so strong it’s all I can do to stop myself. Is he allowed to have his phone with him? I don’t even know that. But I promised myself I wouldn’t phone him first . . .
Now I’m remembering a happy time, under the tree in the park near his nan’s house, about a week before he passed his driving test. Early June, hot and sunny in the late afternoon. I’m lying with my head on his chest, we’re both dozing in the heat. I open my eyes, and for a second I can’t work out what I’m seeing. Leaves falling? Petals? But no, it’s white butterflies, hundreds of them, as if they’ve just hatched out from their chrysalises, and they are floating and spinning in the sunlight that filters through the tree. ‘Look, Sam!’ I say, and he opens his eyes and watches them with me. And then he sits up and leans over my face and he kisses me, and all around us the air is full of fluttering white wings.
A tree full of white butterflies.
A long, soft kiss.
It’s the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me.
I didn’t tell anyone about it; not even Molly. And I’m glad now, seeing what happened after.
Ten
Hebrides
Southwesterly
gale force 8 expected later.
Sea state rough
or very rough.
Occasional rain or showers.
Visibility moderate or good,
occasionally poor.
Hebrides
Gale warning.
Southwesterly
gale force 8, veering west,
severe gale 9 to 10,
violent storm.
Rain, then squally showers.
Visibility poor,
becoming moderate.
Hebrides
Westerly
veering southwest 6 to 7,
gale 8 expected later.
Rain.
Eleven
The storm lasts three days. Rain and wind batter the house. The sea is slate-grey, the waves lashed with white. We light the peat stove in the sitting room: it feels like winter. The cloud is so low you can’t see more than a few metres out to sea; the windows fog up and even the air inside the house feels salty damp.
We’re cooped up in the house watching DVDs and reading all that time. Dad’s the only one who goes anywhere further than the shop: he puts on all his wet-weather gear and walks through driving rain to the hides on the loch, to see what rare birds have been blown in by the gales.
Sunday morning, I wake to a pale blue cloudless sky framed in the skylight windows, and the oddest thing: silence.
No wind.
We are bound to go today, aren’t we? I listen to the shipping forecast just in case, like Finn said. I’ve heard it so often these last three days I’m starting to know the names of the places, and what the different things mean: wind, sea state, weather, visibility. They do it in the same order each time.
Dad listens too. He says he likes the sounds of the words: a litany of names. Rockall, Malin, Hebrides . . . He recites a poem to me, by Carol Ann Duffy, which has some of the names in it. Only Finisterre isn’t one of the places in the shipping forecast any more.
‘Since 2002,’ Dad says. ‘Now they call it Fitzroy. It’s because there are two places called Finisterre and that might get confusing for sailors.’ He smiles at me. ‘Finisterre is much more poetic, don’t you think? It means land’s end or the end of the earth . The end of the world even.’
I shrug.
‘Anyway, since when have you been so interested in the shipping forecast, Kate?’
‘Finn’s going to take me to find cockles,’ I say. ‘But only when the weather’s good.’
‘In a boat?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But he’s very experienced. It’s only a rowing boat. We won’t be going far.’
Dad narrows his eyes. ‘How far exactly ?’
My heart sinks.
‘Show me on the map,’ Dad says.
But I’ve forgotten the name of the island now. Not sure that Finn ever told me. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ll ask him when he comes to collect me.’
‘Which is when?’
‘When the tide turns. You collect cockles on an ebb tide.’
Mum’s listening from the table where she’s writing postcards. She smiles. ‘Hark at you!’ she says. ‘Quite the island girl
Now I’m remembering a happy time, under the tree in the park near his nan’s house, about a week before he passed his driving test. Early June, hot and sunny in the late afternoon. I’m lying with my head on his chest, we’re both dozing in the heat. I open my eyes, and for a second I can’t work out what I’m seeing. Leaves falling? Petals? But no, it’s white butterflies, hundreds of them, as if they’ve just hatched out from their chrysalises, and they are floating and spinning in the sunlight that filters through the tree. ‘Look, Sam!’ I say, and he opens his eyes and watches them with me. And then he sits up and leans over my face and he kisses me, and all around us the air is full of fluttering white wings.
A tree full of white butterflies.
A long, soft kiss.
It’s the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me.
I didn’t tell anyone about it; not even Molly. And I’m glad now, seeing what happened after.
Ten
Hebrides
Southwesterly
gale force 8 expected later.
Sea state rough
or very rough.
Occasional rain or showers.
Visibility moderate or good,
occasionally poor.
Hebrides
Gale warning.
Southwesterly
gale force 8, veering west,
severe gale 9 to 10,
violent storm.
Rain, then squally showers.
Visibility poor,
becoming moderate.
Hebrides
Westerly
veering southwest 6 to 7,
gale 8 expected later.
Rain.
Eleven
The storm lasts three days. Rain and wind batter the house. The sea is slate-grey, the waves lashed with white. We light the peat stove in the sitting room: it feels like winter. The cloud is so low you can’t see more than a few metres out to sea; the windows fog up and even the air inside the house feels salty damp.
We’re cooped up in the house watching DVDs and reading all that time. Dad’s the only one who goes anywhere further than the shop: he puts on all his wet-weather gear and walks through driving rain to the hides on the loch, to see what rare birds have been blown in by the gales.
Sunday morning, I wake to a pale blue cloudless sky framed in the skylight windows, and the oddest thing: silence.
No wind.
We are bound to go today, aren’t we? I listen to the shipping forecast just in case, like Finn said. I’ve heard it so often these last three days I’m starting to know the names of the places, and what the different things mean: wind, sea state, weather, visibility. They do it in the same order each time.
Dad listens too. He says he likes the sounds of the words: a litany of names. Rockall, Malin, Hebrides . . . He recites a poem to me, by Carol Ann Duffy, which has some of the names in it. Only Finisterre isn’t one of the places in the shipping forecast any more.
‘Since 2002,’ Dad says. ‘Now they call it Fitzroy. It’s because there are two places called Finisterre and that might get confusing for sailors.’ He smiles at me. ‘Finisterre is much more poetic, don’t you think? It means land’s end or the end of the earth . The end of the world even.’
I shrug.
‘Anyway, since when have you been so interested in the shipping forecast, Kate?’
‘Finn’s going to take me to find cockles,’ I say. ‘But only when the weather’s good.’
‘In a boat?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But he’s very experienced. It’s only a rowing boat. We won’t be going far.’
Dad narrows his eyes. ‘How far exactly ?’
My heart sinks.
‘Show me on the map,’ Dad says.
But I’ve forgotten the name of the island now. Not sure that Finn ever told me. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ll ask him when he comes to collect me.’
‘Which is when?’
‘When the tide turns. You collect cockles on an ebb tide.’
Mum’s listening from the table where she’s writing postcards. She smiles. ‘Hark at you!’ she says. ‘Quite the island girl
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