by Jenny Colgan
‘Is there anything else?’ said Innes sadly.
‘Not unless any of you thought to make anything.’
They all looked at each other.
‘Well, you can starve then,’ she said, crossly.
‘Toast!’ said Innes joyfully, and they all got up.
‘What?’
‘Mrs Laird,’ explained Fintan. ‘You know, who used to look after the vicar? She can actually make stuff. She makes bread for us.’
Flora went pink.
‘I can do all that.’
‘Come on, love,’ said her dad from the fireplace. ‘We’re only messing with you. Nobody gets it right first time.’
Flora took a deep breath and looked round at the filthy kitchen.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said.
‘To the chippy?’ said Hamish hopefully.
‘No!’ said Flora, tears stinging her eyes as she marched out of the house. She’d have banged the door behind her, but it never got shut in the summer and had warped a bit, and nobody had thought to oil the hinges, which also made her furious. Had they all just given up?
And now they were doing the big ha ha has, teasing her, just like they always used to. With no one to stick up for her.
Well, she wasn’t putting up with it. She was going to head out, go somewhere… but where? The pub would be full of her dad’s friends and she didn’t want to get into that. Everything else was shut. Oh for God’s sake, this place. But she couldn’t go home either.
She decided instead to take a walk up the Carndyne fell and clear her head.
The great fell, from which you could see across to the mainland, and to the islands behind if you went that side, was a beautiful hill – more of a mountain, really. People came from all over to climb it, and in the winter it got very snowy. It was unexpectedly dangerous; it could be mistaken for an easy summer walk when in fact it was unusually tricky and could get perilous in bad weather. There wasn’t a season passed when Mountain Rescue wasn’t called out to one idiot or another who thought they’d take a quick wander up the lovely green hill and got themselves into trouble far faster than they could imagine, even though there were plenty of signs and the guidebooks were very clear.
Murians, who often made up Mountain Rescue in the summertime, scoffed at this kind of thing and had little truck with girls who marched up in flip-flops and T-shirts, or boys who thought they could traverse a col without a rope and were very grateful for the dog rescue and the wry remarks of the locals.
Flora, of course, knew it like the back of her hand; had first climbed it at the age of nine. It was also the alternate-year school trip, which always provoked loud groans. The other class got to go to Esker, a little village on the mainland that hosted a pathetic excuse for a summer funfair, with rackety rides and straightforwardly fradulent stalls that nonetheless provoked wild excitement in the stimulus-hungry island boys and girls, who would come back laden with enormous lollies and cheap felt toys, sneering at the climbers, who had nothing but empty lunch boxes from sandwiches eaten at 10 a.m., sore feet and, occasionally, hoods full of rainwater.
It was late in the day, but the evenings were so long now, and as Flora climbed higher, she began to breathe deeply and take in the sights all around her. After another ten minutes, she turned round in surprise to see that Bramble was following her, panting cheerfully.
‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘No, go back down. Honestly, I need some alone time.’
Bramble completely ignored this and waddled up to her, licking her hand gently.
‘Dog! You are too old and fat to walk up this mountain! What if you get stuck?’
Bramble wagged his tail gently. Flora looked behind her. If she took him all the way down, she’d have to walk back into the kitchen, into the weird silence she was sure would have descended on everyone, and apologise for her outburst, or just generally look foolish. She sighed and marched on.
‘You’d better keep up with me, then.’
Bramble moved forward, his claws clicking on the stones. If it wasn’t for the chubby wobble of his haunches, he’d have looked quite noble.
Flora passed on up over the ridge and on to a long grassy mid-section. The air was clean and cool, and as she turned to look back, she saw the late-evening sun glittering and dancing off the sea, which unusually was as calm as a pond. In the distance she spotted the ferry carving out its familiar path across the bay. It must be, she thought, a pleasant night to be on board a boat. Then she could catch the sleeper from Fort William and be back in London…
Mind you, it was 31 degrees in London right now. It would be horribly sticky, with that nasty smell of overheated bins and cars blaring music everywhere and a slight undercurrent of noise and menace and people living too close together. London in the summer was… it was great, but it was just so crowded. So many people cramming onto the South Bank, jammed into overheated tubes and sweaty buses, searching for a tiny patch of scrubby grass in a park or a garden somewhere; hot pavements and cooking smells, and dope hanging over everything.
Up here, undeniably, she could breathe.
But that’s not the point, she argued crossly with herself. It wasn’t the point at all. Nobody was denying it was beautiful up here. Of course it was; it was gorgeous, everyone knew that. The question was whether it was right for her. For everything she wanted to accomplish; for everything she wanted to do with her life, whatever that was.
And now she was back in that stupid farmhouse, chained at that bloody sink, just like her mother had been. She kicked a stone bitterly. This had not been the plan. This hadn’t been the plan at all. And if everyone was going to keep taking the piss, making fun of her after the sacrifice she’d made, well, she didn’t want to deal with them in the slightest.
