Coming Home to Winter Island Page 22

I get into bed and push the hot-water bottle down to my feet, almost scalding them. I shiver and pull the covers around me, listening to the sounds of Lachlan moving around overhead. But even once it’s quiet, I can’t fall asleep. I think about the video, how singing on the beach made me feel. I think about the crowdfunding page. I think about Jess asking if I still want to be in the band. I think about the silence in our band group chat. I haven’t heard from any of them in a while. Have they made another group without me? Has the space I used to fill been filled by someone else? And then I think about Joe telling me we’re over unless I go straight home. I think about our conversation earlier this evening.

  ‘I’m not coming back yet, Joe,’ I told him. ‘I have to finish what I started. I have to do this for Hector, but for me too. I need to be here to . . . well, to find the missing piece of me, I suppose.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve lied to me, Rubes! Made me look an idiot in front of everyone – the band, my family. We had a plan. You just had to stick to it and we’d have had it all.’

  ‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘You had a plan, Joe. You had it all mapped out. You had my life mapped out.’

  ‘And you were happy with that!’ he shouted.

  ‘But now I’m taking the scenic route, and I realise that there’s so much more out there.’

  ‘I meant what I said, Rubes. If you and I are going to get back to where we were, you need to come home, now!’

  I took a deep breath. ‘No, Joe, I won’t be coming home yet.’

  ‘You’re not . . .’ he spluttered. ‘I mean it, Rubes. You can’t get anywhere in life without drive. Maybe you should take a leaf out of Lulu’s book. She’s going to do really well.’

  I know he meant to hurt me, but instead I just felt pleased for her.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that, Joe. And I hope it brings her happiness. Happiness is so much more than waiting for what’s around the corner. It’s enjoying what’s happening right now. And I’m living in the now, not for what might happen tomorrow.’

  ‘Well . . .’ he spluttered again. ‘That won’t be with me, then!’ And he ended the call, as if slamming the door shut on four years of my life.

  It’s over. Joe and me are over. It’s sad, but I know it’s the right thing. We were never going to grow old together. We were never going to last the distance once my band days were finished. I realised that the day Hector told us about proposing to Mairead. Joe never proposed to me; it was more like a business plan. But love and marriage isn’t a business plan; it’s about the memories you make together. I couldn’t conjure up any of the memories Joe and I had made, only the plans for when I got the record deal. I couldn’t even remember how his kiss felt. But I know I’ll never forget the kiss I shared with Lachlan, or the oysters and gin on the beach.

  I listen to the rain against the window pane, feeling very much like I’m living in the moment, and feel a strange sense of relief wash over me. It’s over. I think about texting the band group chat, but have no idea what to say, what GIF to send to explain how I feel.

  ‘This place runs on water,’ I hear Hector saying, and I try to retrace my early-morning runs in my head, following the path of the burn across the island, from the sea, over the moorland, through the forest and up into the hills to the waterfall. I remember the time Hector went missing. The waterfall, I think as I slowly drift off to sleep.

  The next morning, my eyes open with a ping. The waterfall! This place runs on water. It’s who we are. We wouldn’t be the island we are without it. It’s the water. I was running the wrong way round. The burn starts at the waterfall and flows across the island, picking up flavour and scents from every part of it, finishing in the sea . . .

  It starts at the waterfall! It’s the water that makes the gin so special.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I throw on my clothes over my pyjamas – well, a tracksuit that has doubled as pyjamas whilst I’ve been here. I pull on my trainers over my thick socks, jumping from one foot to the other, trying to hop towards the door whilst putting them on. It doesn’t work, and I trip and stumble, eventually grabbing hold of the end of the bed to steady myself. I scoop up my hoodie and pull it on, and run out of the room, over the threadbare rug and the bare floorboards, launching myself towards the door to the attic.

  ‘Lachlan!’ I shout. I don’t wait for a reply, but run up the narrow wooden stairs, around the turn on the tapered steps and up towards the light from the window on the landing.

  ‘Argh!’

  ‘Argh!’

