Chapter 41
Mingulay
And so Ferg and Bar brought us here, to their island, to Mingulay, these strangers from the sea who are now not strangers and who didn’t bring death, but the opposite.
They stopped their searching and stayed with us for a couple of days and then set the goats and Red free.
The last I saw of her she was trotting down the M-way in the direction we had come.
She stopped at the bridge and looked back, and then went on.
I like to think she was saying goodbye, but then I am sentimental.
She moved briskly, like she had somewhere to be.
I think she was remembering the wild horses we saw on the moor before we found Motherwell.
I hope she was. I hope she found them. The goats just wandered off without a backwards glance.
Goats are not sentimental. And they will be fine, with a whole city in which to get in and out of trouble.
And, having spent a lifetime living in fear of it, the terrifying novelty of harnessing the wind and scudding across the unimaginably vast sea should have kept me thrilled and awake, but an hour or so after we’d tacked out of the river mouth and headed north I went below and fell asleep with Digger beside me, keeping me warm.
And Ferg says I slept for more than a day, because I’d spent so long not daring to stop that when I did, I really stopped.
They looked after the babies and handled the boat and once I woke, I just sat there wrapped up against the wind, more a parcel than a person, stunned and silent.
I seemed to have no energy left inside, and just watched the inner islands slide past until we found their home island out on the very edge of everything, a grassy scoop with a sandy beach on one side rising to a terrifyingly high and sheer cliff face backed on to the open ocean beyond.
And the other thing we found was the part of their family they’d been out looking for was there already, waiting for them. They jumped ashore shouting their names, but not the ones I knew. Which were Scar Girl, Grey Hair and Bear Shirt.
Not Russians. Islanders. And their parents. And then it feels like I did nothing for days except sleep and tell my story around the fire every night, while all the new faces took turns holding the babies and becoming familiar instead of strange, hardy and welcoming like the island itself.
I am still not used to so many people. We are sitting round the fire again and there’s a storm slamming in from the west, the howling wind sending long rollers to crash against the cliff behind us with such force that it sends vibrations through the rock and it feels like you can hear the colossal thump of it through the soles of your feet.
It’s a good night to be inside, and I’ve finished my story, and everyone is looking away, politely because I still find it hard to say Cat is dead.
I have the girl baby on my knee. Digger is asleep at my feet.
The rest are playing with the boy baby or busying themselves with the food on the fire.
All except Grey Hair, whose eyes never leave my face. It should feel uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. I’ve been here long enough to know her directness is just how she is. She leans forwards and nudges my arm, speaking quietly as if no one else crowded into this warm room can hear her.
So, Mouse. Now you have to tell me the Five Things.
I look at her. She smiles encouragingly.
You know. What are the Five Things about Cat?
I don’t know what to say. My hands are thinking for themselves and just make a gesture that says it’s too big, there is too much.
The old woman leans forwards, gently pushing my knee, so the firelight glinted off the strangely kind hardness in her eyes.
What do you love about her? Mouse, she says. What are the Five Things?
Somehow meeting her eyes and not looking away seems to hold me up and gives me the strength to answer, as if her hard, direct look is something I can lean on.
That she saved me, I say. That she was my only-one even when she was so alone and so very young too with no one to talk to. That she was always tough. That the warmth of her sleeping beside me, the sound of her breathing made it feel like home, wherever we were.
I think you missed something, Mouse, says the old woman. I think it’s so big you can’t see it.
She pointed at the baby in my arms, who was staring up at me with a huge smile.
She taught you how to love. That’s a big thing, Mouse, she says. Maybe the biggest…
Maybe it’s everything, says Bear Shirt, sliding in next to me on the bench, holding the cooking pot.
Grey Hair grins and then looks up, catching Scar Girl looking at us all.
What? says Scar Girl.
You tell me, says Grey Hair, grinning wider.
Scar Girl looks irritated at everyone looking at her.
You’re all so… sentimental, she says.
All of us? says Ferg.
All of you, says Scar Girl.
So why are you the one with the wet eyes? says Bar.
Shut up and pass the stew, says Scar Girl, reaching for the bowl and showing it to me. Hey, Mouse. It’s rabbit stew. It’s good.
She scoops some on to a plate and lets Bear Shirt hand it to me. Grey Hair doesn’t ever eat much, so she takes the baby and lets me eat.
Scar Girl points her spoon at Bear Shirt across the fire.
We have to help Mouse name the babies, she says. It’s time. Otherwise, they’ll be like your imaginary friend.
What imaginary friend? I say.
Bear Shirt just scowls at Scar Girl, but then reaches behind and pulls a much patched-up journal from the shelf.
It’s a story, like a diary about all of us. Only there was no one to talk to, so it’s written to their imaginary friend, said Scar Girl. You should read it. Then you’ll know a bit of our story too.
Bear Shirt flipped open the cover and showed me the old photo stuck in the front of it. A boy and a dog, both jumping on a beach, caught in mid-air.
Who’s that? I say.
Bear Shirt shrugs and grins.
Just a boy and his dog, at the end of the world most likely. Like she said, imaginary friends. Don’t know their names. Which is sad. And why she’s right, even though she’s annoying, Mouse. You have to name these, or we’ll do it for you.
He looks weightless, I say. Happy. Like nothing could make him stop smiling.
Bear Shirt nodded. It’s companionable, all of us together, sitting and talking, so close I can feel the warmth of Bear Shirt’s leg against mine as they lean in beside me to look at the photograph with a smile that no longer looks sad in the way it did when I first saw it through the tank slit.
And just like that moment, I suddenly feel my heart bump in a way I can’t quite understand.
For some reason I worry that they’ll notice, so I lean over the photograph and take an even closer look at the happy face of the weightless boy.
I wonder what happened to him, I say.