Me:
I dunno.
Joyce:
Do you like boats? Would that be a nice holiday? Or maybe that’d be too boring?
Me:
Dunno. Don’t care.
Joyce:
When I was wee, my daddy had a boat. We’d sail all around the islands, and spot birds, and catch fish. Sometimes we’d sail so far we weren’t even in Scotland any more. Doesn’t that sound exciting?
Me:
I guess.
Joyce:
Would you like to go for a boat trip, Katherine? That’d be a nice day out, wouldn’t it? We could arrange that with the—
Me:
No.
Joyce:
We could phone the nice folks up at the fish—
Me:
No.
Joyce:
We could all go. The scenery round Loch Oscaig is lovely this time of—
Me:
You go then. I’m not goin’.
[Joyce clamps her mouth into a line an’ looks down. Her eyes grow small as she reads her notes. For a minute, she doesn’t speak. Then the smile snaps back on, an’ she looks up.]
Joyce:
We could take a boat to
Skye
. Go visit
Rhona
.
[I meet her eye, but just for a moment. A surge of emotion flushes my face.]
Me:
What about the bridge? There’s a bridge, you know.
Joyce:
Yes, but it’d be so much
nicer
to—
Me:
I’m thirsty. Can I have a drink of water?
Joyce:
[Pauses. Then, irritated:] Yes. Yes. Of course …
#
Joyce ends up all angry, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve done what they want, an’ now they have to let me go. I climb the staircase in the dark, slippin’ my hand easily up the polished rail. On the landin’ I walk slowly, hopin’ to bump into Mary. There’s a blue glow from the skylight, which is good cos I can see the way to my room without turnin’ the light on. Mary’s door is across from mine, but tonight there’s no strip of light under it. I stand outside an’ listen. Nothin’. Jus’ some clinkin’ from the kitchen downstairs. I walk to my room, hit the light switch an’ sit on the bed. The clock says ten past eleven. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. I watch the quick hand whizz. Each second tappin’ my heart like a hammer. Iss not till I peel back the covers that I find the heather. Jus’ a handful, tied up with grass, but it smells amazin’. I clutch it to my chin an’ crawl under the covers. Bless Mary. She might be the only friend I’ve got left.
#
Saturday.
Iss cold in the conservat’ry. For breakfast I have two slices of toast spread with blackcurrant jam. The moor is callin’ me like crazy, an’ iss harder to ignore than usual. In the afternoon I hang round the back porch, but whenever I get close to the door, a member of staff comes to whisk me away. Later on, I notice someone’s taken the key out of the lock.
Mr Duff doesn’t come today. Instead, we have an extra-long gramophone time. Mrs Laird hasn’t brought enough records for that, so we have to play each one twice. I’m not in the mood to join in, so I go an’ sit by the window. If Rhona was here now she’d say, ‘What’s up mopey chops? Come and dance!’ An’ for her, I would. But Rhona isn’t here. Was I wrong to say no to the boat trip? It’d shut Joyce up for a while. But I don’t believe they’d go to so much trouble without a reason. No, it feels like a trap. They think I came to the loch on a boat. That I fell off it, or escaped off it, or was thrown. I know they think that, an’ I know they’re dyin’ to know for sure. Maybe they think I’ll remember stuff if they stick me on another boat. Of course! That’s it. What if the newspaper men are there, all watchin’? Waitin’ for me to snap. No … No … Is a boat trip worth the risk? I mean, it might be true … I might get to see Rhona, but …
A hand touches my hand. I jump. But iss jus’ Mrs Bell. She asks if I want to dance with her, cos I’m sittin’ all alone. Joyce is watchin’ from across the room, so I say okay an’ Mrs Bell waltzes me round for a bit.
When gramophone time is over, we say a prayer for Rhona an’ her mother. This time ev’ryone looks at me. Not jus’ Joyce. I look at the floor an’ pretend to be prayin’ really hard. When I look up again no one’s watchin’ any more. We don’t pray for Mrs McRae today.
#
Sunday.
Today they let me telephone Rhona. Mrs Laird dials the number an’ talks to Rhona behind her hand. Then she calls me over. I grab the receiver.
‘We just came back from church,’ Rhona says. Her voice sounds weird, like she’s been runnin’ really fast.
‘What are the clouds like there? When are you comin’ home?’
‘Soon,’ says Rhona.
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.
‘The weather here is very fine today,’ I tell her.
