A Declaration of Independence

Every other day, at least, someone had to make the trip over to the mainland, for one reason or another. That someone was invariably me. On that first big shop I'd forgotten to buy any butter. Then there were parcels to collect from the post office. They were all for Toby, of course. I almost plucked up the courage to tell him to go and fetch them himself, but didn't. They were heavy and bulky, but neatly wrapped with string and brown paper. They all bore a Birmingham postmark. I've no idea what they contained.  What with all the rowing, by the end of the first week I had blisters on my palms.

One of the most serious problems we faced, though, was that we were soon going to run out of coal. I couldn't see the local coal merchant making a sea-crossing. When I alerted Toby to this, his response was to ask if they sold it at the supermarket. When I told him they did, in handy 5kg bags, he suggested I buy it, perhaps three or four bags at a time.

“That's probably enough at one go,” he said. “After all, we don't want to sink the ship, do we?” He laughed.

Then there was the question of the post. Toby engaged the services of a tradesman to erect a post box on the mainland close to where the track disappeared into the sea. He informed Royal Mail of the arrangement. He said there was no need for me to go over and check it every day, but would I be a good girl and empty it whenever I was passing?

I put up with all this for a couple more weeks, after which I could stand it no longer. I saw no point in discussing how I felt with Toby and, anyway, there was no way of telling how he would react.  One afternoon, while he was ensconced in his study (he'd been muttering something about 'drawing up a constitution'), I packed up everything I had that I wanted to take with me – it filled a couple of suitcases – and left. I arranged with Bob, the taxi-driver, for him to meet me on the mainland. I took with me the wad of twenties Toby kept ('for contingencies') in the kitchen drawer. Not that I cared by then, but I wasn't sure if the situation was exactly a contingency: it had been more or less predictable from the word go.

Bob met me, as arranged, and helped me pull the boat up. His eyes fell on the suitcases.

“I don't blame you, lass,” he said. “I'm surprised you stuck it out this long.”

He asked me if I was fixed up. He had a sister, he said, in town, who took in lodgers. I thanked him and told him not to worry. I intended to stay with my mother, who also lived in town.  I still had a room there. It was many years since I'd lived in it, but I still used it occasionally when I paid her a visit. I gave him the address.