Coming Home to Winter Island Page 19

  The house begins to fill with people carrying bottles, and the smells from the kitchen drift through to join the chatter and laughter. Fraser is there with his wife, along with Lena, Lexie and Lyle from the shop, and Mrs Broidy, the old housekeeper. Lachlan appears in the kitchen as I’m finding glasses.

  ‘Need a hand?’ he says, and I turn and catch my breath. The outline of his broad shoulders is visible under his white shirt, his wild curly hair is as tamed as it can be, and his strong calves are on show below the hem of his kilt. I stand stock still, unable to move for a moment. A knock at the door catapults me out of my transfixed state.

  It’s Isla and Gordan, carrying a bottle of whisky.

  ‘Thank you for having us all here,’ they say, shivering as they come in. ‘It’s freezing at ours.’

  ‘Come in! The generator’s working, and Lachlan’s cooking,’ and the image of Lachlan in his kilt, freshly showered and smelling heavenly, makes every one of my nerve endings tingle all over again.

  I plug in the record player in the big room and put on one of the records from the box, and the house is full of music, chatter and the sounds of the community coming together. Then Gordan brings out his bagpipes and pipes in the haggis, and we all clap. And as Lachlan passes me, carrying the haggis on a silver plate, he gives me a sideways look and a smile, and my stomach flips over and back again and I take a big swig of the whisky that’s been handed to me.

  When the haggis has been addressed and toasted and everyone has raised their glasses, Lachlan hands round plates of haggis, neeps and tatties and then Gordan plays another tune on the bagpipes. I take a plate of food to Hector and sit by him with my own plate. After some persuasion, Mrs Broidy is persuaded to take to the out-of-tune piano, and the gathered guests begin to join in with her song. As she finishes and everyone applauds, Hector begins to sing quietly, and gradually everyone falls silent. It’s the tune from the broken record, the one I was humming, the one I remember my father singing to me, the memory now as clear as anything, and tears fill my eyes. Mrs Broidy and the goat lady, Fraser and the three siblings from the shop join in, filling the room with song. My teary eyes seek out Lachlan, who is looking at Isla and she back at him and then at Gordan. Suddenly Lachlan stands and leaves the room.

  I follow him to the kitchen. ‘All okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Sure. Just getting the tipsy laird,’ he says, sounding choked.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Tipsy laird! Sherry trifle,’ he says, turning round with a huge bowl. There’s a cheeseboard with his oatcakes laid out too. I go to pick it up to carry it through to the other room, then pause.

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it? Isla. She’s the reason you want to leave.’

  He looks up at me, his eyes even more green than usual.

  ‘She’s the one I came back for,’ he says quietly. ‘We’d been childhood sweethearts. But then I went away to the mainland, got my degree and my engineering job. I broke her heart, I suppose. My mother had died before I went to college, and my father wanted me to go and live the best life I could. That’s why I left. But then he died too, and I wasn’t here. I left it too late to get back. I should have been here. I should never have left. Hector was here for my dad, and then for me. And I realised that here was exactly where I wanted to be; that everything I wanted had been here all along.

  ‘I packed in my job and moved home. I’d got everything ready to ask Isla to marry me. Candles, the fire lit, dinner in the oven. Even had our favourite record playing . . .’ He stops and looks at me. ‘She turned up to tell me she was marrying Gordan . . . my best friend. She didn’t think I was coming back. She’d moved on. I was too late.’

  ‘The broken record at the croft,’ I say quietly.

  ‘I thought it was going to be our family home. A new beginning.’ He looks at me again. ‘You’ve got it right. You’ve got a dream and you’re going for it. Don’t leave it too late. You shouldn’t have to live with “what if”.’ He sighs.

  ‘And if she wanted you back now?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s a small island. There isn’t enough room on it for that kind of hurt. Too many people would end up falling out. The only way for that to happen is to leave and not come back, like your dad did.’

  There is a flash and a bang. The storm is blowing up.

  ‘Come on. Bring the cheese,’ he says, clearly eager to finish the conversation.

  In the living room, Hector is standing in front of the roaring fire, smiling broadly.

  ‘Ah! There you are! Now, are you going to announce the good news or am I?’

