Page 10 of Beautiful Ugly
“I thought I saw someone I knew.”
I don’t want to say any more than that. I already feel like a crazy fool. She starts to drive out of the village, sighs, and shakes her head.
“People always see ghosts on this island.”
SAME DIFFERENCE
This is not a great start. We spend the rest of the journey in awkward silence; awkward for me at any rate. I’m so embarrassed. Sandy has shown such kindness and must think she’s offered a ride to a crazy man. I wanted to make a good first impression, but I fear I have made the opposite.
The truck hugs the coast for a while, and I stare out of the window at the endless beaches, all deserted. Every time we turn a corner the coast changes into something new and even more beautiful. A relentless sea rushing to meet shimmering sand, gray pebbles, or crumbling cliffs. The road gets progressively steeper until it eventually levels out, winding its way around the top of a craggy hill. A line of silver birches appears to be growing out of the rock, leaning away from the sea, and they look more like witches’ broomsticks than trees, blown sideways by the westerly wind. One of the trees is so close to the edge of an eroded overhang it looks like it might fall into the sea below at any moment. Clinging to the cliff for dear life.
It starts to rain and Sandy turns on the windscreen wipers. The sound they make translates into words inside my head:
Screech and scrape. Screech and scrape. Screech and scrape.
Run away. Run away. Run away.
I shake off the negative thoughts and try to replace them with positive ones, but I am out of practice. There isnothingnot to like about this place, and I am lucky to be here. I tell myself the same thing over and over until it sounds like the truth.
We turn off what passes for a main road, drive down a dirt track, and it isn’t long until we’re surrounded by a canopy of tall trees, which seem to block out almost all of the sun. I’m guessing this is the forest I saw on the map. They are the most enormous trees I have ever seen, taller than a house, and some of the trunks are wider than Sandy’s pickup truck. I’m guessing they must be hundreds of years old and will still be here centuries after I am gone. The thought makes me feel small and insignificant.
“Redwoods. Nature’s giants,” Sandy says.
“Sorry?”
“These ancient trees are special. The island is one of the few places you can find them in the UK. They can live for thousands of years and weather almost any storm, but they’re a rare sight thanks to mankind. That’s why we protect them, and everything else that is magical about this place, from people who might do them harm. These magnificent trees are why visitor numbers are restricted and why we don’t normally allow visitors on the island at all out of season,” she says, staring at me in the rearview mirror.
“I thought redwoods were native to America.”
“You thought right. I’m impressed. Nice to meet an educated chap for a change. A few hundred years ago, an explorer called Agnes Amberly brought some saplings back after a voyage across the Atlantic that almost killed her. Agnes spent a lifetime sailing to all the different corners of the earth before coming home to Scotland and declaring this little island the most beautiful place in the world. A cautionary tale if ever I heard one.”
“Why cautionary?”
“People rarely know what they have until they lose it. They spend their lives searching for a better one, wanting more, needing more, blind to the fact that they already had it all. I think sometimes it’s only when something getstakenfrom a person that they appreciate what they had. Agnes spent almost her entire life in search of the perfect place to call home before understanding it was here all along. The Isle of Amberly was renamed in honor of the woman who planted the first one of these magnificent trees and the redwoods have been here ever since, not that anyone on the island calls them by their formal name.”
“Whatdoyou call them?”
“Ghost trees,” Sandy says. “I don’t know why,” she adds before I can ask. “Agnes Amberly was ahead of her time. She understood how important trees were to the future of the planet and the future of us, but the men in charge back then didn’t listen. Those in charge of things today still don’t. You soon learn, living in a place like this, that we’re all connected. Trees grow down as well as up and I think it’s the same with people. The more we grow up, the more we learn to feel down. Do you know what I mean?” I’m not sure that I do but nod anyway. “Some trees shed their leaves and lose almost everything every year, but then they grow again. Side by side. People could learn a lot from trees. Are you married?” Sandy asks, staring at me again in the rearview mirror.
“Yes. But...” This isn’t a conversation I’m ready for or know how to have with a stranger. “I’m here on my own.”
“No need to say more. I hear you. Wives! Can’t live with them, can’t live with them. Am I right?”
She laughs at her own joke and I force my face to attempt a smile. I am used to this now, people making comments that make me want to scream.
I lost my wife, the person I loved most in the world, and without her life feels meaningless. Abby was my person. She was myeverything and when you lose your everything there simply is nothing left. I want to tell Sandy that when it comes to the people you love, you can’t live without them. But I don’t.
I keep my thoughts to myself because silence cannot be misquoted.
Sandy takes another turn, persuading the pickup truck to squeeze down an even narrower, bumpier, muddier track. The heavy rain stops as abruptly as it started, as though someone just switched it off, and the dark clouds are soon swept from the sky by a determined breeze. I can see the sun again.
“We have our own microclimate on the island,” she says. “The weather here is fickle and changes its mind an awful lot. Best be prepared for anything.”
“This weather really is something.”
“No, I mean you. Now. We’re here. This is the Edge of the World, as Charlie liked to call it,” she says. “The rest of us just call it The Edge.” I peer out of the windows but see nothing but trees. “You’re on your own from here, I’m afraid. This is as close as I can get; the cabin can only be accessed on foot these days. Charles Whittaker liked to be alone, and he took his privacy seriously. It’s been a few years since he passed away in what he called his ‘writing shed’ and it was a wee while before anyone knew. Nobody has lived here since and I imagine the place might be a tad dusty and in need of a clean, but you’re a grown lad. I’m sure you’re not afraid of a few cobwebs or a bit of dirt. The cabin is as rural as they come and ridiculously rustic on the outside, but don’t let that fool you. Old Charlie boy liked his creature comforts, so the place has power and hot water thanks to solar panels and... well, you’ll see. It gets very cold out here at night, just to warn you. Very cold and very dark. But you’ll be fine. Or you won’t, and you’ll be wanting to get the next ferry back. Head north from here, and you’ll find the cabin soon enough.”
“Right, thank you,” I say, clambering from the truck. Columboleaps out behind me and runs off to explore the forest without a backward glance. I wish I were as fearless as my dog. I grab the rest of the bags and turn 360 degrees. “So... north then?” I say to Sandy, hoping for a clue as to which way that might be.