this lonely rock less than a dozen miles from the coast. It could have been the Aegean. It could have been the Bay of Bengal. But it was a golden spot on the Irish Sea, and we sat in the open boat as it moved into the shade.
Before we reached the jetty, I asked the youngsters to stop talking and listen to our place of arrival. There was nothing around us but the sound of birds. 'Are we the only people here?' whispered Lisa.
'Yes,' I said. 'We are alone here.'
'That's weird,' said Mark.
I lifted my rucksack and the group ran ahead, shouting and cavorting up the incline that leads to the Garry Loch. They made their way in a gaggle of soft punches and Americanisms, hollering into the distance or back down to the water. That was their way, but still, leaving the skipper and the boat behind, I felt the value of their young voices tumbling down the rock. For a short time that day, we were a nation on the island of Ailsa Craig, them and me, under a sky so blue it made all dreams seem continuous. Lisa sat down next to the loch and picked at some marsh marigolds sprouting from a border of moss.
'How old are you?' she said.
'Fifty-six.'
'That's mental. Fifty-six. So what happens when you retire? Is there, like, a home for priests?'
'No,' I said. 'You just go somewhere. There's always a lot in the world to be getting on with.'
'My dad,' she said, 'he hasn't worked since I was about two or three. They closed Massey Ferguson. They made tractors. That's where he used to work when he had a job.'
'What does he do now?'
'He does the Lotto,' she said. 'Nuttin else. He gets on my mother's nerves. She works cleaning the school and he watches Sky Sports.'
'What do you want to do?' I asked.
'I want to be, like, a make-up artist. For films and that. Or like on magazines. You know, like where they go to places with models and they put clothes on them and somebody does the make-up. That's me.'
She looked over the water. Ayrshire was a series of green curves and grey houses: it looked like a place of certainties. 'I'll tell you something,' said Lisa. 'I'm not hanging about over there.'
'No,' I said. 'But I thought you didn't like foreigners.'
'Aye, but I don't care. I'd like to have loads of shoes.'
'What else?'
'I want to go out and that,' she said. 'Buy a car and a good stereo. You have to admit: that would be totally awesome. Gucci sunglasses. I want a pair of Gucci sunglasses.'
'Right,' I said. 'I'm sure you'll have that.'
Lisa stroked her shiny leg with a marigold and smacked her lips. She suddenly looked up at me as if she hadn't seen me before. 'Father,' she said, 'you have wasted your life, haven't you?'
The island was real to me in the way that memory is real, a place almost too solid and transfixing. 'I don't think so,' I said. 'I believe in God. That has been my life.'
'It can't be,' she said. 'You could have been having a good time and you've wasted it.'
'That's not true, Lisa. Not from my point of view. We have different names for it, but I've lived according to my faith.'
'What is your name?'
'Sorry?'
'Your real name. What is it?'
'David Anderton.'
'So what's wrong with just being him?'
I stood up and spun a stone across the loch to make it jump. 'It must be quite boring,' she said, 'being Father somebody and having to go on like you're good all the time. Nobody else does. And then you end up here, in Bumble-fuck, UK.'
'I am him,' I said, and I knew my voice was quiet. I was searching to say something permanent. 'Faith and good works,' I said. 'It's not
your
idea of a life, but it is mine.'
'Whatever,' she said. By that time the others had run over the verge and were panting beside us. 'He believes in God,' said Lisa, with a wide smile on her face.
'That's freaky,' said Mark. 'Him a priest as well.' I made a comedy face and put out my hands to him, advancing like Frankenstein's monster.
'God is the supreme Spirit,' I said, 'who alone exists of Himself, and is infinite in all perfections.'
'Call the
Before we reached the jetty, I asked the youngsters to stop talking and listen to our place of arrival. There was nothing around us but the sound of birds. 'Are we the only people here?' whispered Lisa.
'Yes,' I said. 'We are alone here.'
'That's weird,' said Mark.
I lifted my rucksack and the group ran ahead, shouting and cavorting up the incline that leads to the Garry Loch. They made their way in a gaggle of soft punches and Americanisms, hollering into the distance or back down to the water. That was their way, but still, leaving the skipper and the boat behind, I felt the value of their young voices tumbling down the rock. For a short time that day, we were a nation on the island of Ailsa Craig, them and me, under a sky so blue it made all dreams seem continuous. Lisa sat down next to the loch and picked at some marsh marigolds sprouting from a border of moss.
'How old are you?' she said.
'Fifty-six.'
'That's mental. Fifty-six. So what happens when you retire? Is there, like, a home for priests?'
'No,' I said. 'You just go somewhere. There's always a lot in the world to be getting on with.'
'My dad,' she said, 'he hasn't worked since I was about two or three. They closed Massey Ferguson. They made tractors. That's where he used to work when he had a job.'
'What does he do now?'
'He does the Lotto,' she said. 'Nuttin else. He gets on my mother's nerves. She works cleaning the school and he watches Sky Sports.'
'What do you want to do?' I asked.
'I want to be, like, a make-up artist. For films and that. Or like on magazines. You know, like where they go to places with models and they put clothes on them and somebody does the make-up. That's me.'
She looked over the water. Ayrshire was a series of green curves and grey houses: it looked like a place of certainties. 'I'll tell you something,' said Lisa. 'I'm not hanging about over there.'
'No,' I said. 'But I thought you didn't like foreigners.'
'Aye, but I don't care. I'd like to have loads of shoes.'
'What else?'
'I want to go out and that,' she said. 'Buy a car and a good stereo. You have to admit: that would be totally awesome. Gucci sunglasses. I want a pair of Gucci sunglasses.'
'Right,' I said. 'I'm sure you'll have that.'
Lisa stroked her shiny leg with a marigold and smacked her lips. She suddenly looked up at me as if she hadn't seen me before. 'Father,' she said, 'you have wasted your life, haven't you?'
The island was real to me in the way that memory is real, a place almost too solid and transfixing. 'I don't think so,' I said. 'I believe in God. That has been my life.'
'It can't be,' she said. 'You could have been having a good time and you've wasted it.'
'That's not true, Lisa. Not from my point of view. We have different names for it, but I've lived according to my faith.'
'What is your name?'
'Sorry?'
'Your real name. What is it?'
'David Anderton.'
'So what's wrong with just being him?'
I stood up and spun a stone across the loch to make it jump. 'It must be quite boring,' she said, 'being Father somebody and having to go on like you're good all the time. Nobody else does. And then you end up here, in Bumble-fuck, UK.'
'I am him,' I said, and I knew my voice was quiet. I was searching to say something permanent. 'Faith and good works,' I said. 'It's not
your
idea of a life, but it is mine.'
'Whatever,' she said. By that time the others had run over the verge and were panting beside us. 'He believes in God,' said Lisa, with a wide smile on her face.
'That's freaky,' said Mark. 'Him a priest as well.' I made a comedy face and put out my hands to him, advancing like Frankenstein's monster.
'God is the supreme Spirit,' I said, 'who alone exists of Himself, and is infinite in all perfections.'
'Call the
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