The stonemason, Andrew Fulton, was stacking slates in his warehouse. I tapped lightly on the door and he looked up. He scratched his wispy grey hair, then walked towards us, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Ah, Constance,’ he said.
‘It’s Dorothy. Con’s there.’
‘Of course it is,’ he said, his gaze flicking back and forth between me and Con. ‘And how can I help you, Dorothy?’
‘We need slate for the roof. And help laying it, I think. The bothy beams are crumbling.’
He scratched his head again. ‘Aye, well, that bothy’s in a poor state altogether. But I’m afraid this slate is all spoken for. It’s going south, you see.’
‘Along with everything else,’ Con muttered darkly.
‘True enough,’ Andrew said. ‘But we’ve to do our bit for the war. Even those of us too decrepit to fight.’ He laughed. When we didn’t join in, he let the noise trail off. ‘Now look, girls –’
‘We’re twenty-three,’ said Con.
‘Of course. Ladies. Selkie Holm isn’t the best place for you – for anyone. It’s a bad-luck island. Would it not be better for you to come back across to Kirkwall to live in your old house? It’s what your father would have wanted, I’m sure – two young women living alone in that place, it’s not right. And it seems a shame for your old Kirkwall house to be sitting there, locked up and empty –’
‘No,’ we said, in unison, as if we’d planned it.
His eyes darted between us, and then he used the rag to wipe his forehead, smearing slate dust across his brow.
‘I see, I see,’ he said. ‘Well, just you take care of yourselves, then. War isn’t the time to hold grudges.’
I could see Con was about to snap something at him, so I pulled on her hand, dragging her further into town.
It was the same when we went to buy rope, and when we enquired about new wooden beams: nothing was for sale; everything was being sent south. Wouldn’t we be much better off coming back to Kirkwall, rather than living alone and putting ourselves at risk? Shouldn’t we let the past lie and leave that dreadful island?
Night was falling when we rowed back to Selkie Holm, in silence, Con slashing the water with her oars. She’s always thrown herself into arguments – it’s as if, at birth, we were given enough anger for one and Con took all of it. At least, I used to think it was anger, or bravery. But of late I’ve realized that Con was never brave: she simply chose not to show her fear to others. What a gleaming thing the world seemed for her, pretending to have no fear.
Lately, she seems frightened of everything.
The temperature was dropping as we dragged the boat off the beach and turned to walk up to the broken-down bothy. We’d covered its single window with an old sail, but the wind still winnowed in through the gaps and funnelled out of the gaping hole in the roof.
Con tried to slam the door, but I caught it before it banged off the wall and loosened the hinges further.
‘I’m not going back,’ she said, throwing herself face down on the double bed, which we’d shoved into the corner that didn’t get wet in the storms.
‘All right.’ I tipped water from the jug into the single pan and set it on the stove to boil. The gas wouldn’t last long, with rationing pulling all our belts tighter, but I’d worry about that another day. At this moment, we both needed tea.
‘I’m not.’ Her voice was muffled.
‘All right,’ I said again.
‘Don’t try to placate me.’
‘All right.’ I grinned, then ducked as she flung the pillow at me. I threw it back and laughed when it hit her squarely on the head. Her face crumpled and her blue eyes filled with tears.
I swore and put my arms around her. Her body was stiff against mine.
‘Don’t make me go back,’ she said, into my neck.
I reached under the bed and pulled out the bottle of brandy.
She shook her head. ‘We’re saving that. For when we’ve got something to celebrate.’
I uncorked it and took a swig. ‘We’re celebrating staying.’
She fell asleep quickly, her face set in a frown, and now I am awake and alone, remembering Andrew Fulton’s words. The way his laughter had choked in his throat. There’s a hum of fear across all the islands – especially for us here on Selkie Holm, with all the rumours of bad luck and curses. But Con won’t go back. So I listen for engines; I scan the broken patch of sky through the hole in the roof, searching for the light or movement that might be a plane. I hold my breath, waiting. Nothing. Silence, except for Con’s sleeping breath.
A thud and a roar, the noise like a punch. Both of us bolt upright with a gasp.
What is it? What was that? Are you hurt?
The bothy is still standing, neither of us is injured but that noise can only have been one thing.
A bomb. The Germans. We tug on sweaters and boots, and step out into the night, blinking.
A ship in the bay is on fire.
Across the bay, lights appear on the hill one by one, along with the sound of whistles and a high-pitched alarm signalling for people to find safety. In Kirkwall, there is an old air-raid shelter from the last war, but its walls are crumbling – for years it’s been clambered over by children playing war games. Con turns to look back at our crumbling bothy, its broken walls, its missing roof. There is nowhere for us to hide. I scan the sky for a plane, but can see nothing, can hear no
