The Chair by the Fire

The guesthouse stood above the harbour, with its door on the sheltered side. On these islands, that is the side you put a door on. It was kept by a North Ronaldsay ewe, one of the shore sheep that eat seaweed. Polly stood in the hall. "Do you have any available rooms?"

There were rooms. There usually are in September. Polly said, "I would like a quiet room, please." The ewe waited a moment before she answered. The back rooms face the yard and the front rooms face the water. The wind finds both. After two nights you stop hearing it.

"Could you assist me with my luggage, please?" The ewe carried the bag up and set it beside a chair by the fire. Its frame was driftwood, because no tree grows here. Its back was oat straw, coiled into a hood. A joiner in Kirkwall named David Kirkness made that design standard in the middle of the eighteen hundreds.

"What time is check-out?" Polly asked. The ferry decides everything here. Then she sat in the chair. The straw hood cut the draught from the door, and for the first time since the boat she could hear herself breathe.