Ch11: Stolen May 19th

I wake up early and walk outside in my pyjamas, my red coat wrapped tight to keep me warm and watch a fat moon set on the horizon. There’s a delicious smell on the air, of sweet plants and clean air. I love it. The pier has become my favourite go-to place. I sit on the end, wishing I’d made a cup of coffee to drink down here. The sky is remarkably clear, just a few cotton ball clouds floating around. The sun has come over the hill and warms my back. I can hear the sea lions chattering to each other in one of their spots to the south of me. Their barks and yaps are so loud, I can’t help be drawn to them.

The wind is calm as I pick my way over the shingle, the cliff face growing as I make my way round. There’s birds nesting in nooks and crannies, and there is constant traffic over my head as they bring food from the sea to their young.

As I round a corner, the sea lions come into view. They look and act very dog-like, almost smiling at me in greeting as I inch closer. I sit on a rock and watch them play around, fight, talk, slip in and out of the water, bob like dark apples on the surface, their black eyes keeping an eye on me, despite their seeming to be relaxed with my presence. As the morning draws on, they all slowly go to the sea, hunting for their food or playing in the surf, but eventually I am left alone on the beach.

Thirst forces me back to the cottage, and I make myself that long desired mug of coffee. Sitting on the sofa eating some cornflakes my mind is drawn to diary. I need to continue. Avoiding for just a little longer, I clean up my breakfast bowl and make a fresh mug of coffee. A quick shower turns into a long soak, and I wonder briefly where the water comes from, and can it run out if I’m too greedy?

I get dressed, and give a quick tidy to the cottage. I would be mortified if Ian showed up early and found I’d been living like a pig in his beautiful cottage. Prising the short floorboard up with my fingernails, I take my diary out. I didn’t like the dirt getting on the notebook, so yesterday I collected a bag of shingle from the beach and covered the ground in my secret hole. The result was as I’d hoped, a nice clean diary.

Going back to the sofa, I put my feet up, facing the window, watching the sky and a thin waft of a cloud drift by. I needed to continue, opening up, I read where I’d left off. Dad coming to terms with things. God, there was so much more to tell.

After our talk things begin to improve with Dad and me. It doesn’t happen overnight, but a few weeks later, on a sunny April Saturday, Dad asks me to invite Chris over for a barbecue. It’s been seven months since they last set eyes on each other, and I can hear the tension in Chris’s voice as he reluctantly agrees to come over.

Mum greets Chris with a warm hug, she’s seen him many times; when Dad is at work he comes over sometimes. Mum and Chris get along very well. Dad is stiff-backed and offers his hand for a shake. It’s all a bit formal, but to give Chris credit, he manages to keep eye contact with my father, and waits obediently to be invited over the threshold.

The barbecue is a brilliant ice-breaker. Dad gets the beers out and Chris and him have a few. By the end of the evening, the two of them are talking, chatting about mechanical things as Chris asks for advice about a noise his moped is making. Things are almost okay again. I even think maybe I can forgive my father if he keeps going like this.

“That went well,” Chris says as we climb onto his moped.

“Better than I ever thought, to be honest.”

We share a quick kiss before Chris turns around and starts off down the street. I hold on tight to his waist, glancing back at my house before it goes out of sight. I see Dad at the window watching, his expression perhaps a little brooding. Maybe all is not perfect yet, but I can hope that things will mend with time.

Chris lives in what I call the ‘little flat’. It’s the annex his grandmother lived in until she passed away last year. We say a quick hello to his mum, then go to his flat. I feel there needs to be a celebration, for relationships mending, for relationships hopefully starting.

“Wine?” I grab a bottle of rose from the fridge. Chris keeps it there for me, he’s not really a wine drinker except when I’m around.

“Lovely,” he says and puts his arms around my waist and draws me in for a kiss. Then his lips are on my neck and his hands are roving.

“Wait, you letch,” I say, grinning. “Celebrations first. You were in my house, talking to my dad, at his invite. This is a fantastic day, we need to end it properly.”

“Oh, I know how to end it properly.”

Chris makes another play for me, but I slip out of his hands and go to the cabinet for a couple of glasses. I pour them and hand one over to Chris.

“To new starts, and my dad not being a horrible racist.” I say. I try to make the words light, but I shouldn’t have said that last bit, even though it’s true.

Chris hesitates, then drinks down half his wine. “Indeed,” he says.

I wish I could draw that day out, again and again. Chris and Dad talking. Me and Chris making love after the wine was gone. Waking up in his arms on the Sunday feeling happier than I could ever remember.

The diary goes away to its hole and I try to decide what I’m going to do with the rest of the day. It’s warm, warm enough for short sleeves. There hasn’t even been the slightest bit of drizzle, and the wildlife is loud and raucous around the island, I can hear their happy chattering through the open windows. I want to be out there, mixing with creatures so obviously happy.

Ian left me with a couple of loaves of bread and tons of butter and cheese. I decide on a hearty beef soup and a cheese sandwich on the side. I’m hungry, and that’s brilliant. I can’t recall the last time I felt this alive, looking forward to the next day or even the next hour. My weight has plummeted over the last year, maybe a couple of weeks here on Vanir was indeed the best thing for me. I hold my mug of coffee up in a toast.

“Thank you, Ian,” I say and take a sip. A part of me never wants to leave, but I’m sure after a few more days I’ll be craving human interaction, wanting to get back to civilisation.

Later that afternoon, I sit on by the tidal pool. The tide is in, and high. I let it lap at my feet, I even have my sock and shoes off, and enjoy the tingle of the cold northern water on my toes. There’s no sign of the rocks and seaweed that I walked over yesterday, they are several meters below a now high water level, but the birds are still here. They fly about and swim in the relative stillness of the pool. I lay back and close my eyes. This is a slice of heaven, I think, and let myself drift into a light sleep.