Page 8 of Beautiful Ugly
I hope you die in your sleepwas our way of saying I love you.
“And because I love you so much I got you a little something for this trip.” She produced a white captain’s hat and put it on my head before wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing herself up against me. “You’re my captain of everything,” she whispered, unzipping my jeans. Her hand made short work of getting me hard, and then she stopped, looking over at the twin beds. “Would you prefer to take me port or starboard, Captain?”
We made use of every surface in that cabin when we made love that afternoon. I took my time and gave her what she wanted; pleasing her always turned me on. Then it was my turn. It was the only good part of the trip. As soon as we set sail she said she felt seasick and didn’t leave the cabin for three days. She didn’t admit it, but Abby seemed terrified when we were out at sea. I felt so guilty for booking the cruise—I had no idea that she was afraid of the ocean until then—but we always avoided boats after that holiday. I know my wife well enough to know she would never set foot on a rusty old ferry like this. I must have imagined seeing her. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I’m saddled with sad memories and bags and a growing sense of uneasiness, but there is no point in returning to my seat. The ferry is fast approaching another wooden pier. The Isle of Amberly—which was once just a smudge on the horizon—is now almost close enough to touch. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
I researched the place online before I packed up what was left of my life and made this journey, but there isn’t much about the Isle of Amberly on the internet. The first thing I noticed when looking at a map is that the island is shaped like a broken heart. A spiky ridge of steep granite peaks appears to cut off one half from the other. The island is also tiny, only six miles long and five miles wide, situated ten miles off the Scottish west coast. I did see some pictures online of an ungroomed landscape, craggy hills,and dense forests with incredibly tall trees, but none of them did justice to the reality of the place. It’s more spectacular than anything I’ve ever seen.
This side of the island is a tapestry of lush green grass with drystone walls forming uneven seams. There is a shimmering loch in the distance and lilac-colored fields full of wild heather, all framed by deserted white sandy beaches. There are no buildings that I can see from here, or people, just something beautiful.
I believe life rations happiness. People who get more than their fair share get fat on joy, those who don’t get enough forget how to feel it. I fear I had forgotten, but I want to remember this moment, so I search for my phone in my pocket to take a photo. I notice that I still have no signal, not a single bar.
As the handful of cars drive off the ferry, I disembark on foot with a large dog and too many bags. The black van with the Highland cow logo is the last vehicle to drive past me, and I don’t think I imagine how slowly it moves, or how long the silhouette of the driver stares at me through the tinted window before turning their attention to the road. Soon everyone else has gone. I wasn’t expecting to find an Uber—and I thought I’d have my own car while on the island—but there is no sign of any form of public transport. Not even a bus stop. The only vehicle left is a dustcovered, battered old silver pickup truck parked on the dock. Without any mode of transportation, I’m a bit stuck. I know the cabin isat leasta mile away, and I don’t think I can carry all this stuff that far by myself. I’m not even sure what direction I need to head in. Then I spot a large wooden noticeboard withWELCOME TO AMBERLYcarved into the top.
Behind the glass I can see a hand-drawn map of the whole island. It’s like a 3D work of art. I take in the broken heart shape with trees covering at least a third of it, but it appears there is much more to see than that. There are rivers as well as the loch, multiple beaches, and a cove on the south coast marked on themap as Darkside Cave. There are buildings on the island too, I just can’t see them from here. I spot a church, a farm, and The Stumble Inn, which I’m guessing—hoping—might be a pub. There is a row of small thatched cottages, something called the House on the Hill, and then, far away from all the other buildings and surrounded by trees, I spot The Edge—which Kitty told me is the name of Charles Whittaker’s writing cabin. My phone still has no signal, but I take a photo of the map. There are several peculiar things about it, including the small red triangle that says:YOU ARE NOT HERE.
“Do you need a lift?” says a voice behind me. I spin around and see the ferrywoman standing a tad too close. I frequently disappear inside a daydream—I suspect most writers do—but it’s unusual for Columbo not to have heard someone sneaking up on us. “I think you might struggle to find Charlie’s old cabin, and there’s a storm coming,” she says, glancing at the cloudless blue sky. “You’ll not want to get caught in it.” She nods to the silver pickup truck that has seen better days. “I can take you where you’re going if you’d like?”
