it,” I told the empty dawn aloud, wrapping my arms around my knees. “I know I should have the balls to stick around and deal with everything, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t fucking live with it.”
I’d landed on the beach. Much like a whale or a lost and rusted tank sixty years late for Normandy, I thought, and then I thought this—
The world keeps its tenderest colours
To light up the harshest of dawns.
I didn’t have an envelope to write on this time, not even my marching orders from PW, so I sprang up and dusted the sand off Vivian’s jeans, which were a bit long in the leg for me and tried to trip me up as I started a run down the shore. I reached the tideline, grabbed a driftwood stick and wrote the lines in the damp sand, and then I ran back and forward across them, kicking them to oblivion.
They were still true. The sun had risen in melting shades of rose gold, and the thing about this part of northern Scotland, the thing that brought the tourists here in droves and made some of them dream of staying on, was that the sand on these beaches wasn’t sand at all but a species of bleached-out coral, shattered by the waves and broken down. You could still find whole pieces, branching like little antlers, in the sheltered pools, but for the most part it had turned to sugar-fine grains, and it underlaid the waters close to shore and turned them to Mediterranean turquoise, jewel-like viridian and a purple like the flash of a starling’s wing. And they stayed that way all winter. Of course you found out how Mediterranean they were when you tried to dive in, but they were the answer to a dream, and old man Calder’s land would mushroom with holiday homes. The mushroom homes would sell, and lie empty from the end of September till May.
It didn’t matter. What was the land doing now, other than standing here vacant? I was doing that myself, and it wasn’t much cop. Better to have kids here, barking dogs, a bit of life—even the tennis courts and the go-kart track, I supposed. I still flinched and prickled up my hackles at the sound of footsteps in the sand behind me. The houses weren’t built yet, and with Spindrift closed down, I’d thought the beach would be safe enough for now. Walk on by , I told the wandering tourist, ducking my head, making myself invisible. Walk on. Nothing to see here .
“You forgot your coat.”
Warmth dropped round my shoulders. Not gently—more as if I’d been a coat hanger, and I stumbled at the sudden jostle, got my balance and turned round. “Oh. Right. Er, did you bring my rucksack too?”
Great. I was treating him like the porter of a no-star hotel. That was a nice return for his kindness. I tried to think of something more civil to say to him, but he’d put on a neat black watch cap and a Barbour, and he looked like the god of winter beachwear despite the coveralls underneath. Words failed me.
He looked me over once again, just as he had in the corridor. “No,” he said. “I’d like you to stay.” My throat tightened. Absurd ideas rattled through my mind. Maybe he saw them darting around like tadpoles under ice, because after a moment he clarified, “I really need help with my wiring. You could stay in one of the chalets if you like. They’ll be warm, if you’ll stay and help me. With my wiring.”
He was pretty keen on that wiring. Well, he’d saved my life, fed me and clothed me and come after me with my coat. The least I could do was spend a couple of days tinkering around with whatever useless project he had going here. Now I thought about it, I remembered people saying that the old laird had spoiled him, indulged his every whim with expensive toys. I couldn’t work out why he hadn’t left him the whole toyshop.
“I’m not much of an electrician,” I warned. “Changing plugs is about my limit.”
“You don’t have to be. Just do as I tell you. I just need some help with—”
“With your wiring. Yeah.” He was like a well
I’d landed on the beach. Much like a whale or a lost and rusted tank sixty years late for Normandy, I thought, and then I thought this—
The world keeps its tenderest colours
To light up the harshest of dawns.
I didn’t have an envelope to write on this time, not even my marching orders from PW, so I sprang up and dusted the sand off Vivian’s jeans, which were a bit long in the leg for me and tried to trip me up as I started a run down the shore. I reached the tideline, grabbed a driftwood stick and wrote the lines in the damp sand, and then I ran back and forward across them, kicking them to oblivion.
They were still true. The sun had risen in melting shades of rose gold, and the thing about this part of northern Scotland, the thing that brought the tourists here in droves and made some of them dream of staying on, was that the sand on these beaches wasn’t sand at all but a species of bleached-out coral, shattered by the waves and broken down. You could still find whole pieces, branching like little antlers, in the sheltered pools, but for the most part it had turned to sugar-fine grains, and it underlaid the waters close to shore and turned them to Mediterranean turquoise, jewel-like viridian and a purple like the flash of a starling’s wing. And they stayed that way all winter. Of course you found out how Mediterranean they were when you tried to dive in, but they were the answer to a dream, and old man Calder’s land would mushroom with holiday homes. The mushroom homes would sell, and lie empty from the end of September till May.
It didn’t matter. What was the land doing now, other than standing here vacant? I was doing that myself, and it wasn’t much cop. Better to have kids here, barking dogs, a bit of life—even the tennis courts and the go-kart track, I supposed. I still flinched and prickled up my hackles at the sound of footsteps in the sand behind me. The houses weren’t built yet, and with Spindrift closed down, I’d thought the beach would be safe enough for now. Walk on by , I told the wandering tourist, ducking my head, making myself invisible. Walk on. Nothing to see here .
“You forgot your coat.”
Warmth dropped round my shoulders. Not gently—more as if I’d been a coat hanger, and I stumbled at the sudden jostle, got my balance and turned round. “Oh. Right. Er, did you bring my rucksack too?”
Great. I was treating him like the porter of a no-star hotel. That was a nice return for his kindness. I tried to think of something more civil to say to him, but he’d put on a neat black watch cap and a Barbour, and he looked like the god of winter beachwear despite the coveralls underneath. Words failed me.
He looked me over once again, just as he had in the corridor. “No,” he said. “I’d like you to stay.” My throat tightened. Absurd ideas rattled through my mind. Maybe he saw them darting around like tadpoles under ice, because after a moment he clarified, “I really need help with my wiring. You could stay in one of the chalets if you like. They’ll be warm, if you’ll stay and help me. With my wiring.”
He was pretty keen on that wiring. Well, he’d saved my life, fed me and clothed me and come after me with my coat. The least I could do was spend a couple of days tinkering around with whatever useless project he had going here. Now I thought about it, I remembered people saying that the old laird had spoiled him, indulged his every whim with expensive toys. I couldn’t work out why he hadn’t left him the whole toyshop.
“I’m not much of an electrician,” I warned. “Changing plugs is about my limit.”
“You don’t have to be. Just do as I tell you. I just need some help with—”
“With your wiring. Yeah.” He was like a well
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