  Lachlan sets the tipsy laird on the big table and I put down the cheeseboard.

  ‘What news is that, Hector?’ Lachlan asks.

  ‘You two, your news! Look at them! Thick as thieves, but we all know what’s going on!’

  ‘Oh no . . .’ I start to say, and am about to tell him there’s nothing going on, then remember that that’s why most of the locals think I’m there, as Lachlan’s guest.

  Lachlan laughs and slings his arm around my shoulders. I look at Isla’s face, a smile gently tugging at the corner of her mouth, and I’m not sure if it’s regret, or that she’s pleased for him, or maybe a bit of both.

  The clock strikes midnight.

  ‘Happy New Year!’ shouts Hector, throwing his hands up. ‘Go on, kiss her, man! It’s Hogmanay after all!’

  ‘Oh, I . . .’ I blush deeply.

  ‘Remember, go with what he’s thinking!’ murmurs Lachlan. He looks straight at me, and very tentatively I reach up to him. I’ll just give him a peck, I think. Just to help him out of this awkward spot. His lips touch mine, and then I’m sinking into them like I’ve been waiting for them all my life.

  ‘There you go!’ says Hector. ‘I mean, if you can’t kiss the woman who’s having your baby, who can you kiss?’

  We fall away from each other.

  ‘What?!’ I splutter.

  ‘Um, no . . .’ This time it’s Lachlan who breaks the rules. ‘No, Hector, you must have that wrong.’

  ‘What? Of course not! Don’t be shy! Anyone can see she’s with child!’

  The atmosphere crackles. Lachlan looks at me, mortified, but all I can do is laugh.

  Mrs Broidy breaks the awkward moment by playing another song on the piano. And even Lachlan joins in to cover his blushes and the waves of embarrassment that keep bubbling up in both of us, making us giggle. Without realising it, I’m singing too.

  ‘Looks like I’d better keep at the running!’ I finally say, smiling.

  ‘It’s just Hector . . . he doesn’t know what he’s saying.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, and smile. But I can’t help but think about that kiss still sitting on my lips, and the arm around me that he’s forgotten to take away.

  Finally we start to show everyone their rooms for the night, and those who think they can make it home leave with thanks for a lovely night.

  ‘It’s sure blowing a hooley out there!’ says Hector as we guide him towards the stairs to bed, the dogs at his heels.

  ‘It sure is, Gran— Hector,’ I correct myself. As much as I would love him to know me as his granddaughter, I realise, I don’t want to confuse him.

  ‘Be the perfect day for seaweed picking once it passes,’ he says.

  ‘Seaweed picking?!’ Lachlan and I say as one, standing behind him to make sure he doesn’t wobble.

  ‘For the gin. Most important part . . . well, second most important,’ he says, and carries on climbing the stairs, singing to himself: ‘Seaweed, down at the beach. Perfect for it once the storm has passed.’

  Chapter Thirty

  The next morning we’re both up early. I make endless cups of tea from the big cream kettle on the range, and Lachlan serves pancakes, then together we see people off, standing in the big doorway. The power should be back on later in the day.

>   ‘But if not, come back. We have plenty of room!’ I call.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Lena from the shop, ‘and if the tea party is half as much fun as that, it’ll be a great night! We’ve signed up for it.’

  ‘Looks like we got ourselves some crowdfunding supporters,’ Lachlan says, waving them off.

  ‘Let’s check the total when they’ve all gone.’ I raise a worried smile, hoping we’ve drummed up enough interest.

  I turn to see Isla behind us, about to leave.

  ‘Thank you, for everything,’ she says to me. ‘I know . . .’ Gordan puts his hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think I was very welcoming to you when you first arrived, but I can see that you make Lachlan happy, and that’s what counts. I just don’t want to see him hurt . . . again.’

  I’m taken aback. ‘Oh, that whole baby thing? It’s not true!’ I wave a hand in the area of my stomach. ‘A misunderstanding!’ I laugh, very loudly. ‘It was all a misunderstanding . . . I’m not, we’re not . . .’

  Isla laughs too. ‘Shame, or we could have been celebrating having our babies together.’ She gently rubs her well-wrapped-up belly.

