That last night, I’d opened wine to celebrate his return. In the cottage near Periglis he took my hand and told me that he was leaving me. He had a woman on the mainland who was carrying his baby. Someone closer to his own age.

The bright young woman was his daughter. She should have been my daughter. She was here with questions about the man who’d disappeared before her birth.

‘I talked to his friends.’ She saw that I was sketching her, but she didn’t seem to mind. ‘They said he’d spent time here on St Agnes and that he’d always loved your work.’ She looked up, frowning. ‘You know what happened to him, don’t you?’ And looking up, she saw the big oil that I’d painted of him. It hangs on the wall over my desk. Her mother had probably shown her photographs and she recognized him immediately.

Now she’s lying in the sandy soil in my garden, buried next to her father. I couldn’t take a chance, you see. She was intelligent and persistent and could have started rumours and an investigation. She was a free spirit and for a while nobody will miss her and, when they do, they’ll look for her on the mainland. Her rucksack, with the hat stuffed inside it, has been dropped into the water, to be taken away by the strong neap tide. I couldn’t let her live. There’s too much to lose. There’s this view and this light over the water. The chance that one day I’ll create a perfect piece of art.

Postcard from Skokholm

by Lynne Chitty

They came to Skokholm in late summer before the Manx shearwaters and storm petrels left the island, crossing the water from the Pembrokeshire mainland in the early morning. It was a still, sultry day. Light bounced from the water, turning the island into a black silhouette. George was silent, and Molly wondered suddenly if their relationship would survive constant companionship, the routine of domestic life. The boat rounded a headland and she saw a rough jetty, bloated seals hauled onto the rocks. They’d arrived. The first adventure of their retirement. The boatman helped them off with their bags, then disappeared. They’d expected to be met at the pier by the wardens, but there was no sign of the promised tractor. The place was entirely silent.

The wardens eventually arrived, ploughing through the stillness. Mixing their mutterings with apologies and digs at the remaining tourists, still greedy for the remnants of the summer sun and last sightings of birds ready to migrate. Jack, the driver, had obviously been indulging in a Jar-not-of-the-Night variety before collecting their bags, and Molly secretly thought his lateness was due to an extra glass of whatever he indulged in, rather than a demanding birdwatcher. But she was grateful for the background noise that his grumblings provided, as they left her alone with her thoughts, which for some reason had become deeply melancholic since they had reached the island.