Coming Home to Winter Island Read online

  I turn to see Lachlan with his phone held up, photographing me. He lowers it and looks at me. ‘You sing beautifully,’ he says as he walks towards me.

  ‘Thank you.’ I blush. ‘I didn’t know I was . . . or if I could . . . I mean, I joined in last night. But that was different. My voice, it’s taken on a whole new tone. Something about this place just made me want to sing.’

  ‘I know,’ he says quietly. ‘Sometimes we don’t know what we want until we stop thinking about it.’

  ‘I . . . I can’t believe how good that felt.’ I’m suddenly beaming, feeling like I’ve just crossed the finishing line in the Olympics and broken a world record. ‘And you really thought it sounded okay?’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah, y’know me . . . what would I know, tone deaf!’ he laughs, but suddenly what he thinks really matters to me. ‘You sing beautifully,’ he repeats. ‘Here . . .’ And he shows me the phone.

  ‘You videoed me!’ I say, surprised. I don’t usually like seeing myself on film, but something in me is delighted to hear the song back. He smiles down at me.

  ‘It just seemed right. You don’t mind?’

  ‘I . . . love it!’ I say. I look up at him, feeling excited, alive. I want to throw my arms around him and hug him. Because he made this happen, I realise. Spending time in this place made this happen. Seeing something of the past, the present and maybe thinking about my future. I feel like me, but not like the old me. A different me! A freer, happier me, living in the moment! I think about that kiss, and how I long to feel his lips on mine again, taste the clean, salty sea-filled air on them. But why?! Why would I think that? Because I’m grateful for what he’s done, or because those lips feel a lot like home right now and they are within touching distance? But there’s no way I can start to fall for Lachlan. I just can’t. That would be far too complicated. There are so many reasons . . . There’s Joe, for starters! Joe who thinks I’m at a vocal retreat and is waiting for me to come home! We have to make the gin and move on!

  ‘It was here, here that he told me he was leaving.’ I hear Hector’s voice and turn away from Lachlan to face him. Lachlan stands behind me, right behind me, and puts his hand on my shoulder. Hector is looking out across the bay.

  ‘Are you okay, Hector?’ Lachlan asks.

  But the old man looks pale, as though he’s seen a ghost.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  ‘Let’s get this fire lit, shall we? Hector, you sit down. Here, have a nip.’ Lachlan guides Hector to the big log and hands him a battered silver hip flask from his jacket pocket. His kindness makes me smile, and my heart beats just a bit faster too.

  I smile warmly at Hector, but his expression doesn’t alter. Something is troubling him. He wobbles as he goes to sit on the log, and we both reach out to catch him, making sure he doesn’t fall. It’s what we’ve come to do, the three of us: make sure none of us falls. We help Hector to sit down. And then Lachlan begins to build the fire.

  ‘Ruby will sing for us again, won’t you, Rubes?’ he says.

  ‘Was that you singing, Miss Rubes? Very good. Brought it all back to me,’ he says, his eyes filling like pools of water. Suddenly tears spring to my own eyes, seeing the pain in his, and a huge lump bobs up in my throat. Is he about to tell me? Is he about to tell me what I’ve been wanting to hear? Why he and my father never spoke? Why I was never a part of this place?

  I look at his face. When I arrived, it shocked me at how familiar it was, yet I knew nothing about this man. Now . . . well, I know him for who he is now, not who he used to be. The Hector who is forever emptying cupboards looking for the recipe. The Hector who forgets to dress and forgets how many dogs he has. Who loves a boiled egg cooked ‘just so’ and who has forgotten that his wife and son have died and lives as if they were still here.

  ‘What . . .’ my voice is tight, ‘what did it bring back?’

  He gazes out across the water. ‘Um . . .’ He looks round at me. Lachlan is building a sort of washing line for the seaweed close to the fire. ‘Oh . . . my son. It was here he told me he was leaving.’ He looks out at the water again. ‘We had a terrible row.’ He shakes his head as if wanting to forget the memory. And I don’t want to cause him any pain, but I do want to know.

