Free This Northern Sky by Julia Green

Old, faded cotton T-shirt and skirt. I wonder how old she is. She’s both shy and confident at the same time, if that’s possible. Like she’s quiet, but she knows stuff. Knows who she is. She’s natural and easy with the boat. No wonder Finn likes her.
    ‘Jamie and Tim and the others will be arriving on the ferry in the morning,’ Piers says. He glances at Isla. She blushes slightly.
    Finn looks away.
    Piers goes on. ‘Two days late, because of the storm. The ferry couldn’t land.’
    The sea is creeping up the beach, lapping at the boat. Thea packs up the remainder of the cake. ‘Come on, time to go.’
    The air has already cooled down. It’s colder still once we’ve left the shelter of the bay and are heading back across the water. Isla takes a turn at rowing; I go forward in the boat so Piers can sit with Thea at the back. The boat rocks alarmingly as we swap places.
    I watch Finn and Isla. They are perfectly synchronised, rowing together, sitting side by side with their backs to me. They lean forwards, lifting the oars, dipping and drawing them back. Drips of water fly off the oars like liquid pearls.
    Mist rises off the water. Everyone’s silent the whole way back.
     
    I don’t stay for supper, even though Thea invites me to. I walk back alone along the road. As I come into the village, I can see someone in the red telephone kiosk. I know instantly it’s Dad. His tall frame, awkwardly crushed into the small space, talking into the old black phone, running his other hand through his hair. He’s talking fast, intently: he has no idea I can see him.
    He could be talking to anyone. Like Bonnie, or Granny, or someone from work . . .
    But my heart sinks. The way he looks, even though I can’t hear a word of what he’s saying: it’s all so horribly obvious he’s talking to a woman, to someone he cares about, who is missing him . . .
    I feel sick to the core.

Twelve
    On the face of it, everything looks all right. It’s sunny for the next couple of days; Mum and Dad go out together for walks; they take food with them for picnics. They go on a boat trip and return flushed from sun and the wind, full of stories about the birds they saw, and the basking sharks they watched from the boat on the way back.
    I half wish I’d gone with them. Except that I’ve got that horrible sick feeling in the pit of my stomach all the time now. I can’t stop thinking about what Dad might have been saying down the phone line. My mind worries at it, imagining the sordid details, the words he might have been saying.
    Just wait a bit longer; as soon as this holiday is over I can be with you again .
    Of course, I would rather be with you than stuck on this island with them . . .
    I had to do this, to be sure. But spending this time with her makes me realise that it’s all over . . .
    Kate’s old enough now . . . children are resilient . . . she’ll be fine . . .
     
    Does Mum know? Is she full of worry and dread too? Surely she’s guessed something? Or perhaps they’re coming to some sort of agreement. He’ll leave, she’ll have the house . . . Perhaps she’s seeing someone?
    Why don’t you ask them straight out? That’s what my friend Molly would say. But Molly hasn’t a clue. Her parents are happy together. Her family talk about everything openly. But we’ve never been like that. If Sam and I were still seeing each other, I could tell him about it. If Sam and I were together, maybe none of this would feel so important . . .
    Only I know that’s not true. Not really.
    Everything – my whole world – is in the balance, about to tip.
    I make myself remember happy times.
    Christmas, Hannah’s first year at uni. We rented a cottage in Northumberland with Molly’s family. It didn’t snow, but it was freezing cold. Temperatures plummeted every night, and hoar frost furred every twig and stem, almost as thick as snow. The paths and lane were iced to a slippery polish. We walked on Christmas morning in thick white mist,