Sometimes, she and Finn went out in the boat, and left him sitting down on the beach. Sometimes, Kirsty wandered about and Finn and Francis, glad to be resting, watched her as she searched for treasures, things that she would take home and maybe draw later: a banded agate, a chunk of rose quartz, a curly shell. When the weather was very fine, there were parts of the beach that became infested with pink algae that stank in the sun. It only improved when the rain came down and washed it away. But the rain made the tattie howking a misery, so nobody welcomed it. Once they found an old green bottle with a piece of paper inside, but the water had got in and the message, whatever it might have been, disintegrated in their fingers. ‘It could have been a treasure map,’ she said, disappointed. ‘It could have been a message from somebody stranded on a desert island,’ said Francis, suddenly. ‘Maybe he was looking for his relatives. Trying to get word to them so that they could come and rescue him.’ ‘So it could.’ Kirsty looked at him in surprise.
