‘It’s fine. I’m here. He’s gone,’ she whispered, looking over towards the inert dog. She stretched an arm to her warm body, fingers moving hopefully through her silken pelt. ‘Poppit?’ she whispered.

Nothing.

‘Pops?’ She felt the tears stopper her throat.

The hazelnut coat didn’t stir – but for a minute twitch of an eyelid. A low whimper brought a sob from her. ‘Oh, thank God!’ Effie crawled on her hands and knees to where her pet lay, dropping her face into Poppit’s coat and weeping pitifully. She was alive! They both were . . . But what sort of life was this, now she had lost her freedom and her name? How could she smile or rest or know a moment’s peace, knowing that he was coming back for her? This wasn’t over. Far from it. The worst was yet to come.

AFTER

Chapter Thirteen

Three months later – 29 August 1930

They were drowning the dogs.

As the boat bobbed and the villagers streamed down to the jetty, the hounds that had herded their sheep, rustled puffins into their snares and sat by their chairs every evening were having their heads held under a calm sea, bubbles escaping in silent protest.

The process was viciously, mercifully quick, but it was no comfort to Effie. She’d watched in horror as the men dragged the dogs by their scruffs to the water’s edge and she’d turned instead for the hills, Poppit limping beside her. She sat now, shaking and unable to move, against a black cliff as the rising sun bloomed like a white rose upon it.

This was goodbye? Death and violence under a blue sky? She knew her neighbours had all been hardened by the realities of living on this rock in the Atlantic, that they were simply doing what had to be done. This was economic reality. Life on the mainland came at a cost and dog licences were a burden the villagers couldn’t afford. Money might never have meant much on an island where they ate what they caught and reaped what they sowed, but their new lives would depend upon what they could earn, not catch; it would be every man for himself. But to have not even left St Kilda, and need money . . . For these to be the last memories of her home . . .

Every few minutes, her name carried intermittently on the wind, wheeling around her head like the pretty kittiwakes.