My little brother had a daughter. I had a niece. And I’d had no idea. Since I left the island, I’d hoped that my brother might get in touch. I wrote to him several times, including my address, but he never wrote back. I wrote to my mother too, trying to persuade her again to leave my father and the island. But I never heard from her either.
‘You’re not married then?’ my mother added, making my skin prickle. I thought about my parents’ devotion to the church and their old-fashioned views. I knew how much they both disapproved of unmarried mothers.
‘Can we see her?’
Her voice cracked slightly then and in that crack I felt a sudden possibility of a different future for me and my daughter. Ridiculous really when I think about it now, but back then I suddenly pictured my parents turning up to Ella’s school performances with cameras slung proudly around their necks. I pictured my father dressed as Father Christmas and my mother helping me make Ella’s birthday cakes. They were things they never did for me, but maybe they could do them for their granddaughter. People change, don’t they? Even as I listened hopefully into that silence, I’m not sure I really believed it was true. I just wanted it to be. I wanted to believe my parents could be different and that in being different they could be the grandparents my daughter deserved. And I was exhausted and alone and my mother’s voice was in my ear for the first time in years.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, hesitating. I looked again at Ella and then around at the small flat, still in disarray from when I left for the hospital. Could I really do all this on my own? When I was pregnant I’d been determined that I could, but with my living, breathing daughter beside me, things felt different. Is it normal to feel so exhausted, I wanted to ask my mother? Is it normal for feeding to hurt this much? When will I start to feel like a mother?
‘I wouldn’t mind you seeing her, Mum, but only you. Do you understand?’
A pause.
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Really? After everything that happened?’
‘Why can’t you forgive him? It’s been such a long time, Lorna.’
I steadied myself against the back of the sofa. And in that moment, I realised that no matter how much time had passed, I couldn’t forgive my father. And I couldn’t forgive my mother either. Over time I’d come to realise that she was a victim too. I wanted her to be happy and safe and free. But I still couldn’t forgive her for letting it all happen. Even if I wanted to, even if maybe it would make me a better person, I just couldn’t.
I held the hot phone against my ear, waiting for her to say the words I’d waited years to hear.I’m sorry. I should have protected you. I miss you. I love you. Instead there was just silence.
‘I think perhaps it was a mistake to call,’ I said eventually. ‘Mum, you know how to reach me if things change. If you want to come and see Ella on your own, you can. But I’m not coming back.’
She drew a breath then as though she was going to say something. I waited.
‘Goodbye, Lorna. You take care of yourself.’
And then the line went dead. I never heard from her again. After that call I shuffled close to Ella, reaching my face down so I could feel the soft warmth of her breath.
‘I promise to keep you safe,’ I told her that day. It’s a promise I’ve spent her whole life trying to keep.
I could stay here among these plants all day, going back over these memories. But I know I need to get out. I need to move. I head back to the farm and change into my running gear. Alice is in the kitchen kneading bread dough, her arms covered up to her elbows in flour. I feel a sudden yearning to be with Ella but she and Molly are nowhere to be seen.
‘They’re probably on the beach or at Olive’s,’ Alice says with a shrug. How is she so calm? Back home in London I can’t imagine being that relaxed about my daughter’s whereabouts. But here the sea marks the edge of the children’s domain; everything else within it is free to be explored.
‘Going for another run?’ Alice asks, brushing flour across her face as she pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘It might rain.’
I think I’ll take my chances. The sky is blue, the sun shining brightly onto the sea. I’m not quite sure what my sister-in-law is talking about.
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
‘OK, enjoy your run.’
‘Thanks, see you later. And thanks again for earlier, Alice, it was good to talk.’
I’m still surprised how much I’ve opened up to Alice. It’s so unlike me; I’ve spent my life trying to keep my past in its neat box, tucked away out of sight. But it feels different with her. I don’t have to hide so much. We share a smile and then I head outside, taking a deep breath as I step through the door.
I start at the beach. Today, it’s occupied by a herd of Highland cattle. They lie on the sand, seabirds hopping between them. I slow to a walk, careful not to disturb the dozing cows. One among the herd stands close to the water’s edge facing out to sea, seemingly admiring the view. I look out too, trying to see the view around me as if afresh and not as the place where I grew up and which holds so many painful memories. The horizon is scattered with patches of cloud but they are too far out to worry me. A light breeze ruffles the surface of the sea. The beach is streaked with patches of dark black sand in intricate, feather-like patterns, scattered with the occasional pale shell or pebble. And yet it is still hard to find it all beautiful. My limbs and chest feel heavy.
I pick a particularly interesting pink shell from the sand and slip it into the pocket of my leggings. I’ll leave the cows to contemplate their existence on the beach. This time when I reach the lighthouse and the cottage I don’t turn back; instead I continue east, following the cliffs around and down the north-eastern edge of the island. The wind is stronger now and roars in my ears as I run high above the sea. Clouds that not long ago werea distant grey blur are now hurrying closer towards me. Damn it. I’d forgotten quite how changeable the weather can be on the island. Perhaps I should have listened to Alice.
The cliff begins to slope down towards the beach, the jetty and the village visible in the distance. The air chills and goosebumps begin to prick my bare arms. I run faster, but in the end I can’t outrun the weather. The sky turns as dark as a ripe plum and fat droplets of summer rain fall on my skin. The wind has picked up now too, tugging at my hair and slapping against my skin. Damn it, damn it.
I’m in the open with nowhere to shelter, the rain pelting down on my skin. Looking around me I spot a house I hadn’t noticed before, perched at the far end of the beach. It’s a new-build and is set back slightly from the dunes, a boat moored at the end of a wooden jetty in a small cove in front, straining at its anchor as it rocks on the now turbulent waves. I pick up my pace and head towards the building. My exercise clothes are soaked through. This is rain unlike anything we ever experience in London. It’s island rain, rain that stings as it pummels against my arms, rain that crashes into the sea and drowns out even the sound of the waves. How had I forgotten this rain that falls so hard even in the summer?
The house is clad in wood with long windows facing the sea and, thankfully, has a large porch at the front. There are no cars parked outside the building which I take to mean no one is home. I race for the porch and watch from beneath the protection of the sloped roof as the rain pours outside.
