Calypso Dreaming [Print on Demand (Paperback)]

"Sweetholm! Do you remember it?"
Tansy peered through the telescope. In its depths a piece of
clockwork was counting out their time and turning it to cash.
The island bobbed up against the glass. It was low and flat, but
for the abrupt brown hill at the western tip.

"Of course she doesn’t remember, Geoff," said Tansy’s
mother. "She was hardly walking when she came last."
"You’d be surprised what sticks sometimes. Even at that age."
Tansy opened her mouth to reply, then clapped it shut again.
Dad was wrong, of course. Of course and as usual. But she didn’t
need to say it. Not today, when everything ought to be perfect.
"I remember it from the photos Uncle John sent. It looks
closer than I imagined, though. Is it really five miles out? I can
see buildings."

"Five miles by ferry," said her father. "But that’s going from
Plinth. And the ferry’s got shoals to negotiate, remember. Tricky
waters." He gestured to where the water was stippled with dark

patches. "As the gull flies, we’re closer here on the headland. Of
which, as you can see, Sweetholm is geologically an extension –
and Longholm beyond it."

Geoff unfolded the map on his knee, standing like a flamingo
with something to prove as a thermal billowed up and ballooned
the paper.
"It’s not that we don’t believe you, Dad," said Tansy, turning
back to the car.
Their car was parked in the small semicircle of gravel at the
head of the Down. A lane ran back, dividing one bleating field
from another. It led into the main road down to Plinth. There
were two cars parked there, their own and a black Volkswagen in
which an elderly couple were eating sandwiches under the late
June sun.
Geoff ignored the retreat to the car and put another coin in
the slot. He moved the telescope over to the next bay along their
own coast, and the harbour town of Plinth. Every day in summer
a ferry set sail from there to Sweetholm, with a cargo of
ornithologists, hermits and trippers, though Sweetholm was just
too far away to make a day trip comfortable.That was where the
beauty of the place lay – in its splendid near-isolation. Then he
noticed the time and that the ferry was already docked.
But in such a place hurry was impossible. With the telescope
still whirring, Geoff climbed into the car then inched it to the
road and let it drop, braking all the time, down the steep, ear-popping
hill into town. It was eleven in the morning and some
of the shops were only just opening. One man,unlocking the door
of his picture gallery, glanced at the car as it parked beside the ferry
offices and shook his head with an air of frank reproof. Geoff
looked out instinctively for No Parking signs, but found none.
Perhaps they just looked disreputable in the unwashed Volvo.
Tansy and her mother waited as Geoff dealt with the ticket
side of things. Her mother seemed exhausted, with her head on
her hand, her hand propped on an elbow, her elbow wedged into

the car door. It seemed as if she were thinking of something else,
or of somewhere she would rather be than here, teetering on the
brink of an adventure.

The ferry was the open-air kind, with room for four vehicles
at most. The mate hauled boxes of supplies into the dark hold.
Even before she was out of the car,Tansy noticed the boat’s slight
movement and the slapping of the water against its sides. But
there was no wind to speak of as they descended to the deck.
Then the ropes were cast, the water churned and they had left
Britain behind.

Tansy’s parents stood on either side of the ferry, having
settled into a mutual sulk. They had their backs to each other,
like a pair of novelty bookends. The female bookend was a bit
queasy: Hilary had never been good with water. The other
passengers had drifted into groups. Three men with backpacks
made their way to the bows and stood, eyes shielded, to catch the
white wing of a seabird flashing fifty yards out on the tinselled
water.

"Isn’t that a Mediterranean gull?"
"Yes, look!" Tansy heard them exclaim with quiet
excitement." This far north!"
The gulls all looked the same to Tansy. She supposed
birdwatchers would be migrating daily to the island. Meanwhile,
another group of passengers was chatting with the captain,
whom they clearly knew. Locals, she guessed, wanting to
distinguish themselves from the tourists with whom they shared
the boat. She remembered what her mother had said about the

islanders: "They’ll never let us in, Geoff. They’ll talk to their sheep more than they will to us. And you expect us to house-sit here all summer?"