Hubert was the oldest of the island’s fisherman. His father had run sheep up on the ridge to the north of the island. That was where Hubert had been born and the tiny cottage was still much as Elsie Hamm had furnished it as a bride almost a hundred years before.
The cottage had two rooms. There was a tiny kitchen-living room where Robbie sat and fondled Hubert’s old dog, and an even smaller bedroom where Hubert lay, approaching his death with stately dignity.
It’d be a while before he achieved his objective, Morag thought as she measured his blood pressure. Six months ago, Hubert had taken himself to bed, folded his hands across his chest and announced that the end was nigh. The only problem was that the neighbours kept dropping off wonderful casseroles and puddings, usually staying for a chat. His love of gossip was therefore thoroughly catered for. Hubert’s bedroom window looked out over the whole island, and he was so eagle-eyed and interested that death seemed less and less enticing.
With Morag visiting every few days, his health did nothing but improve, to the extent that now Morag had no compunction in bringing Robbie with her as she took her weekly hike up the scree. There was a rough vehicle track round the back of the ridge but the scenery from the walking path was spectacular. She and Robbie enjoyed the hike, and they enjoyed Hubert.
Would that all deathbeds were this healthy, prolonged and cheerful.
‘I’m worse?’ Hubert asked—without much hope—and she grinned.
‘Not so you’d notice. But you’re certainly a week older and that has to count for something.’
‘Death’s coming. I can feel it,’ he said in solemn tones, but a sea eagle chose that moment to glide past his window and his old eyes swung around to follow its soaring flight.
Death might be coming, but life was still looking good.
Consultation over.
‘Have you finished? Is Mr Hamm OK?’ Robbie looked up as she opened Hubert’s bedroom door, and she smiled across at her nine-year-old nephew with affection.
‘Mr Hamm’s great. His blood pressure’s fine. His heart rate’s nice and steady. Our patient looks like living for at least another week—if not another decade. Are you ready to go home?’
‘Yep.’ Robbie gave Elspeth a final hug and rose, a freckled, skinny little redhead with a grin that reminded Morag achingly of Beth. ‘When Mr Hamm dies, can I have Elspeth?’
Elspeth, an ancient golden retriever, pricked up her ears in hope, but back in the bedroom so did Hubert.
‘She’ll stay here until I’m gone,’ the old man boomed.
‘Of course she will,’ Robbie said, with all the indignation of a nine-year-old who knew how the world worked. ‘But you’ve put names on everything else.’
He had, too. In the last six months Hubert had catalogued his cottage. Everything had a name on now, right down to the battered teapot on the edge of the fire-stove. ‘Iris Potter, niece in London,’ the sign said, and Morag hoped that Hubert’s niece would be suitably grateful when the time came.
‘There’s no name on Elspeth,’ Robbie said reasonably. ‘And she’s an ace dog.’
‘Yeah, well, you’re a good lad,’ Hubert conceded from his bed. ‘She’d have a good home with you.’
‘I bet she could catch rabbits.’
‘My oath,’ Hubert told them, still from behind the bedroom door. ‘You should see her go.’
‘You know, you could get up and show Robbie,’ Morag said, trying not to smile, and had a snort of indignation for her pains.
‘What, me? A dying man? You know…’
But she never found out what she was supposed to know. Right at that moment the house gave a long, rolling shudder. The teapot, balanced precariously on the side of the stove, tipped slowly over and crashed to the floor.
For one long moment Morag didn’t realise what was happening. Then she did. Unbelievably, she did. It seemed impossible but there was no time to wonder if she was right or not.
Earthquake?
‘Robbie, out! Get away from the house.’ She shoved Robbie out the door before he could utter a response. Elspeth gave a terrified whimper and bolted after him, and they were barely clear before Morag was back in the bedroom, hauling Hubert out of bed and of the house after Robbie and Elspeth.
‘What the…?’ For someone supposedly ready to meet his maker, Hubert clearly had a way to go. He was white with terror. Morag was practically carrying him across the cottage floor as his old feet tried their hardest to scuttle on a surface that was weirdly unstable.
‘It must be an earthquake.’ She had him clear of the doorway now. Robbie was crouched on the back lawn, holding onto Elspeth, and the dog was whimpering in terror.
‘I don’t believe it.’ Hubert sank to his knees and grabbed his dog as well. ‘We haven’t had one of these on the island for eighty years.’
They were clear now of anything that could fall. The earth seemed to be steadying again and she had everyone well away from the house. Morag was hugging Robbie, and Robbie and Hubert were both hugging Elspeth, so they were crazily attached. It was a weird intimacy in the face of shared peril.
They didn’t talk. Talking seemed impossible. They just knelt and waited for a catastrophe that…that suddenly seemed as if it might not happen.
More silence. It was almost eerie. They sat and waited some more but the tremors seemed to have stopped.
Then they sat up and unattached themselves. Sort of. A bit.
‘Was it really an earthquake?’ Robbie demanded, and when Morag nodded, he let out his breath in one long ‘Cool…’
But his body was still pressed against Morag’s and he was still holding on.
‘We haven’t had one of these for eighty years,’ Hubert whispered.
‘You’ve experienced this before?’
‘We’re on some sort of fault line,’ Hubert told them, his colour and his bravado returning as the ground settled. ‘A bunch of scientists came here years back and did some testing but no one took much notice.’ He snorted, his courage building by the minute. ‘It’ll be the same as last time. A bit of a wobble and a fuss and then naught for another eighty years.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Morag grabbed Robbie around his middle and hugged, hard. Her little nephew was usually the bravest of kids but it didn’t take much for him to remember that the world was inherently unsafe. His ‘cool’ had been decidedly shaky. Seven years ago his father had drowned, and four years back he’d lost his mother. Now he clung alternately to Morag and the dog, and Morag kissed his hair and hugged him tight and wondered where to go to from here.
The only damage up on the ridge seemed to be a dent in Hubert’s teapot. But down below… She shaded her eyes, trying to see down to the little village built around the harbour. It was a gorgeous day. The sleepy fishing village was far below them, but from here it looked untouched.
Maybe a dented teapot was the worst of it.
Please…
‘Maybe you’d better stay up here for a bit in case another shock comes,’ Hubert told her, his voice showing that he was just as wobbly as Robbie.
But she had no choice. She was the island’s only doctor and if there was trouble in the township…
‘I need to head back to check the lighthouse and radio the mainland,’ she told Hubert, but she was speaking to Robbie as well. There was a bit of a stacks-on-the-mill process happening here. Robbie was on her knees, Elspeth was sprawled over Robbie, and Morag had a feeling that if dignity hadn’t been an issue then Hubert would be up here as well. Nothing like the earth