One Night on the Island(4)

Hello! Sorry I missed you, here’s the front-door key to Otter Lodge, you’ll find the back-door key under the snail. Follow this road until it runs out, go up over the hill and you’ll be able to see the roof down by the beach. It’s a bit of a scramble. I’ve put a few things in the fridge to start you off, sure I’ll see you around soon enough. Brianne x



I shake the contents of the envelope out on to my palm – a silver key on a yellow plastic sunshine key ring. There’s optimism for you. From what I’ve read, the sun is a fairly infrequent visitor around here, but the guide said that when it does pay a visit, this and the neighbouring islands transform into blue and green jewels strung out across the ocean like beads from a broken necklace. No chance of any sunshine for the foreseeable though; I checked the forecast this morning and it’s grey, cold and windy for as far ahead as they can reliably predict. That’s okay. I haven’t come to Salvation for a suntan.

Brianne failed to mention it was a very, very long road. Or maybe it wasn’t, but dragging an unwieldy suitcase in lead-heavy damp jeans and high winds made it seem so, and the less said about my ascent up the hill (aka mountain) the better. Brianne was massively under-exaggerating when she said it was a ‘bit of a scramble’. But none of that matters now because I’m standing at the crest looking down, and even on this gloomy mid-afternoon it’s pure, top-of-the-world magic. Rolling, rock-strewn green slopes stretch out towards the horizon criss-crossed with low, uneven stone walls, the occasional abandoned bothy on distant hillsides in one direction, the downward slide of the land towards a sand-fringed cove on the other. And there it is, Otter Lodge, a small shingle-roofed building nestling in between the rocks, a deep wooden porch wrapped around it, the kind you see on American movies. If there isn’t a chair on it, I’m dragging one out.

In the course of my work I’ve described many things as breathtaking over the years, but this place genuinely snatches the air from my lungs. I settle my bum on a conveniently placed boulder, trying to get my breath back and take it all in. It’s spectacular. My eyes are assaulted by the majestic, solitary beauty. I feel engulfed, as if I’ve just walked into the open arms of Salvation Island. I listen to the harsh sound of my own unsteady breathing as the wind circles tight around me, and then a strange, unexpected thing happens. I start to cry.





Mack





2 October


Salvation Island


YOU THINK I’M YOUR BELLHOP?


The key isn’t here. Three flights, two boats and three thousand miles, and at the final hurdle I’m crawling around on my hands and knees in the dirt looking for a damn door key. I’m sure Barney said it was here. ‘Under a rock by the door’ were his exact words. I straighten, taking the worn, wide wooden steps up on to the deep wrap-around porch to rattle the door handle. It’s locked. Just like it was when I tried it two minutes ago. I sigh and lean on the porch railing, looking out across the bay as I weigh my options. I could break in. I’m entitled to be here, and the repair cost for one of the small panes of glass in the door wouldn’t be huge, more inconvenient than anything – but the population of Salvation Island hovers somewhere around a hundred and I seriously doubt there’s a window guy among them. I shelve the idea in favour of a look around the building. Maybe one of the windows will be unlocked. If not, well, it’s probably too late to go off in search of civilization, I can’t guarantee making it back before dark.

Not for the first time today, I’m glad I let the sales guy back home talk me into this stupid jacket – if it comes to it, I can hunker down on the lodge’s porch. I’ve slept in worse places; a few years back, a spell on the streets of New York City doing a project on homelessness made me frighteningly aware of the luxury of a roof and four walls. I produced some of my best work during those bone-cold nights, but heavy rocks lodge in my stomach every time I look at the images of those gaunt, hungry faces. I learned how fine the line can be between success and failure, how a few wrong turns of the wheel can spiral into a bed in a shop doorway, all of your possessions in a single plastic bag. I’ve heard that a couple of the people I met have since passed on, and I know for a fact that every last one of them would switch places with me right now, missing keys or not. The wheel of fortune has spun and dropped me here on the porch of Otter Lodge, and I need to make the best of it.

I make my way around to the side, taking a moment to admire the bravery of whoever decided to build this little outpost in the middle of nowhere. The building has been hewn from austere grey stone, probably gathered from its surroundings, nothing like the log cabin we rented on Lake Michigan a couple of years ago. The boys run through my head: Nate’s skinny legs in his faded red cargo shorts, Leo taller by a head and quieter by a mile. Joyful as they clambered from the car to pelt full speed towards the lake, shafts of sunlight illuminating their blond heads. Freewheeling with them down shaded forest trails, Susie calling after us to slow down. And now I’m here alone, closing the door on those memories.

Concentrate on the now. Find a way in.

The heavy clouds overhead have just burst their seams, sharp rain in the wind. I hurry from window to window, but they’re all securely closed, unresponsive to my rattles. I sigh, the beginnings of a plan already formulating in my head. My backpack for a pillow, the corner of the porch out front will give the most shelter from the elements. The back door is locked too. Wait, there’s a back door. And there it is – a glint of silver beneath a stone snail just to the left of the door. I kick it aside and almost laugh out loud with relief. I was looking by the wrong door, that was all. All thoughts of roughing it slide from my shoulders as I slip the key into the lock and feel a satisfying click as it turns. I’m in.