Page 3 of One Night on the Island

God, that was a bit gross, even for me; I’m grouchy in the way only being fearful for your life can make you. And also because he’s wearing a parka that looks as if a million geese died to insulate him, the hood bigger than the tent me and Rubes took to Glastonbury a few summers ago. I can barely see through the blowing salt-sting. At least my feet are dry, which is more than I can say for the rest of me. I shake with terror every time we bounce off the crest of a wave. I did not sign up to drown with a Stay-Puft American in the middle of the Atlantic.

I don’t actually fall to my knees and kiss the sand as I clamber off the boat and wade the last few feet on to Salvation Island, but I feel like I should.

‘You know where you’re headed?’ The skipper peers at me through a long tangle of grey hair. ‘Only I need to make it back to the mainland before dark.’

Of course, I have absolutely no clue where I’m headed, but in that same way that you don’t tell the hairdresser you hate the fringe they’ve just hacked into your hair, I nod and say I’m fine. He lingers for a moment, watching me.

‘Only one way to go anyhow, really.’

He nods to the right, into the quickly gathering gloom. I can just about make out the figure of the other passenger from the boat, already striking out into the mists in his massive red coat. No dallying around for him – probably a local who knows the place like the back of his hand.

‘Follow your nose, you’ll come to Brianne’s shop soon enough.’

And just like that, he leaves me, raising his hand in a parting gesture as he jogs back down the rocky beach towards his boat.

And now I’m here, alone, at what feels like the end of the world. All I can see is a deserted beach in front of me and boggy fields sloping up and away into the mist-hung distance behind me. I’m not as scared as I probably should be, but perhaps that’s because my life was in actual, genuine peril ten minutes ago. I breathe in a deep lungful of cold, grey Irish air and find myself quite excited.

I’ve had a creeping feeling over recent months, a nagging sense that it might be time for something new. I was twenty-six when I signed up to share the search for my flamingo with the nation, and back then it was a lark, a brilliant way to earn money. I had arrived in London a couple of years before, champagne dreams and lemonade pockets, fresh off the train from northern suburbia, and somehow, someway, I managed to dig my claws in deep enough to not have to buy a return ticket back home again. I flung myself at every available opportunity and shoved my foot in any open doorway, buoyed by youth and an unshakable certainty that I was hurtling in the right direction. And, little by little, sofa by bedsit, crummy job by slightly less crummy job, I finally hurtled into the laser eyeline of Alison Stone. A woman who looked at me and saw ambition and grit where others, my family included, saw naivety and recklessness. In truth, she probably needed a dating columnist and I flew through her door at the opportune moment, but it didn’t matter because I’d found a nest and I made sure to feather it well enough for no passing magpie to oust me. For the next few years, Cleo Wilder became a woman in search of her flamingo, and I’ve had some truly brilliant times; I’ve met people who’ve become close friends, been to places I’d never have otherwise discovered, and I’ve laughed until tears have rolled down my face. I’ve cried sometimes too, of course, because occasionally someone has appeared flamingo-like for a while but turned out to be nothing more than a passing pigeon. If I had to pin a word on my feelings about my life at this very moment, though, I’d choose exhausted. I’m tired down to my internal organs, and there is a bed somewhere on this island with my name on it.

My most pressing priority right now is to find Brianne’s shop, which Ali’s print-out reliably informs me is just inland, collect the keys and head to my temporary new home. Otter Lodge. It sounds like the kind of place that might have nice pillows, so I put one determined foot in front of the other and set off in search of civilization.

Civilization turns out to be closed. The sign on the door of the small, white shiplap island shop tells me that it opens for a couple of hours every day. But thankfully there is also an envelope tacked to the door with ‘Keys to Otter’ written across it in blue marker pen. Okay. Wow. If I tried that in London, someone else would move in and start a marijuana farm within the hour. Pulling the envelope down from the door, I turn it over and see that someone has scrawled a message on the back.

Hello! Sorry I missed you, here’s the front-door key to Otter Lodge, you’ll find the back-door key under the snail. Follow this road until it runs out, go up over the hill and you’ll be able to see the roof down by the beach. It’s a bit of a scramble. I’ve put a few things in the fridge to start you off, sure I’ll see you around soon enough. Brianne x

I shake the contents of the envelope out on to my palm – a silver key on a yellow plastic sunshine key ring. There’s optimism for you. From what I’ve read, the sun is a fairly infrequent visitor around here, but the guide said that when it does pay a visit, this and the neighbouring islands transform into blue and green jewels strung out across the ocean like beads from a broken necklace. No chance of any sunshine for the foreseeable though; I checked the forecast this morning and it’s grey, cold and windy for as far ahead as they can reliably predict. That’s okay. I haven’t come to Salvation for a suntan.

Brianne failed to mention it was a very, very long road. Or maybe it wasn’t, but dragging an unwieldy suitcase in lead-heavy damp jeans and high winds made it seem so, and the less said about my ascent up the hill (aka mountain) the better. Brianne was massively under-exaggerating when she said it was a ‘bit of a scramble’. But none of that matters now because I’m standing at the crest looking down, and even on this gloomy mid-afternoon it’s pure, top-of-the-world magic. Rolling, rock-strewn green slopes stretch out towards the horizon criss-crossed with low, uneven stone walls, the occasional abandoned bothy on distant hillsides in one direction, the downward slide of the land towards a sand-fringed cove on the other. And there it is, Otter Lodge, a small shingle-roofed building nestling in between the rocks, a deep wooden porch wrapped around it, the kind you see on American movies. If there isn’t a chair on it, I’m dragging one out.