‘Mm hmm? That’s nice. Perhaps you should go for a walk.’
‘I already asked,’ I say, with my eyes on Mrs Laird. ‘They won’t let me.’
‘Well, I’m sure they have your best interests at heart,’ says Rhona. Then she goes quiet again. In the background there’s a man talkin’. I think I hear a swear word.
‘I have to go now, Katherine,’ says Rhona.
My throat goes lumpy.
‘Will you call me soon?’
‘Yes. Yes, I will.’
I hear the man’s voice. Louder this time.
‘Goodbye, Katherine,’ says Rhona, an’ hangs up.
#
Monday.
Joyce brings boat-trip fliers back from the village. She hands them round an’ says more than once that there’s a group discount. The other residents seem to like the idea of a trip to Skye. It scares me, cos it all hangs on me now. If I say no, the trip is off, an’ ev’ryone will be angry.
After dinner the weather’s really nice, an’ ev’ryone except me is allowed outside. I watch them through my bedroom window, lyin’ out there on the old striped deckchairs. Once or twice Joyce looks up, an’ I jump behind the curtains, but not fast enough.
I count the heads below the window. Then I cross the landin’ an’ open Mary’s door. Her room is on the other side of the house, an’ from here I can see in the other direction. Downhill towards the village, with the long, flat tongue of sea an’ jaggy mountains beyond. The ground inside the perimeter fence is bumpy, like a wrinkled-up towel, an’ I know that my secret place – the bite – is hidden in one of those wrinkles. But this is not what I’ve come to look at.
Skye. There it is, like a strip torn off the bottom of the sky. Dull grey an’ featureless, above a brilliant white patch of sea. The bigger hills are to the left. Is Rhona to the left or right of them? I wish I could remember what Wikipedia said. On this side of Loch Ghlas, a cloud of seagulls twinkles to shore. The fishing boats must be coming in.
I squint my eyes at the place where the sea ends an’ Skye begins. Rhona might be standin’ on the beach there right now an’ I’d never know. If only I had binoculars. I raise my hand an’ wave a bit, jus’ in case. Maybe
she’s
got binoculars an’ can see me standin’ here.
A boat trip might not be so bad. If I manage to control myself,
if I try really hard
, there won’t be a scene, an’ I won’t be the centre of attention. Anyway, it’d be worth it to see Rhona again. She’ll hug me, an’ smile, an’ tell me how well I look. Iss been so long. She must be dyin’ to see me. I might even tell her about my dreams. Silly Joyce. I’ll never tell
her
those things, no matter how hard she pushes.
Part of me is still scared of the sea, though I don’t really remember bein’ in it. In some ways, I think I might find my old self there. We switched places, me an’ her, in Loch Oscaig, an’ I’m the one who made it to shore. The newspaper men should pester her, not me. She knows exactly what she was runnin’ from, or towards.
In the quiet moments I still feel her out there – sad an’ cold an’ all alone – an’ this pain grows inside me, like I have to go back to her. But I know I’m not ready. They think they can force me to do that. Like jabbin’ me in the back will get results faster. But things don’t work that way. Until I’m as strong as the girl in the loch, her tales of foreign lands would only crush me.
The boat, I’m not sure about at all. I think she climbed out of the snow on her hands an’ knees. An iceberg broke off from the land, with her on it, an’ the Gulf Stream carried her away. On an’ on, all the way here, till the ice melted under her an’ her strength gave out. Then she handed me the song, an’ I carried it to shore.
This heirloom isn’t mine to keep. I can’t make sense of it like she did, but I hold onto it till the day I can give it back. Maybe I will die then. I’ll hand back the baton along with the song, an’ she’ll be the one they pull from the waves. Not me. On that day, I think both of us will find peace.
A scufflin’ sound makes me wheel round. Mary stands in the doorway, wearin’ a pink sun hat. Her forehead rests on the door frame, an’ for a second I think the hat’s caught on it. She hangs, an’ stares, an’ doesn’t speak. My face goes hot.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
Mary holds out her hand, an’ when I take it she leads me away from the window. Into the hall we go, an’ down the stairs. We step carefully, side by side, as Mary hangs onto the banister. She doesn’t meet my eye, but that’s okay cos I know she’s concentratin’. I think iss a phobia she has. Somethin’ to do with fallin’. At the door, we stop.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. But Mary jus’ smiles. She opens the door, looks at me once an’ leads me out into the garden. Joyce looks fit to explode, an’ for a second I think she’ll drag me back inside. But she doesn’t. As long as Mary holds my hand, I’m safe. I know they think Mary is fragile. Iss why they bend over backwards not to upset her. I’m pretty sure Mary knows that too. We sit on the deckchairs till the sun goes down.
