Red Skye at Night Read Free

alone if, when, Angus returned to the sea where he eked out extra funds from fishing. Angus was often gone for a couple of weeks at a time, working the trawlers in the North Sea, and at those times, Ritchie was needed here. When he could be spared from Kilmuir and when an opportunity presented, he hired himself out doing odd jobs, laboring on farms or helping with construction. Ritchie was strong. He had no objection to hard work. Now he had someone to work for, a family of his own to make it all worthwhile. If only his da’ would have listened, understood, shifted just a little bit to make the space.
    Ritchie peered out of the small window of the croft and could just make out the two figures of his parents far up on the hillside. They hadn’t moved since he’d stormed away from the fight with Angus. His mother’s smaller figure was positioned in front of the tall, wiry silhouette of his father, her hands on her hips as she jutted her determined chin at her husband. Ritchie smiled bitterly to himself, imagining what she would be saying. She’d be telling Angus what a fool he was—ignorant and prejudiced, intolerant and self-centered. She was correct on all scores, and Angus might even agree with most of her assessment himself, though he’d never say so. And on this matter, he would never shift.
    Ann-Marie had hardly turned a hair at the mention of Sarah’s condition, which led Ritchie to suspect that she’d already worked it out for herself. She was sharp that way, and if he was right, his resourceful mother would already be planning how to ‘manage’, as she put it.
    She’d have her hands full managing Angus, let alone their baby. Not that the latter was going to be her concern after all. Ritchie turned from the window, saddened, frustrated that he’d so spectacularly failed to gain even the smallest inch of ground with his father. He had to leave. He knew that.
    He glanced around him at the small, spartan room that served as kitchen, dining room, living room and bedroom for his parents. The two fireside chairs, the small hearth glowing with a peat fire, surrounded by a gleaming cooking range. The mutton stew his mother had mentioned was no doubt bubbling merrily in the pot on the stove. Ritchie could smell it, mingling with the fresh, earthy aroma of today’s bread, still warm from the oven.
    He looked around him, knowing he was seeing all this for the last time. The solid oak dresser against the far wall, the tiny table and three home-made chairs tucked under the window. The floor was partly covered by a multi-colored rag rug, originally crafted by his grandmother and lovingly repaired by Ann-Marie over the years. His parents’ bed was fitted into an alcove on the wall opposite the fireplace, an old-style box bed hand-carved by his great-grandfather. Ritchie had been born in that bed.
    He told himself he wouldn’t miss crofting. It was a harsh, unforgiving life, and one that he knew was dying out, whatever his father might want. The future his father saw for him, for all of them, was an illusion, a dream. It was Angus’ dream, not his. But even so…
    Ritchie straightened his shoulders and went to his room off the kitchen. He needed to pack.
     
    * * * *
     
    By the time Angus and Ann-Marie arrived at the cottage, Ritchie had managed to cram most of his possessions into a large sailor’s rucksack, an old one of his father’s. The bag was dumped in the middle of the main room. He was rummaging in the large dresser as the older couple entered the croft.
    “Ritchie…” his mother began.
    He turned to glance over his shoulder at her and shook his head. “Enough, Mam. I’m leaving. I have to, an’ I won’t be back.”
    “Ye’ll fucking sit down and listen to me. Yer home is here. Ye’re needed here.” Angus was at least managing to keep his voice down now, though his words offered nothing in the way of reconciliation.
    Ritchie didn’t even turn to face Angus as he replied, his tone now even. He was