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Go on then, stare at my hands. Everybody else does. Call me a freak from a travelling show if you must.

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I run across the road, down a flight of steps and onto the beach, the storm tearing at my hair and dress. I cannot say that I regret my theft, for I loved Rachel with all my heart and will do so forever more. It was cancer of the breast, and she faded rapidly.

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Another voice in my head, this time from the past. The low rafters, straw mattress and stained blankets are a shock after my airy, bright bedroom overlooking Largs Bay and Cumbrae.

His mum Susan died last month after own, five-year battle with cancer. Watch this. We sit down at a table by the fire and wait for our meal.

The trunk is empty. Mama would probably call it a great victory. Mama and I swam for hours in the Firth of Clyde in the coldest of winters, and I can hold my breath underwater for more than two minutes.

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Everybody else does. Go back to your pond, freaky frog they cried, and the boys were worse.

Our driver guides his miserable-looking horses Thirso Thurso. I have kept it hidden for many years, and you should do the same. My uncle will arrive soon, ready to whisk me off to an island that may as well be in the Arctic. Perhaps Stromsay might turn out interesting after all. A hidden compartment!

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LLookin Should I say something and risk a gruff seen and not heard, or remain quiet? The musicians stop playing and the singing ends. The sea will tell me.

Call me a freak from a travelling show if you must. I think back to that strange day a month after Mama died, when Daddy was oddly excited about his new travelling trunk. Please, there are people drowning out there! The thought comes from nowhere, as though a passing ghost whispered in my ear.

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Look at this, Mairi. Thurso is supposed to have a wonderful view of the Orkney Isles, but all I can see is cloud and rain. Look inside, he said that rainy afternoon.

And then I hear the cries. Finally, Thurso emerges from the drizzle. In my dreams, I can go home.

The seals are calling me. Uncle Donald devours his meal and my leftovers with relish and finishes his fourth tankard of ale in two draughts. Nothing, I replied, baffled.

Daddy took to the whisky when Mama fell ill. Share this:.

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What have I done wrong? Nobody notices me slip outside. All my love, Daddy The letter falls from my hand. Who goes hunting on a dreadful night like this? It feels more like January than late March. A tall, grey-bearded, well-built man is walking towards us. Then Thuro realise.

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And as though in mourning for their long-lost cousin, breasst seals keen above the distant waves. Jaunty fiddlemusic spills from some hidden corner, competing with the raucous shouting and laughter from the bar.

They were right, sometimes. An outdoor "Splash Pad" is to be built on the site of Nairn's closed breas paddling pool. Daddy wanted me to look in here after he Loikin. He received intensive treatment but in March he was diagnosed with DIPG, an aggressive, inoperable tumour within the brainstem. What do you see? Daddy would have a fit if he knew.

Every time we hit a big wave she prays for salvation and awaits our drowning. The houses are elegant and well-to-do, but the streets are deserted now that the rain is lashing down and the sun is setting.

The public bar heaves with fishermen and farm workers drinking ale. The weather soon distracts me from my book.

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I set it aside and pick up a piece of paper lying at the bottom of the trunk. It was unconnected to his earlier cancer, and there was no cure.

I run into the freezing-cold sea, past my ankles and knees.

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