#
Wednesday.
I’m not hungry this morning, but no one tries to make me eat, cos Mrs Bell is havin’ one of her bad days an’ they’re all busy with her. I sit in the conservat’ry, lis’nin’ to the clatter of china an’ the shoutin’ of the staff an’ Mrs Bell’s shrill, short screams.
There are lots of ash keys on the roof. A magpie comes shufflin’ round the path, peckin’ between the stones. It keeps flyin’ away then comin’ back. I watch it for a long time.
I don’t want to see the sun today. I wish the leaves would cover the roof completely. Swallow the house an’ block out all the light. Then I wouldn’t have to look at the outside. I wouldn’t have to remember I’m trapped.
No one sees me sittin’ in here. In the end I go back to bed.
#
Thursday.
Joyce comes upstairs to peck at me. Sittin’ by the bed. On an’ on, all pushy like. About the boat, mostly, an’ hypnotist stuff. She wants me to do that again, the hypnotisin’ thing. Says it’ll help ’em answer questions. I say no, of course. But this is not good. Joyce has got powers now that she didn’t have before. With her say-so, they could do all kinds of bad stuff. Like make me sing the lullaby, or let any of the staff come in my room, or stop me sittin’ in the conservat’ry. Joyce can be a real bitch when she wants, an’ I don’t fancy bein’ the one she explodes at. This is not good. I’ve got to be careful.
In the afternoon, iss Internet time. I want to read about Norway, but Caroline’s sittin’ real close, so I don’t dare. Instead I look at pictures of dogs an’ satellite maps of the Alps. When my time is up Caroline asks if I’d like to go outside today. I get all happy an’ say yes, but all she says is, ‘Well, you’d better talk to Joyce.’ Then she goes next door an’ makes herself a cup of tea. She doesn’t ask if I want one, an’ she doesn’t give me a chocolate biscuit.
#
Friday.
The weather’s really bad today, an’ that puts me in a good mood. It rains all day, an’ in the afternoon there’s even a thunderstorm. Some people here are scared of storms, but not me. When the first boom goes off, I’m in the day room. Some of the ladies start wailin’, an’ in runs Caroline, goin’, ‘Shush, shush, it’s all right.’ Already people are gettin’ up an’ runnin’ round, an’ that’s good cos none of the staff take any notice of me. What I really want is to go out in the rain, but I’m scared to push my luck that far, so I jus’ run to my room an’ fling open the window. Straight away I feel a hundred times better. The rain smashes down, bouncin’ off the sill, pricklin’ my face with tiny cold drops. As I watch, a flurryin’ movement pulls my eye to a herd of deer. I catch my breath. Under the lightnin’ they look like holograms. Flickin’ like pictures in a flip book. But they’re real. I know they are, cos I hear their hooves. When the wind wafts this way, the drummin’ comes with it. I feel their fear as they crash through the heather. Their confusion. They swarm towards the outhouses. Then left. Then right. For a second they run right for me. Then the whole sky flashes silver an’ they shriek to a stop. Their leader swaggers sideways, an’ they watch him. Trustin’ him to show the way forwards. The wind blasts their coats. Then the buck bursts away, an’ like ghosts the lot of ’em dive into the mist. My eyes stay glued to the place they disappeared, an’ as I stand here breathless this funny feelin’ hits me, that I should run out an’ follow ’em. The moor is unrecognisable now. Gloomy one minute an’ full of patterns the next, the air has become a giant Caithness globe. On an’ off it flashes. On an’ off an’ on an’ off an’ on. I hang onto the window frame, hardly breathin’ as this goes on, an’ when the rain shunts to a stop I feel quite dizzy. Carefully, I lie down on the bed. Fat droplets dribble from the roof, an’ as I look past ’em at the sky I wish I could see in the other direction. Downhill. What if I went to look through Mary’s window? Nah, she’s super-scared of thunder as it is. I shouldn’t bother her.
If I was out in that rain, I’d probl’ly have run for the thorn bushes. I bet that’s where the deer hide when it rains. Then again, maybe they don’t bother. Do deer mind the rain? Iss prob’ly jus’ the thunder they don’t like. I wonder where they go to when they run away. What do they think is goin’ on?