One Night on the Island(83)

I smile and look away, caught between a laugh and choking back tears. Brianne passes Delta tea and toast, and Erin sits beside me, bum resting against the table, whiskey in her hand.

‘Your husband was amazing,’ I say to Erin, full of admiration. Duty done, Dr Luke has headed upstairs to the bathroom because, in truth, he looks a bit like James Herriot after a rough day in a draughty barn on the Dales.

‘He is that,’ Erin nods, proud. ‘Feckin’ terrible at the fiddle though.’

And just like that, everyone in the room starts to laugh. I bloody love this island.

It’s past three in the morning when I finally head up Wailing Hill. Otter Lodge is empty for another week yet. I didn’t put up a fight when Brianne said to hang on to it for now and Cam brought my bags back from the dock. It’s all in darkness down there when I reach the boulder, the outline of the building picked out only by moonlight. It’s not expecting me back. I wonder if it will be pleased to see me or if the old stone walls will sigh with resignation at the sight of me trudging up the front steps. Not you again, drama queen. We were hoping for a birdwatcher or a professor.

Reaching for my phone, I tap open a new message to Mack, heavy-hearted to be the bearer of such unexpected news.

One – It’s been a hell of a day for Salvation, Mack, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished you were still here. I was supposed to go home today, but stuff happened and I didn’t.



Two – I’ve some sad news to tell you. Raff died. He went to sleep and just didn’t wake up. Dolores found him in bed wearing a ‘Frankie Says Relax’ T-shirt, which is just so bizarrely appropriate for him, isn’t it? I honestly don’t know how Salvation is going to cope without him.



Three – Some brighter news – Delta had her baby a couple of hours ago, a boy. I expect the stress of the day had something to do with it, she went into labour in the pub – as only she would! It’s certainly been an unforgettable twenty-four hours. I’m so tired, Mack. I’m looking at Otter Lodge now from the boulder on top of the hill, and … well, you know how it looks. Like home. X



I press send, shuttling life and death news across the ocean. It’s about half past ten at night in Boston, there’s a good chance he’ll be awake and see it come in. The wind here is bitterly cold tonight, my cheeks are freezing, but still I sit a while and stargaze, mapping out the few constellations I can identify. Ursa Major. The Plough. Jupiter, as always. I’ll head up to the café in the morning and contact Ali, I decide. I’m expected in the office on Monday morning and I’m obviously not going to be there. I’ve no clue what I’m going to say to her yet. I’ll sleep on it.

My phone vibrates, letting me know a message has arrived.

One – You sound in need of someone to hold you tonight. I wish it could be me.



Two – Raff, man. Devastating. I’ve just poured myself a whiskey in his honour.



Three – Good for Delta, a new baby always raises spirits. A toast to the new boy too, then. To beginnings and to inevitable ends.



Three A – And lastly, a toast to you. Be happy always, Cleo. Dance to Thunder Road and scatter your beautiful words across the pages. X



I read his words, and then click my phone off and look out to sea. To beginnings and to inevitable ends. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never hear from him again.





Cleo





23 November


Salvation Island


IF FOUND, RETURN TO SLáNú


So, the boat is coming back today, out of sequence because someone actually died. My fingers itch to text Mack, but I don’t, because our last texts were loaded with full-circle finality. A birth, a death, final advice. I’m not sure where you go from there.

Bruised clouds have hung over the island since Raff’s death, a mournful dimming of the lights by the weather gods. Delta’s baby is a spark, though. I called round to see her this morning, and between terrifying me with TMI post-birth stories and wrangling the baby into a suitable breastfeeding position aided by a pile of pillows and a printed-out diagram, she made a proposition that set all the cogs and wheels in my head awhirl in unison. I held the baby and listened to what Delta had to say, and then I left her to head down to the café. It’s closed today, but she’s given me the keys to let myself in.

Coffee in hand, I fire up the computer and wait for it to connect. I’ve already texted Ali over the weekend to let her know about the emergency change to my plans; she knows enough to understand why I’m not back at my desk in London this morning. She also knows the boat is coming back this lunchtime, weather permitting, so I should be in the office by Wednesday. Barney Doyle is over on the mainland waiting to come across and special supplies have been ordered in for Raff’s funeral next week. Barney Doyle, owner of Otter Lodge, Mack’s mystery relative. I’m harbouring unreasonable resentfulness towards Barney; I hope he loves the lodge enough. I feel as protective towards it as it has been of me. I dithered over leaving him a note this morning with instructions about how to light the temperamental stove and the special knack to closing the kitchen window so it doesn’t rattle in the wind. I didn’t, of course. It’s his place, I’m sure he knows its foibles.