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><a rel=nofollow target=_blank >href="http://www.granta.com/extracts/3162">http://www.g >ranta.com/extracts/3162</a> > >Marriage Lines >Julian Barnes > >The Twin Otter was only half full as they took off >from Glasgow: a few islanders returning from the >mainland, plus some earlyseason weekenders with hiking >boots and rucksacks. For almost an hour they flew just >above the shifting brainscape of the clouds. Then they >descended, and the jigsaw edges of the island appeared >below them. > >He had always loved this moment. The neck of headland, >the long Atlantic beach of Traigh Eais, the large >white bungalow they ritually buzzed, then a slow turn >over the little humpy island of Orosay, and a final >approach to the flat, sheeny expanse of Traigh Mhor. >In summer months, you could usually count on some >boisterous mainland voice, keen perhaps to impress a >girlfriend, shouting over the propeller noise, ‘Only >commercial beach landing in the world!’ But with the >years he had grown indulgent even about that. It was >part of the folklore of coming here. > >They landed hard on the cockle beach, and spray flew >up between the wing struts as they raced through >shallow puddles. Then the plane slewed side on to the >little terminal building, and a minute later they were >climbing down the rickety metal steps to the beach. A >tractor with a flatbed trailer was standing by to >trundle their luggage the dozen yards to a damp >concrete slab which served as the carousel. They, >their: he knew he must start getting used to the >singular pronoun instead. This was going to be the >grammar of his life from now on. > >To read the rest of Julian Barnes's story, purchase >Granta 100 online. Or become one of our valued >subscribers.

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