The Sky Beneath Us

Daisy – June 2020

‘Goodbye and good luck,’ I say to the German couple as we collect our bags at Doha Airport and go our separate ways to catch our onward flights. The plane from Kathmandu was half empty, a special flight allowed out of Tribhuvan Airport, arranged by various embassies to transport the last stranded tourists in Nepal back to Europe. I’ve sanitised and re-sanitised my hands and had my temperature taken countless times in the past couple of days. And now I join the queue to have it taken again at the airport checkpoint before heading to the departure gate for the flight to Glasgow. The face mask I’ve been wearing for hours feels grubby and limp and I gratefully accept the new one being proffered by the medics.

I go into the ladies’ room to freshen up. Once I’ve washed my hands, carefully following the directions on the signs plastered on the toilet walls, I remove my old mask and splash a little water on to my face, washing away the staleness of the past twenty-four hours of travelling. As I go to put on the new one, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and am transported back to that moment all those weeks ago – in another lifetime – when I looked in this same mirror and didn’t recognise the woman I saw there. The woman I see now has changed. Her face is tanned by the wind and sunshine of the mountains. Her hair – as unruly as ever – frames her features in a thick tangle of curls but instead of scraping them back in a band, she lets them be. She looks strong, this woman, her muscles toned by weeks of trekking and walking in the thin air of the high peaks. She looks like someone I’d like to get to know better.

She looks like me.

I fix the new mask in place over my face and head back out into the airport, going home.

By the time I reach Glasgow, the reality of what everyone’s been living through has hit me hard. The connecting flight was even emptier than the one from Kathmandu and when I arrive at the airport it’s like a ghost town. The few passengers in the baggage hall are careful to keep their distance, and everyone’s eyes – the only features visible behind the ubiquitous paper masks – look wary. The virus has spread its tendrils of fear everywhere and being in a public space feels uncomfortably risky.

My footsteps echo as I walk out into the deserted arrivals hall, feeling uncertain what to do next. I’d planned on hiring a car, even though it’ll cost a fortune, but the car rental desks are all firmly closed, metal shutters pulled down over the windows. I fish my phone out of my pocket to see if I can find anything online, but the battery is dead. I look around, wondering whether there’s anywhere to charge it, but the cafés are all closed too and there are no other charging points here. Perhaps I should have taken the London flight instead, but returning to my lonely flat is the last thing I want to do. Now the rules have been relaxed enough, I simply want to be with my family. I want to hug Mum and my girls and be hugged back. I want to comfort them and be comforted in my turn, as we come together to mourn Davy.

The journey to Ardtuath isn’t an easy one at the best of times though, even if public transport is running. I’ll just have to wing it and see if I can get a bus into the city and catch a train from there.

The first thing I need is some money, so I start walking across the empty expanse of the hall towards a cash machine to check the balance in my account. I know there’s almost nothing left in it though, and the pit of my stomach clenches with dread. Have I come all this way only to be stranded once again? But then a voice behind me says, ‘Hello, Daisy. Need a lift?’

‘Jack!’ I exclaim, flinging myself at him, ecstatic to see his face – or at least his eyes, which twinkle with their oh-so-familiar smile above his mask. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d still be at sea.’

‘I made pretty good time from the Azores. Heard from my mum you’d managed to get out of Nepal and were due to be arriving today. I wondered how you were going to get back to Loch Ewe safely. Everything’s still really weird here, even if the country is slowly opening up again. So I thought I’d take a little detour and come and pick you up. I’m moored on the Clyde. Your personal yacht awaits, to take you home.’

We get into one of the few taxis parked at the usually busy pick-up point and Jack gives the driver directions to the marina, a few miles down the Clyde.

In the car, he says flatly, ‘I’m so very sorry about Davy. It’s a terrible loss.’

I nod and reach for his hand. ‘I know he meant a lot to you as well.’ And even though there’s so much to say, we sit in silence as the taxi speeds down empty roads, heading for the river.

The city streets may be deserted but the marina is crammed full of boats, with one or two people working on them here and there.

