kate thompson

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Yes, the cottage was available. No, they couldn’t let it out for one night – a weekend was all they’d consider, even out of season. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay the weekend rate for the one night.’

The man who met him to hand over the keys was not the man who’d met him last time, and he was glad of this. He wanted no questions asked, no remarks passed. ‘Not necessary,’ he said when he was asked if he wanted someone to escort him to the island and show him the ropes. ‘I’ve been there before.’

‘So you’ll know that the mainland is inaccessible at high tide?’

‘Yes. I know that. Thanks.’

The journey took him ten minutes. The narrow road bumped him uphill and down before rounding a headland and petering out on a rocky foreshore. The sea was smooth as slate blue silk now, but he knew that later today that silk would be torn to flitters by the wind that had been forecast for the evening. He stopped the car and let the engine idle for some minutes, regarding the white-washed cottage that looked back at him from the island at the other end of the causeway. It was the kind of cottage a child might draw: two windows, a door and a chimney. He remembered her reaction the first time she’d seen it.

‘Oh! It’s dotey! Perfect!’ And as soon as they’d pulled up by the garden gate she’d climbed out of the car, and was dancing up the path barefoot with the white silk of her gown shimmering round her. She reached the door, and ‘Hurry!’ she’d called to him. ‘I can’t wait to explore!’

He’d unlocked the door, then lunged for her hand as she made to skip through. ‘Wait! We have to do it properly,’ he told her, scooping her up in his arms to carry her across the threshold.

‘But it’s not our home!’

‘It is for the next fortnight.’

He set her down on the flagstoned floor and watched as she moved round the room, emitting little squeals every time she came across something that pleased her. ‘Oh, look! The fire’s set with proper turf! Oh look – a rocking chair! And fresh flowers and a bottle of wine! How kind! They’ve thought of everything!’

‘They certainly have. Get a load of that.’

He’d indicated with a nod the window that framed a view John Hinde could have sold off a thousand-fold. The seascape was dotted with emerald islands - drowned drumlins clustering at the foot of the purple, cone-shaped mountain.

‘Do they really climb it barefoot?’ she asked.

‘They do.’

He set the car in motion now across the causeway, knowing that in less than an hour’s time there’d be no going back. Water lapped on either side, and he wondered if he’d swim when the tide was fully in. She had swum naked that first day, emerging laughing and goosebumpy before getting back into the white silk dress.

‘Shouldn’t you wear something warmer?’ he’d asked.

‘No! It’s my wedding day. I’m wearing this until bedtime. Sure I can dance to get warm.’

And she’d done exactly that – danced round the patch of green lawn that fronted the cottage, till the goosebumps disappeared.

The car slid off the causeway onto gravel. He parked it by the twisted fir tree where they’d used to leave it, and reached behind him for his luggage. He was travelling light: an overnight bag and a suiter were all he had with him. Fishing in the pocket of his jacket for the key, he walked up the garden path and let himself into the cottage.

It was much the same, although the rocking chair had been reupholstered. There was turf in the fireplace, the shelves were packed with the same books and board games to take care of bad weather days, and the view beyond the window was as heart-stopping as ever. Only there was no bottle of wine this time, and no flowers on the table.

He went through to the bedroom, dumped his bag on the floor, then turned to the bed. It was covered in the patchwork counterpane that had, according to the owners, been worked by the old lady who had lived in this cottage until her death twenty years ago. Laying the suiter carefully on the bed, he unzipped it and ran a hand over its contents. He would sleep there tonight with the garment in his arms.

Practicalities next. He put a match to the fire and consulted the tide table, and then he fetched a coolbox from the boot of the car and stowed perishables in the fridge in the tiny kitchen. Butter, smoked salmon, champagne. He’d have preferred lager, but her tipple of choice had always been champagne. Veuve Cliquot. He’d even gone for a pricey vintage. There were no champagne flutes in the cottage he knew, but such niceties had never bothered her. She’d drunk the stuff from red wine goblets and mugs and plastic cups.

He checked his watch, then went to the door of the cottage and looked out. The sea had closed over the causeway. The island was all his. /// It took him twenty minutes to walk its circumference. In that time he glimpsed the sails of a yacht in the distance, but otherwise there was no other sign of human life. Cattle grazed stoically, oblivious to his presence, and in the field above the cottage, daffodils were abundant. He picked a great sheaf of them, and didn’t feel guilty that the flowers would spend only one night adorning the table in the sitting room, because flowers were what she would have wanted.

Dusk was falling as he let himself back indoors. He prepared and ate his supper, then switched on the radio for the nine o’clock news. He didn’t listen to it as he sat in the rocking chair. He just stared at the fire, waiting for the weather forecast. It would be windy again tomorrow, but dry, with sunny spells. Good.

At half past nine, he set the fireguard in front of the fire and went to bed.

He woke early, as he’d known he would. He didn’t bother with breakfast; he just showered, shaved, dressed, then packed the car. The causeway was a straight line leading to the mainland, and would remain so for many hours until the next high tide. But he wasn’t going to hang about. What needed to be done should be done soon – should have been done a long time ago, in fact. But he’d been selfish, and kept her to himself. Now it was time to let her go.

The dress lay crumpled between the bedsheets. Last night, as he’d wound it in his arms, he’d realised that it still bore traces of her scent. He retrieved it now, and shook it out before hanging it on the cushioned arms of the satin-covered hanger she’d kept it on. The silly girly things she’d surrounded herself – the padded hangers, the embroidered fans, the silver-backed hairbrushes – all these had used to make him laugh at her: but that girliness, that femininity was ultimately what had made him love her.

He hung the dress by the door, and then he went to the kitchen to fetch the champagne and a glass to drink it from. The last article needed to complete the ritual rested on the sill of the window that afforded that spectacular vista of the sacred mountain. He picked it up and went outside, locking the door after him.

The wind had picked up, as forecast. In front of the cottage he laid the dress on the lawn where she had danced, and weighted it with a stone. Then he undid the foil and the wire cage on the champagne bottle, and drew the cork. A plume of vapour escaped like a sigh as he poured. He set the glass down on the sea wall, then picked up the dress again, pressing it to his face and inhaling her scent for the last time. He straightened the straps on their padded hanger, and hooked it onto a branch of the fir tree, then took a few steps backwards and watched the dress come to life in the wind. The hem lifted, and a ripple ran over the white silk, and then a gust inhabited it, lending it a shape that seemed faintly human.

Against a background of tangerine sky the white dress danced in the wind, insouciant, buoyant, until another gust plucked it from the satin arms of the hanger and sent it spiralling into the air. The wind took it past him, over the sea wall, and sent it speeding across the white horses cresting on the surface of the choppy pewter water. It came to rest on the island opposite, where it lay on the stones, eddying a little as if breathing, as if she were resting, summoning strength for her finale. And then the wind seized the dress again, and took it over the crest of the island, off over the bay.

He reached for the urn that sat on the sea wall next to the glass of champagne, and twisted it open. The ashes felt grainy to the touch, not soft and friable as he’d expected. He delved his hand into the urn, then hurled the ashes towards the sea. The wind snatched them as it had snatched the dress, sending them scattering towards where a watery sun was showing a bleary face on the horizon. Another handful escaped, then another, until virtually nothing remained. As he upended the urn, a trickle emerged, spilling onto his jacket, leaving a chalky residue. He didn’t brush it away. He reached for the glass of champagne and held it aloft. ‘Godspeed, beloved,’ he said.