The truck looks like a death trap, but I don’t have any other options.
“That would be amazing, thank you,” I say, pleased as punch that the first person I have met on the island is so kind.
We set off on the bumpy track of a road, and I make a point of saying how grateful I am numerous times, while also holding on for dear life. My bags are in the back of the truck while the dog and I bounce around on the back seat. The ferrywoman is so tall that the top of her ponytail touches the truck’s ceiling as she drives, not that she seems to notice, or mind. Her large hands grip the steering wheel, and despite the moth-eaten woolen mittens, I can see the cuts on her fingers and dirt beneath her nails. Everyone has a story to tell and I find myself wanting to know hers. I wonder how old she is—up close I think maybe in her sixties. Then I wonderhow long she has been single-handedly sailing a small ferry to a remote Scottish island. And why. I try to think of a way to ask that doesn’t make me sound sexist or ageist, but then she selects a cassette tape—something I’ve not seen for several decades—slots it into the dated-looking stereo, and smiles to herself when the music starts to play. It sounds like bagpipes. A lone piper perhaps. Like something you might hear at a funeral.
“It’ll help get you in the mood!” she says, staring at me in the rearview mirror with a grin accompanied by an odd little wink.
I do not ask what for. And I do not ask her to turn the “music” down even though it is a smidgen loud. The truck is extremely noisy too, coughing and spluttering its way to the top of the hill, and I wonder when it last had a service. I check my seat belt for a second time and try not to worry about it. Abby often said that I needed to learn to go with the flow, and at least the locals seem friendly.
The road twists and turns and the view outside the window constantly changes. The higher we climb the more I can see, and every glimpse of the island is more surprising and breathtaking than the last. It might be small, but from here, it looks vast—a giant patchwork quilt of wild-looking grassy hills stitched with drystone walls. In the distance I can see trees displaying all the colors of autumn, an elaborate rainbow of amber, brown, and gold. Farther still I can see a mountain the color of maple syrup, dripping with waterfalls. It is pockmarked with boulders, all dressed in blotches of bright green moss. Fall has always been my favorite time of year and October has always been my favorite month.
I spot a ruin of an old cottage—nothing left of it except four uneven gray stone walls, with long grass growing where the floor would once have been. I hope the cabin is in better shape—preferably with a roof—and I’m relieved when the ferrywoman keeps driving. We approach another loch, the water so still that itmirrors the sky perfectly, reflecting the bright blue canvas dotted in fluffy clouds. Until one of them hides the sun. Then the world instantly becomes a darker version of itself. The road looks as though it has been chiseled out of the mountain in places, with steep banks of moss-covered granite rising up on either side. We are now sandwiched between fields sprinkled with sheep. Angrylooking ones, with devilish horns and black faces.
“Our version of lawn-mower robots. They keep the grass nice and trimmed,” my new friend says with another cheerful wink.
“This is awfully good of you. I’m very grateful,” I say, thanking her again.
“How can something good be awful?” she asks without a hint of irony. “I’m Sandy MacIntyre, by the way. I own the island ferry but I’m also the sheriff here on Amberly. I should have introduced myself before kidnapping you and your dog.”
“You sail the ferryandyou’re the sheriff? That must keep you busy.”
“Not especially. The ferry only runs twice a week, and that’s if the weather is good, which it often isn’t. And there is no crime on the island.”
That sounds like a ridiculous claim.
“No crime at all?” I ask.
“No. Everyone knows everyone. There could only ever be twenty-five suspects.”
“What about visitors?”
“Luckily we don’t get too many of those,” she says, staring at me again. “I didn’t catchyourname.”
Because she never asked for it.
“Grady Green,” I tell her, instantly wishing I had made up something different, but if she recognizes my name she hides it well. I’ve always felt a bit uncomfortable with people knowing who I am and what I do, so it’s nice to know I can still be anonymous.
“And what brings you to Amberly, Grady?”