Ch10: Stolen May 18th

I wake late again. Maybe it’s the emotions of getting my past onto paper or the island itself, forcing me into long, healing sleeps. The aga has not burned out completely, and I stoke the fire, add the coals, close the oven and hope for the best. I need to eat that bacon today, according to Ian’s note. The larder still amazes me. I touch the quartz-heavy stone shelves, feeling the warmth get sucked out of my hand. The bacon package is fridge cold, and I’m sure it would last another couple of days, but last thing I need is a good dose of food poisoning whilst I am all alone on an island. I need to have a bit of sense.

After a decent cooked breakfast, I pull the sofa away from the door and open up. It’s sunny and bright. The calls of birds come to me, so loud I’m surprised I slept through them. I like the loch, and decide to wrap up and pay it a visit before doing my diary for the day. There’s a brisk wind blowing, so I put on my red coat and head out.

Life teams on the water. Birds, and more birds. Fish break the surface, like they’re teasing, before dipping down to the deep depths. I wonder how cold it is, whether it ever gets warm enough for a swim. Dipping my fingers in and feeling the shock of cold, I decide maybe not, at least not now in May when the weather’s only beginning to warm. Maybe I can convince Ian to let me come back in August. How different would the island be? Different birds? Different plants? Or would it be much the same, just a bit warmer and less rainy?

I sit there, my bum getting cold on the sandy grass at the edge of the loch, until my stomach tells me it’s time for lunch. Telling the creatures goodbye, and feeling a little silly talking out loud, I turn and head back to the cottage.

After another meal of bacon – this time as a bacon butty – I get my diary out. I’ve hidden it. God knows why, there’s no one here to steal it and read my sob story. In the bedroom the floor is made of wooden boards, unlike the rest of the cottage which is tiled. In the corner there’s a loose floor board, and as I discovered last night, an easily prised up floorboard. Underneath there’s a few inches of space before the dirt begins. That’s where my diary went.

Dusting off the back, I go to the sofa. For a while I stare out the window and at Mainland beyond. There’s a leg of land that kicks out into the sea. I wonder if it has a name and have to stop myself getting up to look for the map of Shetland that I know is on the bookshelves. I’m avoiding, finding other things to think about, other things to do. But I’m here for one reason, and the days are ticking down to when Ian collects me off this island and I’ll have to call my parents and face the music of my absence. My head needs to be clear by then. I pick up the pen and open the notebook.

Mum and Dad argue for over an hour. Normally they don’t argue at all. They have these discussions, but this was a proper argument. Or at least for Mum. She does a lot of shouting. Dad sits there with a sullen expression, taking it. When Mum winds down, I take over.

“Don’t expect to see Chris here again anytime soon, Dad.” These were to be my parting words. Dad hadn’t said anything for a while.

“Why, you going to abandon us for a blacky?”His expression is stony.

Mum opens her mouth, but I get there first.

“A blacky? You’re calling him a blacky?” I stand up, fists clenched. “Maybe I will abandon you for him. Don’t expect to see much of me.”

I stomp out of the room as Mum starts in on him. Dad’s gone silent again.

For the next few months, I avoid Dad at all times. I refuse to eat at the dining room, taking food up to my room, and spend as much time as possible out with Chris. My A-levels finish, and I haven’t a clue what to do next, so I get a job in one of the local pubs as bar staff. This suits me, as it means I’m not in the house when Dad gets back from the garage. As much as I can hold onto the anger, I miss my father and as it comes up on six months of silence between us, Dad finally makes the first move.

“I’m sorry I said those things.” He’s had me meet him by the beach at Meols. The tide is in, lapping at the sea wall. “I shouldn’t have been so racist. I can’t help it, it’s the way I was raised.”

I don’t say anything. I sit there and listen to the crash of the waves and smell the salty air blowing in from the Irish Sea.

“Look, Emily, I can’t stand not having us talk anymore. You need to understand my point of view.” He makes a grab for my hand, but I’m not having it.

“Chris and I have been together for nearly nine months now. He’s as nice to me now as he was the first day I met him. Nicer even. We love each other, and we’re not splitting up anytime soon. You’ll have to accept him or you’ll lose me forever.”

Dad makes another play for my hand, and this time I let him. The way he holds it makes me feel five again, like we’re about to cross the street, and I am the safest girl in the world because my daddy is holding my hand.

“I’m sorry. I need to come to terms with my issues, and not lay them at your feet, souring your relationship.”

I nod, but keep my mouth shut.

I’ve had enough. Tears stream down my cheeks. The pain is so sharp from the memories, I wonder if they’re drawing blood inside me somewhere. Shutting the notebook, I look around for a distraction. The bookshelves call to me.

I spend the afternoon reading some detective novel and waiting for a penetrating drizzle to pass. Checking the tide times (Ian would be so proud of me) I decide to go to the tidal pool. Although it’s now just past eight, the sun is still high in the sky. Feels like it should be hours earlier. Taking care of the rabbit burrows, and keeping well away from the cliffs, I walk north to the pool.

The water is lower than I’ve ever seen it. I can walk far onto the rocky seabed, where the birds fight for tasty morsels. They ignore me, but I’m curious as to what they are searching the now exposed seaweed for. I grab a bit of driftwood and poke a large clump of black-green, bobbly seaweed. Several crabs take flight, running in all directions to get away from my stick. I squeal and jump backwards and into another clump. I feel a sickening crunch under my heal and know there is at least one less crab out here. More crabs dart out, and this time I manage to stay my ground. I notice large ones, really big crabs, like I’ve seen in the supermarkets. I have no idea what to do with a crab, how to kill it, cook it, or even which bits are safe to eat.

There are lots of rock pools left by the tide, and there are little sea birds keeping a sharp eye on whatever is trapped there. I approach carefully, avoiding the seaweed and trying not to disturb the birds. Inside the pools are all kinds of sea life, including some baby fish that are trying to keep out of sight of the watching birds. I back off, leaving the birds to their dinner.

The rain is trying to get going again. Pulling my hood up, I make my way back to the cottage. The rabbits are out, eating, socialising and bounding about, and like the other creatures I’ve come across, utterly unafraid of me. Avoiding them is difficult, the way before me is so riddled with them.

I arrive at the cottage and I’m tired again, truly exhausted. After blocking the door with the sofa, I put some pasta to boil while I have a shower. Cooking up the last of the bacon I mix it in with the pasta and add some cheese. I feel like I’ve overdone the bacon for one day, but I hate seeing food go to waste. 

With a full tummy, I find my way to bed and close the curtains against the lowering sun that’s now streaming into my bedroom. Despite the light, I fall into a deep sleep and dream of Chris. We’re on his moped, my arms tight around his waist. He feels so good, so solid, and so real that I never want to let go.