Ch5: May 15th part 3

“So what do you think?” Ian asks me, then pops the last of his sandwich in his mouth.

The man makes a mean ploughman’s sandwich, and I’ve already finished mine. Maybe the fresh air is making me extra hungry.

“I think I want to explore. The rain’s stopped.” I nod at the window. The storm has blown over and the sun has gone back to flitting between clouds.

“Sounds like just the ticket.” Ian beams at me and takes an extended look out the window. “The sky tells me there won’t be any more rain for a while. Put that jumper I got you on, it’ll keep you warm.”

We leave the plates in the bathroom sink. I’d wondered why it was so big, I understand now – it doubles as the kitchen sink.

Outside the air is so clean and sharp it cuts into my lungs. There is a lack of pollution here that I can smell and taste. Around us are little purple and yellow flowers. With no sheep on this island, the grass has grown long and shaggy, and there are wild flowers everywhere. As we move towards the beach, I get a better look at the cottages. Two have walls that are only a few feet above the ground. The third one has faired a little better and the walls end at a height almost equal to me. The fourth one, the cottage nearest the shore looks like with a new roof, windows and doors, it could be
lived in again.

“Up until fifty years ago these were all working crofts. The cottages are grouped together here because this island is so exposed. Unless you want your roof torn off every winter, this is the only place to live.”

“It’s so beautiful here, how do you not end up living here all the time?” I bend down and scoop up a handful of shingle, marvelling at the variety of stones. A gust of wind comes from the opposite direction, and I swear there’s the sound of a jingle. I stare up towards the cottage. “Is that a
phone ringing?”

Ian seems surprised, and shakes his head. “Impossible,” he says and leads us off, towards the south side of the island.

I’m still thinking about that jingle, certain it was a ringtone on that gust. Did Ian lie to me? Does he have a phone on him? A nugget of worry sits in my belly as I obediently follow Ian around the bottom of the hill. The wind hits us, then a blast of air threatens to knock me flat.

“I’ll show you the wind turbine.” Ian is marching away, sticking to where the grass starts. I follow behind, noting how much easier it is to walk on the grass.

Did he have a mobile hidden? Why would he do that, lie to me about having one? I jump when he touches my arm.

“Watch out for rabbit burrows, the whole island is riddled. If it’s not them digging in, it’s the puffins, but they stick to the north side of the island.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and is off again. As we continue to round the hill, a white structure comes into view. I had expected one of those big windmill-like turbines. We’ve got them off the coast on the Wirral. Instead this is an almost helically shaped thing, and the wind has it spinning madly.

“That’s your turbine?” I walk up to it, marvelling at the size. It’s huge, maybe three times as tall as me. “So you’ve got it wired all the way to the cottage?” I ask before he has a chance to reply to my first question.

“Yes, had to dig a trench over the hill and all the way to the bay. On the good days there’s plenty of electric for all the original cottages. On a bad day…” He shrugs his shoulders.

He seems so nice, so amiable. I can’t believe that he’s up to something bad. Ian’s got this open wide smile, it sucks me every time, him and his beach blonde hair, only the touch of white giving away his age. 

I stare towards Mainland, watching tiny cars zip along the same road we’d taken only hours earlier to Lerwick.

“Ian, the sea’s much calmer. Your offer is so kind, but I think I want to go home. My parents must be so worried… Can’t we make the trip back?”

Ian turns to the south. That’s the direction the winds blowing in from. He points to some dark clouds. “The weather turns fast here. That one’s going to be worse than the earlier storm. Neither of us is going back today.”

I stare at the clouds, and as if on cue, the waves crash with a new violence against the shingle.

“And I can go back tomorrow.”

Ian has his back to the approaching storm. “If that’s what you want, Catherine, I’ll take you back.” He has his eye on the hill. “Come, I’ll show you the loch on the other side of the island. If we’re quick, we can be back in the cottage before the rain starts again.” Without waiting for an answer he starts off, calling over his shoulder to me, “And while we’re walking, you tell me exactly why it is you’re here and not at home.”

I follow, trying to think what I’m going to tell him. Why am I here? I trudge through the long grass, watching bees startled by our presence. Problem is, I’m not entirely sure. Running away? Avoiding the truth? Pretending the last year didn’t happen? A desire to run the clock backwards and redo last April? I open my mouth to speak and a sob escapes me. 

Reality is, I know why I’m here, as far away from home as I can get. I needed to get away from the cloying grasp of my mother and her threats to love me and protect me to death. I needed to get away from my father with his comments about how many months have past, and isn’t it time to pull your socks up. Then hiding in my room as my parents argue, one accused of mollycoddling, the other of being cold. My father’s words ring in my ears, “Maybe it was for the best.” How could someone’s death be for the best? How could it ever be?

As Ian stops, turns to see me crying, he wraps his arms around me. He doesn’t expect me to talk, and as soon as my hitching breath is under control, he gives me a last fatherly squeeze and he’s off on his march over the hill once again. Using my sleeve, I wipe away the tears. I know now that I will stay. Going back home right now is simply not an option.