by Julia Green
For Jesse and Jack
With love
Contents
The Shipping Forecast
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Also by Julia Green
The Shipping Forecast
Rockall, Malin, Hebrides, Bailey
Wind southwesterly 5 to 7,
becoming cyclonic 6 to gale 8 later;
severe gale 9 later.
Sea state moderate,
becoming rough or very rough later.
Showers then rain.
Visibility moderate,
occasionally poor.
Prologue
I’m thinking about this photograph Sam showed me. We were round at his nan’s after school. I’d been worrying about stuff – my parents, as usual. All their arguing, and the silences, which were worse. Sam used to listen, kind of, while I went on about it.
But right now, this particular afternoon in May, he was totally mesmerised by the picture he’d Googled. It was a photo of Earth, taken from the spacecraft Voyager, 3.7 billion miles away: the furthest away point ever that a photo’s been taken of our planet.
‘That tiny blue dot is where we live,’ Sam said. ‘Where all the people who have ever lived have spent their entire lives. It’s smaller than a speck of dust in sunlight.’ He looked at me. ‘What does that make you think, Kate?’
I peered at the picture again. The Earth was just a distant spot, absolutely tiny, caught in a ray of light, and around it was space: dark nothing, stretching for ever. ‘I suppose it shows how small and insignificant we are. Like nothing we do or don’t do is so important, in the grand scheme of things.’ I smiled back at him. ‘So maybe I shouldn’t worry about things so much. Is that what you mean?’
Sam sighed. It wasn’t what he wanted me to say, obviously. He carried on scrolling down the screen, reading the text, checking out photos as if I wasn’t there at all. And it was time for me to go home by then, in any case. He was about to have a driving lesson – paid for by his nan, even though she hardly had any money. But she didn’t want him getting a job. Not while you’re studying. This is your big opportunity, Sam. You’re the first one in this family with a chance of going to university . . .
So, thinking about it now, perhaps Sam was simply imagining himself in the spacecraft, with that view of the spinning world from far off in space. He was going to be an astronaut, or some kind of astrophysicist, just as soon as he could get away. If he could hang on long enough at school to get his exams. If he could stop himself doing something random and crazy. If he could get the money.
If if if.
One
We’ve been on this train for hours: Mum, Dad and me. Each hour takes me further from home. After everything that’s happened, you’d think I’d be glad about that, but I’m not. I’m hot, and tired, and I’m trying not to think about Sam, and the mess he did make, after all.
I’ve got the window seat, at least. The train flashes past hundreds of small scenes: freeze-frames from other people’s lives. Two kids on a bridge over a river – a park with swings – a toddler in a pushchair holding a balloon. Chimneys – canal – motorway – row after row of brick terraced houses. A party in a sunny back garden – a gang of boys on bikes doing wheelies on a building site . . .
It all changes again. Now there are just fields: mile after mile of green, and acres of sky.
Pine forests.
Bare hills.
Moorland.
Sheep.
Tall pink flowers grow like spears along the railway embankment. Thistledown wafts in the draught from the speeding train.
The train slows down. Signals, I presume. We wait for ages in the middle of nowhere. I stare at a small white house tucked under the bulk of a smooth green hill. With four windows and a door in the middle and chimneys at each end of the tiled roof, it’s like a storybook house, from when I was little and Dad read to me at bedtime and things were happy and uncomplicated. A long time ago.
We pick up speed again. On and on and on.
The crowded train begins to empty out at each station.
Mum falls asleep in the seat opposite me. Her head lolls against Dad’s shoulder and he shifts away slightly. He’s been reading the whole way. There’s this horrible tense silence between them. We haven’t left that behind, then.
I think about what Mum said to make me come with them, and the way her voice faltered, as if she was going to cry. This might be the last time. Please, Kate. For my sake, and Dad’s. We really, really need this holiday. Perhaps if I can get Dad away from work and everything . . .
My head aches. Too hot. I lean it against the cool of the glass, but the window shakes too much for me to rest there for long.
The sky gets darker, the shadows lengthen.
Still the train rushes on.
There’s a brief flurry of activity when we have to change trains at Glasgow, on to a smaller one. Mum’s anxious we’re going to miss the connection: it’s the last train this evening. There won’t be another till the morning. Dad’s obviously irritated with her, but he doesn’t say much to me except hurry up, keep up. I trail behind them across the busy station concourse, weaving between people, my stupid bag bumping along on its clapped-out wheels.
The train’s waiting. We’ve got booked seats, but it’s not crowded like the last one. The two carriages rattle up the valley next to a loch for miles and miles. It’s late, but there is still light in the sky, enough to see by.
Finally we’re at the end of the line. We get off and join a huddle of people making their way to the ferry terminal. I veer off, to walk to the end of the pier next to the terminal building. Lights stretch out in wiggly lines over the dark water. It’s blowing a gale.
Mum comes after me. ‘Pull your hood up, Kate, for goodness’ sake! Or take my scarf.’
I don’t say anything.
