Coming Home to Winter Island Page 11
I send a quick text to my mum, though I don’t let on I’m in Scotland. She’d only tell me that staying on isn’t a good idea. That I should just leave and get on with my own plans. My mum has always supported my career. I tell her I’m on voice rest and that we’re hoping an A&R woman will see us in the new year. I don’t need her questions right now. I need to make things right here, get off this island, get my voice back and go home!
I rub my nose, blink back the tears and take a deep breath from my butt. I lift my chin as if I was going on stage, then walk out of my bedroom, onto the big landing and down the stairs. At the turn, I stop and find myself adjusting the blue and red tartan curtains there to hide the moth-eaten parts. Then I carry on down, running my hand along the dark wood panelling and brushing the dust off as I go.
Down in the flagstoned hallway, I look around. I have a gin recipe to find. The sooner I find it, the sooner we all get what we want and get out of here.
But where to start?
Chapter Fourteen
I open the door of the front room, wondering if it’s warmer outside. My breath looks like clouds in front of my face. I think about Joe and the band and their Indian takeaway Christmas dinner and wish even more that I was there. Even though we never make a fuss about Christmas, suddenly being so far away makes me miss our ‘no fuss’ Christmas.
Joe always says Christmas is just a massive marketing ploy, a way to make people spend money. Then I think about Fraser Gillies and his family going to the pub after church. That isn’t about money. It’s about spending time with the ones you love, and the community coming together. Those Christmases with my dad weren’t about the presents; they were about being together, playing games and sharing music. It might be a marketing ploy in Joe’s eyes, but then he doesn’t really have much to do with his family, so maybe he can’t see it as anything else. His brother’s a successful banker with a family of his own. His parents run their own party supplies business, specialising in office parties and baby showers, party decorations and accessories, and it’s a busy time for them in the run-up to Christmas, so they always holiday in the Caribbean over the festive period itself. I think it’s why Joe is so focused on work: he likes to be able to keep up with his family.
I think again about Fraser Gillies and his family, wondering if that’s what Christmas on the island was like for my dad . . . and could have been like for me, if things had been different. I quickly shake the thought and throw myself into the task in hand.
Best to be methodical, I think, rubbing my freezing hands together, letting the cold distract me from my musings about Christmas. I’ll start downstairs, working from the front of the house to the back. Then, if I don’t find anything, I’ll search upstairs. I take a deep breath of air so icy it hurts my lungs, then pull open the cupboard door to one side of the fireplace. Reams of paper, unopened envelopes and photographs tumble and slide over my feet.
‘It’s here somewhere.’
‘Uh huh,’ Lachlan is standing in the doorway, one arm across his body, the other hand seeming to touch the corner of his mouth, possibly hiding a smile there, which has lit up his eyes.
I glare back at him. ‘Best we make a start then!’ I say, nodding to the cupboard on the other side.
‘Indeed,’ he agrees, but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘It’ll be quicker with two of us looking. Though if someone had given him a hand before now . . .’
‘Yes, if someone had been here to help out . . .’ he retorts, and I bite my tongue, knowing he’s right. It wasn’t his job to do it, but then I’m not sure it was mine either. ‘In fact,’ he continues, bending to pick up a pile of papers and starting to go through them, stacking them in piles and throwing the rubbish into the empty fireplace, ‘where have you been? What do you even do for a job?’
‘I told you, I’m a singer, a full-time singer.’
‘A singer?’ He nods, impressed. ‘And where do you . . . sing?’ I detect a hint of scepticism in his voice. But then that seems to be a fairly common tone when he’s speaking to me.
‘Wherever I can. I mean . . . I don’t just stand up and sing. I’m a professional.’ I cringe at my own words. ‘I’m in a band. We play gigs, and hopefully we’ll land a record deal and tour really soon. And then I do a bit of solo stuff, lounge singing at a big restaurant and hotel, and sometimes weddings. Though once we sign to a label, I won’t have to do that.’
‘Aren’t you . . . well, isn’t that for youngsters? I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but wouldn’t it have happened by now if it was going to happen?’
I stop sorting through papers and stare at him. ‘You don’t have to be young to be a performer. I’ve been doing this all my life. You don’t just decide to sit down one day to be a pianist, for instance, and immediately play Mozart. You have to work at these things. I’ve been working at this for years. It’s my time.’
We fall into silence and go back to working our way through the papers, scrunching up anything that looks redundant – old envelopes, out-of-date bills . . . way out of date. It looks like the distillery struggled for some time, judging by the red reminders. We’re kneeling either side of the fireplace on the threadbare rug, the cold, hard flagstones beneath digging into our knees. I grab an old tapestry cushion, as worn and faded as the rug, but it helps a little. I can see my own breath in front of me, and despite my thick fingerless gloves, my hands are freezing.
After a while, Lachlan gets up and leaves the room.
