by Jenny Colgan
He was supposed to be coming in on the early-morning ferry; except he wasn’t on it, it appeared. The ship’s bosun had nothing to say about it. So the crowd broke up, muttering things that were not, on the whole, kind, and Flora and Lorna had to pretend they really were just going for a coffee after all.
Chapter 11
Saif never cried. Not any more.
But if he could have, he might have then.
He had a plan, he had told himself. He had a chance now to get settled. Work. Then, as soon as he had some money, he would stop at nothing, absolutely nothing, until they were found. That was his vow. And the job paid more money than he had ever imagined he would see; more than his father had ever made, even in the good years.
But the big boat, bobbing in the choppy water… He was on the brink of failing before he had even got started.
He could not get on. The men had shouted, telling him they were leaving, but he simply could not. Right now, at the very end of this long journey, he could not bring himself to take that step.
There was a dingy, cold coffee bar at the ferry terminal.
Saif bought a horrible milky, powdery cup of coffee and sat down, eyed by the coffee shop owner.
This was it. The last test. He had been bought this ticket. He had nothing else; he had been given a couple of suits, and that was all – they had made sure of that. If he didn’t arrive, didn’t do the job he was given, then he had nothing, in a strange country. And if he disappeared and they found him, that would be the end of everything.
They had trusted him because of his professional status. They had been kind – distant, but kind. They had offered him life when his own country offered nothing but despair and death on both sides; to his utter shame.
Saif sat all day in the draughty ferry terminal, trying to make a cup of coffee last as long as he could, trying to make himself move, wander, get on his way. But there was nowhere left to go.
He glanced out. Clouds and bright bursts of sunshine crossed the sky in turn, incredibly fast. It felt like he was at the very edge of the world. There was nothing above here; nothing from here through the Faroe Islands to the North Pole. He had reached the end of the road, quite literally. He stared out at the dancing sky.
The ferry came in for its very last run of the day. It was the evening shift, which carried workers from the mainland; post and supplies; the newspapers if they’d been missed before.
He stared at it, paralysed with fear, unable to move, feeling the breath short in his throat.
A man came in: the captain. He was wearing a uniform and a hat. Saif shrank back in his seat. Now the questions would begin. He was in the wrong place. He would be made to leave. Unwanted, again. He clutched his bag nervously, and swallowed hard.
‘Hey,’ said the man. He was tall and red of face, and had a beard, greying in parts. His accent was hard to understand; Saif did his best.
‘Are you the refugee?’
Saif hated this word. He was a doctor, fine. A man. A Syrian, although he’d been raised in the Lebanon. But ‘refugee’. That was a label of pity, of scorn, of being less than a person, of being something strange.
He nodded without saying anything.
Then the captain did a surprising thing. He sat down on the plastic chair that was nailed to the ground facing Saif.
He didn’t say anything for a while. Saif looked at the freezing plastic cup of terrible coffee that he’d made last half the afternoon.
‘I was shipwrecked,’ said the man eventually. ‘Fire in the galley. The boat sank faster than you can imagine. Blink of an eye and there was nothing solid beneath your feet at all. Nothing. We lost a good man too.’
Saif looked at him, his heart quickening.
‘Took… took me a while to get back on board,’ said the captain.
He cleared his throat, gruffly.
‘Anyway. I mean. If you wanted to…’
He paused.
‘The island needs a doctor,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s not safe. That old guy, honestly. I wouldn’t trust him with a wart.’
He looked Saif in the eye.
‘You could… if you wanted, you could sit up in the wheelhouse with me. Safest place to be. And you can barely see a wave. If, like, you wanted to. You know.’
Saif didn’t know how to answer him. It was as if his entire voice had gone. The captain nodded quickly, then stood up to go.
‘Tide’s turning,’ he muttered gruffly at the door.
There was silence in the large, empty terminal building. Then Saif picked up his bag.
‘Wait… please,’ he managed to stutter out. The captain turned back. He didn’t say anything, just nodded quietly and carried on.
Chapter 12
The curious crowd of the morning had left by the evening tide; it was getting chilly, and Mure people had their tea early. The sun was trying to shine, but the chilly wind blew down from the Arctic, whipping through the white crests of the waves in the little shingle harbour.
Lorna pulled her coat round her tightly, and worried about her dad, and all the marking of children’s work that she should be doing. As she walked her little white fox terrier, Milou, along the promenade, Milou’s bearded muzzle blew in the wind.
