Page 34 of Indie
I stroked over the hand that curled around my body, feeling her fingers relax slightly over the top of my leathers. I should just keep riding. But I’d promised her breakfast. So, I turned off the road that would have taken me to Scotland and rode out towards the sea.
The tide was just going out, still swamping the land with water as we stopped at the end of the road, looking out towards the horizon. Emmie’s arms relaxed from around me, tightening instantly as the bike lurched to the side. Pushing my visor up, I patted her hand.
“It’s ok, Spuggy. I won’t let you fall.” And I meant that in so many more ways than the literal.
The bike rested against the stand, the engine rumbling underneath us, and even though I loved the sound of its voice, I turned it off.
“Holy Island?” Emmie shouted through her visor.
Carefully, I peeled her arms from around me, sliding off the bike in front of her. She wobbled a moment, not sure what to hold on to, the tilt of the bike pushing her curbside. I reached towards her, sliding her visor up.
“Yes,” I answered. “I can hear you better with this up. But yes, we’re going to Holy Island for breakfast.”
“But the sea?”
“Tide’s moving out. We’ll be able to cross in a few minutes.”
“Is it safe?”
“To cross?”
Emmie nodded.
“Yes. As long as the tide’s going out and not coming in. When it comes in, it comes in quick. See those masts over there?”
She nodded again.
“That’s the only thing that will save you if you get stuck in the tide.”
Emmie followed my hand to the dark sticks in the distance that rose into the sky, and the little hut that sat on the top. There was no part of me that wanted to spend ten hours in a wooden hut in the North Sea waiting for the tide to go back out. But I’d known people who had done it after trying to play ‘Billy big balls’ and race the sea.
As we stood watching, the tide drew further and further back, eventually exposing the road that led to the little island.
“Hop on, Spuggy. Time for breakfast.” I swung my leg over the bike, turning and patting the space on the leather behind me.
“Is it safe yet?” she asked nervously, her eyes fixed on the sea, the first rays of sunlight reflecting off its surface.
“It will clear the causeway in a few minutes. By the time we reach the middle, there’ll only be puddles left.”
She bit her lip, as if steeling herself, then slotted the visor down, shielding her face, and climbed on behind me.
The bike roared to life, a small row of cars now waiting behind us, and I led the procession over the road, moving carefully over wet sand and puddles, keeping the wheels out of the crops of seaweed which hadn’t retreated with the tide. Remnants of the sea flanked the road, gradually sinking away,a reminder that we were crossing on its terms. I never rushed the ride to Holy Island, not unless the tide was fast approaching. Being granted permission by the sea to approach was a grand gesture, one that I acknowledged every time. There was nothing so beautiful as nature and nothing as cruel. Not even my father. I shook the thought from my mind, shooing the darkness away just for a little while. My ray of sunshine was at my back, and although I couldn’t see her, I could feel her warmth against my body, even with leather against leather.
The causeway disappeared, the sand covered tarmac clearing to normal road, still wet from the morning’s rain, sand and Marram grass replacing the water, easing us up onto the island itself, welcoming and safe. On either side of us the scenery transformed, the thick reedy grasses softening till eventually it morphed into fields of luscious green, nourished by sea air, and sea minerals.
The road wound on. We passed two carparks, ignoring the restricted access signs and the ‘residents only’ orders, filtering through a street of houses and taking the first left we came to. It was hard to get lost on the island. With so few houses and fewer streets, you could redirect yourself in no time. The little road of six or seven properties ended, and I turned right, the heavy rumble of the big bike echoing loudly off the thick brick walls on either side of the narrow lane and as we pulled up alongside a small crop of weathered stone cottages, every curtain at every window twitched, save for the very cottage right at the very end.
Nearly every other house was a guest house or air BnB on the island now. Very few true residents left. But at a tiny door, at the furthest end of the street, a two bedroomed cottage stood, the only one not offering rooms to rent. I stopped the bike,killing the engine and helping Emmie move from the seat, the bike leaning left, safe on the kickstand.
The door opened before we got there, the tall woman bounding out, her arms outstretched and the widest of grins on her face.
“Indie. My boy!” she bellowed, her messy dungarees hanging from one strap, blue and pink paint smudged on her cheek.
Then she turned, her face quieting, her eyes moving over the petite leather clad frame in front of me. Her smiled faded, a quiet satisfaction replacing the elation of before.
“Emmie, this is my Ma. Ma, Emmie.”
Her smile widened, not as animated but warmth radiating from her, and she held out a paint-stained hand towards her.