  We meet at the top of the stairs. He’s just a silhouette in front of the window there, while I look like some kind of monster from the lagoon. It’s just like the first time we met.

  ‘What’s up? Is it Hector?’ He’s pulling on his jumper, his T-shirt pyjama top lifting to reveal his stomach, and my own stomach flips over and back again.

  ‘No, no, it’s not Hector,’ I say. He drops his arms with relief. ‘It’s . . .’ I suddenly smile up at him, wishing I’d stopped to brush my hair and tidy myself up, all of a sudden feeling very self-conscious about my dishevelled state. But why? This is Lachlan! It’s not like I . . . I look at him standing in front of the window, his bed hair standing on end. It’s not like I fancy him, I tell myself slowly as I realise just how fanciable he looks in his soft pyjama bottoms and thick knitted sweater, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

  ‘What then?’ he laughs, throwing out his arms and letting them fall by his sides.

  ‘It’s, it’s . . .’ I suddenly feel dizzy with excitement, and I don’t know if it’s the news I’m about to tell him or Lachlan himself that’s making me feel like that. ‘It’s the gin!’ I finally say, my smile widening as I do. ‘I think I know the final ingredient!’

  ‘Whaaaa!’ he says. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the water!’ My cheeks are pink and my smile is as wide as it can be. ‘The water from the waterfall! Remember, that’s where Hector went that night he went missing. And he’s always saying it’s the water that makes the island what it is.’

  Lachlan smacks his open palm to his forehead. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it! Where the water is filtered through the rock. It’s some of the oldest on the planet, the purest water you can get.’

  ‘It’s where the story begins,’ I say. ‘We found the end of the story, the seaweed, at the beach. We just had to work backwards, across the cliffs for the gorse . . .’

  ‘. . . the forest for the pine and the hedgerows for the rosehips,’ he joins in.

  ‘And finally the mountain spring!’

  ‘The story of the island!’ he says, smiling and nodding.

  ‘It’s the burn. I was told when I first got here that I couldn’t get lost if I followed the burn. It takes you right across the island.’

  ‘The story of the island and of Teach Mhor gin. You did it, Ruby Macquarrie . . . you did it!’

  No one ever calls me Macquarrie, I think. But that’s how I feel, like a Macquarrie. And then he takes my face in his hands and very gently moves in to kiss me, his eyes darting from my lips to my eyes, and it tastes just like it did that night of the storm, when Hector thought it was Hogmanay and told everyone I was pregnant.

  Suddenly there’s a banging from out on the landing.

  ‘Mairead? Mairead? Are they here? Is Campbell here? Is the baby with him?’

  Our eyes ping open and we fall apart, smiling.

  ‘Sounds like someone’s been having happy dreams,’ I say.

  ‘They’re on their way, Hector,’ Lachlan calls. ‘On their way,’ and he looks at me. ‘It’s all about living in the present,’ he says quietly, and we both laugh, the moment broken but not forgotten as we head back downstairs, wrapped up against the weather, with Hector and the dogs in tow; a laughing, happy trio heading out to the Land Rover and loading the boot with water barrels to fill.

&nbs
p; Chapter Thirty-eight

  ‘We’re going to need help, all the help we can get,’ I tell Lachlan as he hands me one of the full water barrels from his precarious position by the waterfall edge.

  ‘Agreed,’ he says, holding out another barrel, and I take it from him and put it on the bank, feeling like a contestant in the final of I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here! Only I’m not a celebrity, and weirdly, right now, getting out of here feels like the last thing on my mind. Getting this gin made is what matters and meeting the crowdfunding target.

  He hands me the last barrel, full of cold, clear, mountain-fresh rock-filtered water, then turns to make his way back to the bank before stopping and bending down.

  ‘Here,’ he says, and scoops up a handful of what must be freezing water and offers it to me. ‘Quick!’ he laughs as I hesitate and the water trickles through his fingers. I quickly step forward and take his hands in mine, and sip. I don’t know what’s more invigorating, holding his hands, or the water itself. Whatever, I feel myself feeling excited and very much alive. I can feel my eyes sparkling and my body tingling.

