Short stories
Two fantastic reads to entertain you
On the ferry crossing from Fionnphort, our daughter Emily copies the map out from the brochure, in blue and orange felt-tip.The lines are so exact, she could have traced it. Look, she’s drawn all the details, the church, the abbey, the post office.
You stare at the shapes she’s made, the outlines of Loch Staonaig and Port Ban.At Columba’s Bay she’s put blue peaked lines to show the waves of the sea. It looks nice.A good place to rest.
Emily’s fingers flutter on the tabletop. She wants to know something.
“Mark the spot, Daddy, please. Put the X.” She’s been watching Treasure Island.
You take the pen, sticky from her hand.The tip is drying out and you have to go back and forth on the page to make the marks.
“There.”You turn the paper and pass it back to her. She aligns its corners with the edges of the table. It’s her way of trying to understand.
“X marks the spot,” she says.
If only she’d look at you. The ferry docks at Martyr’s Cove, and you lift me on to your back as we disembark.You wave at Emily to go in front and we follow close behind.At the ladder to dry land our daughter catches a sandal on the gangway.You reach out to steady her, but pull back at the last moment. I understand.We learned the hard way not to grab.
“Hold the rail, Emily,” you shout, and she clambers up by herself.At the top she makes you wait while she marks the map, in black felt-tip, to show our arrival.
You lead her up to the post office where tourists can hire bikes and the mail comes in twice a week. How little this island changes. Even the pictures in the window seem the same. I wonder if you’re thinking of the time you and I cycled here, all those summers ago. It was a happy time, wasn’t it? I still think so, despite all that’s happened.
You should make sure Emily wears a helmet. She’ll make a fuss, but you can’t be too careful, even on quiet roads. I should know.
The three of us set off towards the Bay. I can smell the sea and the roadside verge is full of wild flowers. A glorious day, with the wind blowing from the south and clouds sifting the sun in dapples. I’m glad you chose this place.As a child, you know, I came here every summer, and the island is as beautiful as I remember. But you don’t seem to notice any of it, and Emily – well, who knows.
I think she’s grown since I saw her last. She’s all elbows and knees. Or is she thinner, is that it?
As we pass above Otter’s Cave she sticks her arm out and wobbles to a halt at the side of the road. She pulls her map and the black felt-tip from her pocket, and prints little dashes along the coastline to chart our progress.The lines get fainter and fainter under the sun until the ink’s dried out altogether. Her mouth goes wide and she twists from side to side. She’s trying to reach behind her, into her bag, as the bike kilters and slides between her knees.
You draw up alongside, your arm bumping hers.
“Let me do it,” you say, “Emily, let me.”
She grips her handlebars and breathes hard through her nose while you rummage through her rucksack for the pack of felt-tips.
“It’s alright,” you tell her,“there’s a brown one. Brown is OK, too.”
I’m sorry. She’s making this so difficult.
At the headland to Columba’s Bay the seagulls
are wheeling on the breeze, like kites. Emily checks her map, and we leave the bikes in the long beach grass and follow the sandy path down to the shore.You look relieved to find the beach deserted. I agree it would be awkward to have strangers here.
I’m glad too that it’s you who brought me.We were angry with each other for such a long time. Divorce brings out the worst in people; we both said terrible things back then. I suppose none of that matters now. I just wish I’d let you visit more. She would have got to know you and it would have made all this easier.
You spread out a cagoule on the sand for Emily and sit down beside her.You place me next to you, in the box you’ve carried me in. It’s quiet, just the shushing of the waves and the cries of the gulls. Folk here say that on a clear day, you can see all the way to Ireland.
Emily rocks herself back and forth, her T-shirt riding up at the back each time. It’s so hard to relate to her, it always was, even after we learnt about her condition: a kind of developmental delay. Too hard for you it turned out, it broke us apart in the end. It’s OK, I’m not angry any more, only you have to look after her now.
You have to find a way through.
“This beach is full of cowries,” you tell her. Emily’s busy with her map, joining the dashes up all the way to the X.You dig in the sand and come up with a tiny pink shell in your fingertips. “See?” you say.“They’re everywhere.”
Her fingers are stiff on the pen. She doesn’t answer.
“Isn’t it pretty?”You hold the shell out to her in your sandy palm.
“Yes,” Emily says, though she’s not looking.“How many?”
“On the beach? Lots.” “How many is lots?” “Thousands, maybe.” “But a number exactly.Tell me exactly.”
Her mouth is open and hanging down, the closest Emily comes to crying.
“I can’t, Emily.You can’t count them like that.”
“You don’t know! You don’t know!” Her voice is high-pitched, frightened.
You pinch the bridge of your nose.“No, Emily. I don’t know.”
You lift me up and carry me to the edge of the sea. There’s a line of seaweed and shells just here, the tide must be almost in.You stoop to remove your shoes and roll up your trouser legs. The water must be freezing, it always was even in the summer. Perhaps the cold helps you, though.You’ve seemed so numb since the accident.You know, it wasn’t so bad.The truck came so fast I didn’t have time to be afraid. It’s only now that I worry, for you and Emily.
You open the casket and look over your shoulder at the little girl, our girl, back there on the beach, bent over her map. I know, I know.This isn’t how you wanted it, her sitting there scrawling with that brown felt-tip.We can both see she’s grieving, but I don’t know either how to bring her closer. Look at her, she’s trying to calculate the cowries – area of beach by shells per square metre. Numbers and patterns, that’s all she can grasp. I don’t think she understands any of this.
Maybe we should just get it over with. Other people will be turning up soon, tourists from the lunchtime ferry.You were never one for romantic gestures, and it’s been a long trip for Emily, she’s tired.
Just reach in and throw them. It’s OK, listen, we’ve done our best.The two of you will muddle through somehow; we’ve never been much good at happy families anyway.
That’s right, take a good handful.
So you do, you take that fistful of ash and fling it into the air, a great thick cloud above the waves. For a moment the ashes hang in the air and I see it all now, from above. I see the whole island spread out beneath me, and you and Emily, and the wide sea all around.
It feels like I might hang here forever.
But the wind is in the south, and it breaks up the billowing cinder cloud and hurls it backwards towards the beach, where Emily sits and looks up, too late, and the scattered arc of bone and dust comes whipping down across her.
She screams.
I see you stumble from the waves and stagger towards her, letting fall the empty casket. She’s covered in grey dust, my god even her teeth are black with it. You pull her up, ignoring her wails, gripping her tight by the elbows.Your arms reach over and around her, gathering her to you as you brush the ashes from her clothes, pat them from her hair, sweep them from her skin.Your wide hands cup her face, encircling her, and your thumbs wipe clean her watering eyes that meet your gaze for the first time. She lets go the map and the pen and all her multiplications.You drop to your knees and you hold her.
You hold her.
I am at rest.
I wonder if you’re thinking of the time we cycled here, all those summers ago