They shudder to a stop, dropping the heavily laden bikes down in the undergrowth with a clatter.
‘God, it feels good to be standing again. My butt hurts.’
‘Mine too. But look, there it is.’
Through a clearing in the trees is a lone white house that stands against a backdrop of green grass, mauve heather and golden bracken.
‘It’s beautiful but a bit bleak, isn’t it?’
‘That makes sense, though, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t exactly call George Orwell’s books comedies.’
‘No. Laughs is definitely where they’re lacking. I can’t believe he actually used to liveright there.’
Rachel cups her mouth with her hands, the volume of her voice making Tilly jump as she cries, ‘Hi, George, thanks for everything!’ into the wind.
‘You’re mad!’
‘You should try it, it’s fun.’
So Tilly roars her own greeting to the lonely white house, glad suddenly that it’s Rachel here with her.
‘How come it seems heavier?’ Rachel says as they haul their bikes up from the ground.
‘It’s not too much further to the beach I have in mind for our pitch.’
‘Bye, George,’ they call as they cycle away from the house that might look much like any other on the island but seems to Tilly to shimmer with significance as she imagines Orwell bent over a typewriter in one of the rooms overlooking the sea.
The bay they reach a few minutes later is completely secluded, not a house or person in sight. They push their bikes over the grassy moorland and down on to the rocky shore scattered with seaweed and driftwood. Behind them is the view of the island, the three Paps of Jura rising in its centre, and stretching out in front of them is the wide-open sea. Tilly is so relieved to be off the bike that she stretches her arms wide, a kind of euphoria that might be exhaustion buzzing through her.
‘Shall we put the tent up?’ asks Rachel.
‘Later. I need to cool off first.’
Tilly unzips her brand-new windproof jacket and sheds it on the ground, pulling her sweat-soaked T-shirt over her head. There’s a seal dozing on a rock a little way along the beach but it completely ignores them as Tilly tugs at her trousers, Rachel getting the idea and beginning to ditch her own clothing. When they’re both down to their underwear they run down the beach. Water sprays around them as they launch themselves into the sea.
‘Shit! It’s cold!’
‘What were you expecting?’ says Rachel between gasping breaths, swimming a rapid chin-up breaststroke. ‘It’s the bloody Atlantic. Of course it’s freezing.’
Tilly swims out further, cold water lapping against her skin, salt getting into her mouth, and her heart pounding.
‘It’s fantastic!’
This time the euphoria may be the onset of hypothermia. But either way, it feels incredible. They float on their backs, turning back to look at the island and their bikes that look so small on the shore.
‘Oh shit. Look at those clouds …’
The sea darkens as the sun disappears behind a bank of clouds, choppy waves whipped up by a fierce and sudden wind.
‘We should get back to our things!’
Their clothes are scattered about on the beach and they both swim quickly back towards them, stumbling as they try to run out of the sea. Getting out is somehow much harder than runninginand far less graceful, both of them getting knocked backwards by the waves and holding on to each other for support, resembling two drunk women trying to walk across a bouncy castle.
And then it begins to rain.
41
Within moments their bags and clothes are soaked through. The rain is nothing like London rain. It blasts in from the sea on a strong wind, hammering the ground and making the bay disappear behind a grey haze.