  ‘Right, let’s get this gin made!’ he beams.

  I put the back of my hand to my lips and brush away any moisture left there, then roll my bottom lip in, still feeling the taste of the water.

  ‘Hector, open the back door of the Land Rover,’ I call out as we head down the slope to the track, both of us with a barrel in each hand.

  Hector does as he’s asked, with a big smile on his face.

  The three of us get in the car with the dogs, although Douglas insists on sitting up front with me, and we head back, via the village, the pub and the shop.

  ‘I’ll go to the pub; you see who’s in the café,’ I tell Lachlan. We need as many hands as we can find to get this batch made in time for the tea party.

  Everyone I speak to is happy to come and help out, by way of a thank you for the night of the storm, and our journey back to the house is cheerful and excited, singing along to the crackly radio. As we reach the end of the drive, we all stop singing when we see a car waiting outside the front door.

  ‘Anyone expecting visitors?’ asks Lachlan, glancing at me, and I shake my head.

  ‘Someone’s beaten us here,’ I say, but I find it hard to believe.

  ‘It’ll be Campbell and the baby!’ says Hector.

  Lachlan and I look at each other and smile sadly.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  ‘Ah, good, just the person.’ It’s Fraser, the solicitor. Suddenly our good mood evaporates.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask. ‘We’re not due to meet, are we? We’re hoping to have everything ready for the house to go on the market after our crowdfunding event.’

  ‘Yes, indeed . . . and looking forward to the tea party we are too, as investors!’ He smiles.

  ‘Well that’s fantastic, we’ll see you then.’ I pick up one of the barrels of water Lachlan has unloaded.

  ‘Hector!’ says Fraser. ‘Good to see you!’ He shakes Hector’s hand.

  ‘Good to see you too,’ says Hector. He turns and walks towards the door. ‘Who’s that?’ I hear him asking Lachlan loudly. ‘Must get on,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘My son and grandchild are coming home!’

  I watch his back as he disappears into the house. He’s looking tired. Yet I can’t help but wonder: did my dad mean to come home before he died? Was that ever a plan? Did they make it up with each other?

  Fraser smiles. ‘He’s looking better than I’ve seen him in a long time. Your stay here must have done him some good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘but actually, I really have to get on. We have a batch of gin to get made for the tea party.’

  ‘Actually, about that . . .’

  ‘What, the tea party?’

  ‘Uh huh. I’ve brought someone with me,’ he says.

  ‘Oh?’ I look at him quizzically.

  ‘I’m going to the distillery,’ says Lachlan, watching as several battered trucks come down the drive. ‘Unless you need me?’ He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘No, no, you go on. I’ll catch you up. Just follow Lachlan, everyone,’ I say as the locals pour out of the trucks.

  ‘Come to help, Fraser?’ says Isla as he passes us.

  ‘Hopefully!’ He beams as a passenger gets out of his car. A smart young man, half Fraser’s age, doing up his suit jacket button beneath his smart knee-length woollen coat. I wonder for a moment if it’s one of Fraser’s family, brought as reinforcements.

  ‘This is Jack Drummond. From Drummond’s Spirits.’ Fraser looks at me. ‘On the mainland,’ he adds, as if I should know what he’s talking about. Seeing that I don’t, he carries on. ‘Drummond’s is a very big company, making a range of spirits.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I nod, a lot, not quite sure why he’s here. ‘Well, we make just the one gin,’ I laugh, and can hear that I sound slightly hysterical. And we won’t make one at all if we can’t get on with this batch, I think.

  ‘At the moment.’ Jack Drummond smiles, a bright, attractive smile, and I realise that he may be interested in becoming a crowdfunder, which would be brilliant.

  ‘Yes, just one, very special gin,’ I say with pride. ‘Made with foraged botanicals from the island. We’re making an exclusive limited edition batch as we speak, whilst we’re crowdfunding to get the business back on its feet . . .’ I deliberate on how to put it, ‘after a few years on the back burner.’