She almost ran straight into Ewan, the mainland policeman who came to Mure for the very occasional crime. Mostly it was teenagers setting barns on fire after making their own alcohol called hooch. Sometimes it was a drunk driver, although they generally only hurt themselves, by driving straight into hedges. Otherwise Ewan chatted about road safety and stranger danger at the school. The idea of stranger danger was a difficult one for the children to understand, because most people on the island had known them and their parents and grandparents for generations.
‘Hey there,’ said Lorna.
She and Ewan Andersson had had a very awkward couple of dates as teenagers. That was back when she used to catch the ferry to the high school in Oban and his cheery face had greeted her across the chemistry lab. But they weren’t awkward with each other now. Ewan had married, presumably by chance, Laura, who had sat next to Lorna in high school – they had been seated in alphabetical order. He was a sensible, dogged man, who was not very imaginative, not a romantic. In fact, he was a perfect small-town copper, whose gentleness with difficult lads, and firmness with out-of-towners’ bad parking, had made him very popular.
‘What’s up? Doesn’t feel like a Saturday night.’
Ewan shifted uncomfortably, his radio against his hip, even though it must be useless over here.
‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been asked to come and meet the boat.’
‘Oh!’ said Lorna. ‘Oh yeah. I thought he wasn’t coming.’
‘Well, apparently he is.’
‘Good,’ said Lorna, meaning it. She looked out to the horizon, where, just bobbing into view, the CalMac ferry was steadily making its way towards them. She wondered what the doctor must be feeling.
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘Oh, Mrs Laird is getting the old rectory ready.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Why? It’s just sitting there.’
Mure hadn’t managed to keep its own vicar; the last full-time one had left five years ago. Now there was a touring island vicar, who held a service every couple of weeks. He could be booked for weddings and christenings, although there weren’t many christenings these days. He always looked harassed and over-worked and disapproving when he did turn up.
In contrast, Lorna’s devout and beloved grandfather had often quoted that she must find ‘tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything’. She had always liked this more than getting up and going to church.
‘Yes, but isn’t he a Muslim?’
‘Can’t see as that will make any difference,’ said Ewan, looking at her sharply. ‘I wouldn’t have put you in the camp that thinks he’s here to blow us all up.’
‘Of course I’m not!’ said Lorna, her face turning a little
red. ‘It just seems a bit odd, that’s all.’
‘I think,’ said Ewan, ‘he’ll be pleased with a roof over his head. That’s what I think, and that when you’re hungry it doesn’t really matter who feeds you. And it’s the same when you need a doctor.’
‘You Samaritan,’ said Lorna, smiling, and Ewan grinned back cheerfully.
‘So why are you here?’ said Lorna.
Ewan frowned. ‘Just… just to make sure.’
‘What? They were expecting trouble?’
Ewan glanced around. ‘I guess so, but unless they count Milou, I don’t think there’s going to be much.’
Sure enough, Lorna noticed a press photographer still waiting hopefully. It hardly seemed like the world’s greatest scoop.
‘Milou isn’t trouble!’
Ewan tactfully patted the excited little dog, who immediately planted his muddy paws on the policeman’s thighs, tail wagging madly.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Walking the dog,’ said Lorna. ‘Do you think I should stay and say hello? Or will that be weird and awkward?’
Ewan looked at her in a pitying way. And Lorna remembered that, though he was a dunce at chemistry, and a very sloppy kisser (although they were only fifteen), he had uncommon good sense, which had stood him in very good stead.
‘This is going to be his home,’ he said gently. ‘So yes. I’d likely say hello.’
Chapter 13
The boat came in slowly. One or two more people had joined them, picking up friends and relatives and parcels. Lorna tried to look welcoming and friendly and not racist. It was a harder facial expression to put on than you might think.
She saw Mrs Laird – who used to ‘do’ for the vicar and was obviously holding the keys to the rectory – standing nearby. She smiled at her reassuringly.
‘I hope he’s nice,’ she said.
‘I don’t care if he’s nice, if he can fix my varicose veins,’ said Mrs Laird. She sighed. ‘You know, he’s not bringing a family with him.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t have a family.’
Mrs Laird blinked and looked at her strangely.
‘Everyone has a family,’ she said. ‘You think he had no one to bring?’