‘With lockdown, everything’s been parked up for the duration,’ says Jack. ‘But now people are allowed to be out in the open air, it’s starting to get back to normal.’

‘She’s beautiful,’ I say when we reach the berth where Skylark is moored. She stands out among the other boats with her elegant lines and teak deck.

‘She is, isn’t she? I found my dream girl at last,’ he laughs. ‘I never thought I’d be able to afford her, but quite a few people were selling when the pandemic began and a client of mine let me have her for a good price. She’s no spring chicken, but she’s still in great condition. I installed a bit of up-to-date technology to be able to sail her across the Atlantic on my own and she did a great job of getting me here. Come on, let me show you round. We’ve an hour or so to wait for the tide to turn, in any case.’

Once on board, I hesitate to remove my mask, as Jack has done. He’s been isolated all these weeks, and risked coming ashore to pick me up, and who knows what germs I may have been exposed to on the flights from Kathmandu to Glasgow?

He notices my uncertainty. ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I can risk catching the virus now we’re so nearly home. There aren’t many people I’d take that risk for, mind you, but you and I are in this together now. All we can do is take as many precautions as possible to protect others. The government’s announced a new rule – we’re allowed to make a bubble with another household, so I reckon this counts. When we get to Aultbea, we’ll be self-quarantining in any case. I’ll sound out Mum, ask her to let Lexie know we’re safe and sound and on our way home, then they can decide whether they want to isolate with us until we’re sure we’re all clear or whether you and I should stay on the boat for a while to be on the safe side. That’s another advantage of this old girl.’ He pats Skylark ’s wooden cockpit fondly. ‘She can be turned into our very own floating isolation ward if need be.’

Below deck, everything is neatly stowed away apart from a set of charts spread out on the table. Once I’ve stashed my pack in one of the berths and plugged my phone in to charge, Jack brews up a cup of tea and shows me the route we’ll take to get back to Loch Ewe.

‘We’ll aim to get as far as Arran tonight on the ebb, then make an early start in the morning to catch the flood tide and get round the Mull of Kintyre. Depending what this wind decides to do, we might be able to slip through the sound between Jura and Islay and make it to the Isle of Mull by tomorrow night. Then it’s a long day’s sail up past Skye to Loch Ewe. We should be home late on Friday.’

I pore over the chart and when I look up again Jack is sitting looking at me, his expression inscrutable. ‘What?’ I say, wondering whether I have a remnant of my airline meal on my face or something.

He smiles. ‘You look good, Daisy.’

‘I am good,’ I reply. ‘It was an incredible trip.’

To my surprise, because Jack McKinnes has never been one for displays of emotion, he reaches over and takes my hand in his. ‘You’ve always looked good to me, Daisy Laverock,’ he says. Then he clears his throat abruptly and gets to his feet. ‘Well, I’d better start making ready for the off. And you’ll probably be wanting a shower and a freshen-up after your travels. I’ve put a towel in the heads for you.’

I watch as his legs disappear up through the companionway and hear his footsteps moving across the deck above me. Then I shake my head, down the remainder of my mug of tea, and go to delve into my pack for some washing things.

We cast off and manoeuvre out of the marina. Then Jack cuts the engine, and I help raise the mainsail as Skylark heads down the Clyde on the ebb tide in the early-evening sunshine.

I’m still feeling a sense of overwhelm as I try to absorb all that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. How can I have journeyed from a Sherpa village perched high in the Himalaya, via two helicopter rides and two international flights, to find myself sailing down the Scottish west coast at sunset? I’ve been running on adrenaline and now the sudden peace and quiet leaves me feeling a little dizzy and disorientated. I’m sure the jet lag on top of all that air travel doesn’t help either.

As we head towards the rugged outline of Arran, I move forward to sit in the bow, trying to ground myself a little as I watch the water part effortlessly before us. When I close my eyes, I imagine I’m listening to the mountain wind blowing down the Khumbu valley and I think of Themi, Pema, Tashi and Dipa, wondering what they’re doing. I glance at my watch and realise it’s the middle of the night in Nepal, but I can still hear their voices and the sound of their laughter, which seems to warm me from within.

