Coming Home to Winter Island Read online

  ‘Not a good idea?’ I ask with a frown.

  ‘No,’ he says firmly, and I realise he doesn’t want to discuss it any more but have no idea why. Is he worried about Hector? But I’m sure Hector wouldn’t mind people coming to the house. He might enjoy the company. I don’t push it. I don’t want the good mood to evaporate.

  ‘Maybe you could put up some pictures of the island on the crowdfunding page. We could go and take some new ones.’ I think of the gin and oysters on the beach. ‘From what I’ve seen, it’s very . . . atmospheric.’

  He laughs. ‘Atmospheric! So we haven’t sold the beauty of the place to you yet?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m more of a city type. I can see the pleasure in cities. Out here . . . well, it’s very remote.’

  ‘Remote . . . wild, you mean. This is the wilderness.’ He throws out an arm to the window. Outside, the wind is starting up and the long grasses towards the beach are bent, and the sky and the water are darkening. He looks at me and something in me shivers. ‘And once it gets under your skin, you won’t want to be parted from it for long . . . Well, that’s what they say.’

  ‘I think we can safely say that won’t happen to me. And it obviously didn’t do it for my father, either.’

  ‘Maybe there were other reasons your father didn’t stay.’

  I hesitate. A voice inside me says: Don’t ask. You don’t need to know. Out loud I say, ‘Do you know about my father? Do you know why he left?’

  ‘I know there was bad feeling between him and Hector.’

  ‘My father said Hector was a bully.’ But I’m confused. The Hector I’ve met is far from a bully. In fact, he seems like someone I would have liked to have known. I try and stop the thought before it comes rushing into my head, but too late . . . Someone I would have liked to have called my grandfather.

  Lachlan studies my face and then says slowly, ‘I believe . . . in life, there are always two sides to a story.’

  I think about what he’s said. ‘Just too bad it’s too late. I’ll never get to hear Hector’s.’ The words hang in the air between us, and this time it’s Lachlan who chivvies us into action.

  ‘More tea,’ he says, picking up the big pot, ‘and then let’s get this crowdfunding page sorted out. We’re going to get Teach Mhor gin back up and running. Whatever was in the past looks like it’s going to stay there. A lot of water has gone under the bridge.’

  And briefly I think of Hector sitting at the waterfall last night. It has indeed. Water that I’ll never get to know about.

  ‘Wait there!’ I stand and go back into the living room, where the fire is lit, as usual, waiting for Hector to sit by it. I pick up the photographs I took in there, then pause and look at the box of records. There are so many I’m dying to play: more Ella, Louis Armstrong, Astrud Gilberto, Billie Holiday, music I remember from my childhood. I always thought it was my mother who gave me my love of music. Looks like my dad had something to do with it too, and maybe Hector before that. There are some other records there that I don’t know, titles in what I think is Gaelic, folk songs I’d love to hear. But it will have to wait; first we have to get the gin business sorted. I close the lid on the record player and return to the kitchen carrying the photos.

  ‘Let’s put some of these up on the site,’ I say, holding up a black and white picture of the distillery, the workers standing outside. ‘Give people a sense of the history of the place.’

  He takes it from me and looks at some of the others.

  ‘We need to sell the dream!’ I say, starting to feel quite excited.

  ‘Often dreams can be a long way from the reality,’ he says. ‘And then it’s time to change the dream.’

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. Does he mean Winter Island? The idea of it being beautiful as opposed to the harsh reality of living here?

  ‘We need to stand out,’ I tell him. ‘Look how many gins there are now. We want people to feel they’re buying a piece of this place, a piece of the island and life here.’

  He’s still looking through the photos. ‘This is the distillery in its heyday,’ he says. ‘And there’s a lovely one of your dad and Hector and Mairead on the beach. Oh and another of Hector and the dogs.’

  I experience that pang again, that feeling of having missed out on visits, trips, Christmases and summer holidays, and suddenly a large tear plops onto one of the photographs. It’s not really a sad tear; more a wistful one, at seeing my dad here, knowing where he came from and how happy he was. Lachlan wipes it away and looks up.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘It’s time we took some new ones. Then and now.’

