Free Sewing the Shadows Together by Alison Baillie

to sign up for an overseas package, he felt a sense of disappointment and isolation. His only contact since he arrived in Scotland – an automated message from a mobile phone company.
    In the distance he saw the beach his mother had loved so much, where her ashes would be scattered. He remembered her sitting in the hospice, eyes sunken, her hair colourless, and her face covered with white papery skin. She’d reached out and clutched his wrist, using all her strength to ask him to bring her ashes back to ‘her’ island. He was glad he could fulfil this last request. Soon she’d be at peace.
    Running down the hill, he passed the shell of his grandmother’s croft. He and Shona had stayed there when they were young, collecting water from the well, washing in the stream. Mary Agnes explained that nobody lived in the old buildings now, since the Highlands and Islands Development had paid for the new houses. They could choose from a very limited number of designs, which explained why nearly all the houses looked similar, strangely modern and out of place in the wild countryside.
    When he arrived back at the house, cousins had arrived, bringing a bucket of crabs’ legs. They all sat down on the bench in front of the house and exchanged family news. The whisky bottle was brought out and they had the customary dram.
    This set the pattern for the next days. A run in the morning and then a succession of visitors arrived, or he was taken by Mary Agnes to visit other relatives. He seemed to be related to nearly everyone on the island.
    The days were full, but as he lay in the narrow bed at night he found it hard to sleep, his mind crowded with thoughts of Shona, Logan Baird and Sarah.
    Thursday dawned clear and after Tom’s run up the hill they drove to St. Michael’s Church, at the highest point of the island, overlooking the main village. It wasn’t that old, about a hundred years or so, but it had a timeless Scandinavian feel, rectangular with a rounded north end, steep blue roof, grey stone with the windows picked out in white bricks. It would not have looked out of place on a Norwegian fjord.
    Eriskay, South Uist and Barra had always remained Catholic when the other islands had become protestant. St Michael’s Church was surrounded by a memorial garden, with a statue of the Virgin Mary, overlooking the Sound of Barra. They went inside. It was bigger than Tom had expected and was dominated by the altar in the form of the prow of a boat.
    A priest stepped out from the shadows under the gallery and held out his hand. ‘I’m Father Eric McNeill. Bless you, my son.’ Tom felt awkward; he had never been a church-goer, but Father Eric smiled and soon put him at his ease. ‘I’m sorry to hear of your loss. Your aunt has told me about your mother and I’ll be happy to say a few words when her ashes are scattered.’
    Tom grasped his hand, ‘Thank you.’ Although his mother worshipped at the ecumenical One World Church in South Africa, she’d asked for a priest before she died and was comforted by the ministering of the Last Rites. ‘That would make her very happy.’
    Afterwards Tom and Mary Agnes made their way round the island, stopping at white houses dotted on the treeless headlands and bays. Herds of wild white Eriskay ponies wandered freely over the roads, knowing that every car would stop for them. At each house they were welcomed in, food and drink appeared and, after a few minutes, the whisky bottle.
    As the evening drew in they made their way down to Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Beach, where the Young Pretender had landed. It stretched in a wide curve, backed by dunes and tussocks of coarse grass. From every direction cars came and parked on the road. Groups of dark-clad people made their way through the dunes onto the beach. Tom was touched by how many people came, standing in a horseshoe, silhouetted dark against the setting sun. Father Eric was one of the last to arrive and greeted the members of his congregation