I think I must drift off for a while because the rattle of the anchor chain wakens me with a start. And when I open my eyes, I think I must still be dreaming because there in front of me is a skein of Buddhist prayer flags, fluttering on the breeze.

We’ve turned into Lamlash Bay, between Arran and Holy Isle, and Jack is preparing to moor up for the night. He points towards the prayer flags with a grin. ‘Thought it might be best to ease you back in gently. There’s a Buddhist community here on Holy Isle.’

We anchor off, keeping a safe distance from the island communities on either side of us. I make a feeble attempt to be useful, but I’m so tired I can hardly stand. It’s flat calm but I still feel as if the deck is rolling beneath me and I stagger slightly, steadying myself against the mast as I make my way to the stern.

‘Supper?’ Jack asks. ‘Or are you just ready for your bunk?’

‘Sorry,’ I say with a rueful smile. ‘I’m not very good company, am I? I think I’ll just head for bed. I’ll be a bit more with it in the morning, I promise.’

I brush my teeth and crawl headfirst into my narrow berth. And the last thing I hear is the quiet slap of the wavelets against the hull and the calling of the seabirds, as the sea rocks me gently off to sleep.

I wake early, to the rattle of the kettle on the hob and the click-click-whoosh of the gas being lit, and climb out of my bed into the cabin.

‘You slept well,’ Jack says, as he puts out some things on a tray for our breakfast.

The dawn is still and quiet up top, the only sounds the creaking of the anchor chain and the faint tap-tap of the rigging against the mast. We sit, nursing our mugs between our hands, watching the first rays of the sun spread across the eastern horizon. The prayer flags on Holy Isle wave in the breeze, and I picture the ones at Phortse waving in return from the other side of the globe. It’s comforting to think how they link us across the miles, like the lines on a family tree.

Jack checks his watch. ‘Right, the tide’s slack now so we should be able to get round the foot of Arran to catch the flood. Let’s get underway.’

We carry the breakfast things down below to wash them and stow them safely away. Then we raise the anchor and motor out from behind the shelter of Holy Isle, into open water. We hoist the sails, making good progress, and the tide and wind are with us as we round the Mull of Galloway, where Skylark spreads her wings and begins to fly.

I’m glad to be ending my journey like this, having a little more time to let myself catch up. It’s another sort of bardo , I think, another period of transition from one stage of life to the next. Then a thought occurs to me. I count the days on my fingers. In two more it will have been forty-nine days since Davy’s death. I’ll get home just in time to be with my family for the final day, when his soul leaves us for good.

Instead of making me sad, though, the realisation makes my heart lift. I get the strong feeling Davy is still here with me today, seeing me safely home one last time. And I laugh through my tears, knowing how he’d approve of my mode of transport.

Jack nudges my arm. ‘Here, take the helm for a while?’

I nod, stepping up to the wheel, being careful to keep us on course as he goes forward to undo the fastenings on the headsail, letting it unfurl, and as it balloons outwards it gives us another couple of knots of speed.

‘You okay there?’ he asks, coming back to stand beside me.

‘All good,’ I answer.

He checks our heading and puts his hand over mine on the wheel to adjust it slightly. ‘Stay on this reach for a bit, then we’ll begin our tack to get into the Sound of Islay.’ I nod, noticing that he doesn’t take his hand off mine straight away, but leaves it there, giving it a gentle squeeze. It feels good, the warmth of his fingers enclosing mine. Without saying a word, I incline my head to lean it against his shoulder and we sail on like that for a few minutes, closer than we’ve ever been before. So that’s another thing this pandemic has brought us, I think: this new closeness.

And, of course, he’s always been like a brother to me.

I’m glad Jack seems to share my sense that there’s no need to say much yet. He’s probably got out of the way of making conversation, anyway, after all those weeks alone on the ocean. I think we both feel that, instead of talking, all we need to focus on at the moment is sailing on across the wind-whipped waters, heading for home.

Many hours later, we slip into the narrow bay off Mull where we’ll anchor up for the night.

