This Book Made Me Think of You(63)

Rachel’s eyebrows shoot up, and she glances warily at Tilly.

“Maybe we’ll just steer clear of the mountains…”

“Maybe best.”

The shop owner watches them ride away, Rachel setting off first and pedaling slowly to wait for Tilly to catch up. She pushes tentatively off, but immediately the weight of the bike makes her wobble, swerving toward a lamppost. At the last minute she manages to steady herself and steer out of the way. A few moments later she has caught up with Rachel, the two of them cycling side by side. The wind rushes against her face.

“Good luck!” calls the bike shop owner behind them. Tilly can’t bring herself to look back, fearing his expression might not inspire the confidence she knows she needs to muster if she’s going to make it through the next two days.



* * *



—

Within minutes of arriving on Jura, they encounter a herd of red deer grazing on the side of the road. Wild moorland stretches out in one direction, and in the other is the sea, the coastline rocky in places and sandy in others. They pass the occasional fishing boat, the odd Land Rover, and a lot of deer. The island’s one village is home to a hotel, two distilleries, and a community shop, and as they cycle through, it looks like the kind of place you’d expect to see on the front of a shortbread tin. They pause at the hotel for a bowl of chips in the garden overlooking the water and to make use of the facilities before continuing north to the wilder part of the island.

As Tilly steps back into the garden from the bathroom, she spots Rachel scribbling in a small notebook.

“Whose memoir are you working on now?” she asks as she sits opposite on the picnic bench.

Rachel closes the book. “I’ve actually started writing a novel.”

“Oh wow!”

“It’s not really anything yet,” Rachel replies quickly, fiddling with her pen and biting down on her bottom lip. “It might not go anywhere but…” Her face breaks into an unfiltered smile. “I’m having fun. And you inspired me actually. Made me think that maybe I could write something of my own.”

“I think that’s amazing, Rachel! It’s about time people got to hear your voice.”

Rachel’s eyes flick up to Tilly’s.

“It’s still terrifying to think of putting my own name to something.”

“I can imagine that does feel scary. But I reckon you’ve been hiding for long enough. When you have something that you’re happy to share, I’d love to read it.”

“Thanks, Tilly. That means so much, especially coming from you.”

Tilly can understand more than most the desire to hide. It’s what she had been doing ever since Joe died, up until she received a phone call from her local bookshop that changed everything…As Tilly looks out at the view in front of them, it hits her that at the start of the year she never for a second imagined she would end up here.

“Shall we keep moving?”



* * *



—

For the rest of the day’s ride, the beauty is tempered by the ache in Tilly’s thighs and the stinging of her palms from gripping the handlebars so tightly, especially now the smooth tarmac road has become a rough dirt track, littered with rocks and dips. Dust flies up as they clatter along, her ears ringing from the vibration.

“I think we’re nearly there! Look!”

They shudder to a stop, dropping the heavily laden bikes down in the undergrowth with a clatter.

“God, it feels good to be standing again. My butt hurts.”

“Mine too. But look, there it is.”

Through a clearing in the trees is a lone white house that stands against a backdrop of green grass, mauve heather, and golden bracken.

“It’s beautiful but a bit bleak, isn’t it?”

“That makes sense, though, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t exactly call George Orwell’s books comedies.”

“No. Laughs is definitely where they’re lacking. I can’t believe he actually used to live right there.”

Rachel cups her mouth with her hands, the volume of her voice making Tilly jump as she cries, “Hi, George, thanks for everything!” into the wind.

“You’re mad!”

“You should try it, it’s fun.”

So Tilly roars her own greeting to the lonely white house, glad suddenly that it’s Rachel here with her.

“How come it seems heavier?” Rachel says as they haul their bikes up from the ground.

“It’s not too much further to the beach I have in mind for our pitch.”

“Bye, George,” they call as they cycle away from the house. It looks much like any other on the island but seems to Tilly to shimmer with significance as she imagines Orwell bent over a typewriter in one of the rooms overlooking the sea.

The bay they reach a few minutes later is completely secluded, not a house or person in sight. They push their bikes over the grassy moorland and down onto the rocky shore scattered with seaweed and driftwood. Behind them is the view of the island, the three Paps of Jura rising in its center, and stretching out in front of them is the wide-open sea. Tilly is so relieved to be off the bike that she stretches her arms wide, a kind of euphoria that might be exhaustion buzzing through her.

“Shall we put the tent up?” asks Rachel.