Writing for Fun
April 2018
Home Away From Home - Gerry Miller
As I stepped off the ferry and walked onto the quayside I heaved a huge sigh of relief, disappearing into the passengers most of whom were looking for or greeting family or friends. At last I was where my ancestors had belonged but I was by distant generations alone just an immigrant. Yet within me I felt a sense of homecoming and a sense of history. My poor dead wife had spent years in tracing my family tree. Why I never knew, I professed no interest, mind you that never stopped her. And at last all her work might be the saving of my life. I was no longer prepared to run and hide, I just wanted to rest.
I wended my way across the hillside and round the cliff edge, following it closely. The weather was being magnanimous and even with a very heavy rucksack and bag, the stroll was glorious. The wind whistled softly and my back straightened as my cares started to lift. My great grandparents were cleared from the croft in the 1860’s and put on a boat that left them stranded high and dry in Canada. The government welcomed with open arms those who survived the passage. Parcels of land were given free and so the family had survived and prospered. As I was an immigrant now my forefathers had been immigrants then.
It was strange as the old croft came into view my heart felt at peace, there it was standing strong and alone a solitary plot with a dilapidated fence surrounding it. The solicitor had informed me that it had been uninhabited for twenty years and title had easily been transferred to me. No questions were asked about my identity, cash changed hands and the deal was done. I heaved a sigh yet again at least if my chickens were to come home to roost, no one else would get involved.
The following months passed sweetly and gently, the manual labour made sleeping easy. I worked with nature getting up at dawn working outside until dusk and pottering indoors as night fell. My grief was becoming more manageable. The last occupiers had water and electricity connected, though I loved evenings in front of the fire by candle light. It was not suitable for reading but at last my mind was calming and becoming settled. The few hundred people on the island left me much to my own devices believing me to be an author in search of solitude and at least part of that was true.
The first winter was hard but at least I had prepared well, the walk across the island to collect supplies from the ferry was challenging. Yet I never once lost my way or slipped near to the cliffs edge. The turf on the roof blended the croft into the hillside and without the fire alight no sight of habitation was noticeable. I kept my beard, grown whilst in hiding, my clothes were naturally shabby. In fact I now looked like all the other islanders.
I had by now finished my book and sent the final draft off to the publishers, it had taken a very circuitous route but my location needed protection. As I had worked on both croft and book the sense of wanting to stay alive had at last returned to me. Once the book was out the cat was out of the bag and risk to me would diminish, those who had been subject of my undercover work and giving of evidence were surely finished. They would be left with thoughts of revenge they had taken my wife and I have taken their freedoms.
Justice was served; their twenty years to be served behind bars should just see me out.