This Northern Sky (20 page)

‘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 listen 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.

I watch it through the open front window in my pyjamas, cradling an early cup of tea. I’d no idea there were so many children living on the island. Where have they been all summer? Perhaps they take their holidays elsewhere . . .

A thought strikes me: Isla will be back at school this morning. My mood lifts. I don’t know why. Is it because last time I saw her, I felt she didn’t like me much? As if it was my fault that Finn went off. Anyway, if she’s at school all day, there’s less chance of seeing her. And Finn won’t be moping about, wondering whether he’s going to bump into her and Tim. Only Tim isn’t around either – it seems he had work to do on the mainland. He’ll be back on the Friday boat.

Mum joins me at the window. ‘Can you imagine going to school here?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I actually can.’

‘Really?’

I shrug. ‘Why not? It would be a small school, but that would be cool. You’d know everyone. Easy to get to: the bus picks you up. And after school you could go straight down to the beach.’

Mum laughs. ‘What’s happened to you, Kate?’

‘Your island magic, I guess,’ I say.

Mum sighs heavily. ‘Shame it didn’t work on your dad,’ she says.

‘We’re not talking about him, remember?’ I say.

‘Still? For how long?’ Mum asks.

‘For however long it takes. Till we both feel fine again.’

‘You are such an inspiration,’ Mum says suddenly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Aw, Mum!’ I hug her. ‘That’s nice. But in reality, you’d be fine even if I wasn’t here.’

She doesn’t look convinced. ‘It’s such a big thing, starting all over again, at my age. I never, ever thought this would happen to us.’

‘You’re not that old,’ I tell her. ‘And new starts are good, aren’t they? Like a chance to do things differently, or do things you never did before. It might even be exciting!’

She shivers. ‘Maybe. Given time.’

‘I’m going to cycle to the community centre this morning,’ I say. ‘I want to use the computers there.’

‘Good idea,’ Mum says. ‘I’m going to sort things out here, tidy up a bit. Plan the dinner for Friday. I might have a walk later, if the sun stays out.’

You have to pay to use the computers, so I do a very quick search about the birds, and protected areas and print out the relevant pages to show Finn later. I check Facebook and emails before the money runs out: Molly’s posted photos from Cornwall, and I read the updates on Bonnie’s blog from Spain, but apart from that I’ve not missed anything really. It’s weird how loads of things which seemed so important when I was at home have all dropped away since I’ve been here.

The community café is almost empty: I have to ring the bell at the counter and wait for someone to come and serve me.

A middle-aged bloke with scruffy hair and a beard appears after a while. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Just got off the morning ferry. Catching up with things. What can I get you? Coffee? Tea?’

‘Tea, please,’ I say.

He fills an old-fashioned kettle, takes a china teapot down from a shelf, lays a tray with a cup and saucer. ‘Have a free cake,’ he says, opening up a plastic box. ‘I made them at the weekend: they got a bit squashed on the way back.’

I pick out a cupcake with pink and white icing. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

He disappears out the back again. I settle down at the window table where I sat before with Finn. I read through the pages from the environment site. It looks promising: there’s lots of evidence already about the importance of the island as a habitat for loads of rare birds: the divers, but also corncrakes, and redshanks, ringed plovers . . .

‘Hey, Kate!’

Finn’s standing right in front of me.

‘Talk of the devil,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I called at yours. Your mum said you’d be here.’

‘I’ve been researching your birds.’

‘Thanks!’ he says, sitting down opposite me. ‘I’ve done the same thing. Found masses of stuff. We’ve definitely got a case.’

He tells me that more than forty-two per cent of the British population of the great northern divers have their wintering grounds here. ‘That’s way over the numbers you need to make a case for an SPA. The fact that no one else has even mentioned it suggests there’s been some sort of cover-up.’

I laugh. ‘You’re so suspicious!’

‘You’re not?’

‘Well, what are we going to do about it?’

‘Get the facts. Send lots of letters. Get a proper campaign off the ground.’

‘I’ve been thinking too,’ I say. ‘You should put together your own exhibition, about all the things you love about this place. Photos of the rare birds and the amazing beaches and quiet roads and the peat beds and crofts and all the things that would disappear if the wind farm came too close. The traditions of farming and fishing and all that. We could take loads of stunning photos. Write about it. Collect stuff . . . I don’t know, maybe record sounds, like a sound poem or something – bird calls and the sound of the sea and the wind blowing through the fields of barley, and people talking about what they love about living here . . .’ My voice falters. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Because you’re a genius,’ Finn says. ‘And I’ve never heard you say so much in one go!’ He laughs. ‘It’s a brilliant idea. Tim’s right, calling you
clever
Kate!’

I blush.

Finn doesn’t notice. He pushes his chair back. ‘Don’t know why I didn’t think of doing something like this before. Guess I’ve not really been thinking straight. Got too gloomy.’

‘We should get everyone involved,’ I say. ‘Even people like Mackie, and Isla’s dad, as well as your family.’ I’m getting even more carried away now, ideas spinning round my brain. ‘Tim’s always wanted to do broadcast journalism; this could be his chance. And your brothers could compose music – an island symphony or something. We could ask the museum people to help, and the school. Isla – we have to have Isla, because she belongs here properly, she was born here. Her voice counts for more than any of us . . .’

It’s Finn’s turn to blush. ‘Of course, Isla.’

‘I’ll help a bit,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve only got another week here, but I can help you get started. When do you have to go back to school?’

Finn gets up without answering. He rings the bell at the counter and orders a coffee for himself. I watch him. What have I gone and said now? He’s so oversensitive. Was it me mentioning Isla?

He comes back and sits down. He runs his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t think I am.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not going back.’

I wait for him to explain. He doesn’t speak for ages. He sips his coffee, I pour another cup of tea.

‘I had a long talk with my parents,’ he says. ‘About the time I went off before, and how much I hate being at boarding school, and all that. And they said I can stay here. Don’t have to go back to finish A levels at school if I really can’t stand it. And I can’t. So I’m going to live here, get a job of some kind. I can always go to the island school later if I change my mind about getting exams.’

‘You lucky thing!’ I say. ‘Your parents are amazing. What did you say to convince them?’

‘I talked about what I really feel, being away. Boarding. And about what makes me happy. And they listened, and at last they understood.’

‘Have you told Isla?’

‘Not yet. I haven’t seen her.’

‘The thing with Tim won’t last,’ I say.

He looks up. ‘What makes you say that?’

I shrug. ‘Just a feeling. He’s gone over to the mainland for a few days. And he’ll have to go back to work properly soon. Out of sight, out of mind. And now you’ll be here all the year round!’ I smile at him, teasing. ‘How could she possibly resist?’