Free Call of the Undertow by Linda Cracknell

diagrams in Biology and Geography that harnessed the wild world into two tame dimensions; line and shade. They had
been praised.
    Now she saw herself as some kind of indulgent aunt to Trothan. The more nonchalance his drawings elicited from others, the harder she encouraged him. When an email newsletter came round with
details of a ‘Young Cartographer’ competition, her cheerleading became more focused. She printed out the form and took it into the school.
    Audrey thanked her, but looked at it doubtfully. ‘I suppose there might be one or two good enough to send in.’
    ‘I was thinking of Trothan specifically.’
    ‘Oh?’
    As if he wasn’t obviously special, Maggie thought. ‘I’ve seen his map; I’ve been helping him.’
    Audrey looked up at her over her rimless glasses.
    ‘He’s extraordinarily good at it,’ Maggie said.
    Audrey handed the form back to her. ‘Looks like a family rather than a school kind of thing,’ she said, pointing to the final line on the form. ‘It needs a parent’s
signature. Talk to Nora; she’s the one makes the decisions, I think.’
    Maggie looked around her to make sure she wasn’t being indiscreet. ‘Do you really think she’d be, you know, bothered?’
    ‘Oh they usually are,’ Audrey laughed. ‘About their wee darlings.’
    ‘Yes, but Nora, she seems a bit...’ Maggie struggled, realised she should have thought in advance about how to put this.
    Audrey’s look now suggested impatience.
    Maggie kept trying. ‘He’s doing more work on the map, the one he did as his school project. But I don’t know if Nora even realises.’
    ‘His map. Yes. It’s a credit to you that he’s taken that up. We’ll put it in the draw for the school showcase in June.’ Mrs Thompson now started walking her
expertly towards the door. ‘One child from each class gives a little talk about a project to all the parents. It gives an idea what’s going on right across the school. Why don’t
you come along?’
    And then Maggie was outside, the door clicking shut behind her.
    She always tried to be at home at four o’clock which seemed to have become Trothan’s regular calling time. One day she was late because she’d taken the bus to
Thurso on a mission for speciality flour that couldn’t be bought in the village shop. She wanted to try granary, maybe even rye.
    She found him sitting on the deck outside the cottage, knees balled up to his chest, forehead touching them.
    ‘Why do you lock your door?’ he asked.
    ‘Security’
    He nodded, but looked unconvinced.
    ‘I don’t want anyone walking in. I’ve got computers; they cost a lot.’
    ‘But they could just break a window if they wanted to come in,’ he said.
    ‘Don’t your parents lock their door?’
    He shrugged. ‘Not really’.
    ‘Did you talk to your Mum and Dad about the competition?’ she asked. On his previous visit she’d told him about it and asked him to discuss it with his parents.
    ‘Dad’s away.’
    ‘You showed the form to your Mum?’
    Trothan nodded.
    ‘And?’
    He shrugged.
    ‘Did she understand that we need her signature?’
    ‘Is there any cake?’ he asked.
    So. She’s not feeding you either, Maggie thought.
    If she’d been this child’s mother she wouldn’t have stood back and let him be ignored and ostracised; working alone, playing alone; tolerated rather than encouraged. Carol had
once told Maggie that the first place of a child was supposed to be his mother. If this essential geography isn’t established, there can be problems. On the other hand, it seemed sometimes to
Maggie that Trothan’s primary place could never be another person. It had to be the bay itself, its hills and headlands, buildings and buried things. Perhaps that was just as well.

EIGHT
    A text arrived from Carol.
    ‘I’m coming to visit. Arrive Thurso 2035 Friday. Can you collect?’
    Maggie was stunned; there had been no discussion of any such visit.
    ‘Why are you coming?’ she replied.
    ‘To