It was a little after ten when the phone rang. At first, Ben was confused. It had been so long since anyone had rung him that he’d forgotten the thing was even connected. He could have sworn he’d detached it sometime the previous year and even as the ringing continued he couldn’t pinpoint the location. The phone was buried somewhere under the sofa.
He’d only come home to load his catch into the freezer. Another couple of minutes and he’d have been on the way back to the beach. He wouldn’t have heard a thing.
The whiskey bottle was waiting back on the shoreline, beside it was his fishing line with lantern illuminating it and the waves. Next to that was a blanket and the embers of the dying fire. The sun had set but he hadn’t needed it to find his way back to the cottage with the cool box, after so long living there, he could have found his way around with his eyes shut.
The cottage itself was on an island off the west coast of Scotland. Beside his place, there was a small village on the far side and a couple of farmhouses dotted about. There was a jetty at the village, bringing in the very occasional tourist or birdwatcher. Most people seeking out the peace and solitude of Scotland went further north. Jude Island was not easy to land on, nor did it look like much from the mainland. But Ben had come to love its secret charms.
He had arrived not long after his sister died. Aged eighteen when that happened, he had exchanged words with his parents that could not be taken back. He’d gone from the golden child to the black sheep over the course of one particularly bad drunken argument. The weeks after the funeral just made things worse, jabs into his heart from his father, him jabbing back, both of them unable to deal with the grief of the loss without hurting those around them.
He made his mind up to leave a month later. He left them a brief note, not saying goodbye, just telling them he wouldn’t be back. He had been in touch once since then. It was a year later, he had travelled through Europe and then back, ending up in Scotland on the shores of the west coast, watching the seals splash along the shoreline. Falling in with a group of fishermen, he was able to talk one of them into taking him across to Jude Island. Once he was there, he had another stroke of good fortune. There was a cottage the owner never used, having grown too old to make the twenty mile journey on foot through the hills to get to it. He was offered the use of the place for a peppercorn rent and so that was where he had settled.
His first night there, he found the farmer’s whiskey supply and got blind drunk, hoping to block out his memories of the past, of the part he’d played in his sister’s death.
He decided the next day to write to Peter and Erin, tell them he was safe, see if there was any chance of an apology from his father. He gave the number for the phone in the cottage, the only modern luxury in the place. He didn’t own a mobile phone anymore, it had gone into the sea somewhere off Venice.
He didn’t get a reply. He wasn’t surprised but it was one more piece of proof that he had done the right thing. They wanted nothing more to do with him and he would therefore have nothing more to do with them. He was comfortable with his own company anyway and in a place like this, he didn’t need to worry about anyone disturbing him. The village was twenty-five miles away. The walk to it took all day and he rarely undertook it, only when his supplies ran too low.
He grew his own food, almost starving that first winter when the snows came. But he got better at it with each attempt, his trips to the village becoming rarer as his knowledge of farming and foraging grew, helped by the array of self sufficiency books on the cottage shelves.
He spent his time writing and exploring for the most part. His novel was slowly taking shape. He had little hope that he would ever finish it but it wasn’t about the destination, it was about the journey. Sometimes, he would sit on the beach and think, his sister’s face coming to him, the castle looming up in his mind. On those occasions he would start to walk, on the worst days, he would run, not stopping until he was too exhausted to think anymore.
He came to know every inch of the island, and yet the place never truly felt like home. Something about it wasn’t quite right but he could never put his finger on what that was.
On the night the phone rang, he had been on the beach all day, fishing, watching the tide slowly coming in, enjoying the peace, feeling like the King of his own private Kingdom. It was possible at times to believe it was his island alone, that there was no one else in the world but him and his domain.
The life of a hermit had intrigued him for a long time. It had begun when he was eight years old. He found an old story in the castle library, the tale of a man who’d given up the life of a Lord and gone to live alone in the forests for the rest of his days, contemplating God, humanity, and the stars that filled the sky above him. The story had struck a chord with him. All the hustle and bustle and noise of humanity made him yearn all the more to be away from it.
