Ruby
The plane’s interior is cramped, with single seats down my side of the cabin and narrow pairs across the aisle.
I look out of the window, but there’s still nothing to see beyond the whirling propeller blades other than the expanse of wave-flecked water below us.
Apart from a glimpse of the Orkney Islands in the distance, there’s been no sign of land for some time.
Shetland is a long, long way from the northernmost tip of the British mainland.
I check my watch, then pull down the window blind and lean my head against the plastic, closing my eyes, my mind drifting back to the day a fortnight ago that set me off on this journey…
The air in the apartment, situated on one of the best streets in Edinburgh’s elegant New Town, had been a little stuffy.
A tall bay window looked out onto leafy gardens, but the sashes must have been painted over many times, layers of white gloss sealing them shut.
I glanced around, taking in the expanse of bookshelves, the heavy velvet drapes, and the alcove with its careful display of blue and white porcelain.
I crossed and uncrossed my legs, ill at ease on the chintz sofa where Dr. Williamson (“Please do call me Robert”) had indicated I should sit, tugging surreptitiously on the tailored jacket I’d selected for my interview, attempting to smooth out the creases.
I’d pulled it from its hanger at the last minute, realizing too late that it was sorely in need of a press, having been squashed into the recesses of the wardrobe for months.
I’d spotted the ad in the classified section of The Scotsman: “Companion sought for an elderly lady in Shetland. Non-smoker. Clean driving license essential. Accommodation provided.” I didn’t really feel I could tell him that the last two words had been the real attraction, so instead I said that I liked a challenge and relished the prospect of exploring somewhere new.
“I know island life can be a bit isolated, but I no longer wish to live in the city. I feel I need more space and freedom, and I’m ready for a change. ”
He was only half listening, scanning the CV I’d sent with my application. “I see you grew up on the west coast. Have you any experience of working on a croft? Looking after sheep and whatnot?”
“My parents had a farm there. They’re older now, so they’ve slimmed things down a bit, but I grew up helping them feed the animals, lending a hand at lambing time and so on. Also, Dad had a boat and a few creels. We all mucked in.”
He nodded approvingly. “So you’re used to the sea. And I presume you can swim?”
It seemed an odd question, although island life obviously involves being comfortable surrounded by water. “Yes, I love swimming. And I’m happy to turn my hand to anything that’s needed. I was used to doing that on the farm, and it’s still in my blood.”
I’d hesitated slightly over that glib, deceptively simple phrase, tripped suddenly by the image of my sister lying in her hospital bed in those final days when I didn’t leave her side, a plastic bag suspended from a metal stand above her, dark red ooze inching its way down a plastic tube.
For a moment, the crashing waves of grief threatened to overwhelm me again, and I swallowed, struggling to maintain my composure. Losing her is still raw.
But then I’d forced myself to concentrate on the interview and carried on, as naturally as I could.
“Painting is more my thing. I came to Edinburgh to study at the art school and stayed on. But, as I say, I’m ready for a change now.
I’d relish a move to the north, a change of scene and some new inspiration. ”
He’d accepted my response at face value and moved on to other questions on his list.
At last, he’d drawn the interview to an end. “Well, Ruby, thank you for your time. Any questions about the role?”
He’d already explained that the job would mostly involve providing company for his elderly mother, helping on her croft as needed, and keeping an eye on things.
He mentioned that she was fiercely independent and had turned down the offer of a nice room in sheltered housing in the city, clearly his preferred option.
“She’s still driving a little, too,” he’d said, “although I worry she’s becoming a bit of a liability on the roads.
The successful applicant will have the use of her car, if only to minimize how often she gets behind the wheel.
” Something in the tone of his voice made me think he was a little exasperated with her.
I shook my head. “Not really. It sounds pretty straightforward. I’m a keen learner. And I’d say I’m quite a practical person.” As if it were an afterthought, I added, “Could you tell me a little bit more about the accommodation, perhaps?”
“Of course. You’ll have your own small cottage, a converted byre across from my mother’s house.
It’s tiny, no more than a couple of rooms, but we’ll cover the bills as part of your package.