It’s a natural anchorage, usually popular with other yachties, Jack tells me, but this evening we have it to ourselves. Beyond the headland, the white sands of Iona glint silver against the sapphire sea. The stones of its ancient abbey, outlined against the setting sun, watch on silently as we take down the sails and slip into the inlet, gliding slowly through a narrow channel between pink-hued rocks.

The water is perfectly clear. I see a shoal of tiny fish dart under Skylark ’s hull and decide to go for a swim, stripping down to my T-shirt and underwear. ‘You coming in?’ I ask Jack, but he shakes his head awkwardly and turns away, busying himself with retying a fender rope that doesn’t look to me like it needs it.

‘I’ll get a few things sorted here.’

It’s funny, we’ve swum together thousands of times before, but this time he seems oddly self-conscious.

I gasp as I immerse myself, gingerly, in the cold salt sea. Then I let go of the ladder and give myself to it. My body quickly adjusts to the chill, and I strike out towards a nearby rock. Suddenly, I realise I’m not alone. The dark head of a young seal bobs up out of the water ahead of me and the creature watches me with its luminous eyes, no doubt curious about this trespasser in its territory. Once it’s decided I’m no threat, it seems in the mood to play. It dives, its body arcing sleekly as it disappears beneath the surface, then reappears behind me, following back and forth as I swim in the channel of light cast by the evening sun. It’ll soon be the longest day of the year and the sun won’t set here until past ten o’clock.

Eventually, the seal grows bored of the game and disappears back out into the deeper water. I’m shivering by the time I haul myself back on to the boat.

Once I’ve changed, I go up on deck again, clipping the tendrils of my damp hair into a twist at the nape of my neck. Jack’s set out cutlery, wine glasses and a dish of grated Parmesan. I sip my wine and watch a pair of oystercatchers busily making a nest among the stones on the shore, calling to one another as they do so.

‘Dinner is served.’ Jack passes me a bowl of pasta and then brings his own, sitting down beside me on the locker that serves as a bench.

We eat in silence for a minute or two, savouring the good food and wine, and then I say, ‘What do you think you’ll do next, Jack, now you have your own boat? Will you go back to skippering charters in the Caribbean, once the world gets back on its feet again?’

He shakes his head, twisting a mouthful of spaghetti on to his fork. ‘Been there, done that now. It was only ever a means to an end, really, until I’d saved enough to be able to buy a yacht of my own.’

‘So will you stay put on Loch Ewe, do you think?’

‘Most probably. I’ll see. Skylark will need to earn her keep, so I’ll probably do some charters out of one of the marinas near Oban. That’s where most of the business is. But in between I think I’ll be spending more time back home.’

‘Funny, isn’t it, how we both still call Aultbea home? Even though neither of us has lived there for years.’

‘Home’s where family is,’ he replies with a shrug. ‘Always has been, always will be. The pandemic’s made me see that. And what about you, Daisy? How long do you think you’ll stay before you head back south?’

I shrug. ‘My job isn’t exactly essential and I can’t do it working from home. So it’s all up in the air at the moment. I’ve been thinking perhaps it’s time for a change.’ The thought of returning to my empty flat in London fills me with dread, so I quickly take another sip of wine and deflect the conversation back on to Jack. ‘Won’t you find it a bit too quiet at home, leaving behind your glitzy lifestyle?’

He shakes his head, his expression serious. He hesitates. The big brother figure I’ve known all my life looks a little unsure of himself for once.

‘Daisy,’ he starts, then stops again and takes a gulp from his wine glass, as if for courage. ‘I’ve had a lot of time on my own to do some thinking over the past months. The pandemic, your mum getting ill, then losing Davy ... it all made me realise how important it is to say things before it’s too late. So I’m just going to put this out there. And you don’t have to say a thing, if you don’t want to. Because there’s no pressure. And you might not feel the same way. And if you don’t, then that’s okay ...’

Watching him struggle to get the words out, seeing how serious his expression is, I set down my fork and take his hands in mine. ‘What is it? You know you can tell me anything, Jack. You’ve always been the big brother I never had.’

