Page 16 of One Night on the Island

I savour her use of the old name; it reminds me of my grandmother’s stories.

‘Oh, it’s okay if you’d prefer not to say,’ she says when I don’t reply straight away. ‘It’s just that few folk choose to come to a place like this without a story. We’ve had flashy, exhausted city types, the occasional novelist trying to blow writer’s block away. Sarah, the doctor’s receptionist up in the village, came to get away from her revolting husband about twenty years ago and never bothered going home. Staying long?’

There isn’t a particularly straightforward answer to her question.

‘That’s up in the air,’ I say. ‘Planning to. A couple of months or so, maybe even until the holidays.’

She stands back and crosses her arms over her chest, assessing me. ‘Intrepid reporter hoping to land the scoop of your life?’

I think she’s having a little fun at my expense. I shake my head, even though there will hopefully be an element of interviewing and documenting to go along with the photography project, as long as I can get the islanders to trust me enough to talk to me, that is.

‘You’re not one of those explorer types, are you, set on walking all of the isles? We’ve had a few of those over the years.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘This is the only island I’m interested in.’

Ailsa narrows her eyes for a few seconds, then shrugs. ‘Okay, Doyle, you win. What brings you out here?’

I offer a few details, aware that by telling one of the islanders, I’m telling all of them. ‘He’s a photographer,’ she’ll say, next time she’s in the store. ‘Here to capture the home of his ancestors, the people and the flora and fauna, he said,’ raising her eyebrows as she nurses a dram in the tiny island pub. ‘A slice of history, his and ours, for an exhibition in Boston next summer,’ she’ll tell a neighbour while walking her dog on the beach.

‘You should come to the pub. It’s open most evenings, weather permitting,’ she says, looking out at the clouds on the horizon. ‘A good place to get to know some of the locals.’

‘I’ll definitely do that,’ I say. I’d been loosely planning to anyway – much easier to get people talking over a whiskey than a gravestone.

‘And the girl? What’s she doing on an island like this?’

‘Cleo?’ I say. ‘God knows. Sleeping in my lodge, wallowing in my bath and …’

‘Eating all your porridge?’ Ailsa suggests, smiling.

I smile back, aware how ridiculous it sounds. ‘I honestly don’t have any idea what she’s doing here. I just hope she’ll get on that boat on Friday.’

Ailsa’s eyebrows slide up into her blue bangs. ‘Way I heard it, she’s fair set on staying for the duration too.’

Wow, they really do keep each other up to date in this place.

I’m ready to stop talking about Cleo because the uncertainty around her is driving me a little crazy. ‘I better hit the trail,’ I say, glancing at the flowers in Ailsa’s hand. ‘Leave you in peace.’

‘That’s one thing that’s never in short supply around these parts,’ she says, her smile easy.

I nod a goodbye as I head back.

Cleo

5 October

Salvation Island

WHAT IF HE DOESN’T GET ON THE BOAT?

‘Cleo, is that you?’

I know it sounds dramatic, but I could cry at the familiarity of Ali’s voice.

‘Yes,’ I say loudly over the wind. ‘Listen, this will probably cut out because I’m sitting on the top of a hill and the reception is shite, but I’ve got a real problem here.’

I managed to text her last night to give her a sketchy outline of the issue and probably the impression that it would be resolved within a day or so, but now I give her the full low-down; she needs to know that my whole project here is potentially compromised. She’s commissioned me to come to Salvation to document my self-coupling experience, which is pretty damn difficult to do when you’re not actually on your own.

‘And now he won’t leave,’ I half shout. ‘He just won’t, so I think I’m going to have to.’

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