Free This Northern Sky by Julia Green Page A

Dad and Molly’s dad leading the way, using their navigation skills and the map and compass, and we got hopelessly lost, and everyone laughed and it didn’t matter. Not one bit. Mum and Molly’s mum and Hannah cooked Christmas dinner and there was nearly a disaster when the duck fat got too hot and the kitchen was full of smoke but Mum just laughed and laughed and we had to open all the windows and doors and we froze for about two hours, but the meal turned out fine and Molly’s dad cleaned the oven and everything got sorted. After dinner we played silly games and turned off the lights so we could sit with candles and the light from the fire and everyone was relaxed and happy. Mum and Dad cuddled together on the sofa. Dad sang Mum a song he’d written . . .
    It’s nice remembering that. Dad, writing songs . . . Dad, happy. Mum’s face glowing in the firelight . . .
    Or that summer we went to the beach in Wales, where Dad climbed down the cliff quicker than everyone else, so that as the rest of us came over the edge of the hill we looked down and saw the words he had written in the sand: I LOVE YOU!
    It was the most romantic thing we’d ever seen him do for Mum. She had tears in her eyes.
    But that was all years ago. It hasn’t been like that for a long, long time.
     
    The squeal of bike brakes makes me look up. Finn’s skidded to a stop outside the house. I jump up, check my face quickly to make sure he can’t tell I’ve been crying, and go to the door.
    ‘Hello, you! Busy?’ he asks.
    My face goes hot. It’s so obvious I’m not doing anything. Wasting my day.
    ‘Want to come and help get the peat? Everyone’s coming. You can meet them all. Tim and Jamie and the others.’
    I nod. ‘OK.’
    ‘It’ll be hard work, mind.’
    He’s remembering what I was like with the cockle picking.
    ‘I’ll do my best,’ I say. ‘I’m not used to it, that’s all. Not like your Isla .’
    Her name slips out before I’ve really thought. He gives me a funny look. ‘She’s not mine,’ he says very quietly.
    ‘Sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘I know I’m rubbish at practical things.’
    ‘Stop that,’ Finn says. ‘You’re just fine, Kate. Stop putting yourself down.’
    Tears well up again. I turn my head so he can’t see, grab my scarf and a jacket from the hooks in the hall.
    Is that what I do? I wonder. Put myself down?
    ‘I’ll give you a backie if you like,’ Finn says.
    ‘A what?’
    ‘A ride on the back of the bike. It’ll be quicker that way.’
    ‘Oh! Yes, OK.’
    He waits for me to clamber on behind him. ‘Hold on tight!’ he says. ‘It’s a bit of a bumpy ride. And you’ll have to get off for the hill.’
    We wobble along through the village, me trying to balance and laughing so much I nearly fall off. I have to walk the next bit, which is uphill. The very last bit is the best: a long freewheel down the track to the Manse. At the bottom, the bike slows, stops and I get off. I can’t stop smiling.
    Finn grins. ‘You should get yourself a bike!’ he says. ‘You’d really enjoy it. You could get around the whole island then, and see the best places.’
    ‘Mum hired one from the man at the garage,’ I tell him. ‘But it was rubbish. Old and cranky and she got a puncture.’
    ‘We might have one you could borrow,’ Finn says. ‘We’ll look in the shed later.’
    Alex waves from the door of the Manse. I wave back. Piers and Thea are putting tools into the back of the jeep. A dark-haired, good-looking bloke in a tweed jacket and jeans is leaning against the stone wall, a mug of coffee in one hand which he raises as if in greeting.
    ‘That’s Tim,’ Finn says. ‘Jamie and Clara are somewhere around too.’ He waves vaguely in the direction of the house.
    ‘We won’t all fit in the jeep,’ I say. Duh! Obviously.
    ‘No. So you and I can go on the bike, and the others will walk up.’
    ‘What do we have to do exactly?’
    ‘Piers and I will finish cutting the peat. You can help