  ‘You’re pregnant?’ I say with surprise, suddenly feeling for Lachlan standing behind me. There’s never going to be a chance that she’ll come back to him now. I get the feeling that he thought if he waited long enough, she might change her mind. But there is no way that’s going to happen. She’s made her decision and she’s sticking by it. She and Gordan are moving on with their lives. It’s Lachlan who can’t. And I can feel him behind me, as if the wind has been knocked out of his sails. Like all the air has left his body, hitting me in a warm blast on the back of my neck, making me shiver.

  For a moment, no one says anything.

  ‘Well, congratulations!’ I say, going into autopilot.

  ‘Yes, congratulations,’ Lachlan echoes, and shakes both Gordan and Isla by the hand, then we bid them goodbye and finally shut the front door.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not true,’ he says, turning and walking down the wide wooden-panelled corridor, now strewn with glasses from last night. I follow him, both of us collecting glasses as we go, and join him at the glazed Belfast sink in the kitchen, which he starts filling with water. ‘At least the well should be full after that deluge.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Where we get our water from. The rainwater collects in the big well.’

  ‘And don’t change the subject on me,’ I say. ‘What am I thinking?’

  He squirts in washing-up liquid, not looking at me, and sighs. ‘That I’ll be upset because Isla and Gordan are having a baby. You think I’m still in love with her after what I told you last night.’

  ‘Well you are, aren’t you? She was the one you came back for. The reason you haven’t left.’

  He turns to look at me, and sighs again. ‘Everything changes. Just because I came back doesn’t mean I still love her.’ He dries his hands. ‘It came as a shock, but only because it made me realise that it really is over. They’re settled. A family. It’s time to move on. It’s time for everyone to move on,’ and he looks straight at me, making me feel like my insides are shifting, like something in me has moved on too. I just don’t know what it is. But I do know that that kiss has changed something in me. It’s somewhere I want to go back to but know I’ve got to leave behind when I get on that ferry in a week’s time.

  ‘Now, let’s look at this crowdfunding page, see if we’re going to be able to get you to Tenerife!’ he says with a smile and growl that is actually really attractive, I realise.

  In a week’s time, this will all be in the past, I think with a strange sense of sadness, almost melancholy. I wonder what I’ll miss the most: my early-morning runs past the seals and the sea eagles? The sound of the burn as it makes its journey from the hills where we picked the gorse, through the pine forest, across the heath where the juniper grows, beside the country road where the rosehips come from and finally to the sea? Or will it be Lachlan’s growling voice, deep, thick and layered with meaning and humour? And Hector too, I realise. He may not know who I am, but I have enjoyed getting to know him, hearing the stories of my dad’s childhood, and sharing stories of my own about our life before Dad died.

  ‘Your father sounds like a lovely man. With good taste too! He obviously inherited good genes!’ Hector said one evening when I’d been reminiscing.

  ‘He was, and he did!’ I replied with a lump in my throat.

  ‘I will come back,’ I suddenly tell Lachlan. ‘For a visit.’ Before Hector’s funeral, I add silently.

  Lachlan has the computer open and is looking at the page.

  ‘And?’ I ask expectantly, and he shakes his head.

  ‘Not as much as we need yet.’ He shows me our total to date.

  I look at him. ‘We’re not going to make it, are we? What if we don’t make it? We need something to really get us noticed, otherwise Teach Mhor and its gin and Hector’s legacy will be lost forever.’

  And I suddenly realise that it’s not about me leaving, or Lachlan leaving, or even the place at the care home. It’s about Hector and making his life’s work count.

  ‘Come on, get your kit on, we’ve got gin to make!’ he says.

  ‘First man who’s ever told me to get my kit on!’ I find myself joking. ‘Mind you, if Hector’s opinion counts, it’s obviously good advice.’ I laugh again at last night’s embarrassing moment, and we both smile and look at each other and seem to hold each other’s gaze. And it’s not Hector’s announcement that’s making me blush, I realise; it’s the memory of that kiss, those surprisingly soft lips that made me feel like I’d fallen into warm sand, and the waves washing up through me, building, full of excitement and expectation. I try to remember how Joe’s kisses make me feel, and realise with a deep sadness that I can’t. And if I can’t remember that, what else is there? What’s left?