Had he used his sister’s death as an excuse? It was possible that had been the catalyst that brought him to Jude Island but the likelihood was that he would have ended up somewhere like that anyway.
His father had wanted him to inherit the castle, to take over looking after it, telling him it was his duty, that he couldn’t walk away from generations of caretaking. “It’s been in the family for hundreds of years,” he ‘d said. “Promise me you’ll take it on.”
He hadn’t promised. His father had never forgiven him, offering it instead to his sister, calling him all the variations of ungrateful that he could think of. Then Zoë had drowned and he had again been told he had to take it on.
“Just because I’m all that’s left, doesn’t mean I suddenly have no say in things.”
His father had been furious with him for saying that, the conversation turning into a blazing row that lasted long into the night.
“And why are you all that’s left?” Peter had yelled, tears streaming down his face.
Forget it, Ben told himself as he sat on the beach that evening. It’s in the past.
With the sun long set and only the light of the fire to guide him, he had gathered up his catch and headed back to the house.
He had dealt with the fish, closed the freezer and crossed to the sink, turning the tap until ice cold water flowed down into the plughole. He was just drying his hands when the noise began. He turned, frowning, trying to pinpoint it.
It was coming from the living room.
The cottage was divided into kitchen, living room, and bedroom. There was no upstairs. What counted as a bathroom was outside, a compost toilet and a shower rigged to a tank that held rainwater. Electricity was supplied by two solar panels on the roof, attached by the farmer five years earlier, before his arthritis got too bad.
It made for a simple life with little need for outside help. If he could work out how to make the whiskey for himself, he’d not need to go into the village at all.
The ringing noise was coming from underneath the battered old sofa. He moved towards it, reaching down and pulling out the phone, knocking the receiver from the cradle as he did so.
He lifted it to his ear, hearing a woman’s voice talking. “Is that Benjamin Robertson.”
“Ben,” he said. No one had ever called him Benjamin.
“Mr Robertson? Is that you there? I’m sorry, the connection is very weak.”
“Who is this?”
“I’m calling from York. I work for your father.”
“And?”
“He’s been in a car accident. He’s in hospital.”
Ben was surprised by his initial reaction. It wasn’t joy. He felt no gladness that his father had been injured. Perhaps the years had tempered his emotions after all.
He had thought after their last argument that he’d lost all connection with his family, a fact reinforced after he’d sent the letter and had no response. “Is it serious?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Did he tell you to ring?”
“No, I just thought-”
“I don’t care what you thought. I have no interest in speaking to my father ever again. Do me a favour and forget this number. Understand?”
“I understand that you should be more grateful.”
He had been moving the receiver back to the cradle when he stopped. “Grateful? What the hell do you think I should be grateful for?”
“Because you might get a chance to say goodbye. Not everyone gets that.”
He opened his mouth to retort but she was still talking. “I’m not going to argue with a complete stranger over the phone. He’s in York hospital. He might get to go home, he might not. If you want to see him, you know where he is. Goodbye Mr Robertson.”
She hung up, leaving him holding the phone and trying to process what had just happened.
A car accident. How serious could it be? If it was that serious, he’d have died already. She was some nurse playing it safe. No, she wasn’t. What was it she’d said? That she worked for Peter? That was it.
Could it really be possible? He thought about the letter he’d sent. The fact his parents hadn’t even bothered to reply. Where was his mother? Why hadn’t she been the one to ring him?
He walked back to the beach, telling himself he was going to carry on fishing. But he walked past the line and over to the boat, looking inside to see what supplies he had ready.
An hour later, the boat was chugging forwards across the water to the next island, Ben calculating the timings. He would be over in half an hour, tie up the boat in the harbour, get to the ferry crossing. Take that to the mainland, then hire a car. The drive south was around four hundred miles. He might be there by sunrise or soon after.
She couldn’t hang up on him in person. He’d be able to tell her exactly what he thought of her rudeness. He’d also be able to tell his father what he thought of him. He hated him.
As the boat moved forwards in the dark, a tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away, telling himself it was spray from the churning waters, nothing more.