  ‘Yes, good idea. Nothing stays the same forever. New photos will show we’re looking to the future of Teach Mhor gin . . . a legacy for whoever might end up taking it over and taking it forward.’ I see Lachlan’s shoulders droop as he thinks about the not-so-distant future. ‘At least you’ll know you did what you promised Hector. He will have left his legacy here. Now all we need to do is find that recipe!’

  I sniff quickly and look around, trying to distract myself by thinking of places I haven’t yet searched. And trying to ignore the fact that a voice in my head – Joe’s voice – is wondering what time the ferry is. I try and ignore it, because I know for a fact I won’t be on the ferry today. Or even tomorrow. But I will be on it soon, and suddenly I feel quite sad. I still have no idea how to tell Joe that I’m staying a bit longer, and judging from our earlier conversation, he’s not going to be happy when I do, not happy at all. But instead of feeling guilty as I have been, I’m starting to feel a bit angry about that. I need to do this, with or without his blessing. There is more to life right now than getting to the vocal retreat. Because who knows if I will ever have another chance to find out about my dad’s past.

  A message pings onto my phone. I look at it, then at Lachlan.

  ‘It’s the care home. Fraser must have given them my number.’

  ‘Interfering in other people’s business,’ Lachlan mutters, and he’s back to his grumpy self.

  ‘They want us to go over for a visit. Show Hector round the place.’ I look at Lachlan, who is picking out more photographs of the house, the bay, the animals that were once here and laying them on the table. ‘I think we should go,’ I persist. ‘I think it’s something you need to think about.’

  He finally stops what he’s doing and looks at me, then lets out a huge sigh.

  ‘Okay, let’s go and visit and see what Hector thinks of it. If he likes it and seems happy there, well . . .’ He looks to be struggling to say the words, but finally manages it. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe he would be better off somewhere like that.’

  ‘Last night was a real scare,’ I remind us both.

  He nods sagely. ‘Let’s see this care home of yours then!’ and tosses the photographs to one side.

  I reply to the care home manager, do one last check for messages, then turn my phone off. My cheeks burn with guilt, but it needs to be done, to avoid any further questioning from Joe. I’ll message him when everything is sorted, I tell myself . . . just as soon as it’s sorted.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The ferry journey is not quite as bleak as the one on the way over here. When I thought about doing this journey again, I imagined I’d be leaving and never coming back. Now I’m looking back at the island, cold yet sunny, with clouds making shifting patterns over the gorse-covered wilderness, wondering if I’ll ever get away. Like the cloud patterns, everything keeps changing. I certainly didn’t expect to be here with Hector, or Lachlan. Hector’s hardly spoken since Lachlan persuaded him to get dressed and we left the house for the ferry. Neither has Lachlan, for that matter. He and Isla seem to be swapping looks then studiously ignoring each other. Isla and Gordan just seem to be swapping looks. And Gordan and Lachlan are blanking each other completely.

  ‘He’s ve
ry quiet,’ I say, nodding at Hector, who is looking out of the window at the deep, dark water.

  ‘He is,’ Lachlan agrees, then looks concerned, like a worried parent taking a child to visit its new school, knowing it has to be done. He says nothing more, and I find myself looking back at the island and wondering if the seals are there again this morning. I decide to take a walk up there when we get back. I can at least try to get my fitness up, so I can tell Joe I’m working on that.

  ‘You should photograph the seals,’ I say, thinking out loud. ‘People would like to see them.’

  He nods, still preoccupied.

  I know this is for the best, I remind myself, for all of us. To get the house sold and for Hector to go into the home and for Lachlan to move on with his life. I wonder where he’ll go and why I feel so guilty about trying to make this work. It is the right thing to do, isn’t it? And just for a moment, I find myself wondering how my father felt when he left the island for the last time. Then I look at Hector and think about Lachlan’s words: there are always two sides to a story.

