The Isle Of Tigra

This captivating short story by Eirin Thompson welcomes you to our sunny Summer Special.

Ollie had never heard of it, yet he was here, looking for the girl of his dreams . . .

OLLIE tried to spread out his denim jacket on the ground with one hand, whilst holding a plastic glass of warm beer with the other and keeping a paper bag of hot doughnuts tucked under his arm.

“Not enough hands,” he said apologetically to the young woman watching him in apparent amusement.

“Let me help you,” she said with a smile, reaching for the glass.

“Thanks.”

The girl was very pretty. She had shiny golden hair which tumbled round her face, and she’d decorated it with little flowers.

Her eyes were sparkling blue and she had dimples when she smiled.

“Going to offer me a doughnut?” she asked.

“Of course!” Ollie replied, finding himself all fingers and thumbs as he tried to open the paper bag.

“Mmm,” the young woman said, closing her eyes. “They smell delicious.”

She reached a hand into the bag.

“On your own?” she asked.

“Yes. My mates have all gone to the States to celebrate the end of exams.”

“But not you.”

No. Not Ollie. The others had wealthy families who’d given them funds to make the trip as a reward for their hard work.

Ollie had worked just as hard at uni, but his mum and dad couldn’t afford to sponsor an expensive extended holiday.

The part-time jobs he’d done had only given him enough to cover rent and food, heat and electricity, plus a modicum of a social life. Saving hadn’t been an option.

“Well, you’ll just have to make some new friends,” the young woman told him. “Starting with me. I’m Isla.” “Ollie.”

“Is this your first festival, Ollie?”

“No, but I’ve worked at festivals before as a steward. I suppose it’s my first time coming along just for fun.”

It was true that Ollie had been involved in a few festivals, both to earn money and to gain experience in large events.

His degree had been in tourism and events management and his tutors had emphasised the need to build a CV of relevant work if the students hoped to walk into jobs.

Isla ate her doughnut thoughtfully, watching Ollie with those sparkling eyes.

“Hey, Isla!” someone called.

She held Ollie’s gaze for a moment before responding.

“What’s up?”

“We’re going to explore before El Bandito come on the main stage. Coming?” “Be right there!”

“Want to join us?” she said to Ollie.

Ollie didn’t especially want to hang out with a group of people he’d never met before, but if he let this girl out of his sight he might not find her again for the whole weekend.

Even though he’d only just met her, he felt he couldn’t bear that.

“OK,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.

****

Seeing the event from a festival-goer’s point of view for the first time was a revelation.

Previously, Ollie had been concerned with issuing wristbands, pointing people in the direction of the awful toilets and escorting the unwell to the St John Ambulance team.

This weekend was entirely different.

In order to keep up with Isla, he attended an outdoor yoga session, a vegan picnic and a beginners’ archery hour.

Then there was the excitement of being in the crowd and singing along with El Bandito and Holst and the Coopers.

For the entire weekend, Ollie could hardly keep his eyes off Isla.

In some ways she was

like a child, he thought, attacking life eagerly, wanting to seize every opportunity.

Like a child, she seemed to be moving all the time, until suddenly she stopped, collapsing contentedly but not defeated.

On the final evening, before it was time for headline act Eddie Dieppe to take to the main stage, Isla suggested she and

Ollie join the families in the small wood, where vintage cartoons were being projected on a white sheet. “I’m tired,” she admitted. “OK,” Ollie said.

There were pieces of cardboard to sit on and, when they did so, Isla leaned against Ollie and put her head on his shoulder.

“This is nice,” she murmured.

Ollie thought so, too. Perhaps now was the time to speak.

“Isla, after the festival I’d like to see you again.”

“Of course you’ll see me again. You didn’t think I was going to hang out with you all weekend and just disappear, did you?”

“So you’ll let me have your number?”

“Sure!” She pulled out her mobile. “Tell me yours, then I’ll ring you and you’ll have mine.”

Ollie felt awkward.

“I’m afraid I’m between phones, he admitted.

His old one had given up the ghost and he was hoping to find a job before forking out for a new one.

“Then I’ll write my number down,” Isla suggested. “Do you have a pen?”

Ollie pulled one from the pocket of his jacket.

Digging around, he found an old receipt and offered it to Isla.

He was hardly able to believe this beautiful girl was giving him her number.

Isla leaned across to kiss him and Ollie felt his heart swell with happiness. Her kiss was not merely that of a friend, he felt sure.

All through Eddie Dieppe’s set, Ollie’s fingers were laced through Isla’s. He was in love.

That night the rain arrived, lashing down on the festival fields, pelting the village of tents.

By two in the morning, a gusting wind had blown up, and Ollie found his accommodation lifting off the ground. It had started to leak, too.

The leaking grew worse as the night wore on.

Ollie couldn’t sleep, but lay miserably in the dark, wishing for daylight, so that he could sort himself out.

When dawn came, he was wet through and shivering with cold.

