Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
I vy had always felt the most herself around water, but, with an impressive marketing job in Edinburgh straight out of university, living near it hadn’t ever seemed an option. Around eighteen months ago, however, her boss had put her up as the main point of contact for a new restaurant, Mòr, on the Isle of Harris that was being fronted by Ally Macleod, a head chef who had just handed over his previous Michelin starred project in Glasgow. She had hosted the first two meetings with the team remotely before Kirsty, Ally’s wife, restaurant manager and possibly the love of Ivy’s life, had insisted she come out to get a true feel of the place. As soon as she set foot on the site, she knew they were right. Kirsty and Ally wanted regular contact, and she didn’t try to argue. Thus, she spent the February to September of that first year either on the island or thinking about it. Like most places out here, however, the restaurant shut up shop for the off season. By the time things were starting to slow down, Ivy was already searching for other opportunities in the Western Isles, knowing she wouldn’t survive until the following summer, despite the team’s promise they’d have her back for a second round.
As luck would have it, the Outer Hebrides tourist board was on the hunt for a new campaign and had selected a certain prestigious marketing agency to head things up. Normally, Ivy would not have been the first choice for such a significant project, but her well nurtured connections in the islands and obvious passion, sweetened Duncan on the idea. ‘One shot, Ivy,’ he had said, ‘and I want regular updates.’ She had practically shattered his glass office walls when she squealed her thanks at him. Luckily all had gone well, and she’d spent the winter making sure everyone knew the Western Isles was the place for a summer adventure. She now knew every pub, boutique, outdoor activity provider and secret spot in the archipelago, and had seen the fruits of her labour as tourists filled the place up come spring. Of course, the Western Isles had always drawn explorers of all types, but every time she saw her favourite coffee shops with queues out the door, or art studios with ‘Sold out’ labels on the shelves, she felt a little spark of pride.
Some secrets she had kept for herself though. After meeting so many locals while researching, she had stumbled across some real winning locations, but she had decided that not everything needed to be ‘discovered’. Ivy saved those places for special occasions, even from herself. Which is how, tonight, she had ended up on this well trodden patch of magic rather than one of her special occasion favourites. The beach framed an old Iron Age site, and the water hosted one of only seven tidal bells in the UK. It meant the area was frequented by beach lovers, wild swimmers, budding historians and archaeologists alike, though a busy Hebridean beach was still not busy by any standard measure. Even in peak summer, you could get the sense of being alone on the edge of the world, if that’s what you were after.
If being in the sea was for clearing her mind, the post-swim cuppa was for getting it going again. Refreshed, she never thought more clearly than when she was sat, knees tucked to her chest, warm tea in her battered mug, watching the waves. She saved the moment for her ‘serious thinking’, whether personal or professional, not wanting to waste the mental sharpness on what she was going to have for dinner, or whether she should get petrol on the way home or before work in the morning. She always decided before work, she never woke up early enough to actually do that, and she had yet to translate that lesson into change.
This afternoon’s subject of choice was the timeline for the boat trip. The reason she was on the island in person this time was with the aim to test drive a new whale watching boat tour that transitioned into a landing on the Isle of Sandaigh, if it was behaving itself, for lunch. She had been promoting wildlife spotting trips this year and hoped that adding the landing on the uninhabited island would be the perfect step up for next season.
Of course, her boss had his suspicions about the logistics of this, with the trip out to Sandaigh already taking an hour and no guarantee they’d be able to get the boat through the temperamental waves. Ivy’s theory, however, was that this be marketed as a more adventurous option, for those who really want to get involved and were hopefully the type to understand the nature of these things. You didn’t come to the Outer Hebrides expecting smooth sailing (pun intended) from your outdoor activities. The weather was the local every tourist got to know, no matter how brief their visit.
By the time her flask of tea had run dry, Ivy was satisfied she had gotten what she needed from this ocean side brainstorm and clambered down onto the sand. She slipped her shoes back on and began shoving her belongings into her dry bag. She cringed as she scrunched up the offending bikini from earlier, hoping it was pleased with itself.
When she was over here, Ivy rarely spoke to men outwith a professional capacity, so she decided to chalk the incident up to lack of practice since the breakup. From what she could gather, everyone either left the island at eighteen, or married their childhood sweethearts shortly thereafter, so the under thirty dating scene was not exactly lively. She made a mental note to come up with an excuse as to why she couldn’t get the practice hours when she was at home in Edinburgh before sharing this theory with anyone else.
Sighing she began to make her way back up to the car.
As she rounded the corner to the car park, she saw the man from earlier sitting at the far side of the graveyard. Ivy had loved that almost every beach on the island was accompanied by a cemetery from the time she discovered it. There surely couldn’t be a more peaceful resting place, and so every other day she was telling herself, ‘No, this is where I want to be buried.’ Lulled into eternal sleep by the sound of the sea, a nice place for your relatives to visit. Even if there weren’t loved ones to visit, budding historians flocked to the graveyards to study the commonwealth graves, and you would have a constant stream of life passing by, even in death. Kids learning to surf, couples walking on the beach, barbecue birthday parties, meditating and grieving and loving all mixed up together.
In reality, Ivy wanted to be cremated. Actually, she quite fancied being composted, but that only happened in America as far as she could tell. But yeah, definitely not buried. She had seen a documentary on burial practices once and fallen down an environmental disaster rabbit hole and now had no desire to take up space in the afterlife. But while she was very much on this side of The Veil, she liked to indulge in the romance of staying here forever.
Opening up her boot to chuck her wellies in and change into more comfortable driving shoes, she wondered what he was doing there. A history buff perhaps. Or a long lost relative. Maybe he also liked to indulge in the morbid fantasy of contemplating his own resting place. More likely, he was just enjoying the peace and quiet, given he was staring placidly out to sea, rather than acknowledging the graves themselves.
Ivy clambered into the front seat and fiddled with the radio until it finally agreed to connect to her phone. She resumed her playlist, opting to keep the volume low so as not to disturb the quietness of the place, and pulled out.