My character’s mind keeps returning to her mother, Nancy.
Nancy came from the north west of Scotland near the beautiful village of Achitilbuei where her family had owned a croft on a green hill bordered by the sea. The Summer Isles shone jewel-like in the bay. Beyond, on a clear day, the Hebrides showed themselves, grey and mysterious. She went back to Achitilbuei after the death of her mother. It was summer when the light refused to die. It transformed, enchanted, coloured the croft and the sea and the islands until she felt close to drowning in its beauty and her grief. Now, regret overwhelms her. She could have returned years earlier with her mother, perhaps after Granny had died. They could have shared so much.
Granny had come out to Australia and lived with them for a while. She was part of the furniture sitting by the fire, humming Gaelic songs to the click clack of her knitting, needles. Knitting, knitting, always knitting. A jolly old lady with a wicked laugh, she’d tell Nedra stories from the islands while they sat and shelled peas or peeled potatoes. The stories were full of kidnappings and killings and ships going down with sailors drowning. She can still see her frowning mother shaking her head, saying: ‘That’s no’ a tale to be telling a wee lassie, Mother.’
