. I might go to that community centre place and look it all up on the internet. Not today though.’ I stir the sugary sludge at the bottom of my mug.

  Mum’s staring absentmindedly at other tables in the café. A family bickering about something. A couple holding hands across a table. A little girl with a dog on a lead sitting next to an elderly man.

  The café man nods in our direction. ‘Everything OK?’

  Mum comes to. She nods back. ‘Yes thanks, Ken.’

  ‘I know,’ she says to me. ‘We’ll stop at the shop on the way home and choose ourselves a lovely supper. Well, as lovely as that shop allows. What do you fancy?’

  ‘Lamb chops, new potatoes and beans. And fresh raspberries with cream for afters.’

  Mum doesn’t make the connection, and I don’t tell her. It’s the meal Dad cooked for us, on the first day of the holiday. I think of him, alone, making his way back without us.

  ‘Before we shop, do you mind if we walk up to the little hill above the village? So I can check my phone for messages?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘I haven’t checked mine for ages.’

  Strange, how quickly you get out of the habit. To begin with, I thought I’d die without my phone.

  The cool air is a shock after the steamy café. I turn up my collar. We walk side by side out of the village, past the post office and over the second cattle grid, up the small hill.

  My phone bleeps in my pocket. I check my inbox.

  Three texts. Bonnie, Hannah, Molly.

  One missed call.

  I check the details. My heart skips a beat: the missed call was from Sam.

  My hands are shaking. I click on voicemail.

  His voice. It sounds so odd, hearing it here, on the island. Sorry for everything. You OK? Hope so.

  I check the date and time he sent it.

  Days ago.

  My heart’s racing. Finn said I should forget Sam – just make the decision, he said. And that’s what Mum wants me to do. But it’s what’s always happened to Sam: people giving up, not bothering about him. Is that what I’m going to do too? I listen again, and then while I’m working out what to say back I open the messages from my sisters. They’re both gutted about Mum and Dad. Worried about me. Bonnie’s on her way . . .

  Reading their texts makes me realise how, already, I am beginning to adjust; that it’s not so raw and awful as it was even a few days ago; how everything changes so fast.

  I’m OK, I text. Glad I’m here with Mum. Xxx

  I send it to Bonnie and Hannah.

  Molly says she’s missing me, but having a great holiday. They are camping in Cornwall and it’s been sunny every single day so far. She’ll see me back at school in September.

  I li
sten to Sam’s voice again. I start writing a text, but the words won’t come. Nothing seems right. I don’t send anything in the end.

  Mum’s already walking back to the village. I run down after her. ‘Wait for me!’ I call after her.

  Over supper, we talk about how we are going to manage the rest of the holidays. Mum thinks we should have a big dinner and invite all our new friends – everyone at the Manse, and her friend Fiona, and other people she’s met.

  ‘You’re not the only one making new island friends,’ she says when I look surprised.

  ‘Let’s wait for Bonnie to be here,’ I say. ‘Tim might be back by then too.’

  ‘And?’ Mum says. ‘The connection between those things is?’ She laughs. ‘I wonder what Bonnie would say to you!’

  ‘She’d be pleased I was thinking about her best interests,’ I say. ‘Tim is lovely. Most of the time.’

  We make a list. We add Isla and her dad; Mackie, and the other man who helped with the jeep: Rob. He’s more like Mum’s age.

  We put more peat on the stove. Draw the curtains, turn on the telly. There’s nothing much on so we watch one of the DVDs from my room instead.

  ‘You choose,’ Mum says.

  ‘My Summer of Love,’ I say.

  Mum pulls a face.

  ‘It’s about two girls,’ I tell her. ‘So we’ll be fine.’

  Mum makes us tea and we drink it from the hare cups. We snuggle side by side on the leather sofa; Mum gets a rug from her bedroom to tuck round us. It’s almost cosy, just the two of us.

  Twenty-five

  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.