I thought quickly. Unst or Yell? Unst looked closer and, instinctively, it felt right to head for home, but the cliffs are steeper and far less forgiving than those on the neighbouring island. There'd be little point in reaching land only to die of exposure at the foot of a thirty-metre cliff. I turned for Yell and started swimming.
Several minutes later, I'd made no progress through the water. I couldn't remember what the currents were like here in the Sound but I guessed I was swimming against one. I looked around again, hoping in the face of no real probability that someone would see me: a passing fishing boat, a cliff walker, another dinghy, anyone. That's when I saw the thing that was to save my life: not ten yards away and barely visible against water that was getting darker and greyer by the minute was a broken-off chunk of wooden pallet. I swam for it. Several times I touched it only to have it swept away, but finally I had it. I gripped it tight and started to kick.
The wind got up; the waves became choppier and the rain heavier. From time to time, sea-birds dived close, cawing at me. At first, I thought they were merely curious, then I got to wondering if they were trying to tell me something: not that way – you're heading straight for a rip-tide, swim south now – the current will take you in. After a while, I wondered if the prospect of carrion was the real attraction.
I know exactly how long I spent in the water that day because I always wear a waterproof wristwatch when I'm sailing. Having the watch helped almost as much as having the pallet. It kept at bay the bewildering disorientation of not knowing how much time was passing and it enabled me to set little targets for myself, even play games. I would swim for ten minutes and then rest for two, timing it to the second. Then I would lay bets with myself. How many more minutes before I could recognize sea birds on the cliffs? How many more before I could make out wild flowers on the rocks?
The pallet kept me afloat; the watch kept me sane; and my legs, strong from years of daily horse-riding, kicked me back to land.
It took three hours and twenty minutes to swim the quarter- mile from where the dinghy capsized to the island of Yell. That's the equivalent of about thirty lengths of a twenty-five-metre municipal swimming pool, and if it seems wimpishly slow, then you have to remember that swimming pools do not, as a rule, have tides, nor currents, nor freezing temperatures, nor heavy rain pelting down on you. But eventually it was over and by ten minutes to twelve I knew that if death by drowning was to be my fate, it wasn't going to happen that day. Thirty seconds later I staggered on to the beach.
Death from exposure was still on the cards, though, and I had to get moving. I pulled myself to my feet and looked around. Ahead of me was a cliff: not massively high but a cliff nonetheless. The beach was very narrow, hardly more than a strip of sand, and behind a very thin causeway there was a small lake. Two streams fed it, running down from the cliff-top above, and I realized they offered my best route up.
I started upwards. The stream I was following had cut out numerous little ledges and gullies over the years, and climbing wasn't difficult. The biggest danger was that I would get careless and slip. Before I reached the top I saw a car drive past, not thirty yards away from me, but the driver was staring straight ahead. I kept on going and collapsed at the roadside.
The rain was striking my face like a whip with a thousand tiny lashes and if a patient had arrived in A &E shivering as violently as I was doing, I'd have been seriously concerned. Yet I found I had enough strength left to start worrying about Duncan. Would it really be worth surviving only to find that he hadn't? He was a better swimmer than I, but what if he'd been hit by the mast? I found I had enough energy left to cry.
By twelve-fifteen I hadn't seen another car and had no choice but to start walking. I was barefoot. Shortly after the accident my sailing boots had filled with water. I'd kicked them off but I'd have been glad of them – of anything – now. The roadside verges were made of coarse grass, mud, shingle and more stones. After ten minutes my feet were bleeding.
I walked along the road until I came to Gutcher, from where the Yell-Unst ferry leaves, and stumbled into the green-painted, wooden-built cafe just by the pier.
'Dat in traath!' said the woman behind the counter at the sight of me. There were two other people in the cafe, a boy of about ten and a woman whom I took for his mother. They said nothing, just stared.
'Do you have a phone I could use?' I managed. 'I've been in a sailing accident,' I added, although I'm sure it was hardly necessary.
'Yan!' yelled the woman, her head half turned towards a door at the back of the cafe, her eyes fixed on me. 'Da lassie is haff drunned.'
They brought me a phone but I couldn't dial the number. I couldn't even remember it, but I managed to tell them who I was and they put the call through. It seemed to take a long time and all the while I was bracing myself for the news that Duncan hadn't made it back. I think I retreated to somewhere inside my head, only vaguely aware of movement and sound around me. I was given hot tea that I couldn't even hold and someone put a car blanket around me. I became the object of the gentle curiosity and unconditional kindness that you only find in small communities. And I waited to be told the news of my husband's death.
20
DUNCAN WAS NOT DEAD. Duncan came racing into the café an hour later, a little whiter in the face than normal but otherwise perfectly OK. Later, I learned the dinghy hadn't capsized, just broached violently and then righted itself. Duncan had managed to cling to the tiller and remain on board, but with the mast gone and the sails ripped, it was pretty much uncontrollable, and heading for the cliffs. He'd inflated his life jacket – working perfectly, thank you – and prepared to bail. Then he'd had the good fortune to be spotted by a passing boat. Rob Craigie, owner of one of the largest salmon farms on Unst, had been returning from an early-morning check of his offshore cages. He'd rescued Duncan and the two of them had spent the next hour looking for me. In the face of a steadily worsening storm, Duncan had eventually been persuaded to return to Unst and call out the coastguard. By the time the phone call from the Yell cafe reached the Guthrie home, I had been missing for nearly four hours.
I don't remember much about the journey back to Westing. Just that Richard drove and I sat in the back, huddled close to Duncan. No one spoke much. It took longer than it should have because the bad weather was delaying the ferries, but eventually, around mid afternoon, we arrived back. Elspeth had built a huge fire in our room and put extra quilts on the bed. Duncan helped me take a hot bath and then dressed me in a pair of Richard's flannel pyjamas. Richard checked me for concussion, gave me painkillers for my headache and Temazepam to help me sleep. I didn't argue, although I doubted I really needed it. Sleep was the only thing I felt I could handle just then.
Voices woke me. I was still drowsy. I wanted to go back to sleep. I closed my eyes and snuggled down.
Duncan was shouting. I'd never heard raised voices in that house before. I opened my eyes again. The curtains were drawn and a soft lamp glowed in the corner of the room. I turned to look at the clock. It was a little past seven in the evening. I sat up and felt OK, so I climbed out of bed.
The door was slightly ajar. I could hear Richard now. He wasn't shouting – I doubted him capable of doing so – but he was arguing. I moved out into the corridor and hovered uncertainly at the top of the stairs.
The door to Richard's study was open and Duncan appeared in the doorway. He stopped and turned, looking back into the room.
'I've had enough,' he said firmly. 'I want out. I'm getting out!'
Then he was gone: along the corridor, through the kitchen and out of the back door. I had the weirdest feeling that he was gone for good; that I was never going to see Duncan again. I moved down the steps. Four steps down, I realized that Richard wasn't alone in his study. Elspeth was with him. They were arguing too, but very quietly. Another step down and I realized she was pleading with him.