She pressed Kaz’s hand, still held in her own, gently onto the curve of the pouch he was wearing, then slid her palm further round so they could feel the warmth of it together. The texture had changed as it expanded over the months, as baby Will grew and the pouch filled with amniotic fluid. In its squidgy early days she’d gently pressed her face onto the soft cover and felt the pouch shape itself around her features, but now it was firmer, fuller, velveteen. The pressure of her touch passed through the cover and bio-membrane, just like through clothes and skin. In response she felt baby Will give a soft, impatient kick.

‘This time tomorrow,’ she smiled.

‘This time tomorrow.’

Kaz put his arm around her and they strolled back to the house through the surprising warmth of the winter’s sun.

Audio log

24 Nov 2015 19:04

It is a soft, watery kind of sleet that is falling today – still not the snow that was promised in the clouds, though the wind is getting up to no good and my rowan tree is aching because of it. My night was interrupted by gusts in the chimney, a wheezing through the walls that turned into nightmares, though in the stunning low light of the morning I could see that my nightmares were foolish. My lighthouse was standing on this spot long before I was born, the wind can’t harm it. Besides, as I watched clouds racing the wave tips over the black rocks, I was grateful for the wind, despite my stinging ears and raw eyes.

I walk every morning out to the rocks. In the summer, the miles of purple heather smell like honey and butterflies dip through the bushes. Now, though, the gorse is dominant. Its silver-green blades edging onto my path, sharp and unforgiving, held firm with inexplicable shapes of wood. I once burned it back, and the branches were fragile as hollow bone, shades of silver and white and such curves and angles to them – I felt I had destroyed something beautiful, and was seeing beauty in the scars. I haven’t burned it back since, though the wood shapes decorate my home. Their twists and turns make, one day, the shadow of a wolf, the next, a beckoning hand. Or a smile. I’ll show you when you arrive.

Perhaps we can collect driftwood together.

Would you like that?

I have decided to record this new set of logs as I wait for you. It will help me mark the time, as much as anything. I’m getting forgetful and sometimes I do not know the days. Sometimes I miss the passing of weeks. I’ve wiped all the old logs, to clean things up a bit – there was nothing much there except my ramblings, my doubts. I expect I’ll delete all of these as well, when I see your car pulling in through the gate.