Lorna hadn’t really thought about it like that. She’d gone off to college on the mainland for four years, and had then taught in Glasgow for two years. Then she had been tempted home, or rather, had felt guilty about her dad. She was used to just getting up and going where she wanted.
Everyone came off the ferry, and drove away, and there was no sign of him. Then the crew who were finishing their shift came off. Finally, the captain came down from the wheelhouse.
Walking beside him, in a coat that looked both rather smart and also as if it totally didn’t belong to him, was a tall, stooped man with a shock of black hair. His face was hidden against the wind blowing in off the harbour.
Lorna watched him slowly come ashore, and wondered what was going through his mind. What would he think of them? Would he think they were immoral Westerners who ate and drank too much? Who didn’t understand the world? Would he be all right handing out birth control to the young girls? What was his English like? Would he look after her dad? Her brother Iain wasn’t due back from the rigs for another couple of months, and she was getting worried about her dad again.
Ewan and Mrs Laird stepped forward, Ewan with his hand out.
‘Welcome to Mure,’ he said, as the photographer set off his flash, which made the man blink uncomfortably.
‘Thank you,’ he said, so quietly Lorna could barely hear him. His accent was gentle.
‘We’ve got a hoose for you!’ said Mrs Laird, and the man obviously didn’t quite understand. So Lorna said, ‘House. There’s a house for you,’ and he glanced up. Beneath his heavy fringe, which badly needed cutting, she glimpsed large dark eyes, incredibly weary and sad-looking, with big black shadows beneath them. He was clean-shaven, but with stubble showing through.
‘Thank you.’
Lorna smiled cheerfully at him, but he looked too tired to return it.
After that, everyone stood around shuffling their feet nervously. Obviously nobody was going to ask him to the pub. The captain shook his hand and headed back to the ship for the night crossing to Harris. The sun vanished behind a cloud and rain started popping down out of nowhere.
Mrs Laird said, ‘Come with me, then,’ and the man picked up his suitcase. It wasn’t even on wheels, Lorna noticed. How could you carry a suitcase all that way when it wasn’t even on wheels? He held a black bag firmly in his other hand, and started to follow Mrs Laird, obediently, like a child.
He should have a little sign round his neck that said ‘Please look after this bear’, thought Lorna, but she didn’t say it out loud. Instead, as the little party trailed off, she said, ‘I hope you’ll be very happy here.’ He turned back to look at her as if she’d said the stupidest thing of all time, as if anyone could possibly be happy here, and she felt awkward and slightly insulted at the same time.
And then Milou, who wasn’t bothered, ran up to check out the newcomer.
At first the man flinched, and Lorna wondered: had there been dogs? Guard dogs?
But Milou kept up his cheerful licking, and finally the man relaxed a little. In a quick movement, he scratched the dog behind the ears, just for a second, before turning away again.
Saif was absolutely freezing cold. Why did people keep saying what a beautiful day it was? It wasn’t a beautiful day. He was trying to force himself to think in English now. He was trying to stop translating the words in his head, but simply to think in the language all the time.
He couldn’t understand the tiny woman who had broken veins crackling in her cheeks. She walked around the dark, chilly house, pointing things out to him that didn’t make any sense.
There was a boiler, with various buttons to be pressed. Everything – the heavy curtains, the old bedspread – felt slightly damp to the touch. He put his bag down and looked around. Mrs Laird – ‘rrrrd’ he repeated to himself, ‘LaiRRRRD’ – showed him how to work the kettle, as if such a thing would be a strange foreign object to him. But she didn’t show him the mixer tap, which was strange to him.
As she backed awkwardly out of the door, she wished him well, and told him she could come in twice a week to clean if he’d like.
When she’d gone, he went around turning on as many lamps as he could find. But this still didn’t do much to lift the gloom. Then he pulled open the curtains – it was still light outside, even at eight o’clock. He hadn’t realised that it stayed light so late so far north. A neatly trimmed lawn went to the end of a small slope, then dropped off a cliff. Beyond was a vast sea, with the mountains of the mainland just visible. The sky too was vast, freshly washed by the rainfall.
It looked like the furthest edge of the world.
Anyway. What he needed, first of all, was a mobile signal, which he didn’t seem to have. And some internet, which he didn’t seem to have either. The one thing he’d managed to hold together, more or less, was to keep his mobile number. He’d been given a new British number, but he had to keep his old number. He had to.