‘And please come back in a minute and wait inside, like everyone else.’ She hurries back to the brick building at the edge of the car park.
We’ve been travelling all day and we’re still not there yet.
The men on the ferry shout to each other, coil huge ropes, hose down the deck. Finally everything’s ready. They let the cars on first, then the foot passengers. I wait till the very last minute before I turn back and join my parents at the back of the queue.
Dad’s furious. ‘Why do you always have to go off at exactly the wrong moment?’
‘So?’ I say. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I? What’s the problem, exactly?’
‘Stop it, both of you,’ Mum says. ‘Everyone’s tired; let’s all make an effort. Please.’
We dump our luggage in the special compartment on the middle deck. I go up the stairs and outside on to the deck at the back of the ferry. The horn blasts out and there’s a stink of engine diesel. The ferry swings out across the water. I stand right at the edge, leaning over the rail. If you fell off, no one would know. The wind is like ice, and this is high summer.
Mum again. ‘Come and sit down in the warm, Kate. There’s another three hours at least. You’re making me nervous, doing that.’
The water is deep and dar
k. It shines like treacle in the lights from the boat. You’d go down, down, down.
Mum gives up on me and goes back inside. I watch her and Dad through the window. At least they’re talking, now, even if it is about me. Mum gets up and goes to the bar. Dad opens his book again.
Black water.
Grey-black sky.
The ferry creaks and sighs. On the car deck below, the cars and vans slide and clank as the ferry ploughs on, out across the open sea.
Dark shapes loom against the grey – other islands.
Every so often, a tiny light winks out into the darkness.
The crossing takes hours. Finally the low shape of the island looms ahead; Mum points out a white house on a headland. The engine roars as the ferry slows down and turns to reverse into position to dock. We stumble off down the gangplank once the cars have disembarked. A taxi’s waiting for us. Dad helps the man load our bags into the boot. Mum slides into the back seat and leans over to hold the door open while I climb in.
The taxi man says something to Mum but his accent is so strong I can’t understand a word. I could die from tiredness.
‘Yes, four weeks. Lucky us,’ Mum says back. ‘It’s good to be here again. It’s been a long time.’
Dad watches the road ahead intently. The man’s driving too fast: Dad’s having to stop himself saying something. I know because of the way he’s hunched up and silent, and because I can’t bear it either. I’m thinking of Sam, of course, and that horrible night, the glare of lights . . .
Here, there are no street lights, no houses or anything. Rain spatters against the windows like handfuls of gravel. We rattle over a cattle grid and the taxi slows down and veers off to the right, on to a bumpy track. It stops. The engine’s still running. He piles the luggage on to the grass and is off again the minute Dad’s paid him.
We stand there a moment, all three of us, watching the red tail lights fade and disappear into the night. There’s this rushing sound, like white noise.
The sound of nothing.
‘Well, this is it,’ Mum says. ‘We’ve arrived.’
Dad picks up two of the bags, Mum opens the unlocked door. She has to shove it with her whole body. ‘Wood’s warped,’ Dad says. ‘Damp.’
I follow them in.
‘Choose either room upstairs,’ Mum says to me. ‘We’ll take the double room downstairs, won’t we?’ She glances at Dad, only for a second, fleetingly, but I notice all the same. Something flickers across his face too. He doesn’t say anything. In the electric light his face looks washed out.
I stand at the top of the stairs to examine the rooms. Each has a sloping roof, Velux skylight windows, bare wooden floor with a sheepskin rug, a single bed, a chair, a chest of drawers and a shelf for books. I choose the one at the front, with an extra low window you can see straight through when you lie down on the bed. It’s a square of black right now.
It’s the middle of the night. I kick off my shoes, undress and climb under the duvet. Voices drift upstairs: a kettle flicks on; a door closes.
Something wakes me and for a moment I have no idea where I am. Strange silver light floods the small room, shines right on my pillow, on my face. There are two skylight windows, and one of them frames a full moon.
That moonlight! I’ve never seen anything like it. Shining right in, directly on me, like a spotlight. As if it means something.
I’m wired: too anxious, too awake, even though I’m so tired. I lie in the moonlight, listening to all the sounds of a strange house. That rushing noise is still there. The wind’s up: it rattles the windows, shakes the house. I feel weird, as if my body’s still travelling, up and down like the rocking of the train, the boat.
The moonlight moves across the room, off my pillow.
I make myself breathe deeply but I’m all on edge. I stay like that for ages. The moon moves across the sky. The room gets darker. It begins to rain again. Finally I fall into ragged sleep.
Two
Morning. I wake up earlier than usual because it’s so light. Not moonlight filling the square of window now but sun, and a blue sky with big clouds. From the bed I can see straight out of the low window: a square of sea and beach, framed by the window like a picture. The beach is really close: just a few metres in front of the house beyond the grass and the track.
Slowly it dawns on me that the sound I’ve been hearing all night, the rushing sound when we got out of the taxi, is the sound of the sea. Waves, rolling in, one after another. Watching them makes my head spin after a while, because it’s never-ending. It’s rough today – white-capped waves all the way out to the horizon.