Typical! I think scratchily. Leaving me with all these papers. But it has to be here somewhere. It must be. Everything else is! I tug at a box stuck at the back of the cupboard and pull it out, spilling papers everywhere. When I open it, I see that it’s full of photos. I flick through them and see pictures of my dad, and of Hector. There are some of the distillery too, with the workers standing in front of the red-brick building. Tears fill my eyes. The family I never knew, and the father who isn’t here.
I look through the photographs of my dad. There’s one of him down on the beach, the beach where we ate oysters and drank gin this morning. One of him in school uniform. No doubt the start of term, just like he used to take a photograph of me every September in my new uniform. And another of Christmas, beside a huge tree in the hall here, the whole family dressed in their smart clothes. Hector has his hand on Dad’s shoulder. What happened? How have these memories been forgotten? What would it have been like to have a place like this to visit, with grandparents holding open their arms in welcome? To come back here with my dad?
What would Dad have made of Joe? I find myself wondering. Would he have been pleased about our relationship? What would it have been like to bring Joe here? Then I think about Joe’s collection of expensive shoes, and his smart wool coat, and smile at the thought of the dogs greeting him. Joe likes five-star hotels and thinks that’s what we should be aiming for in life. I don’t think he would have warmed to Teach Mhor as the family home. I smile again at the thought of him trying to drink gin from an oyster shell and asking for the nearest hotel. Joe is much happier in a chic city bar than somewhere like here. He likes comfort. He even bought me Egyptian cotton sheets for my birthday one year, because he likes to sleep in the best he can. I’m not sure that he would ever have fitted in here.
I quickly put the lid on the box of photographs and on the thoughts they’re raking up, and try to run through some songs in my head, just to keep on top of the set. Suddenly Lachlan reappears with an armful of logs and smaller pieces of wood and drops them by the hearth. Then, without a word, he lays up the fire, kindling first, and sets light to the paper, slowly feeding on the bigger logs until the fire is roaring. The heat makes me feel better. He leaves the room again and returns with a plate of sandwiches and two glasses of wine.
‘I’ve made some for Hector, too. We’ll eat properly later. You’re welcome to join us,’ he says crisply.
‘How’s the salmon?’ Lachlan asks.
‘Gorgeous,’ I say, my hand over my full mouth.
‘Caught and smoked myself.’ He nods towards the back of the house, and I have to say, I’m impressed. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Then he tosses another log on the fire and looks straight at me. ‘So, you’re a singer,’ he says, and I sense a little devilment in his tone. ‘How come you’re not singing? I’d’ve thought it was a busy time of year.’ He tosses more papers onto the fire. ‘Oh, there are some photographs here. You might like them,’ he says, and puts them to one side.
I swallow and look at the pile of photographs, not sure if I want to see any more of the life that shut me out.
‘I’m . . . I just need to rest my voice. I’m on my way to a healing centre in Tenerife. As soon as I finish here. Then I can get back to my band. We’re hoping that things are about to happen. There’s been an A&R woman interested in us.’ I fall silent. I hope she’s still interested. And then the bigger fear surges up in me again, like a monster waking from its one-eye-open sleep and rising to its full, scary height with a roar: I hope I can still sing.
‘What about you?’ I try and clear my throat, and take a sip of wine, which seems to help. ‘How come you’re here, foraging? Haven’t you ever wanted to leave the island?’
‘I did,’ he says flatly. ‘Thought there was something better out there.’
‘And was there?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says flatly. ‘So I came back and realised everything I’d ever wanted had been here all along.’ He sighs heavily. ‘But I’d left it too late.’
‘Too late?’ I frown.
‘Shh!’ he says, putting a finger to his lips. ‘Voice rest, remember, no talking.’
I ignore him. ‘But now that the house is going on the market, you can go wherever you like. Surely you must have plans.’
‘No, nothing like that. There’s an old expression: if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans!’ He gives a derisory laugh. ‘I thought I had a plan, but let’s just say it took me a while to make it, and once I had, like I said, it was too late.’ He nods, clearly shutting down the conversation.
I don’t ask any more, realising he’s diclosed all he wants to on the subject.
We wade through piles and piles of paper: magazines, knitting patterns, bills, and shopping lists written on the back of envelopes. Every now and again I think I’ve found a recipe, but I haven’t. Eventually the pages are neatly stacked and the rubbish is burning brightly in the grate.
‘Ah! There you are, Mairead.’ Hector comes into the room and sits on the sofa, next to the dog. The other dog follows him in and climbs up stiffly to sit on his other side.
‘Here, Hector.’ Lachlan hands him some of the photographs. He takes them, smiles and nods, but his face shows no sign of recognition. Eventually he falls asleep and snores, sounding exactly like the dogs.
Lachlan stands up stiffly and the dogs follow him with their eyes, looking hopeful that it might be dinner time.
‘I’ll get the food sorted. Hector won’t want to eat too late.’
‘Great. Can I help? I’m good with a microwave,’ I try and joke.
‘It’s venison.’
‘Venison?’ I say. He nods. It’s a long way from microwaved takeaway curry. I suddenly remember how Dad always tried to get a piece of venison at Christmas. The butcher would order it in especially.