  I pull out the pad and pen that I found in the kitchen and go over the ingredients we have so far for the gin. The basic ones that Hector was telling me about. I’ve shown them to Lachlan and he says that from what he’s read on the internet, they make sense. It’s the island botanicals that will make the gin different. The five special ingredients. Now all we have to do is work out what they are.

  Lachlan watches me as I ponder the list. Then he pulls out his phone and snaps a photograph of the island from our vantage point out at sea.

  We spend the rest of the journey in silence, all of us lost in our own thoughts. Hector, Lachlan, me, Isla and Gordan . . . each of us seems to have something on our mind, and I have a feeling it’s all to do with the past and the future, as we travel from the island to the mainland; from where we’ve come from to where we’re going.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The heat hits me, embracing me and suffocating me at the same time, as I pull at the scarf around my neck and drag my hat off.

  ‘Come in, dears, come in!’ says the big-busted lady in the tight floral dress, holding open the door of Island View Care Home for the Elderly. ‘Let’s keep the cold out!’ she laughs, and her whole body wobbles.

  I step inside the tropical foyer, and Lachlan ushers in Hector, who still has said nothing. We stand and peel off coats and extra layers, holding them in big bundles in our arms. I feel like I’m having a hot flush. Hector doesn’t seem to notice the change in temperature. I wondered whether being in the warm might have raised a bit of a reaction, but it hasn’t.

  ‘Come and have a cup of tea and some shortbread,’ the woman says, holding out a wobbly arm with a big smile to match her welcome.

  ‘Oh, Hector can’t have too much sugar, he’s diabetic,’ Lachlan tells her.

  ‘No problem, we’ll find something else. Come through into the residents’ lounge.’

  That phrase, ‘residents’ lounge’, makes my heart sink, and I look at Lachlan, knowing he feels the same. He hates the idea of Hector ending up in a residents’ lounge, though at least he would be safe.

  We step into the big bright room, looking out over a frost-covered garden, and beyond that, the island.

  ‘I’m Flora, the care home manager. Let’s have a cup of tea, and then if you like I can show you the rooms. You’ll find you have everything you need here. You can even bring some belongings from home to help you feel, well, at home.’

  ‘Except it isn’t,’ Lachlan mutters under his breath. But at least he is here and he is taking everything in. So he must realise that as hard as it is, this is the right thing to do.

  I wonder what Hector would want to bring from home. His dogs, probably, and that can’t happen. Once again I wonder what’s going to happen to them, and I know it’s something else Lachlan and I need to discuss. I look at Hector. He seems to have aged just being here. His shoulders are rounded and hunched and he still hasn’t spoken.

  In the residents’ lounge, people are sitting looking out. Some are covered in blankets. A man and a woman are playing draughts. There’s a television on in the background, with subtitles. Jeremy Kyle is helping to put mismatched families back together in some shape or form. I wonder what he’d say about mine. Probably that it was all too late. We should’ve talked. I look at Hector. It is too late, I think sadly.

  Lachlan looks like a caged animal, with his mane of curly hair and his broad shoulders. With his hands behind his back he’s pacing up and down by the big windows, gazing out, and I’m not sure if it’s the garden outside or the island beyond it that he’s hankering after. Hector sits looking at the cup of tea in front of him, and the oatcake turning to soggy mush in the slops in his saucer.

  ‘It’s very hot in here, isn’t it?’ I say to Flora.

  ‘Like summer all the year round,’ she says with her wide, happy smile, and I can’t help but like her. ‘Our residents prefer it that way. Nothing worse than feeling cold.’

  Hector won’t miss the draughts at Teach Mhor, I think. And then I think about the big, welcoming open fires there, and I know he will miss those.

  ‘We have cinema night once a week,’ says Flora. Please God don’t say bingo, I think. ‘And bingo twice a week, because the residents love it so much. Other than that, well, we’re working on trying to bring in some new ideas. But with staffing cuts, it’s not easy.’ Her smile has become somewhat strained. ‘Still, with more residents, maybe we’ll get a staff member or two back again.’

