Free Gull Island by Grace Thompson Page A

they didn’t stay inside. Luke made a fire on the shore and they sat in the lee of the boat, draped in blankets, while the flames licked around the driftwood and they talked. They each spoke of their dreams and hopes for a future neither could really imagine.
    Luke spoke prosaically of continuing to run his book-selling business without any contact with the family he loved. Richard’s future was filled with hopes of a different kind of life to the present one. He described vividly a time where there was plenty of space and where no one needed to be cold or hungry. A future in which the Carey family didn’t depend on the varied contents of Mr Carey’s pockets.
    When the fire died down and shadows began to bring a return of the deepening cold, they went inside and ate several rounds of toast, then they walked along the beach to the cottage Richard and Barbara had once explored.
    ‘D’you own this?’ Richard asked. ‘You must be rich if you own the other one and rich people always own more than they need.’
    ‘It belongs to no one. The man who used to live there moved away when I was a child.’
    ‘There’d be plenty of room for us in that place.’ Richard studied it with his old-young face, one small, skinny leg propped on a rock, leaning forwards, elbow on his raised knee, in the attitude of an ancient philosopher.
    ‘What?’ Luke laughed aloud. ‘One cough and the lot would be down around you!’
    ‘It’s strong!’ Richard insisted.
    Luke looked at the boy, surprised at the vehemence in his voice. ‘Do you really think so, Richard?’
    ‘It’s only the front bit that’s falling off.’
    Doubtfully, Luke went to look more closely at the walls and then, seeing the anxious look on the boy’s face and realizing that this was a part of his dream, he nodded. ‘You’re right. Once that porch is re-built it wouldn’t make a bad home.’ A look of pleasure lit Richard’s young face, and the thin shoulders dropped in relief.
    ‘I got a plan, see,’ the boy said.
    Luke was curious but didn’t ask. If and when Richard wanted him to be involved, he’d tell him.
    Among his food supplies, Luke had some Gong soup that cost twopence for three packets. Not much of a meal to offer a guest but at least it only took a few minutes to make and it would warm them. He made up two bowls and filled them with bread and they ate with enjoyment.
    Richard had a rather ancient apple in his pocket, which he solemnly cut in half. They curled their faces at the sourness but by dipping it into the sugar bowl ate everything except the core, which they gave to the mouse.
    ‘Give little Rosita a hug from me, will you?’ Luke said as Richard reluctantly stood to leave.
    ‘Lucky you are that she isn’t living with you,’ Richard sighed, tutting and shaking his head in his old man gesture. ‘Noisy beyond she is. There’s always knocking from them in the next room or them up above complaining and asking us to keep her quiet. Fat chance of anyone getting that one to stay quiet.’
    When Richard had gone, Luke sat for a long time on the stony beach near the embers of the fire, staring out at the slowly receding tide. He had enjoyed the company of the boy and now, even though the night air chilled him, he couldn’t face returning to the loneliness that stretched out before him once he closed the cottage door behind him.
    He kicked the fire into a blaze and threw on more wood. Better out here where he could at least believe in the existence of others even if they were miles away, than shutting himself in the cottage and the unbreakable silence behind a closed door. After an hour, during which he went over the conversation between himself and the six-year-old Richard Carey, smiling occasionally at brief memories, he went in, fed the mouse and went to bed.
    The following morning he was wakened early by the sound of someone entering. Curious but not alarmed, he sat up and reached for his clothes and in moments he was on his way down the