‘Aye, that she does. Did you and Olive have a good afternoon, Molly?’
My family and I chat as we eat, sitting around one end of the long wooden table that might have been built for more chairs but has served us three well over the years. After clearing away the plates Molly retreats to her room and Jack and I are left alone, holding hands over the table.
‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ he says quietly, for a moment looking down at the table. ‘I didn’t mean to be like that with you. I guess I’m just nervous.’
‘I know. I’m sorry too. This must be so hard for you. But we’re in this together, OK?’
He meets my eye now and nods slowly. I try to tell him with my look that he is loved and that whatever happens over the next few days, I will be here beside him. Outside the sun glows above the sea as I take my husband’s head gently between my hands and kiss him.
Chapter 3
Lorna
It’s dark outside now and my feet feel numb. How long have I been standing here by the train window? Glancing up at the top bunk I see that Ella is asleep, her phone discarded on her pillow and one arm dangling off the edge of the bed. Her hair has fallen in front of her face. I very gently brush it back.
Ella may have drifted off, but I know I won’t be able to sleep. There are too many thoughts filling my head. The rocking and jolting of the train that seems to have lulled Ella so quickly makes me restless. It reminds me of the fact we are moving, every second bringing us closer and making me more fearful of what will happen when we arrive. I still can’t quite believe that after all this time, I’m really going back to the island. That tomorrow, I will see my brother for the first time in twenty-two years. And I will finally meet my niece and my sister-in-law. Shame and regret rush through me as they always do when I think about my family. I desperately need a drink.
Switching off the cabin light I step outside and pull the door gently behind me.
The bar is situated in the first-class lounge, a carriage filled with cushioned chairs and small tables softly illuminated by lamps. A sign on the door says that standard-class passengers are allowed to purchase drinks to bring back to their cabins, but the carriage is surprisingly empty. A member of staff dressed in a crisp uniform quietly tells me that I can take a seat wherever I like. As I move towards a table I notice a woman who looks my age watching me from the other end of the carriage. She has large grey-green eyes framed by sleek tortoiseshell glasses and faint laughter lines, and her dark hair is pulled back into a low ponytail tied with a colourful scarf. She is dressed in a dark green shirt rolled up to the elbows, jeans and faded, mud-flecked walking boots. On the table in front of her is a glass of red wine and a book held open in one hand. But she isn’t looking at the book; instead she stares straight at me, a slight frown on her face. Her expression quickly brightens into a smile and as it does I can immediately tell this is a face more accustomed to smiling than to frowning.
‘Lorna Irvine,’ the woman says suddenly in a thick Hebridean accent, without the raised tone at the end to indicate it is a question. It isn’t a question, it’s a statement, and it stops me in my tracks. My mouth drops open and the woman laughs.
‘I thought it was you, and that expression tells me I’m right.’
I look more closely at her. And suddenly I see a young girl with pale eyes, dark, frizzy pigtails, hugeNHSglasses and an enormous smile. I see this girl beside me at primary school and cycling home with me across the island, our bikes perfectly parallel. My mind flashes forward and I picture this same girl as a teenager, the two of us listening to music together in her bedroom, the glasses replaced with contact lenses and the frizzy pigtails now carefully and self-consciously tended waves. I see my best friend.
‘Sarah.’
As the name leaves my mouth, I’m conscious of my lack of accent. I once sounded just like Sarah. But that was a long time ago.
We look at each other, both smiling as though we are children again. But we’re not children. And we haven’t seen or heard from each other in twenty-two years.
As though just realising the same thing, Sarah’s face drops slightly. My cheeks flush. What is there that I can possibly begin to say to my old friend whom I left behind like everything and everyone else? My mind fills with memories of our friendship. How we’d sit together at lunchtime and swap things on our plates – her carrots for my peas, my juice for her extra carton of milk. Her family, who were always so welcoming even when I was too shy to truly thank them for their kindness. The teen magazines Sarah ordered from the mainland with her pocket money and would share with me, the two of us sitting in her bed giggling as we turned the pages together.
The grown-up Sarah indicates the free chair.
‘Do you want to sit down?’
I slip into the chair. Now that I’ve recognised her I look more closely, greedily taking in every tiny detail that might tell me something about Sarah’s life now. A simple gold wedding band, nails that are neat but unpolished, a bracelet strung with variouscharms – a dog, a boat and three gold initials, B, A and O.
I must say something. Anything. It feels so good to see her again. But the silence of decades is stuck in my mouth. Sarah looks at me closely too. What details has she spotted? The lack of a ring on my hand, perhaps. The dark circles of worry under my eyes. My hair that is the same auburn shade as when we were young and still just as curly and unruly.
The silence continues for what feels like a very long time.
‘I’m sorry about your parents,’ she says. ‘You must be feeling all sorts of things.’
I meet Sarah’s eyes across the train table and an understanding passes between us. In many ways we are strangers and yet we are so much more than that too. Cheryl has been so kind and supportive since I told her the news. She knows I haven’t seen my parents in years but has never judged me for it, doing her best to understand. It’s the reason I don’t have a bigger circle of friends – this fear of having to try to explain myself and the thought of what people might think. Over the years I’ve become skilled at avoiding the subject. When colleagues ask me whether I am spending Christmas or the summer holidays with family I say yes, because I am. It’s just that my family consists of one: Ella.
But with Sarah I don’t have to explain myself. She was there all those years ago, my friend when I felt so alone.
‘Thank you,’ I manage, the words tight in my throat.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d want to come back for the funeral,’ she says quietly.
The words hit me in my chest and there it is again, the news I still haven’t come to terms with. My parents are dead. It washes over me again, this reality that doesn’t feel real.
‘Honestly, I didn’t want to, not at first.’