I pick up the photographs that have fallen from Hector’s hand onto the floor. I look down at a picture of my father and his parents standing on the shore, the wind making their hair stand on end. And another of Dad standing next to a new bike, beaming widely. There are an awful lot of memories buried away in the house, by the looks of it. But that’s the past. I need to move on, I tell myself. Tomorrow we have to find that recipe. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand being in this big, cold house, or how much longer the healing centre will hold my place. And I don’t know whether I will be able to keep my curiosity about my dad’s family at bay for much longer. The last thing I want is to start getting emotionally involved; that will only make everything harder.
Chapter Fifteen
I start the following day by texting Joe, who replies that I need to sort myself out. You really need to think about where your loyalties lie, Rubes. I can only keep things going here for so long. The band are talking. They want to know when you’re coming back . . . if you’re coming back.
There’s a message too from Jess, checking that I’m okay and saying she misses me, that the band are missing me! She sends it with lots of smiley faces, but I’m worried. I send a silly GIF to the band group chat: a monkey with its hand over its mouth and a surprised look on its face that makes me smile, letting them all know I’m fine and resting my voice. But despite their messages back, laughing and sending me more GIFs, hoping that I get well soon, I can’t stop thinking about what Joe has said. What if Jess isn’t telling me the whole truth, trying not to worry me? What if the band think I’m not coming back? I think about Lulu standing in the spotlight, standing in my place. I have to get my voice back.
I throw myself into looking for the bloody elusive recipe. There are more cupboards full of papers, boxes of books and toys. Nothing in this house has ever been thrown away, by the looks of it. Who were these toys saved for? A tiny voice at the back of my mind wonders whether they were meant for me. Or is that just wishful thinking? I push the thoughts away.
I pull out another box and open it. Inside are layers of aged yellow tissue paper, and beneath them a beautiful crocheted shawl, along with a pile of knitted baby clothes: cardigans, hats, bootees, all in pristine condition, as though they’ve never been worn.
‘Ah, Mairead!’ Hector sees me with a box of toys from under the stairs. ‘Good thought. I’ll get the bike out of the shed too. Campbell always loved that bike.’ I suddenly catch my breath and hold it. Campbell was my dad. ‘Bet the wee one will too!’ Tears spring to my eyes. He thinks he’s getting a visit from his son and . . . me, I realise. Maybe that means he did care, or at the very least that he thought about me. He thinks we’re coming for a visit!
‘Oh, I’m not . . .’ I spot Lachlan down the hall and remember him telling me it’s best to go with the flow so as not to cause Hector confusion or distress. He’s living in the past, and from what I can see, it looks like quite a nice place to be right now. He’s obviously very excited about the prospect of a visit from me and Dad. Why spoil that?
‘Yes, I bet she’ll like the bike,’ I say. She would have done too, I think, and brush away the tears that linger there. She’d’ve loved to ride the bike and play with the toys here.
When I glance up to where Lachlan was standing, he’s gone. I look down again at the unworn baby clothes. Were these for me? I lift a tiny hat out of the box and hold it to my cheek, feeling the soft wool against my skin, breathing in the slightly musty smell, the smell of this place, Teach Mhor. Then I place it back in the tissue paper and put the lid on the box, wondering what on earth to do with the clothes. I can’t just throw them out, but I can’t take them with me. They obviously meant something to someone; maybe my grandmother, I let myself think. I put them back where I found them for the time being.
Behind the box of toys is a grey case. I reach in, wondering if it’s what I think it is. I pull it out. It is! It’s a record player. And there behind it is a box of vinyl records. I carry the box into the kitchen and put it on the table, my heart starting to lift at the sight of the beautiful covers. I want to sit and look through them, but I really have to fin
d this recipe first. There are some more photographs tucked into the box, of the buildings behind the house, with workers and big drums beside them, and the shoreline and bay beyond. I leave them on the big scrubbed pine table, worn from years of people sitting around it: my family I think . . . where my family sat.
Lachlan walks into the kitchen.
I put my hands on my hips and try to pretend I wasn’t thinking about a life I never knew, and say with more tetchiness than I mean to, ‘Where have you been?’
‘In the distillery, giving it and the still a good clean,’ he says, wiping his hands.
‘Have you really no idea where this recipe could be?’
He shakes his head. ‘Just that it’s somewhere in the house. Hector can’t remember.’
‘And he’s definitely the only one who knows?’
Lachlan nods. ‘Yup. His father . . . your great-grandfather, I suppose, ran the distillery.’ He spots the photos on the table and walks to them, spreading them out. ‘They made whisky and sold it to the mainland. But business was bad, sales were dropping off. It was Hector who came up with the idea of the gin. It’s quick to make and it saved the business . . . for a time. But then . . . well, from what I gather, after your grandmother died, things went downhill, and with no one to take over the business, it just shut down.’
‘And where were you in all of this?’
He looks at me. ‘I grew up on the island. My father was the gillie here. He looked after the hunting and the fishing. He helped out on the farm here too, when needed. There’s not much farm work around these parts any more. Nowadays it’s mostly wild goats and deer.’