  ‘What did you row about?’

  He puts a hand on each of the dogs.

  ‘We said some dreadful things—’

  Suddenly there’s a clatter behind me, making me jump. I turn and see the stags, up on the rise where we watch the seals, about to do battle once again. Only this time the older stag is looking tired, less up for the fight. Lachlan stands and shoos them away. The younger stag struts off, his head held high, but the older one dips his head, looking defeated. I turn back to Hector, who looks defeated too.

  ‘Someone needs to give in,’ says Lachlan. ‘No good will come of it. Looks like the old man is seeing sense.’

  ‘Pride comes before a fall,’ says Hector shakily. ‘Maybe I could learn from that.’ He looks at me. ‘It was here he told me he wanted to leave the island,’ he says, and I feel a shiver up and down my spine like someone is walking over my grave. This is it. He’s telling me what happened, and all of a sudden I’m not sure I want to hear it. I’ve loved the last few weeks getting to know this place, and Hector too. I don’t want that spoilt. I’m not ready, I think. I thought I was, but I want more time to get to know him and the island before that bubble is burst. But time is the one thing we haven’t got.

  ‘We came here for a walk, with the dogs. I think we had three at the time . . . or was it four?’ His mind wanders. The fire begins to crackle and I can feel its heat. Lachlan smiles at me reassuringly.

  ‘And you came here with your son, Hector. What was his name?’

  ‘Campbell. Campbell Hector Macquarrie,’ he says carefully.

  Even hearing his name brings back the grief I felt when he died. The grief I’ve tried to shut out for many years. I can see his face so clearly. He wasn’t one of those funny, make-you-laugh dads. But he was always there for me. Unlike my mum, who was always chasing the next fun idea, the next group of friends, hoping that what she was looking for was round the corner. It still isn’t.

  ‘That’s right, I remember Campbell,’ says Lachlan, and I’m enjoying hearing his name again. I’d like to join in and help prompt, but there’s a huge ball still stuck in my throat.

  ‘There was a storm brewing. We walked down here and he told me he wanted to leave the island. I was . . . well, devastated.’ Hector looks up, and a single fat tear drops from his eye and splashes onto one of the Labradors at his feet. The dog doesn’t flinch. ‘I didn’t know what to do. The business was going well, really well. We were shipping out gin, far more than the whisky. Much to my father’s disgust. He thought gin was an English drink!’ He manages a deep chuckle. ‘But the whisky business was in trouble. We were going under. We had to diversify.

  ‘It was walking the island, taking in the sights and sounds, that gave me the idea for the gin, a drink that told the story of this place in a mouthful.’ Tears start to trickle down my cheeks. ‘A drink that told people how beautiful it was, how clean the air was, how refreshing the sea mist could be. A taste of the world that I loved, right there in a bottle.’ He looks down, as if imagining the bottle. ‘It was a hard time. The distillery was losing money. We had to make the most of what we had. Luckily, what we have here on this island is pretty special. Even in winter!’ he says, and I find myself agreeing. It really is special. And I realise I want to tell everyone about it.

  One of the dogs raises its head, looks around, then puts it down again. I remember the bottle, holding it up to the light and thinking it was exactly the colour of the sky and water around the island.

  ‘And what happened when you suggested the gin to your dad?’ Lachlan feeds the fire and tends the seaweed on the drying rack. Then he takes the hip flask from Hector, wipes the top and offe
rs it to me. I smile and take a swig, hoping it will shift the lump in my throat.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t like the idea at all! But after a bit of butting heads, he told me to try. He didn’t really have any other option. The business was going to close unless we could think of something.’

  ‘And it worked!’ I say.