I get up and go downstairs, use the bathroom, check the fridge but it’s empty except for a carton of milk and some leftover cheese sandwiches from the journey, all squashed and disgusting. No one’s up yet: Mum and Dad’s bedroom door is shut. I listen: no raised voices. No sounds at all. I open all the kitchen cupboards and find tea bags and tins of soup and a bag of dry oats but that’s about it. I make tea to take upstairs with me.
My room is so light and bright I’ll never get back to sleep. I get dressed instead: jeans, T-shirt, jumper. It’s bound to be cold outside. I check my phone but there’s no signal. I stuff it in my pocket. I’ll walk till I find a place where it works.
The wind’s stronger than I expect: it whips the door back and makes it bang. Three sheep stop and stare at me as I walk over the grass to the track: there are sheep everywhere, not fenced in or anything, wandering all over the road and the grass. They run away, bleating, as I get near.
The track runs down to the road, and beyond that is the sea. The road follows the curve of the island. The tide’s going out, revealing sand, wet pebbles, heaps of seaweed.
I jump down on to the nearest bit of beach. My feet sink in the sand. White, fine sand made of ground shells. I leave a trail of footprints: the first ones on clean washed sand. Like being the first person to walk on fresh snow. I pull my hood up and walk further along. Little brown birds fly off in front of me.
Phone’s still not got a signal.
Now what? It’s too cold to stay outside, and I’m starving.
I walk back towards the house. It’s harder work, against the wind. Facing this way I can see the cluster of white houses which is the village. Except it’s not really. There’s only one shop, still shut. Sheep. And that’s it.
The way Mum talked, you’d think it was going to be some kind of island paradise. She and Dad had their honeymoon here. Lots of holidays before I was born, when my sisters were little, and some when I was there too, apparently, and we were all so happy . . .
One last go, she said to Dad, the night before we left. If we can’t make things work there, we’ll know that’s it. The end of the line. I wasn’t supposed to hear, but the living room door was open and I was standing at the top of the stairs and I couldn’t help it, and now the horrible words are stuck in my head for ever . . .
I pick up a handful of damp pebbles from the beach and fling them so they spray against the road. I yell into the wind.
A red post van goes by. The bloke driving it waves at me and grins. Like he thinks he knows me, or something. Like it’s normal to be yelling and throwing stuff before breakfast.
I turn away. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
The wind makes my eyes sting with tears.
Dad’s found a pair of binoculars and he’s staring out of the window with them. Mum’s making breakfast. ‘Porridge,’ she says. ‘Want some?’
‘What else is there?’ I say.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. The shop won’t be open yet, so we’re having to make do for now.’ She glances nervously at Dad, as if she feels bad about there being nothing nicer for their first holiday breakfast, as if it’s all her fault or something. I can’t stand that. So I make an effort and eat her porridge and don’t moan.
‘What’s it like out?’ Mum says, with that hopeful look she has when she’s trying to make things OK. ‘Nice to have an early walk.’
�
��It’s freezing,’ I say. ‘My phone doesn’t work.’
Mum laughs. ‘Well, that’s one of the things I love about this place. No phones, no internet. Being cut off from all that.’
‘It’s not funny!’ I say. ‘How am I supposed to talk to my friends? Why didn’t you say about that before we came?’
But I don’t want to argue with her, I really don’t. So I shut up and have another cup of tea.
Dad’s checking his own phone.
Mum watches him, anxious. She doesn’t say anything for a while. She washes the bowls and mugs and I wipe the table.
‘We’ll get sorted out this morning: get some food in and make ourselves comfortable in the house,’ Mum says. ‘Later let’s go out together and explore this side of the island. I fancy a long walk along a beach. The weather’s clearing, I think.’
Dad’s staring out of the window. Why doesn’t he say something nice to Mum? Say anything, for that matter? It’s as if he’s always thinking about something else.
The clouds have lifted. Now I can see a whole new layer to the view that wasn’t visible before: other islands, one behind another, faint on the horizon.
At least the house is OK, I suppose. You could lie on the leather sofa and stare at the view and read and watch telly and stuff. There are DVDs and a pile of magazines and shelves of books, like someone’s proper home instead of a holiday house. But four weeks, on a tiny island, with Mum and Dad trying to save their marriage and nothing, absolutely nothing, for me to do?
‘I can’t believe you made me come here!’ I blurt out.
Dad looks at me. ‘What else did you expect us to do?’ he says. ‘We were hardly going to leave you behind all by yourself for four weeks. You’re fifteen, Kate. You’re still a child. And after all the – the terrible business with that boy –’
‘Stop right there!’ Mum says, more fiercely than I’ve heard her for ages. ‘Don’t drag that up now.’
They mean Sam, of course. Unsuitable Sam with his brilliant mind and reckless behaviour: too old for me, too complicated, too dangerous. You could have died, Dad said. How could we ever trust him, after that? How could you?