She carried on climbing, hoping the vigorous exercise would calm her down a little, but instead she found herself having quite long arguments inside her head about things, which wasn’t helping at all. Blinking, she realised she’d come higher than she’d meant to, and could see right across to the hills on the mainland. The sky was filling with little pink clouds scuttling here and there, and the harbour below was barely more than a dot; likewise the ferry reaching the port. She marched on.
Nearing the top, she finally felt tired enough – it was a tricky scrambly bit, up some scree – for her head to start to clear. She found the waterfall she knew was tucked behind a wall of rock, and she and Bramble drank deeply of its freezing, utterly refreshing water, like liquid crystal on her tongue. She had just decided that this would be far enough when suddenly she heard a yelping.
She glanced round.
‘Bramble? Bramble?’
The dog whined in response, but didn’t run up to her as he normally would.
‘BRAMBLE?’
The sun was starting to dip behind the mountains, and the chill was instant and noticeable. Concerned, Flora made her way across to the dog. To her horror, he had got one of his paws trapped in between two rocks. His back legs were desperately scrabbling against the wet stone as he tried to right himself.
She waded into the water and carefully freed his paw from the hole it had got stuck in, while he writhed in panic in her arms.
‘It’s okay! It’s okay. It’s okay,’ she whispered in his ear as she heaved his enormous bulk onto the nearest patch of soft earth. ‘You’re going to be fine.’
Bramble was whimpering now, and trembling hard. They were both completely soaked, and with the sun gone, it was becoming increasingly chilly. The dog’s front right paw was hanging at a very unpleasant angle; Flora felt slightly sick even to look at it. Bramble yelped and looked at her as if it was all her fault, and she made soothing noises, all the while feeling panicked inside. She didn’t have her phone; she’d stormed out without her bag, too annoyed to pick anything up. Even if she had had it, there wasn’t a signal up here at the best of times, and this was beginning to look very much not like the best of times.
It was at least ninety minutes down the fell. Th
e poor creature couldn’t walk, and he weighed more than she did; she couldn’t possibly carry him. But she couldn’t leave him here either; he’d just try and follow her, and who knew what would happen then? She didn’t have anything to tie him up with – and the idea of tying up and leaving an animal in pain, even if it was to get help, was just unbearable. Plus, it would be dark up here shortly, and how was she going to get anyone to come back up in the pitch black to look for an animal? It was far too dangerous; it would put human lives at risk.
Flora swore loudly. For God’s sake. The most awful thing about it was that it would just confirm everything her family already thought: that she’d become soft with her city-living ways; that she didn’t even know how to walk up the bloody fell. Oh God. She looked down at the dog.
‘There you go, shh, don’t worry,’ she said. She could hear his heart beating through his chest, very fast. His breathing was shallow, and he was shivering miserably.
‘My poor Bramble,’ she said, burying her face in his fur. She realised that she was very cold. Too cold. The sun had misled her; it was still spring in the very north of Britain, which meant it was still dangerous.
Well, at least she had the dog to keep her warm, if they cuddled together. But she couldn’t spend a night out here; that was a mad idea.
Her life, Flora decided crossly, was a mad idea.
She saw the clouds coming in. Of course she did. It was the oldest saying in the world: if you don’t like the weather in Scotland, just wait five minutes. The rain darkened the hills across the bay, hiding them from view. Soon the coastline had vanished too under its dark sheet. The wind brought the fresh, unearthly smell of forthcoming rain. Bramble whimpered as if he knew something bad was about to happen. Flora reflected that at least he had his fur. Otherwise things looked pretty grim.
She tried hoisting the dog up. He weighed a ton soaking wet. It absolutely didn’t help that he was panicked with the pain in his paw and scrabbled desperately to escape her arms, which meant the entire thing would be impossible.
The first drops of heavy rain started to fall. Flora realised she was wearing her London coat, which was absolutely fine for popping out in a light shower, but utterly useless for being up on top of a Scottish mountain in the middle of a storm.
When would the boys start to worry about her? she wondered. They’d probably assumed she’d gone to meet Lorna in the pub and wouldn’t expect her back for hours. Dogs were allowed in the pub, so it wouldn’t worry anyone particularly that Bramble wasn’t there, even if they noticed.
Flora took her jacket off and put it over her head – it didn’t even have a hood – but the water was running down her neck regardless. She said every single swear word she knew, over and over again, but it didn’t help. In fact, it precipitated a rumble of thunder somewhere in the distance.
Shelter, she thought. She needed to find shelter. She thought about the layout of the mountain in her head, from her childhood running up and down its paths, picking wild flowers for her mother, who would glance at them distractedly before looking around for a vase, which they didn’t have, and dunking them in a mug.
There was, she remembered, a cave about two hundred metres downhill and round the other side, facing inland. She had drunk cider and snogged there with Clark when they were at school – he was now the island’s policeman, which showed how things had changed – and cigarette butts and bottle tops had littered the ground then. She wondered if it was still like that. Probably. There weren’t that many places on their tiny island where you could get away from prying eyes. If she could make it there, they could shelter until… well. Until she thought of a better idea.
She took a deep breath. Once she was down this mountain, she was going to tell the boys… well, she was going to tell the boys to stuff it. They could get on with everything themselves, eat beans out of a tin if they wanted, she no longer cared. She hated this stupid place and its stupid mad weather and its stupid tiny bunch of people who all knew each other and had opinions all the time. She was done. She was out.
