walls, Tansy was glad to be climbing to the moor above the Haven, beyond reach of the sea’s white fingers. There was no one to be seen behind the green rail above the beach, but a lad in jeans and a cap was fiddling with a bale of netting nearby.
It was quiet here, an odd reflection of unpeopled Plinth, so near, so far away beyond Longholm. Not quiet in the Plinth way, though. This was a busy quiet, almost a furtive one. Somewhere, in those pretty cottages or up on the unseen inland moor, a tremendous subject was claiming the island’s attention. The Haven was a face in which only the eye-whites showed.
“Tansy, are you coming?” called Hilary. She and Geoff had already strapped themselves in, both anxious to get the journey done at last. What waited for them at the end of it would decide their summer happiness. And that might decide their whole lives together. It didn’t make for relaxation.
Geoff had made most of the running, Tansy knew. She had heard him once on the phone, begging Gloria Quilley not to end it, making promises he’d never keep … Hilary had guessed that much from the letters she’d found. But for all Hilary’s resentment of her husband it was on to Gloria that her hatred and contempt had latched. If that was unfair, the unfairness was the price of their family remaining together. That, and this make-or-break summer on Uncle John’s island. Here, without the props of ordinary life, the routines and camouflages gone, they would see what, if anything, remained. What was strong, what was weak. What was left of love in them.
Halfway up the steep hill out of the Haven, turning a corner, they came upon the white camper van. Slowly as he was driving, Geoff had to brake, then back the car downhill a little before creeping round on to the verge.
“Careful, Geoff, you’re inches from that wall,” warned Hilary, but Geoff was a master of the tight manoeuvre and crept a little closer just to show her. Beyond them, the young man was leaning into his van’s bonnet.
Geoff stopped beside him. “Need a hand?”
The young man did not reply. He seemed not to have heard.
“The hill too much for her, was it?”
“Who?” the man responded this time, looking a little startled. “Oh, the camper? Yes, maybe. Don’t worry, I’ve a good idea where the trouble lies.”
“We’re going up to the Robinson place. Hop in, if you want to phone for a mechanic – we’ll give you a lift.”
The man glanced at their car, in which every spare inch of seat space was taken up by bags and boxes.
“I don’t think there is such a thing on Sweetholm,” he answered tangentially. “A mechanic, I mean. Thanks, but I’ll just roll it down off the road. I’m sure the farmer will give me a tow once he sees I’m blocking his gate. I can walk the rest of the way.”
“You’re not staying near John Robinson’s place by any chance? If so we’ll be neighbours.”
But no, the man was not staying nearby. Geoff prodded him with further questions. Was this his first time on the island? Did he perhaps intend to camp, and where?
“I’ll be with friends,” he replied, with an abruptness he did not bother to disguise.
“You see, Geoff, in places like this even the tourists are sullen,” remarked Hilary as they drove off.
“He wasn’t sullen at all. Remarkably good-humoured, considering. Could have done with a shave, though.”
“His clothes were falling off his back. And men like that travelling alone, well – you never know, do you?” Here she shot a glance at Tansy in the mirror. “You never know what they’re like.”
Tansy felt obliged to say, “He wasn’t alone though, was he?”
“Pardon, Tansy?”
“He wasn’t alone. He had a girl with him, didn’t he? In the back.”
“I didn’t see anyone,” replied her mother, as though that settled the matter.
“She didn’t get out during the crossing,” said Tansy. “But she was there just now. You must have noticed her.”
It had been obvious enough, after all. The floral cushion cover pinned over the van’s window had been lifted, and a small white face had shown there, peering curiously into a light that seemed too painfully bright for it. A beautiful child, of four or five. There was no doubt. But those eyes, so large and dark, had no lids with which to squint the light away, so that this girl could do nothing but stare and stare. A shocking, as well as a beautiful, face. But for all her staring, Tansy did not think the girl had seen them either.
Within two minutes they had reached Uncle John’s smallholding. At first they missed it entirely, hidden as it was by a high stone wall and a hairpin entrance. But Tansy happened to look back and see what was only now visible, a sign with the words Crusoe’s Castle painted in black calligraphic script.
“Oh, Geoff, it’s beautiful!” said Hilary.
It was two storeys of the local limestone, a solid, yeomanly building declining into a sprawl of brick and mortar, a woodshed and a barn.
“Well, this is more like it,” breathed Hilary. “The photos don’t do it justice.”
“And the inside’s a gem,” said Geoff. “Carved panels, hangings, all the rest of it. If anything, John’s gone a bit overboard. Too fancy for round here. If it was up to me—”
“Yes?” prompted Hilary.
“Well, I’d strip it down a bit. Do something cheap and cheerful.”
“Yes, you would,” said Hilary. “Cheap, especially.”
If this shaft was aimed over Tansy’s head, it missed. Gloria Quilley’s Day-Glo taste in clothes had given Hilary a convenient handle for her scorn. Sighing, Tansy followed her parents up to the front door. With luck, the house would be startling enough to make them forget their tedious, half-unspoken row.
The heavy knocker brought no response. Geoff glanced to right and left, lest John might be crouching in the undergrowth. “Halloa!” he called. He stepped back from the door and began peering through the bullet-glass windows.
“Someone’s got green fingers,” said Hilary, admiring the window box. Looking at Tansy, she added, with a sudden breezy cheeriness, “Come on, Tansy, squeeze a smile out of that long face. This is meant to be a holiday.”
Tansy saw that her mother was taking some pleasure in John’s non-appearance and Geoff’s discomfort. Another bad sign. But she smiled back.
“Mr Robinson, is it?” said a voice behind them.
Geoff turned, looking startled. Recovering himself slightly, he guessed at the name of the tall man before him. “Mr Jones?”
“Call me Davy,” said the man, whose vast, tanned hand had already engulfed Geoff’s slim white one and was shaking it with a heartiness that bordered