  I look around the lounge. So that’s it? They’re put in front of a TV and treated to bingo twice a week?

  ‘It’s hot in here . . . mind if I get some air?’ Lachlan points to the French doors.

  ‘Not at all. Give them a shove. They haven’t been opened for a while.’ Flora turns to Hector. ‘So, when do you think you might like to move in?’ He just stares at his teacup and she looks at me.

  ‘Um, just . . . getting the finances in place,’ I say.

  ‘Right.’ She smiles hopefully. ‘Well, I can only keep the room for a while. There are always people wanting to move in. When a place comes up, it’s usually snapped up, and there’s a waiting list.’

  ‘I understand. We just need to get Hector’s house sold.’ My mouth is dry.

  ‘Of course. Look,’ says Flora, ‘I know how important it is to see your granddaddy sorted. But as I told Fraser, I can only hold the room for a while. Just until Candlemas. Then I’ll have to let it go and you’ll have to go to the back of the queue, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I say. ‘Candlemas.’ I look at Lachlan walking the garden and occasionally glancing out to the island. At least Hector will be able to see it from here, I think, trying to be positive, but it doesn’t seem to bring me any comfort.

  ‘We look forward to welcoming him here. Now, let me show you the rooms.’ A buzzer goes off. ‘Oh, excuse me,’ and Flora gets up. ‘All our rooms have buzzers for residents if they need us, night or day,’ she says, looking flustered but still smiling.

  I glance around the room, smiling at some of the residents, though I don’t get much reaction. I look out at the garden again. Lachlan has been joined by an old man, and it looks as though they’re having a chat about plants. I find myself wondering how much longer we’re going to be here. I could do with some fresh air myself. My throat feels dry in the sweltering environment, and I gulp the tea from the cup I’m holding. There’s an upright piano against one wall and I find myself drawn to it, lifting its stiff lid and running my fingers over the keys. It reminds me of the piano I learnt to play on as a child. It’s the only time I really remember spending quality time with my mum. She would visit us at Dad’s house and sing while I played. They were happy times.

  I press down on a couple of keys. It’s out of tune, but still, the sound makes me smile. I look around. No one seems bothered by me tinkering on
the piano. I put my cup on top of the piano and sit down, then let both hands run over the keys.

  ‘Ooh, smashing! The entertainment’s here,’ says an old man, looking over from the TV. I glance outside. Lachlan has been joined by another resident, a woman this time. He’s crouching down, picking some leaves from a plant, holding them up and tasting one, then offering them to the two residents to smell. They’re listening intently to what he’s saying. It makes me smile.

  ‘Do yer know “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond”?’ asks the old man.

  I smile and attempt to remember the notes, singing it through in my head. I’d like to sing out loud, but I know I can’t. My voice is tight and dry. If I’m honest, I can’t bear the idea that it’s deserted me for good after my clumsy attempt on Christmas morning, and I have no idea how I’ll tell Joe and the band if it has. But the feel of the keys under my fingers brings me a real sense of happiness, and so I launch into playing the song. When that one’s finished, I dredge up some of the songs I learnt in my early days with my piano teacher, and carry on playing as the residents begin to smile, clap and even sing.

  As I start playing ‘Daisy, Daisy’, the room goes suddenly very quiet. I look around, wondering what’s happening and whether I should stop playing. Everyone is looking at a frail woman sunk into a chair with a blanket over her legs, and after a moment I realise that she is singing in a thin, wavering voice, moving her head gently from side to side. I play to the end of the song. The room still doesn’t make a sound. Flora is standing by the piano now, tears rolling down her big round cheeks.

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’ I ask. ‘I just thought it would be nice to play . . .’

  Flora smiles and shakes her head.

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ she says. ‘That was wonderful. Agnes hasn’t spoken a word since she came here three years ago. That’s the first time we’ve heard her say anything. You’ve obviously unlocked something in her.’ She clasps my hand, her eyes full of happy tears. ‘Thank you!’ I find myself tearing up too.