For Ros and Katy, who were there
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge the help of the following people, from north to south: Anne Sinclair, Fair Isle, and Simon Hall, Orkney, for taking Ben’s part so well; MV Halton (Stromness) and her crew – Bob Anderson, Angus Budge and Mary Harris – for the epic voyages round the Scottish islands; the Sule Skerry Ringing Group, especially Mike Archer, Adrian Blackburn and Dave Budworth, for taking on a complete amateur; Fran Cree and Chris Barrett, Rua Reidh Lighthouse, for providing both setting and frequent retreat; Miriam McDonald at the library of the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland; Ian Begg, for drawing Archie’s map for him; Martin Hendry for the stars and planets; Jonathan Sawday for the sailing directions and David Kinloch for the voices. I also thank Ann Bardens, Mike Brown and Ros Elphinstone, and my editor at Canongate, Karen McCrossan.
I’d like to thank everyone on the Isle of Man who gave me ideas and hospitality, particularly those at the Centre for Manx Studies who so generously let me use their knowledge and research: Peter Davey, Kit Gawne, Jennifer Kewley Draskau, Breesha Maddrell and Philippa Tomlinson; also Roger Sims and the staff of the Manx National Heritage Library. I’m indebted to Eva Wilson, Castletown, for the benefit of her research, and Celia Salisbury Jones, Castletown, for much help and hospitality; Adrian Corkill, for his survey of Manx wrecks; and Alex Maddrell, Port St Mary, for sharing his deep knowledge and seamanship, and Ray Moore, University of York, for the weather data.
I wish to thank the people who generously shared their childhood memories of India: Kumkum Dabriwala, Cleodie Mackinnon, Helen Reid Thomas, Mira Shahani, Uma Shahani and Pete Stuart.
I could not have spent so much time on uninhabited islands without the hospitality of the Isle of May Bird Observatory Trust and the Calf of Man Bird Observatory Trust. I also wish to thank the University of Liverpool for hosting me at the Centre for Manx Studies while I researched this novel. A grant from the Carnegie Trust for the Universities of Scotland helped to finance my research. Finally, I’m indebted to the Bogliasco Foundation, Liguria, for awarding me a fellowship which enabled me to write the book in ideal conditions, which included an excellent view of the sea.
The old people said there was an enchanted island south-west of the Calf of Man, and it was seen once in seven years, when Old May Day was on Sunday. Some one of the name of Onny Vadrill was the last one that saw it; but it is often cloudy in the morning in May, and the people used to be looking for it for many years.
Manx Notes and Queries, ed. C. Roeder, 1904
CHAPTER 1
INSIDE THE LANTERN THERE WAS ONLY LIGHT, AND THE hot rich smell of burning oil. Outside was blank dark. Close to, it was not one light, but twelve. Each lamp had its own reflector, a concave hemisphere lined with a mosaic of mirrors. Flame reflected flame across the curved surfaces until all the lights merged into a single beam directed outward into the surrounding sea. Looking into the light along the beam was like looking at the sun. If she did that she was left seeing only green spots with fiery edges swimming against her eyes, until they gradually faded away into nothing at all.
The trick was never to look into the light directly. She could look through the beam, at the floor, at the oil reservoirs, at the rectangular shapes of the six window frames surrounding her. Here at the top of the tower everything was sharp and bright, and outside this little hot space there was only emptiness.
If only that were true. If only they could have been left in peace, and overlooked, as they had been all these years.
If only it had never happened.
Lucy realised she was blaming herself yet again. But she couldn’t stop wondering, even after five whole years, if she could have done anything to prevent it. Because now … If she’d managed to get down to the rocks that night … If she’d managed to reach Jim – then this other thing wouldn’t be happening now.
On a day like today it was impossible to recapture the power of the wind. She of all people should know about the wind. She’d seen enough of what it could do to the sea. Of course she couldn’t have stood up to it that night. Of course not. But she couldn’t stop herself going over it again. She couldn’t help re-living it over and over, wondering what she might have done differently.
That night she’d battled the wind with all the strength she had. She’d kept on staggering forward – she’d never dreamed of turning back – holding on to the rope. The wind kept knocking her over. Then the lantern had smashed on a rock. What more could she have done, when she couldn’t even see? In the swirling dark she’d struggled on, feeling for familiar ground. The wind had eased. She’d realised she wasn’t heading into it any more. Then she’d seen: down below there was white water where none should be. She’d been pushed too far to the south, almost into Cam Giau. The light never shone down there, so she’d not seen the edge through all the spray.
She’d fought her way back onto the grass, though somehow she’d lost the rope. Now the white water had gone she’d seen nothing at all. She hadn’t been able to hear where the sea was, because the same wild roaring was everywhere. She’d seen the surf again just in time, right below her feet. But it was on the wrong side. Uphill had to be the way back. She’d got up high enough and there’d been grass underfoot. The wind hurled her off her feet. Her head banged on a rock. She’d been soaked already; she hadn’t even noticed the blood. She’d nearly got to the top, as close as she could without being blown off. She kept being thrown down on sharp rocks. The sea was breaking right over the island. Right over the grass. She couldn’t have gone closer. Only she’d had to keep close to the edge to know where she was. The wind had kept flinging her towards the water. Then she’d been crawling uphill, with the waves breaking right over her. The waves had broken right on top of the island. She couldn’t have gone any further. It had been impossible to go any further.
But if only she’d managed it … If she’d only found the strength … If she’d willed herself not to be weak … If she’d not failed him that night – if she’d not failed all of them – then Jim would be alive now.
If Jim were still here, there would never have been the letter.
There was no point blaming herself, five years later. No one else blamed her. Diya had never spoken a word of blame. No one else supposed for one moment that she’d not done all that was possible.
She still thought – it was so hard now, to remember what that night had been like – that she should have tried again. Or gone with Jim in the first place. He’d said no, he could manage. He’d told her to stay in the house. That didn’t mean she couldn’t have thought for herself. She wasn’t bound to do what Jim said. She knew what had to be done just as well as he did. She should have known.
But it was so hard to remember what it had been like. Not being able to stand against the wind. Not being able to see. Not being able to think.
Lucy put down the oil can, and unlatched the south window. She threw her shawl over her shoulders and sat, so that her silhouette didn’t get in the way of the light, on the step of the metal platform that ringed the lantern. Now she could see out. She might feel she was suspended in a solitary bubble in the midst of chaos, but actually she was here, in this tower, in the middle of the world.
The light beamed out behind her. It