I’m sorry we can’t offer more in the way of a salary, but I believe the accommodation makes it an attractive proposition for the right person. ”
The thought of having my own little house, somewhere new and unknown, miles away from the reminders that lurked in every corner of the Edinburgh flat that my sister, Lucy, and I had shared, filled me with longing.
I’d pictured Shetland in my mind’s eye, a place where the sky and the sea would form a blank canvas.
That’s what I find myself craving now: a blank canvas, empty of other people’s pain. A place where my face doesn’t remind people constantly of their anguish. A place where there’s nothing but wildness and emptiness, and perhaps enough space for my grief.
I’m running away, of course, avoiding the tough decisions I know I’ll soon have to make—decisions that will shape the rest of my life.
I long to fill my days with hard, physical work so that there’s no time to think about them, no room in my head for the sadness and loss, anger and hopelessness that threaten to drown me sometimes.
I’d summoned a smile and looked him squarely in the eye. “Well, I believe I’m the right person. I hope you think so, too.”
He looked at me appraisingly, then glanced at the piece of paper in his hand. “And you’d be able to start…?”
“As soon as you like. Or, rather, as soon as your mother would like.”
He smiled wryly at the mention of his mother, and again I could sense his frustration.
He’d seemed about to say something, but instead he stood and extended a hand.
“Thank you for your time, Ruby. I’ll be in touch once I’ve had a chance to discuss the applications we’ve received with my sister.
She was sorry not to be here today, but we’re both doctors, and her work is very demanding. ”
Then he’d ushered me into the hall, and I’d made my way down the tiled stairs, the longing for an island on the edge of a wild ocean filling the empty shell of my heart as I stepped back out into the street.
*
The plane banks slightly, bringing me back to the here and now, and then it begins to lose altitude, making my ears pop.
I open my eyes and yawn, pushing up the blind, blinking in the dazzle of sunlight.
A headland, like the prow of a ship, rises abruptly from the waves below.
Its white cliffs are topped with grass so green, it looks almost fake.
The rest of the Shetland archipelago, sculpted by the wind and the tides, stretches away beyond them.
From above, this land looks uncompromising and stark, standing defiantly between the North Sea to the east and the Atlantic to the west.
There’s scarcely time to take this in before we’re coming into land at Sumburgh, the plane swooping down onto the single runway, which appears at one point to cross a road where cars wait behind white barriers with flashing lights.
We taxi between helicopters—a reminder that this tiny airport handles thousands of passengers each year, mostly servicing the North Sea oil rigs that lie out of sight to the east—then pull up in front of the terminal building, where the propellers slow to a stop.
I’m expecting to be met by Mrs. Williamson, my new “companion,” so as I stand in the arrivals area of the stark, hangar-like building, having pulled my suitcase from the single luggage belt, I look for an elderly white-haired lady.
But nobody hails me as I stand to one side, letting my fellow passengers pass as they hurry to hug relatives or head for their parked cars.
At last, the building falls silent. The man behind the desk at the car-hire booth pulls down a metal shutter with a very final-sounding clatter.
I make my way outside, feeling self-conscious in my aloneness even though no one is around to witness it.
I check my phone, but there’s no message.
I’m just starting to wonder whether I should try to find a bus timetable or accost someone in the car park and ask for a lift to Lerwick, when a Land Rover draws up.
It’s an old model, like the one my parents had on the farm.
With a bit of effort, the driver slides the window open.
It’s not Mrs. Williamson, but a young man with dark hair and a broad smile.
“Ruby Reid, I presume? I’m Jamie Fraser. I’ve come to fetch you back to Igdrasil. Hanna couldn’t come—a problem with one of her ewes.” He has just a trace of the accent of this place, a lilt as rolling as the landscape around us.
My new address is a strange one. I’d looked up the word and found it was the British spelling of a sacred tree in Norse mythology.
Unlike elsewhere in Scotland, there’s no Gaelic spoken in Shetland.
Instead, its roots come from Old Norse, a language spoken here until a few centuries ago.
I thought it ironic, though, that a Shetland farm should be named after a tree when apparently very few grow on these islands.