One Night on the Island(95)

‘Is everyone here?’

Phil nods. ‘Pretty much. Plus a couple of extras who turned up for the free drinks, always happens.’

I scan the room in search of unruly dark curls and find nothing. I don’t know why I thought Cleo might be here, she hasn’t said she’d come. She hasn’t said anything at all, in fact, since her text on New Year’s. I’ve maintained radio silence from my end. It feels like the honourable thing to do.

Daryl stands on my other side as Phil makes the introductions.

‘Speech ready?’

I feel inside my pocket to double-check, even though I know it’s there. I’m reminded of standing beside Daryl on other speech-worthy occasions, my wedding and his. Phil steps aside and I step up. I thank people, running through a few essential names, and then I stumble over my words when the door opens and someone slides in at the back, their face hidden by a rain-damp umbrella. A woman. My pause makes everyone else turn to look too, a suspended-in-time moment until she lowers the umbrella. I clear my throat, thrown off. It’s not Cleo. I shove my hands through my hair and take a drink of water, focusing my eyes on the speech I’ve written out on the piece of paper in front of me. They don’t feel like the right words any more, so I fold the paper up and slide it back inside my jacket.

‘Salvation is a tiny island, an inhospitable rock off the Atlantic coast of Ireland you won’t find on any tourist trail,’ I say. ‘No one goes there by accident, and that’s kind of what makes it special. It’s the very definition of community, and it’s the land of my ancestors. My mother’s family, the place my grandmother told me stories about as a child.’ I take a moment to acknowledge them both seated at the side of the room. My mother straight-shouldered and proud, my grandmother birdlike and serene. ‘She spoke of patchwork hills and stormy oceans, of shipwrecks and of pirate treasure. I expect some of her stories were embroidered for the eager ears of a small boy, but in other ways they were entirely accurate because I feel as if I found genuine magic there. I’ve tried to capture the essence of Salvation on film and I’m incredibly proud of the images around us on the walls here tonight. But it’s impossible to capture the salt tang of the clear sea air when it dries on your lips; someone exceptional compared it to drinking diamonds.

‘A photo can’t convey the smell that rises from the earth as you walk the hills, a unique blend of ozone and peat and history, of heather under your boots and of soil enriched by the sweat and toil of the generations of islanders who’ve worked the land. I’ve never met people with a surer sense of who they are, or a stronger sense of kinship. They embody the word “clan” and they walk between the syllables of brotherhood. And sisterhood, of course – the women of Salvation are warriors and empresses. You might imagine that people like this would be tribal, exclusive of others, that they’d turn suspicious eyes on a stranger to their shores. But they didn’t. They opened their arms wide and welcomed me in. Their music stirred me, their folklore stories even more, and, man, did their whiskey fry my brain.’ I wait for the ripple of laughter to die down. ‘That guy there –’ I nod towards the life-size shot of Raff sitting on the sea wall, his fedora dropped over one eye – ‘he embodied everything that’s brilliant about Salvation. A raconteur, a lionheart and a family man. Loyalty runs in their blood. And in mine, and in my sons’.’ I raise my chin, proud to be of Salvation stock. The kids preen on either side of Susie. ‘My time on the island has changed who I am,’ I say. ‘I left Boston in search of my roots and I found them among the stone crosses in the island churchyard. I discovered the pleasure of stepping off-grid, the simple joy of conversation, the satisfaction of nurturing a live fire. It’s a place too small to even warrant mention on most maps, yet it’s herculean in the hearts of those lucky enough to know it.’ I look around the room and raise my glass. ‘To Salvation. Never has a place been more aptly named.’

‘Am I exceptional?’ Susie asks, leaning her back against the wall with an almost-empty wine glass in her hand. Walt and Marie have taken the kids home with them for a sleepover and I’ve just seen my folks safely into a cab. The gallery is empty now beside a few stragglers hoping for a last free drink.

I swallow. ‘You’re an exceptional mom.’

I regret not being more generous with my words as she rapidly blinks away the sting, pushing herself straight to walk slowly amongst my images. I watch her pause to study Raff, then move along until she is standing in front of a black-and-white landscape shot of Otter Lodge. Cleo is sitting on the porch steps, coffee in her hands, the beginnings of a smile lifting her mouth. I’ve purposely not included many pictures of her, just this one and an accompanying shot taken the night she stumbled into the ocean. I shot it as she clowned around on the shoreline, shells gathered in the hem of her sweater, an expression of unguarded joy and daring as she laughs down the lens. I look at it now, at her eyes on mine, and I realize, belatedly, it’s a snapshot of the exact moment I fell a little in love. Susie looks at it in silence, her back to me so I can’t read her expression. We haven’t talked about Cleo again since I told her that it was over. We haven’t talked about much of anything, in truth, but it isn’t fair on either of us to stay in this holding pattern.

‘I can see it in her eyes,’ she says, quiet. ‘The way she looks at you.’