Ruby2001The plane’s interior is cramped, with single seats down my side of the cabin and narrow pairs across the aisle. I look out of the window, but there’s still nothing to see beyond the whirling propeller blades other than the expanse of wave-flecked water below us. Apart from a glimpse of the Orkney Islands in the distance, there’s been no sign of land for some time. Shetland is a long, long way from the northernmost tip of the British mainland.
I check my watch, then pull down the window blind and lean my head against the plastic, closing my eyes, my mind drifting back to the day a fortnight ago that set me off on this journey . . .
The air in the apartment, situated on one of the best streets in Edinburgh’s elegant New Town, had been a little stuffy. A tall bay window looked out onto leafy gardens, but the sashes must have been painted over many times, layers of white gloss sealing them shut. I glanced around, taking in the expanse of bookshelves, the heavy velvet drapes, and the alcove with its careful display of blue and white porcelain. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, ill at ease on the chintz sofa where Dr. Williamson (“Please do call me Robert”) had indicated I should sit, tugging surreptitiously on the tailored jacket I’d selected for my interview, attempting to smooth out the creases. I’d pulled it from its hanger at the last minute, realizing too late that it was sorely in need of a press, having been squashed into the recesses of the wardrobe for months.
“Tell me, Ruby, what drew you to apply for the position? Shetland’s a remote place for a young woman more used to an Edinburgh social life.”
I’d spotted the ad in the classified section of The Scotsman: “Companion sought for an elderly lady in Shetland. Non-smoker. Clean driving license essential. Accommodation provided.” I didn’t really feel I could tell him that the last two words had been the real attraction, so instead I said that I liked a challenge and relished the prospect of exploring somewhere new. “I know island life can be a bit isolated, but I no longer wish to live in the city. I feel I need more space and freedom, and I’m ready for a change.”
He was only half listening, scanning the CV I’d sent with my application. “I see you grew up on the west coast. Have you any experience of working on a croft? Looking after sheep and whatnot?”
“My parents had a farm there. They’re older now, so they’ve slimmed things down a bit, but I grew up helping them feed the animals, lending a hand at lambing time and so on. Also, Dad had a boat and a few creels. We all mucked in.”
He nodded approvingly. “So you’re used to the sea. And I presume you can swim?”
It seemed an odd question, although island life obviously involves being comfortable surrounded by water. “Yes, I love swimming. And I’m happy to turn my hand to anything that’s needed. I was used to doing that on the farm, and it’s still in my blood.”
I’d hesitated slightly over that glib, deceptively simple phrase, tripped suddenly by the image of my sister lying in her hospital bed in those final days when I didn’t leave her side, a plastic bag suspended from a metal stand above her, dark red ooze inching its way down a plastic tube. For a moment, the crashing waves of grief threatened to overwhelm me again, and I swallowed, struggling to maintain my composure. Losing her is still raw.
But then I’d forced myself to concentrate on the interview and carried on, as naturally as I could. “Painting is more my thing. I came to Edinburgh to study at the art school and stayed on. But, as I say, I’m ready for a change now. I’d relish a move to the north, a change of scene and some new inspiration.”
He’d accepted my response at face value and moved on to other questions on his list.
At last, he’d drawn the interview to an end. “Well, Ruby, thank you for your time. Any questions about the role?”
He’d already explained that the job would mostly involve providing company for his elderly mother, helping on her croft as needed, and keeping an eye on things. He mentioned that she was fiercely independent and had turned down the offer of a nice room in sheltered housing in the city, clearly his preferred option. “She’s still driving a little, too,” he’d said, “although I worry she’s becoming a bit of a liability on the roads. The successful applicant will have the use of her car, if only to minimize how often she gets behind the wheel.” Something in the tone of his voice made me think he was a little exasperated with her.
I shook my head. “Not really. It sounds pretty straightforward. I’m a keen learner. And I’d say I’m quite a practical person.” As if it were an afterthought, I added, “Could you tell me a little bit more about the accommodation, perhaps?”
“Of course. You’ll have your own small cottage, a converted byre across from my mother’s house. It’s tiny, no more than a couple of rooms, but we’ll cover the bills as part of your package. I’m sorry we can’t offer more in the way of a salary, but I believe the accommodation makes it an attractive proposition for the right person.”
The thought of having my own little house, somewhere new and unknown, miles away from the reminders that lurked in every corner of the Edinburgh flat that my sister, Lucy, and I had shared, filled me with longing. I’d pictured Shetland in my mind’s eye, a place where the sky and the sea would form a blank canvas.
That’s what I find myself craving now: a blank canvas, empty of other people’s pain. A place where my face doesn’t remind people constantly of their anguish. A place where there’s nothing but wildness and emptiness, and perhaps enough space for my grief.
I’m running away, of course, avoiding the tough decisions I know I’ll soon have to make—decisions that will shape the rest of my life. I long to fill my days with hard, physical work so that there’s no time to think about them, no room in my head for the sadness and loss, anger and hopelessness that threaten to drown me sometimes.
I’d summoned a smile and looked him squarely in the eye. “Well, I believe I’m the right person. I hope you think so, too.”
He looked at me appraisingly, then glanced at the piece of paper in his hand. “And you’d be able to start . . . ?”
“As soon as you like. Or, rather, as soon as your mother would like.”
He smiled wryly at the mention of his mother, and again I could sense his frustration. He’d seemed about to say something, but instead he stood and extended a hand. “Thank you for your time, Ruby. I’ll be in touch once I’ve had a chance to discuss the applications we’ve received with my sister. She was sorry not to be here today, but we’re both doctors, and her work is very demanding.”
Then he’d ushered me into the hall, and I’d made my way down the tiled stairs, the longing for an island on the edge of a wild ocean filling the empty shell of my heart as I stepped back out into the street.
Copyright © 2026 by Fiona Valpy. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
