Chapter One

PHILIP WAS FIRST OF THE GROUP to the island. He’d had to drive overnight but it was worth the effort to get here before the morning high water, before the day trippers crossed from the mainland in their cars and coaches to buy ice cream and chips. He tried not to resent the squabbling children and the wealthy elderly, but he was always pleased when the island was quiet. As he did at every reunion, he wanted to sit in the chapel and reflect for some time in peace. This year would mark fifty years of friendship and he needed to offer a prayer of thanks and to remember.

The most vivid memory was of the weekend when they’d first come together on the island. Only Connect, the teacher had called it. Part outward bound course, part encounter group, part team-building session. And there had been a connection, so strong and fierce that after fifty years the tie was still there, unbroken and still worth celebrating. This was where it had all started.

The next memory was of death and a life cut short.

Philip had no fear of dying. Sometimes, he thought he would welcome death, as an insomniac longs for sleep. It was as inevitable as the water, which twice a day slid across the sand and mud of the shore until the causeway was covered. Eventually, he would drown. His faith provided no extra comfort, only a vague curiosity. Almost, he hoped that there would be no afterlife; surely that would take energy and there were days now when he felt that he had no energy left. It had seeped away in his service to his parish and the people who needed him.

He did regret the deaths of others. His working life moved to the beat of funeral services, the tolling of the church bell, the march of pall-bearers. He remembered the babies, who’d had no experience of life at all, the young who’d had no opportunity to change and grow. He’d been allowed that chance and he offered up another prayer of gratitude.

An image of Isobel, so young, so bonny, so reckless in her desires and her thoughtlessness, intruded into his meditation and he allowed his mind to wander.

Was it Isobel who kept the group returning to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne every five years? Had her death at the first reunion bonded them together so tightly that, despite their differences, they were as close as family? Perhaps that deserved gratitude too, because these people were the only family he had left.

In the tiny chapel, with its smell of damp and wood polish, he closed his eyes and he pictured her. Blonde and shapely and sparking with life. A wide smile and energy enough for them all.

From the first floor of the Pilgrims’ House, he’d seen her driving away to her death. He’d watched the argument that had led to her sudden departure. Forty-five years ago, Isobel had drowned literally. No metaphor had been needed for her. Her body had been pulled out of her car, once the waters had retreated. Her vehicle had been swept from the causeway in the high tide of the equinox, tossed from the road like a toy by the wind and the waves. Once she’d set out on her way to the mainland, there had been no chance to save her.

Had that been the moment when he’d changed from a selfish, self-opinionated, edgy young man to a person of faith? Perhaps the conversion had begun a little later, the evening of the same day, when he’d sat in this chapel in the candlelight with his friends and they’d cried together, trying to make sense of Isobel’s passing. Annie and Daniel, Lou and Ken, Rick and Philip. The mourning had been complicated because none of them had liked Isobel very much. The men had all fancied her. Oh yes, certainly that. She’d featured in Philip’s erotic dreams throughout his undergraduate years. But she’d been too demanding and too entitled for them to like her.

Philip opened his eyes for a moment. The low sunlight of autumn was flooding through the plain glass windows into the building, but he knew he had time for more reflection – more guilt? – before the others arrived. He closed his eyes again to remember Isobel and that argument which must surely have led to her death. He hadn’t heard the words. He’d been in his first-floor room in the Pilgrims’ House looking down, an observer, not a participant. Isobel and Rick had been fighting in the lane below him. There’d been no physical contact – it hadn’t come to that – but Philip had sensed the tension, which was so different from the weekend’s general mood of easy companionship.

The fight had seemed important. Almost intimate. Not a row between casual friends or strangers. Even if Philip had been closer, he might not have made out what was being said, because there was a storm blowing and the wind would have carried the words away. He’d relished the drama of the scene, looking on with a voyeur’s excitement, as he’d watched the row play out beneath him.

Then, from where he’d stood, he’d seen Annie rounding the bend in the lane, a woven shopping bag in one hand. She must have been into the village for provisions. No longer a mother, she’d mothered them all that weekend, and now, all these years later, she was still the person who shopped and cooked.

Rick and Isobel hadn’t noticed her, because they were so focused on each other, spitting out insults. Rick had hurled one more comment and suddenly Isobel had been flouncing away, her long hair blown over her face, feeling in the pockets of her flowery Laura Ashley dress for her car keys. At that point Philip could have changed history. If he’d rushed downstairs and outside, he might have stood in front of the car and stopped her driving away. He’d known after all that the tide was rushing in and it would be foolhardy to attempt the crossing.

But Philip hadn’t moved. He’d stayed where he was, staring out of the window like a nebby old woman, waiting to see what would happen next. And Isobel had started her car and driven to her death.

So, here Philip was, a priest on the verge of retirement, an old believer, yet with no great desire to meet his maker. Here he sat, hands clasped and eyes shut, waiting for his friends, longing again for the connection and the ease that only they could give, pondering the moment of Isobel’s death. It seemed to him now that he’d spent the rest of his life trying to find relationships that were as intense and fulfilling as those developed here. Nothing had lived up to expectation. Not even, if he was honest, his trust in Christ.

Perhaps that was why he’d never married. Later, there’d been women he’d fancied himself in love with, but there’d never been the same depth of understanding, and in the end, he’d refused to compromise. If one of the women who’d shared that first weekend of connection had been free, perhaps that would have worked. Now, it crossed his mind again that Judith, the teacher who’d brought them together, might make a suitable partner, that he might find company and intimacy in old age. They were both alone after all. But Philip knew that he was probably too cowardly and too lazy to make a move. He smiled to himself; he wasn’t sure he wanted to share his life after all this time. He was too comfortable, and too set in his ways.

He got to his feet, walked down the narrow aisle and out into the sunshine. He could smell seaweed and salt. He felt at home.


Copyright © 2022 by Ann Cleeves