He shakes his head. ‘Well, that’s just the problem, Daisy. You see, I don’t really want to be your big brother. Never have done. And I was too young and too stupid to tell you that when I had the chance and then you went off and got married and had your girls. When you got divorced, I thought now’s my chance. But you were too sad and too lost, and I felt I had nothing to offer you. I needed to make something of myself, for myself. But everything is different now. You seem so much happier, like you’ve got your old self back again. Like you’ve regained everything that was taken from you and mended the things that were broken.’

He raises his eyes to mine and they’re full of an honesty that’s so raw, so unguarded, that I know how important it is for him to say these things. I nod, recognising the truth in his words.

Looking a little encouraged, he continues. ‘If there’s one thing this virus has taught us all, it’s that life is uncertain. And tomorrow we’ll be surrounded by our families and that’ll be great, but if I don’t say this now, I probably never will. So here goes nothing ... I’ve loved you forever, Daisy. And I wonder if you could ever feel the same way about me.’

The silence that follows is absolute. There’s not even the faintest sigh of wind to stir the surface of the water, not a peep from the oystercatchers on the shore, not a creak from Skylark ’s rigging. It’s as if everything is holding its breath, waiting to see what will happen next.

SILENT = LISTEN.

Is it as easy as this? A simple question of shifting my perspective? Of rearranging the letters to make a new meaning?

Jack sees me differently: not as a sister or just a friend. I find I’m looking at him with new eyes, too.

THE EYES: THEY SEE.

The world has changed – in so many ways – and perhaps I’ve been wrong about everything I ever thought I knew.

WRONG = GROWN.

Themi was right. When our hearts break wide open, there’s the possibility of a transformation. The birth of a new future. One we’ve created for ourselves. One we really want.

I smile into Jack’s handsome, familiar face, which is currently fixed in an expression of such a mixture of fear and hope it makes my broken-open heart do a somersault. I hadn’t realised it could still do that at its age, after all these years, after everything that’s happened to it.

Suddenly, I know what I really want. I want him.

But words alone don’t seem enough. So, instead of saying anything, I lean over and kiss his lips. And I feel them curve upwards into a smile of their own beneath mine.

He puts his arms around me, and we sit gazing out across the cove, my head cradled on his shoulder, and it feels so right. As if this is exactly where I always should have been.

We’re moored in a millpond of gold, the flamingo-pink of the sunset perfectly reflected, as if we’re floating in the sky. Then the final words in Violet’s journal come back to me and I rearrange them, just a little, to match my thoughts: I wonder at the possibility of a new future as I gaze out at the sky beneath us.

The next day the wind and tides seem to understand our longing to be home, and they conspire in our favour as we navigate our way northwards up the coast. Anticipation rises within me as we round the headland, into Loch Ewe. We’re tacking again now, and it’s tricky sailing as the wind blusters and bounces from the hills enfolding the loch, so Jack’s at the helm and I send a message to Mum and the girls, and to Elspeth too, to let them know we’re nearly there. I can see my messages have been read, but I don’t know whether they’ll come to meet us or whether we’ll need to keep a distance from everyone for a quarantine period, mindful of the virus and the need to keep them safe. But then, as we turn on our final tack towards the pier, Jack nudges me and grins. ‘Looks like there’s a bit of a reception committee gathering.’ He reaches for a pair of binoculars and hands them to me.

I can make out Mara there, dancing with excitement, and then Sorcha and Mum, waving their arms. Elspeth’s there too, waiting to hug her son. As we draw nearer, I hear them whooping and I call back, even though the wind snatches my words and flings them backwards. ‘I love you all so much.’

I turn and scramble back to Jack’s side, ready to help with the final approach. He leans down and says quietly, ‘I love you so much too, Daisy Laverock.’

I turn my face to his and kiss him again. When I look back towards the pier, I see the whole lot of them are dancing now as they cheer us home. And I don’t need the binoculars, now, to be able to tell they’re laughing and crying all at the same time, just like us.

