I nod, glad for the distraction. Jack’s been my closest mate since we started working on the rig together eight years ago. He usually does a decent job of keeping my mind off things, but as I make my way across the slick deck, my mind wanders back to Isla. Has she grown taller in the couple weeks I’ve been gone? Will she still want to play our silly make-believe games, or is she starting to outgrow them?
The pump’s usual hum is off, replaced by a faint stutter in its rhythm that tugs me back to the deck. I crouch low, hands already moving to check the seals and pressure gauges. The salt in the air stings my eyes, forcing me to squint at the readouts. The numbers blur for a moment, but I focus, trying to make sense of them. Something’s definitely off.
“Partial blockage,” I shout over the noise. “Must be debris in the intake. We’ll need to shut it down and flush it out.”
Jack gives me a quick nod, already reaching for his radio to call in the maintenance crew. While we wait, I lean against the railing, my eyes scanning the endless stretch of gray sea. The waves are choppy today, rougher than usual. It’s a brutal reminder of just how small we are out here.
The crew arrives, and we get to work. It’s a messy job, but it keeps my hands busy, my mind occupied. As we’re elbow-deep in grease and saltwater, Jack breaks the silence.
“So, how’s the wee lass of yours doing?” he asks, his voice muffled by the noise.
I can’t help but smile, even as I fight with a stubborn bolt. “Growing like a weed. She’ll be starting school soon.”
Jack whistles low. “Time flies, aye? Seems like just yesterday she was a newborn.”
The reminder sends a pang through my chest. I’ve missed so much already. “Aye,” I grumble, “it does.”
“Thanks for the assist,” Jack says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You heading to the mess after this?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Turning in early. Got a chopper to catch in the morning.”
“Right. Back to the real world,” he says with a grin before heading off.
I don’t linger. The rig’s steel corridors are quieter this late in the shift, but the thrum of machinery never really fades. Back in my cabin, I strip off my gear, tossing them in a heap. I sit on the edge of the bunk, letting out a long breath.
The compact space feels even smaller tonight, almost suffocating after two weeks out here. The North Sea doesn’t offer much comfort. Just cold, noise, and harsh work. It’s a tough routine, but at least it’s predictable. The world back home? That’s a different beast altogether.
I glance at the duffel bag in the corner, already half packed. Two weeks off isn’t a holiday. It’s a list of things that need doing. House repairs. Bills to sort. My mum’s got a few updates on Isla for me, no doubt. She’s great, from what I hear. Happy. Stubborn as hell, though I’ll admit, she gets that from me.
The updates never come easy, though. They’re reminders that while I’m away, she’s out there growing up without me, and every time I come home, it feels like I have to earn my way back into her world. Prove I’m more than the man who passes through with apologies. She’s got her own opinions, her own routines. By the time we find our rhythm again, it’s usually time for me to leave.
I can’t help wondering if one day she’ll stop letting me back in at all.
For now, there’s no use stewing on it. Tomorrow, the chopper’s my ticket off this floating hunk of steel. I’ll have two weeks back onshore, which isn’t exactly rest, but it’s a change of scenery. That’s good enough for now.
three
LUCY
“What can I help with, boss?”
I turn to my left, and there’s Poppy, always ready to jump in. She’s tying her apron with that no-nonsense look of hers, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, glasses perched just a little crooked on her button nose. A few rebellious curls escape from the messy bun she’s tried to wrangle them into, framing her round face.
“Would you mind giving me a hand with these cookies?” I ask, glancing back at the dough. “I’ve still got a tray to finish cutting out, and these are for kids’ night tomorrow.”
My hands are coated in a light dusting of flour, trails of it creeping up my arms. The kitchen air is thick, mingling with the sweet, almost intoxicating scent of butter and sugar that permanently sticks to every surface.
“This is just the test batch,” I say, lifting a star-shaped cutter and pressing it into the dough with a little extra care, making sure each edge is sharp and clean. “I want to make sure they’re perfect. The kids deserve the good stuff.”
“Of course!” Poppy slides up beside me, alreadygrabbing a heart-shaped cutter from the nearby tray. “These smell incredible already. What’s the secret ingredient this time?”
“A bit of honey and a dash of cinnamon,” I reply as I add another star to the tray. “Thought we’d try something new for the wee ones.”
As we work side by side, the rhythmic click of cookie cutters pressing into the dough is almost meditative. The kitchen is my sanctuary, humming with a warmth that goes beyond the heat of the ovens.
“If you’ve got this for a bit, I’m going to head back up front to make sure Michael doesn’t need help with anything,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron.
“Sure thing, I’ve got this.” She doesn’t miss a beat as she presses another heart-shaped cutter into the dough with a little extra flourish.
