‘When I got to London my plan was to apply to art school,’ I hear myself saying. ‘It would have meant starting a year later than I’d hoped, but I thought it could still happen. But I guess I hadn’t anticipated quite how expensive it would be to live there and how hard I’d find it to support myself.’
I remember that first weekend in the city; I spent it walking into dozens of different bars asking if they needed staff. I felt desperate. Because Ihadto make it work – going back to the island was not an option.
Sarah watches me closely. She takes another sip of her wine and then nods slightly, encouraging me to continue.
‘When I got my first bar job so much of my time was taken up with working that the art fell to one side. Each month I’d tell myself that if I just worked more shifts this month, then next month I could focus on painting again. After a while, I gave up pretending that would happen. I missed the deadline for art school again, and even if I hadn’t, I had nothing to show for myself in an application. All my attention went on earning money to keep myself afloat.’
And sometimes it was fun. I remember getting drunk with my colleagues in the bar at the end of the shift and feeling for a moment like maybe everything would be OK. I was free, living by my own rules. But then that became my life and the passion I’d once had for painting disappeared.
‘With Ella on the way I needed a proper career. That’s when I found teaching. And it’s been good as she’s got older. Having the holidays, being home earlier than I would if I worked in an office … It works for her, for us. And I’ve enjoyed it too. It’s so satisfying seeing the children develop, watching them grow.’
I don’t mention Dave Phillips the creep and the increasing challenges of my job. I still enjoy teaching, but in truth over recent months I’ve come to dread going in to work, not knowing what he might say or do that day and how I will react.
We both take another sip of our drinks. I glance for a second at the long carriage window where the darkness rolls past, glowing lights from house windows flashing by every now and then.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’
Sarah’s voice is quieter now but I can’t miss what she’s just said. It’s the question I’ve been dreading since we started talking. It would be impossible to continue talking like this – like two old friends catching up – without acknowledging the truth. That as close as we once were, when I left the island I left Sarah too.
Her pale eyes flash as they fill with tears. I see a brief glimpse of nine-year-old Sarah, crying because her favourite lamb on her parents’ farm had got caught in a barbed wire fence overnight and died. She saved the tears for the girls’ toilet at school, where she dragged me at break time. She rarely cried and knew that her parents and grandparents would disapprove, because despite their kindness they were a family of farmers. Death was a part of life on a farm and on the island. But Sarah was nine and loved animals like they were her friends. I felt honoured that she had saved her tears for me, that she allowed herself to break down in front of me and me alone.
This feels different. I sense the distance stretching between us again.
‘I had to leave. You must know that. I had to.’
‘I understand,’ she says through her tears. ‘After everything you went through, of course you wanted to leave. But I just don’t understand why you didn’t keep in touch. We were best friends. For ages I wondered what I’d done wrong. I thought I didn’t matter to you.’
I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them again I look at Sarah’s hands, focusing on the charms on her bracelet. I just can’t quite look her in the eye.
‘I nearly called you so many times,’ I say quietly.
When I first arrived in London I was desperate to hear Sarah’s voice. I wanted to tell her about the underground and how loud the trains sounded roaring into the tunnels, about the National Gallery that I visited three times in my first week in the city, about the tiny attic bedroom I was renting and my new housemates who came from all over the world and had never heard of the Isle of Kip. But something held me back.
‘I so wanted to talk to you. But I was desperate to get away from the island. I didn’t want to be reminded of it. And more than anything I didn’t want my family to find out where I’d gone.’
‘But I wouldneverhave told them! It was me who helped you leave.’
I will never forget that day. Sarah came with me to the jetty and helped me onto the ferry. That was the last time we saw each other.
‘It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. I just needed a clean break. I don’t know how to explain it exactly, I just knew I couldn’t have anything to do with the island. And then as time went on it became more than that too. I felt so embarrassed about the way I’d handled things with you and about how much time had passed. The more time went by, the harder it became to call. I imagined you’d moved on with your life. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to hear from me.’
Sarah rubs her eyes.
‘I had no idea where you were,’ she says, her voice strangled. ‘I just missed you so much.’
I take a deep breath.
‘I missed you too.’
The train rattles on into the darkness and we sit in silence, two old friends separated by years and miles and all those times I wanted to pick up the phone but didn’t.
After a while, she wipes her eyes and stands up.
‘I should get some sleep.’
She pulls a cardigan off the back of her chair and picks up her book from the table.
‘Can we get a drink together on the island?’ I say as she prepares to leave. ‘Have a proper catch up? Talk about things?’