He packed up his tent and decided to make straight for the shuttle bus which would take him back to the station.

On the way, he pulled out the scrap of paper with Isla’s number – the one thing that brought him some warmth.

When he unfolded it, however, he was aghast. The wetness of his jacket had seeped into the paper and the phone number was completely illegible!

Turning, he ran to the spot where Isla and her friends had been camping. Their tents were all gone.

She had left, and Ollie had no idea how to get in touch with her.

****

“Oliver, it’s time you took a break. I’ve made you a coffee.” It was his mum, carrying a tray out to the patio table.

“It’s great to have you home for a while, and your dad will be so grateful when he sees how much you’ve done in the garden, but don’t overdo it.”

“Don’t fuss, Mum. I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though, are you? It’s ever since you went to the Dandelionfest. You went off happy as

Larry and you came back like this.”

“Like what?” Ollie frowned.

“Down. Did something happen?”

Ollie couldn’t meet his mum’s eye, but he needed to tell someone.

“Actually, yes.” He kept his gaze fixed on the roses climbing up the pergola. “I met someone. But I’ve lost her phone number and I’ve no idea how to find her.”

“Oh. I see. What was her name?”

“Isla.”

“Just Isla?”

“We didn’t exchange surnames,” he admitted.

Ollie expected his mum to say he’d get over her, that it couldn’t be true love after one weekend and that he’d meet someone else. But she didn’t.

“You must know something about her that could help you trace her,” his mum replied.

Ollie looked at his mum. “I know she likes hats and falafel, and she knows all the words to every song of Eddie Dieppe’s.

“I know she wanted to be an astronaut when she was a little girl and she can drive a tractor. But none of that’s going to help me find her phone number.”

“Well, do you know where she’s from? The general area?” she asked.

“She lives on an island.

I’d never heard the name before. The Isle of Tigra.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that!” his mum exclaimed. “I saw something about it on one of those TV shows that tour the British Isles. Why don’t you Google it?”

It was like suggesting he Google the Isle of Man – even the vast knowledge of the internet wasn’t going to hold personal details of every single resident.

Still, if he could call up some images of the island perhaps he’d feel closer to her.

“Maybe I will take a break,” Ollie decided.

****

Ollie’s dad gave him a lift to the station.

“I’ll be gone for no more than a week,” he told his mum as she hugged him beside the ticket office.

“Can you open any post that comes? I might get an interview for one of the jobs I’ve applied for.”

“Text me if you have any news of Isla,” his mum replied.

“Or if you run into any problems. That new phone I gave you for all the gardening isn’t to be kept for special occasions.”

As Ollie boarded the train for the first leg of his journey, he was lit with hope from within.

A Google search had revealed that Tigra only had 160 residents, spread over nine square miles.

The first train took him only part of the way, and he raced from one platform to another to make his connection.

The next train journey was a long one, and he was grateful to find a window seat, where he could watch the miles speed by.

By nightfall, he arrived at his destination for the first day, and a bed in hostel.

He didn’t expect to sleep much, and was amazed to wake next morning from a deep slumber, ready for breakfast and a bus to the ferry.

Ollie had been on ferries before, but not like this one.

He’d gone to France with his mum and dad once, and he recalled the car deck below the passenger decks, packed with cars and coaches.

But this vessel, the Rose Of Sharon, could only take a few cars, with additional standing room on deck for foot passengers.

The boatman took Ollie’s money, but didn’t smile.

Ollie breathed the salty sea air and looked up at the cry of the gulls.

The crossing was smooth and took just 40 minutes.

As Ollie strode ashore, the sun was shining in a clear blue sky.

Looking ahead, he saw palm trees, and almost laughed. What were palm trees doing here?

Climbing up a steep path, he found a map, with

You Are Here written in red.

She was gone, and Ollie had no idea how to get in touch with her

Getting his bearings, Ollie decided to head straight for his accommodation at the log barn to drop off his rucksack and start asking questions.

****

“There are showers in the block over there and a kitchen to the left,” the middle-aged man showing Ollie round said.

“You can buy food provisions in the shop at the post office.”

“Is there any place on the island where young people tend to meet?” Ollie asked.

“Some of them sit at the bar in the hotel,” Donald answered.

“Hotel? What’s it called?” “Just ‘the hotel’. It’s the only one on Tigra.

“If they haven’t the money for hotel prices, they’ll light a fire on the beach and spend the evening there.”

Ollie felt sure the beach was where he’d find Isla.

He’d go to the post office and see what food he could find, come back to the log barn and cook himself a simple meal.

Then he’d lie down for a snooze before making his way down there.

Even though the road network was small, Ollie managed to get lost on his way to the post office and had to double back.

As he opened the door, an old-fashioned bell tinkled.

On the left was a wooden counter, and behind it was Donald!

“Ah, the young man from the log barn,” Donald said warmly.

“Oliver. But everybody calls me Ollie.”

