Epilogue
On a small island on the west coast of Scotland, where the houses are quaint, the air is clear, and the only way in or out is by ferry, lies a small tight-knit community. They notice when strangers arrive, and notice when they leave. So when the new young couple came to live, eyebrows were raised. They bought the old lighthouse keeper’s cottage and, for the first few months, kept to themselves.
A few islanders, admittedly, thought they were rude and standoffish to begin with. It quickly became clear that wasn’t the case. They were simply in love. And when the woman’s body began to swell and she later gave birth to a set of beautiful twins, one boy and one girl, those wagging tongues were silenced. They integrated themselves bit by bit into the community. The man helped old Adams re-build his roof when the winter storms blew half of it away. The woman volunteered at the small primary school, helping the local children. The problems with vanishing sheep from the farms in the north abruptly stopped, and old wives’ tale about staying away from the dark caves close to the harbour no longer seemed to matter now that the wind no longer howled through them in the middle of the night.
So if occasionally more strangers abruptly appear out of nowhere and just spend a bit of time watching the couple, then smile to themselves and leave, no-one says anything. And if, when the moon is up, there are strange marks left on the beach, it’s prudent not to comment on them. Besides, the tide washes them away quickly enough. Sometimes it’s easier if you let a few things just slide without question. Because although they may live on an island, no man is an island, and for communities to work and co-habit in such an isolated spot you sometimes need to live and let live. Sometimes.