Bramble nuzzled her foot.
Maybe she would take Bramble with her. Mind you, moving a huge, ancient dog into a tiny London rental… Well. Okay, maybe. Maybe she could come visit. Maybe…
Bramble whined.
‘Stop that, dog,’ she said. ‘Oh God. Right. Okay.’
The best way, she worked out, after some slightly muddy and ungraceful scrambling in the soaking undergrowth, was to lift Bramble over her shoulder, like in a war film, trying to avoid his damaged paw. He struggled to begin with, then seemed to realise she was trying to help him.
Now utterly drenched from head to toe, with mud covering her almost completely, she made a growling noise at the sky and started skidding and slipping back down the hill.
‘For CHRIST’S sake, you STUPID dumb dog!’ she shouted, marching ferociously, using her anger to propel her forward. ‘If you weren’t so DAMN greedy and always wuffing up all the leftovers, I wouldn’t be nearly KILLING myself carrying you. And you probably wouldn’t have been trapped in that waterfall if you were a proper HEALTHY dog.’
‘Aoww,’ agreed Bramble mournfully, lifting his head and covering her face with another layer of mud.
If she hadn’t known it so well, she would have missed the cave altogether, given that it was out of the way round the back end of the hill and had a hefty spray of early-season heather growing in front of it. She staggered towards it through the sheeting rain, continuing to lecture the dog as she went, her feet in their utterly unsuitable – and now ruined – Converse becoming ever more sodden. She nearly dropped poor Bramble as she pushed her way through the trailing greenery into the relative safety of the cave.
‘BLOODY BLOODY BLOODY HELL,’ she said, depositing him as gently as she could manage on the sandy floor. She was puffing and sweating now as well as utterly drenched and furious. It was not a good look.
‘Hello,’ came a quiet voice.
Chapter Eleven
Flora could barely see. The darkness inside the cave plus the stream of water plastering her hair over her head and across her eyes meant she couldn’t focus at all. She blinked, then rubbed her hands over her face to try and clear her vision.
Then she did it again, in the hope that what she had seen would go away.
Staring straight at her were about a dozen twelve-year-olds and a large, pink-faced man, all wide-eyed and gazing at her in bemusement. Some of the children seemed quite frightened. Flora wondered if she looked very peculiar.
Probably. She was plastered with mud from head to foot and had just dumped a gigantic whining dog on the floor.
She tried to think of a way to pass all this off in a casual fashion, as if it was the kind of thing one did all the time on Mure, but Bramble was whining pitifully, and the eerily quiet children were staring at her like she’d been deliberately torturing him.
‘Uh. Hi,’ she said. The man stepped forward carefully, in the calm way you might approach a dangerous animal.
‘Are you all right?’
Outside, the rain pounded the hillside.
‘Of course I’m all right,’ said Flora, then realised she could hardly breathe and bent over.
‘I was talking to the dog,’ said the man. His accent was local, but when Flora lifted her head, she found she didn’t recognise him.
She blinked the last of the water out of her eyes.
‘Sorry… are you guys some kind of lost tribe?’
But the man had already knelt down and was making soothing noises, gently stroking Bramble’s panting flank.
‘It’s his paw,’ said Flora. ‘Don’t touch it. He got it caught in some rocks.’
‘He’s out of shape,’ said the man, scratching behind Bramble’s ears.
‘Don’t insult my dog,’ said Flora sharply.
‘Right. Sorry.’
He looked up at her. He was large, broad shouldered and heavy set, with thick hair; his eyes were a penetrating blue and he didn’t look very pleas
ed.
‘So why have you got him marching all over a mountain in a storm?’
‘I could say exactly the same about you and your albino dwarf army,’ muttered Flora.
‘Do you always climb mountains in shoes like that?’
‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘I like to feel the mud between my toes.’
The man’s face lost its stern expression for a moment.
‘You’re from round here?’ he said.
‘Not really,’ said Flora, lying. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Charlie MacArthur,’ said the man, sticking out his hand. ‘Outward Adventures. We’re on a trip.’
‘And this is meant to be fun, is it?’
A ragged cheer went up from the little band.
‘Of course,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ve been far too hot today.’
‘What’s wrong with your dug?’ said one of the boys shyly. His accent was rough and westerly; Glaswegian, Flora would have said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Flora. ‘I think he’s broken his paw.’
There was a general murmur of sympathy from the assembled group. As Flora focused on them a bit more closely, she noticed they were a wary-looking collection; not noisy and confident like the large groups of children she saw marching up and down on the harbour wall, shouting and yelling at each other cheerfully, hurling chips for the seagulls and generally acting like they didn’t have a care in the world, which they didn’t, because they were twelve.
This lot were different. She’d been right: they were pale; they were scrawny too, swamped by their huge, obviously borrowed waterproofs. She glanced up at Charlie again.
‘Can the lads pet your dog?’ he said. ‘We’ll get him home for you. If you want. You know. If you don’t have a plan sorted.’