  ‘Yes! It grew and grew. We took on more people from the island, and it saved the business and the house. People came to help for nothing to start with, and in the end we took them all on. It’s good to look after your workers, because they look after you.’ He smiles a watery smile, and I think of the parties they held at the house, their way of saying thank you to the community.

  ‘And Campbell, was he part of it?’

  He nods. ‘He was . . . for a while.’ He looks down at the dogs, and for a moment my heart plummets and I wonder if that’s it . . . if he’s lost his train of thought. If transmission has been broken. I glance at Lachlan, who nods encouragingly, and I swallow to clear my throat and begin to sing, the very song that Lachlan finds it so hard to hear. Then Hector joins in with me, quietly but beautifully, and the tears fall all over again. When we finish, I reach out and put my hand over his. It doesn’t matter if he can’t remember, I tell myself. This is what matters. But he starts to talk again.

  ‘He’d met a woman, he told me. Well, we all knew that. He’d been with his girlfriend for a couple of years by then, a girl from a family from the other side of the island. We were waiting for an engagement. And that’s what I thought he was going to tell me. Instead he said that he’d fallen in love with a visitor to the island. He was absolutely smitten. He told me that he was leaving and going with her back to England! Not even Scotland . . . England!’

  ‘What was her name? Was it Stella?’ I manage to ask.

  ‘That was it! She was a singer. Here visiting a friend who had come to the island to write some music. All very glamorous, it was. We had a terrible row. Said terrible things. I told him he had to stay. There was no one else to take over the business after me. I was depending on him. The island was depending on him!’ He sniffs. ‘And he told me that he had to leave, that he was in love. More like under her spell, I told him. That was it. He stayed a few more weeks to help finish up orders for the gin, but we hardly spoke. I just hoped he’d change his mind and see sense. He had a good life here, but he wanted more.’

  The flames flick-flack in the wind and I pull my coat around me.

  ‘But the day came. He packed up his belongings and stood waiting by the ferry. And then he told us there was to be a baby. His mother was in tears. I stupidly told him that if he went, he shouldn’t come back. He had to choose between us and leaving with Stella and the dreams she’d filled his head with. He told me they were to marry. I said it wouldn’t last the year. We haven’t heard from him since. We just . . .’ he looks up, ‘we locked horns and neither of us would step back. Stubborn, like the stags. I should have just let him go. Let him find it out for himself.’

  ‘They separated just after I was born,’ I say almost to myself. ‘I lived most of my early life with my father. After he died, I went to live full time with my mum. But it was never in the same place for very long.’

  ‘What’s that?’ He looks at me, confused, and I realise he hasn’t heard me.

  ‘Oh, er . . .’ I look at Lachlan.

  ‘She says she’s sure he’ll be back,’ Lachlan says.

  ‘Oh yes, I don’t doubt it.’ Hector lifts his chin a little. ‘He’ll come back soon, the baby too no doubt. My grandchild. And I’ll be here when they do, welcoming them home with open arms!’ He beams and sniffs at the same time.

  I stare at his lined face. My grandfather, waiting for me with open arms, and for my father too. There was always a place for me here, but I never knew it. Both of them too stubborn to back down. But I know it now, and it’s not too late, for me at least. I just hope it’s not too late for Hector.

  There’s no way we can let the gin fail at this stage. There’s no way Hector can be let down again. The weather turns and the rain comes in, and we gather up the seaweed, Hector and the dogs and Lachlan and I move as fast as we can, laughing as we get caught in a huge shower, all the way back to the big house to dry the seaweed in front of the range. Back home, I find myself thinking, and wishing I hadn’t. Unless we can get the gin recipe sorted, this will be no one’s home. It will be sold off; who knows, maybe even knocked down, given its current state, and the past will be lost forever.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I switch on my phone the next morning to get an update on the crowdfunding and see nineteen missed calls, mostly from Joe, but some from Jess too, as well as several voice messages. And then the phone jumps to life in my hand and starts ringing.

  ‘Hey, Rubes!’

