‘Oh!’
The contents tumble onto my lap. They’re drawings.Mydrawings. A rough sketch of a recently sheared sheep standing in a field of buttercups. A watercolour painting of the lighthouse, white against a bright blue sky. A detailed sketch of the mountain. Another of the forest in the rain, pine needles and raindrops rendered in fine, detailed pencil strokes. Rex, asleep on the sofa in Mallachy’s studio. My heart jumps as I lift out a drawing of my brother as seen from afar, his silhouette in the sheep field. Another of a jam jar filled with heather and tied with string. A boat moored in the harbour. The old school house, the church, the pub. Drawing after drawing, mostly drawn from memory, all without me really acknowledgingwhat I was doing at the time. But I know now what I was doing. I was capturing the entire island on paper.
Among them is a note. And my hands shake as I read this second letter.
Lorna,
I know you told me you didn’t want these and that I should throw them away, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I kept a couple of Rex for myself (I hope you don’t mind) but thought you might like the rest. Perhaps now that you are back in London you might feel ready to look at them and see how beautiful they are. You have a real talent, Lorna. It would be such a shame not to continue using it.
Thank you for the time we spent together. I felt happier over the past couple of weeks than I’ve felt in a long time. The studio isn’t the same without you. Rex misses you terribly.
So do I. God, do I miss you.
Mallachy x
I take deep, gulping breaths, the note clasped between my hands. And I’m crying, tears sliding down my cheeks and dripping onto the paper, smudging Mallachy’s words. Because I miss him too. But even more than that I miss Alice, and Molly and my brother. I miss Sarah, Brenda, Emma and the others. I miss the smell of the sea and the sound of the waves with a strength that makes my whole body ache. I miss it all so much that I feel entirely in the wrong place, like a foreigner in the city and the flat I’ve lived in for years.
I look again at the pile of photographs that Alice sent and the drawings of the island that came out of my hand after decades of shutting off parts of myself I’d almost forgotten existed. As I cry, I think about all the things I’ve lost throughout my life. My childhood, my family, and at times myself. But perhaps it’s never too late to find these things once more. Perhaps it’s never too late to start again. For the chance of a different kind of life.
A knock comes at the door.
‘Mum?’
Ella steps inside, still wearing her pyjamas, her face so soft and pink with sleep that I think, as I so often do, of her as a baby. How I fell so fiercely in love with my new daughter and vowed to always keep her safe. I did my best. But somewhere along the line I think I forgot something too. That being safe isn’t the same as living.
Ella frowns, spotting my tears and taking a step towards me. Before she can reach me though, the words escape my lips, rising up from somewhere deep inside.
‘I want to go home.’
And suddenly home isn’t here on this not-quite-island surrounded by the River Thames, in this isolated life that contains only two.
As I say the words Ella’s face spreads into a wide, hopeful smile that makes me sure that right now I am making the right choice, a choice that will divide our lives into a ‘before’ and an ‘after’. Because my daughter understands too. Home isn’t here anymore. Home is hundreds of miles north, floating out to sea on a tiny, windswept island known as Kip. A place that smells of salt water and pine, where it often rains, where the ferry arrives only once a day and where a mountain and a lighthouse guard the island like watchmen. But more than that, home is the people who live there, islanders who have made me feel, at last, as though Ella and I are not alone in this world.
I remember what my daughter said to me as we walked on the beach that day, an eagle circling above us.‘I wonder whether we’re designed to just have one person who’s our person. Even if they love us enough for a hundred people.’My daughter is right. Ella will always be my number one person, my heart living outside of my body in the shape of a girl with wild curls and conker-brown eyes. But in order to really thrive we need more than just each other. She deserves more than that. Webothdeserve more than that. We deserve a bigger life than the life we’ve been living. Enough. We have been alone for long enough.
Ella takes another step towards me and this time I stretch out my arms as wide as I can. And I know that my daughter and I are no longer islands, adrift from the shore. We are islanders.
Chapter 48
Alice
I’ve been in a daze ever since the meeting with the councillors. At this week’s yoga class my friends were subdued too and we all went our separate ways straight after it finished. I think it’s too painful to talk about it all yet, but the fate of the school and the future of the island hangs heavily in the air wherever I go. It was there when I met Sarah for a cup of tea at her house and tried my best to be supportive of her decision to leave, while all the time aching at the thought of losing my friend; it was there when I did my weekly shop, catching murmurings of conversation about it all and spotting Pat’s anxious expression, and it’s been there at our dinner table every night.
Molly doesn’t know yet that Olive and her family will be leaving soon. And Jack and I haven’t told her about the baby. I still can’t get my head around the fact that there is going to be a baby. I had my hospital appointment earlier this week and to my surprise and relief, the doctor told us that so far, everything seems fine. I still feel nervous though and want to wait a little longer before telling Molly, or anyone else. But among all my other worries, I’m trying to hold on tightly to this joyful secret carried inside my body. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and remember, hopeful, happy tears springing to my eyes.
Today I’m catching up on chores at home, cleaning the house while Jack works outside and Molly is over at Olive’s. But I’m pulled away from scrubbing the bathroom by a knock at the door. The sound surprises me: usually an islander would just open the door and shout inside to see if we were home. It takes a while to pull off my rubber gloves and get downstairs. When I open the door, I let out an ‘oh’ of surprise at who is waiting on the doorstep. I haven’t seen Jean since Ella’s party. My friends and I have tried visiting but each time we’ve been met by Christopher who apologetically tells us she’s busy or sleeping or not up to visitors. She looks tired, her face make-up free. But there’s a flush to her cheeks too.
‘Jean.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’
I open the door and she shuffles awkwardly past me and into the hallway. In the kitchen I busy myself with the kettle and mugs, not knowing what to say. For the first time in our friendship, I feel uncomfortable in her presence. I set the tea things down on the table between us, thankful for the focus of this ritual as I stir the teapot, waiting for it to brew.
‘It’s good to see you up and about,’ I say. ‘We tried to visit.’
‘I know, Christopher told me.’ Jean stares down at her hands before continuing, ‘I’m sorry I wouldn’t see you. I’ve just been so embarrassed. Well, embarrassed isn’t the word really. Frankly, I feel ashamed.’