My concerns about quarantine were answered yesterday when we moored Skylark alongside the pier: the six of us are isolating together in the big house for ten days but, as Mara declared, they decided they’re prepared to risk catching the lurgy from us in return for a hug. Mum and Elspeth – whose age puts them at the greatest risk – reckon they’re probably immune, in any case, since they’ve both already had the virus.

We wait until the sun is beginning to set, slipping inexorably towards the far horizon, and then we all walk together up the hill behind the big house to say our final farewell to Davy. It’s late, but we don’t want this day to end because then we know he’ll be fully gone from us. We’ll still hold him in our hearts and whenever we catch the scent of the ocean on a westerly wind, we’ll remember him. But we have to let him go, as we all must do eventually. Because every meeting holds the seeds of parting, as Themi said. But how thankful we are that we knew him, that he was with us, that he loved us.

Before we set off from the house, I placed a kata round each of our necks, linking us with that other family on the other side of the world, and our pale silk scarves flutter in the breeze at the top of the hill, a little like prayer flags.

We take our time, still reluctant to say that last goodbye. The setting sun floods the clouds with washes of deep rose and lily-pink. Then Mum takes the lid off the cylinder of ashes and releases them on to the wind. She gives a little sob as she does so, and we gather close around her, holding her. She still looks tired and grey from her own illness and her grief, and I try to pour some of my strength into her to help her get through this moment. I know there’ll be many more difficult moments for her – for us all – in the months and years ahead. The pandemic continues to make life uncertain at best, and it will take more time to grieve the loss of Davy. But I know, too, that we will walk that stony path side by side, helping and encouraging one another, giving each other comfort when it’s needed most.

Mara and Sorcha lead the way back to the house, lighting the path with torches, and Jack and I help Mum and Elspeth pick their way among the stones and tussocks of heather.

Once back home, we turn on lights and gather in the sitting room. Jack pours a dram of Davy’s favourite whisky for each of us, and we raise our glasses in a toast. ‘To Davy.’

After we’ve taken a drink, Mara gives a wicked grin and says, ‘And here’s to Mum and Jack as well. May I just say it’s about bloody time!’

They all laugh at the look of amazement on my face, rapidly followed by the heat of the blush that flushes through my whole body.

‘Oh, come on Mum,’ Mara says. ‘It’s been patently clear to all of us except you that he’s had a thing for you, like, forever.’

Jack shakes his head, mock-ashamed. ‘Was it really that obvious?’ he asks.

‘Of course it was, dear,’ says Elspeth placidly. ‘Ever since you were about three years old and you used to bring her shells on the beach to put on her sandcastles. And then you got so drunk at her wedding and cried on my shoulder. You probably don’t remember much about that night, do you? But I told you that you were a daft laddie not to have spoken up earlier and then I took you home and put you into your bed to sleep it off.’

‘Oh well, we got there in the end,’ I say, with a rueful smile, leaning into Jack’s embrace. ‘We both just had a bit of living we needed to do first.’

Davy’s guitar leans against the piano in the corner, so I pick it up and tune it. I begin to play the chords of the ‘Eriskay Love Lilt’, softly at first, until Sorcha joins in on the piano and Mara starts to sing the words of his favourite song.

When I’m lonely, dear white heart,

Black the night or wild the sea,

By love’s light my foot finds

The old pathway to thee.

Mum and Elspeth join in the chorus, Mum’s voice still holding the traces of its former purity from her youth.

Vair me oro van o,

Vair me oro van ee,

Vair me oru o ho,

Sad am I without thee.

We all sing the final verse together, Jack’s tenor adding a richness to the words, which seem to come from our hearts rather than our mouths.

Thou art the music of my heart

Harp of joy, oh cruit mo chridh,

Moon of guidance by night,

Strength and light thou art to me.

Very gently, I set the guitar back in its place. Sorcha closes the lid of the piano and there’s silence. The final, remembered echoes of the song evaporate into thin air as the bardo reaches its end. And Davy’s soul goes with them, and then there’s nothing left in the room but a sense of peace, mingled with our memories of the love he gave us.