The phone call from my father woke me from a deep sleep. It was past midnight and my first thought was that my mother was dead. She’d been ill for a while.
‘Willow, you need to come.’ A pause. ‘Please.’ He’d lived in North Uist for thirty years, but hadn’t lost the posh voice. He’d never asked for my help
before.
‘Is it Lottie?’ We Balranald kids had been taught to call our parents by their first names. One of the many things that set us apart.
‘No, not Lottie.’ Another hesitation. ‘Just come. Get the first plane to Benbecula. I’ll meet you there.’
Peter was waiting in the airport building, thin as a scarecrow with long, grey hair. Looking at his face, I saw how similar we were. In thirty years I’d have the same bony face, and my
hair was already as dry as hay. We drove across the causeway to North Uist. The week before had been unseasonably stormy, but now it was sunny, so the landscape looked drenched in melted butter.
Light reflected from the water that’s everywhere in the islands, and from the iris beds and the flat machair, yellow with rattle, bird’s-foot trefoil and little wild pansies. I waited
for my father to speak. He’d dragged me here; let him make the first move. The van bounced across a cattle grid and towards the house where I’d spent my childhood.
