Page 118 of Take Me Away

‘Hey,’ I say gently.

She doesn’t look up. Just keeps going, rhythmic and relentless. The knife thuds against the chopping board with a sound that feels like a heartbeat out of rhythm.

‘I had a delivery booked,’ she says. Her voice is flat. ‘Didn’t cancel it. Didn’t even think to.’

‘You want help?’

‘No.’

I step forward anyway, grab another board, another knife. ‘Tough.’

We chop in silence.

The onions burn my throat. The grief burns deeper.

Every few minutes, Nina wipes her cheek with the back of her wrist. It’s hard to tell which tears belong to which cause.

‘I’ve only just met you, Nina, but I want you to know I’m going to be here for you. I’m your friend now, and where I’ve been, friends are few and far between, so we can chop onions, you can cry into my hair and use my jumper as a tissue, but I’m going to be here.’

She nods. Once. And then we chop.

When she finally stops, it’s not to cry. It’s to press both palms to the counter and lean into it like she can’t hold herself up on her own.

‘He always wore those ridiculous wool socks,’ she says eventually, voice barely audible. ‘Even in summer,’ she adds.

I nod, even though I can’t speak.

‘I told him he looked like a retired geography teacher. He said he was keeping the traditions of hardy Cornish men alive.’

Her shoulders start to shake. Just a little. Barely a ripple.

‘Now I can’t stop thinking – when he went into the water – were his feet warm?’

That’s what breaks me. Not the silence. Not the storm. Not even the memory of Kit’s bloodied hands and wild eyes.

It’s Nina talking about socks. I slide my hand across the counter and cover hers. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to.

We stand there, the scent of onion and grief folding in the cracks like rising dough. No tidy platitudes. Just presence. Not a perfect soundbite. Just silence.

It’s all I have to give.

‘I don’t know what to do now,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t know what to do, because I always wait for his boat to come in.’

I squeeze her fingers. ‘I know.’

I’m walking back to Kit’s place, ignoring the sad forlorn look Salt Cottage throws at me, when my phone rings and I fish it out of my jacket pocket. The sun is shining, like no storm even existed, October is just blustering under a weak autumnal sunshine, and Piper’s face is flashing in my hand. Just like that, my stomach rolls like the deck of the Mary Jane as it pitched Kit overboard.

I almost don’t answer. My hands still smell like onions, my eyes are raw from crying, and I don’t have the energy for whatever development in my own personal crisis she might be calling about. But I answer anyway. ‘Hey.’

‘Christ, Isla, I’ve been trying to reach you for two days.’ Piper’s tone has reached a new pitch and I wince, pulling my phone away from my ear. ‘Are you okay? Apparently there was a red weather warning? Did the cottage collapse, do I need to send a salvage company and not a house-clearance service?’ She pauses, just for a breath, and I cut in before she finds more words to say.

‘I’m fine, well, not fine. But fine.’

‘Riddles, Isla. You know I can’t do riddles.’

‘Remember Nina?’ My throat tightens. ‘From the café?’

‘Of course I remember, I strive on my ability to remember a face and a name.’