Magnus Tulloch put a finger to his ear and shook his head, as though clearing away a clutter of noise, and then went back to scraping the mud from his boots. He was keeping his own mind to himself.

When I think of it now, I wonder what I would have done without Mrs Leask’s books. Once again words poured into me, into all those yawning spaces. Wasn’t that they could take the place of what was lost, but to feel them there was something, a comfort.

~

Magnus Tulloch and I were content. I wonder—is that the right word? Content sounds so small, so passionless and niggardly, for the way it was between us, everything we were. But words like happy—no, they are wrong, too. Because of the way our marriage had begun, there was a strand of sadness forever coiled into the skein of us. To say Oh aye, we were happy, well, that would be to unravel the whole to remove a part, and the thing left in its place would be shinier but lesser for that.

And I am finding it hard to think how to write about the way it was between us, everything we were. It’s as if it was enough, of itself, and there is no need to record it. A strange contented restlessness, an easeful sadness.

Sorry, my lambsie, I am thinking on paper again, forgetting who I am writing to. Forgetting why.

~

One evening, Magnus Tulloch came home with light in his smile and hugged the breath out of me.

What’s with all of this? I demanded, pretend-serious. Have ye been pouring whiskey instead of pickle this day?

Meggie … He stopped. A second thought, a worry, a cloud across the sun.

Well? I urged. Go on. Tell me!

His eyes darted about, his fingers splayed, closed, splayed again. He was a man plucking words like limpets from a jetty.

Just say!

Well … what would ye think of leaving this place?

A small pause and I jumped in firm with both of my feet. I’m not goin’ back to Roanhaven.

No, no, lass, I’m not talkin’ of Roanhaven. Nor anywhere nearby. Meggie … He leaned forward, his eyes were the glitter of a herring’s back. Meggie, I’m talkin’ about Australia!

~

The islands were not like Roanhaven, where things stayed the same until there was no choice but to suffer change. The Shetlands had always been a place of immigrants, Norse, Viking, Scots, and ever since the last century had become a place of emigrants, too. Islanders left for far-off places to find work and opportunity, new lives in the new world—Canada, America, Australia, New Zealand.

Magnus Tulloch confessed he had been thinking on it—even saving—for a long time, but had put it from his mind that first day we’d met. But now …

An’ will there be work for coopers in Australia? I wondered.