“I bet your mum doesn’t.” Ollie laughed.

“You’re right. But she’s the only one.”

“Well, you’re just in time to get the last of the fresh bread,” Donald said, smiling. “Mrs Ferguson bakes it every morning.

“You can also have some of Julie Dunlop’s organic free-range eggs.”

Donald came out from behind the counter and escorted Ollie to a display of produce.

“These tomatoes come from the top end of the island – Jim McBratney grows them in his greenhouses.

“He also grows the potatoes, lettuces and radishes. The honey is from Miss Mulholland’s bees.”

Ollie gazed in wonder at the fresh foods.

This wasn’t at all like the convenience store he’d used at uni, with shelves packed with instant noodles and cheap biscuits.

“The bacon and ham comes from the mainland, but we know the farmer, so we know it’s good,” Donald concluded.

****

Ollie thought eggs, bacon and tomato had never tasted this delicious.

Mrs Ferguson’s brown bread, spread with butter from a small dairy close to the mainland ferry, was extraordinarily good, too.

Having cleared up the kitchen and put all his dishes and cutlery back where he’d found them, he threw himself down on his bunk, convinced he would rest for a few minutes, then text his parents.

He’d thought, when he landed on Tigra, he’d simply ask the first person he saw if they knew Isla.

Yet, when he’d met Donald, he’d found himself strangely tongue-tied.

He didn’t want Donald, clearly so proud of the place, its beauty and bounty, to think he’d come here chasing some superficial romance.

Ollie would give the matter some more thought.

It was nine o’clock that night before he awoke.

He set off across the courtyard to freshen up, returned to his bunk to collect his fleece, then tried to quell his nerves as he headed for the sands.

What if she’s not here, he wondered as he tried to keep his pace steady.

What if she is here, he wondered next.

As Donald had predicted, a group of a dozen young people were sitting round a camp fire with a couple of guitars and bottles of wine.

As he was wondering how to join the group, Ollie was hailed by a young man.

“Hello, there! All on your own? Come and join us!”

Ollie picked his way over pebbles to the soft sand.

“Hi. I’m Ollie. I just got here today.”

“Welcome to Tigra, Ollie. Do you play?”

Ollie, although pretty good at the guitar in the safety of his bedroom, never played in public.

So no-one was more surprised than he when he nodded, took the proffered little Spanish guitar and competently played the opening of Eddie Dieppe’s “Sunshine, Some Time”.

Immediately, a group of girls, sitting with their arms wrapped around their knees, joined in, singing.

Afterwards, everyone cheered. Ollie was handed a plastic beaker of wine.

“It’s made from Marion’s dandelions,” one of the singing girls said, “but it’s actually really good.”

By standing the bottles in a tin bath of sea water, they’d managed to chill them. Ollie was impressed.

As the evening passed, there were stories, more songs and beakers of wine.

Ollie almost forgot why he had come until after dark, with just the fire for light, he thought he heard someone say “Isla”.

He looked up sharply, but Isla wasn’t there. Someone had definitely mentioned her, though.

“I met Isla at a festival,” he almost whispered, willing someone to hear him, yet afraid of spoiling the mood or learning something he’d rather not.

The whole group seemed to murmur a knowing,

“Ah”.

“So that’s what brought you here,” one of the singing girls said.

“Isla has that effect on people,” the young man with the guitar added.

“She probably doubles our annual tourist influx,” his friend continued,

“which, as you might have noticed, is underwhelming.

“The word is that the island’s going to be cleared if we can’t boost our local economy soon.

“We’re an expensive lot to keep – that’s the way the authorities see us – so why provide roads, communications, energy and all that for a hundred people on a little rock in the middle of the sea?

“If we can’t do something big with tourism, and soon, we’re finished.”

Ollie was horrified. He’d been on Tigra for a matter of hours, but already he could see it was special.

“But you’ve got a little patch of heaven right here,” he argued.

“If you’re not afraid that tourists would spoil the island, then I’d say you’re a marketing manager’s dream!”

“But how do we get said marketing manager to take an interest?” another of the singing girls enquired.

“We don’t have contacts. Where would we even start?”

“Don’t you?” Ollie asked. “Well, I do!”

****

Tigrafest, a celebration of local food and drink, music and crafts, was the centrepiece to Ollie’s masterplan, but out of it he managed to develop an extended season of continuous visitors.

People came because it was small and unspoilt, because it was clean, homely and remote, but not too remote.

They came for the food, sea air, the fishing and the cookery school, birdlife and the seals.

Ollie’s mum and dad came and loved it.

Ollie managed to maximise everything Tigra had to offer.

Only when the ferry could not sail did the Tigrans have the island to themselves.

Isla didn’t come.

Someone said she was in New Zealand, working in a wildlife park.

Someone else heard she was nannying for skiing families in Aspen.

Maybe one day Ollie would see her again. But even though he hadn’t found her, he’d found something. Tigra.

The End.