Following a life-altering accident in London, Esther returns to her childhood home in Orkney, where she meets down-on-his-luck musician Marcus. A moving story of trauma, recovery and what it takes to move forward set amidst Orkney’s breathtaking landscape, Gabrielle Barnby’s latest novel is sure to pull you in from the very beginning. Read an excerpt below.

Across the Silent Sea
By Gabrielle Barnby
Published by Sparsile Books

Charity

My mother was the best nurse I could have had after the accident, practical and caring. Today it is Monday, one year since the accident, and she has brought me to work among bales of musty second-hand clothes. I am now thirty-five and once left Orkney for Oxford Street.

I fumble the hanger and the shirt drops.

I hate her for leaving me here.

‘Dinna mind, Esther,’ says Bridget, my fellow volunteer. She’s not bad, a kind soul. ‘Plenty more hangers. Shall I move them a peedie closer?’

I shake my head. A cool snap of pain travels down my spine.

– Time’s up.

The next black bag is cheap and flimsy; a browny-orange curtain pokes through, plastic hooks still in place. There’s a procedure for pricing curtains: I measure length and width, then write a pair of figures on a piece of card and gun it into the fabric with a tag.

A woman comes into the back room and roots around in the container of baby clothes. She is fat, buttons puckering the shiny blue cloth of her anorak. No matter how much I stare I can’t tell if she’s pregnant.

When the woman has left Bridget says under her breath, ‘Ah’ll hiv a tidy roond later.’

She delves into a black bag and holds up a sheepskin jacket.

‘We can start puttin coats oot noo hid’s cowlder,’ she says. ‘You ken this one’s seen better days.’

Now I’ve forgotten. The pen scratches out the figures, rewrites measurements. It doesn’t feel I’m doing it at all.

– Who is doing this? Me or you?

It’s been a long time since I was me.

– Doing badly now. Going downhill.

I work on the ground floor. It was my mother who arranged it all, arranges everything. She has that sort of energy. I’m losing my way, forgetting how to do things for myself. Sometimes I don’t have the motivation to even stare into space.

I get out my phone and show Bridget the screen.

‘Go where?’ she says.

I add more text. Her forehead creases.

‘Let me get these oot the way.’

I move across the strip of worn carpet. She follows, bustling, always bustling is Bridget. I don’t mind her.

Today, she is wearing a bright green body warmer she picked out for herself from a bag of last week’s donations. She scoops up an armful of winter coats.

‘Will you be long?’

I shrug.

One of the coats she’s holding is dove grey, soft padded to keep out the breeze. It is my grandmother’s. Her garments spread out slowly from the bags my mother leaves. They’re freshly laundered, but still I imagine her scent and feel a warm ache around my heart.

I must see that our family cannot look after her. I must see that she needs fewer clothes now she’s moved to Stembister House.

It’s shocking, though, to see her things amongst everything else, touching the unwanted things.

A fine thin pain slices behind my shoulder blades. The bright days of spring six months ago were a ruse, my body responding to light like the mindless narcissi, feeling a sense of recovery, but wellness did not come.

My fingers are searching. It’s that time of day.

‘Do y’ need somethin badly? I could go,’ says Bridget.

I shake my head, her sympathetic look follows as I go through into the main shop.

A customer is buying knitting needles and a coffee bean grinder. At least the knitting needles will work. No one tests the electrical equipment. If people want something they buy it. If it doesn’t work the object finds its way back. I’m sure the coffee grinder has been sold twice already.

The customer has tufty brown hair and silver glasses. She’s the same build as my mother, broad-shouldered, rectangular, waistless. Her eyes fix on my face, examining the scars. I want to hold up my wrists like Wonder Woman. Shoot the stare back and knock her flat. Kapow!

– Can I do that?

– Am I doing this? Am I in one place? One piece?

I wasn’t all in one piece last autumn. My jaw was broken and my teeth were knocked loose like peppermints, they rested on my tongue in a pool of salt and iron.

It was impossible for them to soft-soap the damage once they took out the catheter. In the hospital bathroom there was a mirror above the sink; it hung on a sickly green wall next to a red emergency cord. My new face shocked the sound out of me.

The nail varnish line crept up my nails and dated my departure from life. Up, up, up, it went.

They’re bitten to the quick today, it makes untying the black plastic bags hard. It’s easier to tear through, fleshy fingertips pressed against the grey membrane.

‘Hid’s good o you to hiv her here,’ says the customer.

Bessie or Bettie or Bernie, or whatever her name is that’s behind the till, says, ‘Kathleen said she needs to gae oot more. An nobody goes through-by unless they’re droppin bags.’

– I am actually still standing here.

The receiver of stories and money, she wears a gold chain and has a small red mouth. Her hair is grey, short and neat, nothing is out of place. Lucky her.

Pins and needles bloom in my feet. Sometimes, it wouldn’t surprise me if my toes fell out of my boots at the end of the day.

The stand of knickers, bras and scarves is close to the door to the street. Leopard-skin lives next to purple sateen and Granny’s pale blue woollen scarf. A squint hanger is saddled with layers of belts.

The studded leather might seem like it wouldn’t sell, but everything does eventually, from basques to baked bean puzzles.

I take hold of the handle. What if it didn’t open? The front door has been painted over again and again. Sometimes I think they’ve been holding me hostage, keeping me in isolation. Because I’m doing badly.

My mother knew I was not well today. She saw how grey my face was, how at breakfast I was already going downhill.

A shiver passes through me.

What if behind the door there’s only another door, and then another and another? But of course, there isn’t another door. There’s only one door.

The scarves flip and wave.

Outside, there’s flying water, heavy and grey, you could mistake it for snow drifting the way it moves. Not snow in October, that would be rare even for Orkney.

‘Why don’t you bide a minute?’ says Bessie or Bettie or Bernie. She has a sharp teacher’s voice.

I shake my head.

‘Hid’ll pass over soon enough,’ says the woman with the needles and grinder.

Needles, needles, pins and needles. I am forever going downhill these days.

Across the Silent Sea by Gabrielle Barnby is published by Sparsile Books, priced £10.99.