‘I should get back.’ But he reaches out and touches my wrist.
‘Stay. Just this once.’
I sink back into the sheets, resting my head against his chest and listening to the dull thud of his heartbeat. I stay there until the sun starts to rise over the sea, when I slip out without saying goodbye. We’ve said our goodbye; what else is there left to say? Before I leave I take one last glance inside his studio, taking in the desk where we sat side by side and where I found my way back to the thing that once made me so happy. I run my hand across the smooth wood of Mallachy’s easel, brushing my palm over the soft tips of paintbrushes. Sometimes things are lost forever, but sometimes we find them again. When I’m back in London I will buy new paints and brushes. I will sharpen a new set of pencils and open a blank sketchbook. And I will spend my spare moments around school work and Ella doing the thing I once loved so much, but needed someone to remind me of. Mallachy has given me so many unexpected wonderful moments over the past few weeks, moments when I’ve forgotten everything else and just let myself sink into happiness. But perhaps most of all, he gave me this.
I make it back to Hilly Farm before the others wake and return to the yellow room that looks out over the sea, the room where the bed is now neatly made, the borrowed raincoats folded on the chair, the suitcase ready by the door.
*
No one seems to know what to say as Jack drives us to the harbour, Alice in the front and me in the back next to Molly and Ella. Our suitcases are in the boot, plus the extra bag given by Alice to hold all of Ella’s birthday presents. For once, the girls are quiet.
I left a few things behind in my room: three parcels addressed to Jack, Alice and Molly. I wonder when they will find them. I couldn’t bear the thought of being there myself when they opened them. I would have been far too embarrassed. Instead, I imagine Alice opening hers first, tearing the paper and pulling out the medium-sized canvas. Will she recognise herself in the figure standing waist-deep in the sea, arms outstretched, clouds swirling on the horizon? I hope so. I tried hard to capture her spirit, her defiance that day when we swam together in the freezing sea. Then Molly’s, a similar-sized canvas but this time painted in bold, vibrant colours that spell out the words ‘Save the sea’. And finally Jack’s, the heaviest of the three packages. I imagine he will take more time over his, holding the weight in his hands before carefully peeling back the paper. Beneath the paper he will find a box. A simple thing made from smoothed fragments of wood collected from the beach. Mallachy helped me with its construction, letting me use the materials in his studio. But the design is mine, the wooden shards picked by me from the sand. The box is filled entirely with shells and pebbles. The zebra-striped dome of a limpet shell. A fragment of china with a blue and white pattern. The sharp knife of a razor clam. Nestled among the treasure is a note. I still remember every word that I wrote for him this morning.
Jack,
Every time I’m on a beach I find myself collecting things. I remember how much you used to love searching for shells and rocks when we were young, and how happy you’d look whenever I gave you a new ‘treasure’ I’d found. It was the best feeling, being able to make you smile. Molly told me the collecting is something you still do. I’m not sure why, but it made me so happy to know that. I suppose it makes me feel closer to you – as though when I’ve stopped and picked something off a beach on the Isle of Dogs you might have been doing the same thing here on the Isle of Kip. I know that’s foolish really, though, and that nothing changes the reality of what happened and all those years we spent apart. But I still like to think of it.
Every time I picked up a shell or a rock or a bit of glass from a beach over the years, I thought of you. I wondered what you were doing and I hoped that you were OK, that you were happy. Coming here, I couldn’t shake the habit. This box is the result of two weeks of treasure-hunting here on Kip. It’s all the times I thought of you but didn’t know quite what to say. I suppose each collected thing is like a word. I would give you the whole beach if I could. There’s still so much I don’t know how to say, Jack. But I do know that I’m glad you are my brother. You will always be my brother. And I’m glad that I came. I’m glad I got to meet Alice, and Molly, and to see you as an adult. I’m sorry it took so long.
My name is signed in a rush as I struggled to hold the pen steady in my hand. Maybe he’ll think it’s a strange gift. Maybe he won’t understand. But perhaps he will. In the end, it felt like the only thing to give, the only way to tell him how much I’ve thought about him over the years. I’ve thought about him every time I’ve reached for a shard of sea-glass on the shore back homeon the Isle of Dogs, every time I’ve slipped a perfect pebble into my coat pocket. I’ve thought about my brother every day.
Outside, the island flashes past the window. The mountain, the forest, the sea. They are images I’ve tried hard to forget. But now … Now, I think I’d quite like to remember.
As we approach the village I spot the cars. They are lined up along the street, and as we pull into the harbour there are more parked here too.
‘What’s all this?’
Alice turns around in her seat.
‘What, you didn’t think they’d want to say goodbye?’
As we pull up in a space opposite The Lookout, the pub door opens and a stream of people comes pouring out. Everyone is here.
Jack, Ben and Duncan carry our suitcases down to the jetty where the ferry is just coming to a halt, waves churning beneath the hull. We make a slow procession towards the boat.
‘Safe journey, pets,’ says Brenda, giving Ella and me a hug. Puff whines at Ella’s feet and she nestles her face into his soft fur as she says goodbye to him too. Ella’s eyes are damp with tears as she steps away from the puppy. She sniffs and wipes her face with her sleeve. Tess, Joy and the other women from yoga pass me a sheet with all their phone numbers and ask me to promise to keep in touch.
Everyone hugs us in turn and wishes us a safe journey.
Most of these people I’ve known for only a couple of weeks. But it feels as though we’ve known each other for so much longer. These are people who have seen me cry, who attended my parents’ funeral, who threw a birthday party for my daughter that we will both remember forever. And we are linked by more than that too. We are held together by our shared knowledge of this place. By the familiar smell and sound of the sea, by an understanding of what it means to live on a small island adrift from the mainland.
I spot Jean and her husband in the crowd. He holds her hand and keeps glancing at her as though she might disappear any moment. With one thumb he strokes the side of her hand. It is hard to look at him too closely, his pain written so legibly on his face. Jean looks up now and meets my eye. I could turn away. But I don’t; I step towards her until we are standing opposite one another.
‘I’m so sorry you’re sick, Jean.’
Her shoulders sink slightly. Next to her, her husband kisses her on the cheek and steps tactfully away.
‘Who told you?’
‘Alice. I didn’t know.’
Would I have stormed off like that last night if I did? Would I have felt so angry?
‘I didn’t want you to know. And you have nothing to be sorry for.’
She attempts a weak smile but her voice is trembling.
‘Sometimes our time runs out. But I’m so glad I got to see you again, Lorna, and to meet your daughter. You have done a wonderful job. And I really am so sorry,’ she adds, reaching out and taking my hand. ‘I wish I’d been a better, braver person for you back then.’
