Chapter 7
By the time Tilly had travelled from Heathrow to the bus that serviced Darling Island, she'd lost the will to live. She'd been travelling for what felt like days, and had questioned just about everything in her life: her exit plan, what she had ever seen in Lennixx, cruise liners, the shed. She’d also thrown in, for good measure, questions about Darling Island and had dissected the previous forty-eight months of wasting her life. Sporting eyeballs that felt as if they were being held open by sticks, a good old-fashioned shower wouldn’t have gone amiss, and there was a constant, lo-fi tension all over Tilly’s head. Happy, smiley, jolly, she was not.
With Darling Island in her sights, the bus from the station had deposited her at the foot of a lay-by behind a queue of cars, and with her case banging against her shin, she'd cursed all sorts: the fog, Australians, Facebook business groups, Fiji and ever meeting Lennixx in the first place.
The inclement weather had mostly improved but lingered here and there just to let her know she really had arrived home, and her back was aching from the terrible plane seats and the weight of her backpack.
Looking up and over an expanse of water as Tilly got closer to a crossing area, she could almost touch a soft, milky, just-visible misty fog hanging over the view in the distance.
Unless she was seeing things, everything appeared to be washed in a hazy blue and the air, oh, how unbelievably fresh it was.
After month upon month of thick, sticky, suffocating tropical heat that had felt as if it might well have been another limb, this air was sweet.
Gulping the stuff in, Tilly couldn’t get enough.
Seaweed, salt, wet, wood, England. Home.
Tilly stood for a moment and stared. There it was just across the estuary.
Darling Island. The water a lovely hazy blue, just as she'd seen on the internet.
The chain ferry, making its way slowly across, a small line of cars on its back, foot passengers gathered behind the barrier to her left side, starting to drift down to the gate.
Putting her hand up to shade her eyes, Tilly let out a long, slow breath.
She'd arrived on the other side of the world, to stay in an old shed she had not much of a clue about on a remote island where she knew no one.
Suddenly she felt very foolish, very small, scared and alone. What could possibly go wrong?
Pulling out her phone, Tilly tutted concerning a three per cent battery.
Brilliant. She'd been charging it on the bus, but the thing had died somewhere around Basingstoke.
Fumbling in her bag for a portable charger she'd bought in Singapore, she plugged it in, waited for the little lightning bolt to appear and said a silent thank you when her phone started charging.
Opening WhatsApp, she navigated straight to her friends The Properlies.
They would know what to say and would instantly make her feel better.
They’d been there for her since she was eleven years old, minding her back.
The group chat name made her smile in spite of everything.
Holding the phone to her ear, she started a voice note.
'Right. I'm here. Well, nearly here. I'm at the chain ferry, it's called The Pride of Darling. Actually, I'm staring at the island, and it looks like it's been photoshopped with unreal colours. Everything’s well, a little bit foggy, at least I think it’s fog. It’s weird, it's all a hazy blue, lots of white buildings with a little ferry chugging across.
I feel like I've wandered into a postcard or a retirement brochure, ha.
Oh gosh, or possibly a horror film about a woman who buys a shed on the internet and is never seen again. ' Tilly swore.
Stopping for a second, she watched the hazy blue colour.
'Also, I look like absolute death. I've been travelling for about a million hours.
My neck is at a right angle that doesn't belong to me. I am now questioning what I've done and the legalities of it. I’ve agreed to buy my new home via a Facebook post and a phone call with a woman whose husband is in hospital. I mean, what even is my life? I’ve been low, ladies, but this is something else. What am I doing?'
Sending the voice note and waiting, Tilly leant against her suitcase and observed the ferry as it made its way over the expanse of water. A woman walked past and gave her a nod. Tilly nodded back, feeling like a fish out of water. Her phone buzzed with a two-minute-long voice message from Pia.
'Tils, you absolute legend. I’m sitting in Mum's garden in Provence, eating a croissant, and you are about to get on a ferry to an island. I cannot believe you did this. When you messaged as you were boarding in Singapore about the shed, I didn’t know what to think.
It could be good, though. I mean, it's exactly the sort of mad thing you do, but still. Anyway, don’t have second thoughts!
The shed sounds amazing, it will be all romantic and fuzzy like a romcom film.
A boat shed by the sea. I’m here for it.
You'll be like that woman in that movie, the one with the notebook or something.
What's her name? The one with Ryan Gosling.
You'll be her! Minus the Ryan Gosling, probably, but still.
I'm so jealous. Mum says hello, by the way.
She says you're brave and a little bit bonkers.
Send photos of everything as soon as you get there.
You're going to be fine. Better than fine.
You're going to be brilliant. You always are, even when you think you're not. '
Tilly smiled and started another voice note.
'Doesn’t that film end really, really sadly?
That's not exactly the vibe I'm going for.
I am stating this for the record: I am off men, and I do not want a relationship in any shape or form.
Also, I don't look like a movie star. I look like a woman who has slept against a plane window for forty-five minutes and then sat on a bus next to a man who ate cheese and onion crisps with his mouth open.
I'm about to get on this ferry, and I have no idea what happens next.
I don't know if the shed is real. Flipping heck, what if I arrive and find it's a portaloo on a mudflat? I guess there’s no going back now.
I'm here, and I'm doing it. Dad would have said that's the main thing. '
Immediately, as she hit send, another voice note arrived from Jasmine. Tilly pressed play.
'Right, I'm backstage and I have thoughts on this. Tils, you’ll be fine. I mean, it’s a little bit left-wing, but you’re a grafter, and your dad made a living out of doing things like this.
You bought a business off Facebook. That is either the bravest thing you've ever done or the stupidest. Here's the thing: you will make it work. You were brave when you left The Pig, I mean Andy. You were brave when you walked away from Lennixx. Let’s not even go there, and now you're being brave again. I’m picturing you in that jumper from that Nordic crime show, hauling nets around in the fog. Or maybe all Monty Don. Whatever, you’ll be rustic, coastal and rugged.
We can come and stay and drink mulled wine in cosy bobble hats.
Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Right, I've got to go, someone's shouting for me.
Text when you're in. Send photos. Love you both.
Don't do anything I wouldn't do, which, as we know, leaves you plenty of room. '
Tilly chuckled. The Properlies always made her feel better.
She started another voice note as she made her way to the ferry.
'I'm getting on the ferry. I'll message when I'm there.
Thank you for not thinking I've lost my mind, or maybe you do think that, but you love me anyway. Same thing, really. At least it’s not tropical weather, and I am not cleaning hotel rooms.'
Pia: If it's awful, you can always come to Provence and stay in the spare room. We have very nice rosé. But it's not going to be awful. It's going to be the beginning. I feel like this will be your new start, Tils. xxx
Tilly typed back, thumbs clumsy with cold, jet lag and tiredness.
Tilly: Hope so. No going back now. xx