  ‘Jess!’ I reply excitedly. Then I check the time. Jess never rings anyone in the morning. We just aren’t morning people. We work late, then stay up late to unwind, and mornings are catch-up-on-sleep time. Or they were until I came here. ‘Is everything okay? What’s happened?’ All sorts of scenarios are running through my head, first and foremost: who’s died?

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ she says with a deep early-morning huskiness to her voice. I let out a sigh of relief, then check myself. There has to be a reason for her ringing this early; before nine a.m. is more like the middle of the night for her. Ah, maybe she hasn’t been to bed! That makes sense! This is Jess in after-show party mode.

  ‘How have the gigs been?’ I ask.

  ‘Great. Lulu did great. I mean . . .’ she corrects herself, ‘not as great as you would have done, but great.’ Strangely, I don’t feel a thing. A few weeks ago, I was terrified of this young woman taking my place in the band, taking my place in my world. But now, something has shifted and I’m pleased for her. Really pleased.

  ‘That’s great. She’s worked hard. She deserves a shot in the limelight.’

  There’s a silence at the other end of the phone that I read as shocked.

  ‘Jess?’

  ‘But what about you? That’s why I’m ringing!’

  ‘Me? I’m . . . fine. I’m . . .’ What am I? ‘Well, the storm did some serious damage, brought down some trees, but the villagers have been out clearing the road. Did I tell you there’s just one road around the island, and there’s this stream, the burn they call it, that I follow on my runs, all the way across the island, up to this waterfall—’

  ‘Ruby!’ She cuts across me.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I mean, how are you? How’s your voice? You’re supposed to be in Tenerife. Where are you? When are we getting you back? Joe seems a bit confused about your plans!’

  I suddenly feel like I’ve been tripped up, and I think about the missed calls.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on, Rubes, but there’s a big gig next week. The first of February. It’s being recorded for BBC radio. One of the other acts has dropped out. There’ll be loads of coverage. It’s a really big deal. We could do with you back here for that!’

  ‘Wow! That’s massive! Network radio!’ my mouth is saying. That’s the day before the tea party, is what I’m thinking.

  ‘Yes!’ shrieks Jess. ‘And now you’re back on track . . . well, I say that; are you back on track?’ It seems she takes my silence as a yes. ‘Amazing! Now you’re back, we’re going to knock it out of the park!’

  ‘I, er . . .’ Oh God! She wants me to come back and do the gig, but it’s the day before our crowdfunding deadline to try and save Teach Mhor! I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I can’t leave before the tea party. I just can’t. ‘I don’t think my voice will be back in time, Jess. It needs more rest.’

  There is silence again at the other end of the phone.

  ‘What’s going on, Rubes?’ she says eventually. ‘Are you leaving us?’

  ‘What? No!’ Leaving the band is the last thing I
want to do. ‘No, I’m not leaving you. That’s why I’m . . . away. Getting better. I want this more than ever. I want to be back singing!’

  ‘Really?’ says Jess. I look out of the window and check the weather for my run, and find myself wondering if the seals will be out.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. I’m thrilled to hear from Jess, but I’m also keen to get outside and take in the air. ‘Look, why don’t we catch up later? I need to do some exercise . . . vocal exercises. But I want to hear all the news, how everyone is.’ I find myself telling a small white lie. ‘Let’s talk this evening, when . . . when my voice is feeling stronger.’

  ‘Really?’ says Jess, suddenly sounding a lot less enthusiastic.

  ‘Look, I know you’d like me to be back for the gig, and if I could, I would.’ I can feel myself digging a deeper and deeper hole. ‘You know I would. The band is everything to me.’

  ‘Really?’ she repeats.

  ‘Yes, Jess. I just want to get my voice back to how it was,’ which is true.

  ‘Well,’ says Jess, a little frostily, ‘from what I’ve seen, your voice is fully back to how it was. In fact, better than I’ve ever heard you!’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ I’m confused.