In the course of my work I’ve described many things as breathtaking over the years, but this place genuinely snatches the air from my lungs. I settle my bum on a conveniently placed boulder, trying to get my breath back and take it all in. It’s spectacular. My eyes are assaulted by the majestic, solitary beauty. I feel engulfed, as if I’ve just walked into the open arms of Salvation Island. I listen to the harsh sound of my own unsteady breathing as the wind circles tight around me, and then a strange, unexpected thing happens. I start to cry.

Mack

2 October

Salvation Island

YOU THINK I’M YOUR BELLHOP?

The key isn’t here. Three flights, two boats and three thousand miles, and at the final hurdle I’m crawling around on my hands and knees in the dirt looking for a damn door key. I’m sure Barney said it was here. ‘Under a rock by the door’ were his exact words. I straighten, taking the worn, wide wooden steps up on to the deep wrap-around porch to rattle the door handle. It’s locked. Just like it was when I tried it two minutes ago. I sigh and lean on the porch railing, looking out across the bay as I weigh my options. I could break in. I’m entitled to be here, and the repair cost for one of the small panes of glass in the door wouldn’t be huge, more inconvenient than anything – but the population of Salvation Island hovers somewhere around a hundred and I seriously doubt there’s a window guy among them. I shelve the idea in favour of a look around the building. Maybe one of the windows will be unlocked. If not, well, it’s probably too late to go off in search of civilization, I can’t guarantee making it back before dark.

Not for the first time today, I’m glad I let the sales guy back home talk me into this stupid jacket – if it comes to it, I can hunker down on the lodge’s porch. I’ve slept in worse places; a few years back, a spell on the streets of New York City doing a project on homelessness made me frighteningly aware of the luxury of a roof and four walls. I produced some of my best work during those bone-cold nights, but heavy rocks lodge in my stomach every time I look at the images of those gaunt, hungry faces. I learned how fine the line can be between success and failure, how a few wrong turns of the wheel can spiral into a bed in a shop doorway, all of your possessions in a single plastic bag. I’ve heard that a couple of the people I met have since passed on, and I know for a fact that every last one of them would switch places with me right now, missing keys or not. The wheel of fortune has spun and dropped me here on the porch of Otter Lodge, and I need to make the best of it.

I make my way around to the side, taking a moment to admire the bravery of whoever decided to build this little outpost in the middle of nowhere. The building has been hewn from austere grey stone, probably gathered from its surroundings, nothing like the log cabin we rented on Lake Michigan a couple of years ago. The boys run through my head: Nate’s skinny legs in his faded red cargo shorts, Leo taller by a head and quieter by a mile. Joyful as they clambered from the car to pelt full speed towards the lake, shafts of sunlight illuminating their blond heads. Freewheeling with them down shaded forest trails, Susie calling after us to slow down. And now I’m here alone, closing the door on those memories.

Concentrate on the now. Find a way in.

The heavy clouds overhead have just burst their seams, sharp rain in the wind. I hurry from window to window, but they’re all securely closed, unresponsive to my rattles. I sigh, the beginnings of a plan already formulating in my head. My backpack for a pillow, the corner of the porch out front will give the most shelter from the elements. The back door is locked too. Wait, there’s a back door. And there it is – a glint of silver beneath a stone snail just to the left of the door. I kick it aside and almost laugh out loud with relief. I was looking by the wrong door, that was all. All thoughts of roughing it slide from my shoulders as I slip the key into the lock and feel a satisfying click as it turns. I’m in.

I don’t know what I expected; I haven’t looked at any photos online and Barney didn’t send through any specifics. For me, Otter Lodge is a place to eat, sleep and work. Somewhere to get my head together. But as I swing the door wide and step inside, I find myself pleasantly surprised. It’s one of those all-in-one-room-type places – kitchenette in one corner, a deep sofa in front of an open slate fireplace taking up most of the space. There’s an old brass bed frame at the back, the fur throws and plaid blankets lending it a homey touch.

I shuck out of my wet jacket and duck through the only interior door to find a small but decent bathroom – no shower, but a deep copper tub with my name on it. First, though, something to eat. Susie always liked to say I’m a man who needs a plan in order to function. There’s probably some truth behind her wry assessment of my character, and my plan right now is food, bath, early bed. Maybe a beer in there somewhere, I think, rolling my aching shoulders as I head out of the bathroom. The back door swings on its hinges, reminding me to grab my stuff from the porch and batten down the hatches for the stormy night ahead.

There’s a loud scream and I stand still, rendered momentarily stupid by surprise. There’s a woman in my lodge.

‘Sorry, you made me jump,’ the woman says, her hand over her heart. Then, when I don’t manage to form any words, ‘Umm … hi.’

‘Where did you come from?’ Because I’ve seen this woman before.

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