  ‘Okay, let’s get going,’ I say, breaking away from what I really want to happen next, which is to taste those sweet lips on mine again . . . and that will never lead to any good!

  ‘I’ll bring the camera, get some shots of the shore. Maybe that’ll tempt in some more investors. Once they see how beautiful this place is, they’ll be flocking in!’ he says, and we both know that if they don’t, we’re in real trouble.

  ‘Lachlan?’ I say as we’re about to leave. ‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew it was seaweed. The fourth ingredient?’

  For a moment he says nothing, then, ‘I had a good idea. I’ve been foraging around these parts long enough.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ I suddenly feel cross with him.

  ‘Let’s just say I thought it would benefit you both,’ he nods at Hector, ‘to take some time working it out.’

  I stare at him. He didn’t say! On purpose! And I can’t decide whether I’m furious or pleased. Discovering the island and rediscovering the music I grew up with really has been wonderful.

  ‘And the final ingredient? The fifth?’

  ‘Now that one, I have no idea!’ He shakes his head. ‘And if we don’t get enough crowdfunding, we’re sunk anyway.’

  We’re going to need a miracle to pull this off now, I think.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ‘Seaweed! Loads of seaweed!’ Lachlan says as he wanders along the wet sand and over the rocks, still sodden from their soaking last night.

  ‘Ah!’ says Hector, holding out his arms and breathing in deeply.

  Although the storm has passed, the sea breeze is still rolling gently in with the waves, buffeting our cheeks and blowing away any cobwebs. Hector might not remember why we’re here, but he’s clearly happy that we are. The dogs sniff around in the grassy dunes, then wander down to stand next to him as he steps down unsteadily onto the beach; the beach where Lachlan and I sat on Christmas Day and ate oysters and drank gin from oyster shells.
Back where it all began; where we made a pact to work together to find the gin recipe. And now we’re nearly done, I think with a mixture of joy and sadness. I hold out a hand to help Hector, but he doesn’t take it. Proud to the last, I think with a smile.

  Lachlan is inspecting glistening clumps of what I presume must be seaweed. ‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘it’s not the best time of year to be harvesting. It’s usually left to rest over the winter and harvested later in the year. But if we take what we need, carefully, and from places where there’s plenty, we should be able to get enough for this limited edition batch, and then we . . .’ he stands up, ‘or whoever owns Teach Mhor gin next, can come back and harvest what they need in the spring. They can dry it or even freeze it,’ he adds. ‘Harvesting when there’s plenty and then freezing the ingredients could be the best way forward. These are things to look at . . .’ and suddenly he stops talking, ‘for the new owners,’ he finishes flatly.

  I stand and look at him. ‘We’re doing this for Hector,’ I say, reminding myself as much as him.

  ‘Quite right,’ he answers, and gets back to collecting the seaweed.

  Hector is strolling cheerfully up and down the shoreline, and I begin to scour the area for driftwood, just like Lachlan did on Christmas Day. I pull my scarf around my neck and let the clean, crisp air wind its way around me, and focus on the sand beneath my feet, somehow feeling anchored there, part of the landscape. I look up briefly at Lachlan and Hector, both content in what they’re doing, then look down again, and find myself thinking about the night before, the house full of music and laughter.

  My life in the city with Joe seems so far away. I feel like I’m living in some kind of parallel universe. There are hardly any cars on Winter Island, no buses or sirens, all the things that used to connect me with life and living. Out here there’s just the seals, bobbing up to say good morning as if asking if we survived the night okay. The eagles no doubt will be circling the clifftops, and I can see the deer covering the golden heath. I bend to pick up another piece of wood and breathe in deeply, so it fills my whole body. Then, without even noticing I’m doing it, I start to sing, the tune that has been playing in my head since I found the record in the croft, making me feel like my soul has grown wings and taken off. I carry on singing, I can’t stop: the songs we played on the record player last night, the songs I heard when I was growing up with my dad. The songs that I realise now were his connection with this place and that have now in some way connected me too. I look out across the bay, holding back my hair from my face and singing as if no one is listening. I have never felt more alive.