  ‘So I hear,’ he says, and I’m not sure what he’s referring to: the crowdfunding, the limited edition batch, or the fact that the business has been on the back burner . . . or more like dead in the water. ‘I know of Teach Mhor gin, of course.’

  ‘I, er . . . well, if you’re interested in investing, we’d be delighted. We still have a little way to go to meet our target,’ I say, clapping my hands together and smiling. Today really is getting better and better.

  ‘You’re the woman singing on the crowdfunding page, aren’t you?’ he says, flashing me an even brighter smile.

  ‘I am.’ I find myself blushing.

  ‘You were great. Really gave a sense of what this place feels like.’ He looks around him, then up at the house. ‘Like it has a real sense of identity.’

  ‘Oh, it does.’ I smile. ‘It’s a very special place indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on. But we’d love to see you at the tea party if you’re interested in investing.’ I pick up another barrel of water.

  ‘Oh, I’m not interested in investing.’ He smiles his killer smile again. ‘I’m interested in . . .’

  Isla appears at the front door. ‘Lachlan says have you got that water?’ she says good-naturedly, and turns to go back to the distillery just as Jack finishes his sentence.

  ‘I’m interested in buying the place, the whole lot. Lock, stock and barrel.’

  ‘You’re what?!’ says Isla quietly and steadily from behind me, and I spin round. She has stopped in her tracks and turned to glare at Jack, and then at me. ‘Does Lachlan know about this? Or Hector, for that matter? Do they know you’re planning to sell Hector’s home from under him?’ She is clearly appalled. ‘Is this why you’re here? When you said you were helping with the business, is this what you meant: that you’re here to sell it to the highest bidder?’

  I look at Isla’s furious expression and have no idea where to start explaining who I am or why I’m here or that everything seems to have changed and leaving is the very last thing I want to do. She turns, her face like thunder, and stalks off.

  ‘Er, great! Take a look around,’ I say, waving a hand at Jack and Fraser, and run after Isla.

  ‘Look, it’s not what you think,’ I say when I catch up with her. I reach out for her arm in the wood-panelled hall, but she shrugs me off.

  ‘Oh really? You turn up here and make out you’re with Lachlan and that yo
u’re helping bring the gin back, but really you just want to sell off Hector’s home.’ Her eyes are flashing.

  ‘Actually, I never said that Lachlan and I were—’

  ‘Does Lachlan know? He’d never let this happen!’ She cuts me off, and again I struggle to find the words.

  ‘Actually,’ says a familiar and very welcome voice behind me, ‘he does.’ I turn to see Lachlan standing in the hall. Outside, Fraser and Jack Drummond are looking at the building’s facade and I can hear Drummond’s voice. We all can.

  ‘It’s got a great vibe. Nothing has been spoilt with updating. You can just see the tartan and the log fires. You can feel the heritage of the place. We want to celebrate its history.’

  ‘Except the history and heritage will be gone!’ Isla says.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Fraser asked me to come here and we discussed selling the house so Hector could go into a care home. I’m his only remaining relative. His son’s daughter. His . . . granddaughter.’ And again I wonder why Fraser called me in the first place. He didn’t need me to agree. I didn’t even know Hector. But I’ve learnt a lot about my past since being here, and maybe a bit about living in the present too. I’ve spent my life chasing career goals, yet here, I live every day for what it brings. The seals, the stags, the changing weather. You go with what life throws at you on the day.

  Joe has stuck to his word and cut off all communication with me, bar a message saying he’ll send on a box of my belongings from his flat and do I want any of the towel set we bought together. But I don’t want any of it. My life back there seems a million miles away right now. I have no idea what the future holds for me. I only know I have to get this gin made and organise the tea party. That’s as far as it goes right now. The last thing I need is to cause any upset before I leave.

  ‘The hospital thought it best, after his last fall, what with the way he is now,’ Lachlan is explaining.

  ‘But the house couldn’t be sold with a sitting tenant.’ I try and help out.

  ‘And the money’s needed to pay his care home fees.’ Lachlan and I seem to be working in sync to explain everything.