by Fiona Gibson
‘Smart move,’ he says. ‘How many d’you have? Kids, I mean …’
‘Yeah, the guinea pigs are long gone, sadly. I have a son and a daughter, both away at uni now. They’ve been teasing me that I got Scout as a child substitute …’
‘They’ve rumbled you, then.’ Amusement glimmers in his dark brown eyes, and we fall into a comfortable silence for a few moments. The sun is setting now, sliding towards the flat horizon where the sea meets the pink-smudged sky.
‘So, you’re not going to give in?’ I ask. ‘Over the dog thing, I mean?’
‘I can’t,’ Ricky says with a shake of his head. ‘We live in a flat and I’m out all day at work. It wouldn’t be fair at all.’
I register the ‘I’, rather than a ‘we’. So I assume he’s separated or divorced. ‘What d’you do for a job?’ I ask.
‘I’m a peripatetic music teacher. I mean, I go to different schools, teaching violin, cello, double bass …’
‘Oh, yes, I remember the peri from my school. A lovely man – long suffering, actually. I think most of us only took up an instrument to get time out of classes—’
‘Yeah, that happens,’ Ricky says. ‘So, what’s your instrument?’
‘I don’t have one,’ I reply. ‘My sister had played the clarinet for a while so it was passed on to me, but I never really had the knack for it.’
‘Did you go through the grades, all of that?’
‘Only one. I have a deep fear of performing or speaking in front of people, and playing those pieces for the examiner nearly finished me off.’
‘Music exams aren’t for everyone,’ Ricky concedes. ‘In fact, most of my pupils choose not to do them and that’s fine with me. The last thing I want to do is stress them out and put them off playing.’ He pauses. ‘So, what kind of job d’you do?’
My heart seems to jolt. I’m sort of working here, I told him when we first met. Just something I’m setting up. Does that count as a lie? ‘I’m a writer,’ I reply. ‘I write obituaries, mainly for newspapers …’
‘Wow.’ He looks at me in surprise. ‘I’ve never met anyone who does anything like that before.’
I laugh. ‘Well, it is a bit niche. But I’d always found them fascinating …’
‘Oh, I do too,’ Ricky says. ‘Arthur thinks it’s weird, but I always read them.’
‘Kids think anything their parents do is weird,’ I remark, and he laughs.
‘You’re right there. There’s something about them, though. I like the quirky ones best. You know, the ones about people you’d never have heard of otherwise?’
‘Unless they’d died, you mean?’ I smile.
He nods. ‘That sounds awful, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s true, though,’ I say. ‘They’re my favourites too and I always try to do them justice.’
‘I’m sure you do.’ He looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘I read one on the ferry about this marine biologist, a world expert on jellyfish—’
‘That was Lionel Foster,’ I say with a tinge of pride. ‘I wrote that.’
‘You’re kidding!’ he exclaims, and I notice again how attractive his smile his; wide and generous and crinkling his eyes.
‘Well, mine was the only one in a newspaper,’ I add. ‘There were others in specialist scientific publications, of course. I mean he was the go-to jellyfish guy …’
‘So I gathered,’ he says, still seeming quite taken aback by the connection. ‘Is that why you came here? To get away from it all and write?’
‘Er, sort of,’ I say quickly, not wanting to go into the whole distillery business now. After all, Ricky grew up on the island. He’s bound to know someone who’s connected to it and I’d hate our enjoyable chat to swerve down that route. ‘So, d’you enjoy teaching?’ I ask.
‘I love it,’ he replies. ‘Arthur doesn’t so much. Unfortunately, his school’s one of the primaries I visit.’
‘You mean you teach him?’
‘No, I tried to coax him – gently – when he was younger, but sport’s his thing, not music. I mean, it’s a bit mortifying for him that I teach there.’ He smiles in a what-can-you-do? kind of way as his son wanders towards us. ‘Isn’t that right, Arthur?’
‘It’s okay, I s’pose,’ he says with a shrug.
‘What kind of job would you like your dad to have?’ I ask.
‘A normal one?’ He catches his dad’s eye, and they laugh as we wait for Scout to potter back to us. The sunset is breathtaking now, the sea reflecting the intense pinks and golds of the swiftly darkening sky.
‘There’s a kind of hierarchy of coolness among music tutors,’ Ricky adds.
‘How does that work, then?’
He grimaces and rubs a hand across his short dark hair. ‘Drum teachers are acceptable – almost human, really. Woodwind falls somewhere in the middle and strings are definitely at the bottom …’
‘Really? I had no idea!’ I glance at him, imagining that he’s an excellent teacher. ‘This has been lovely,’ I add. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen sunsets like the ones here.’
‘Yeah, it’s famous for it,’ Ricky says, then Arthur cuts in: ‘Can we walk Scout again? I mean, can we borrow him?’
‘Arthur—’ his dad starts.
‘Of course you can,’ I say quickly.
‘Can we do it tomorrow?’ Arthur grins hopefully. ‘We go home the day after—’
‘It’s your birthday tomorrow,’ Ricky cuts in.
‘Yeah, I know, but that’s okay, isn’t it?’ He shrugs again. ‘I mean, what else are we doing?’
‘Well, er—’ Ricky starts as Arthur adds: ‘Maybe we could bring Granddad?’ He turns to me. ‘Is that all right, if he comes as well?’
‘Of course it is.’ I can’t help smiling that he feels the need to ask permission to invite him along. ‘Shall we meet here tomorrow morning, then? Is eleven okay?’
‘That’s perfect for us,’ Ricky says, placing an arm on Arthur’s shoulder. ‘And that’s a good idea, to ask Granddad along.’ He glances at me as we make for the steps. ‘My dad really hasn’t been himself lately,’ he adds. ‘And although he won’t admit it, I know he really misses having a dog.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ricky
Arthur seems pleased with his reconditioned laptop plus a football strip, a couple of books and enough chocolate to give Meg an actual heart attack, were she here to witness this. However, there’s still a strained atmosphere around Dad’s place. I just wish that woman had never dropped off her letter for him. She had the nerve to put it through my bloody door! he’s muttered more than once. As if the thought of her hand even hovering by his letterbox is enough to make his simmering irritation rise to a rolling boil all over again.
Plus, there’s the weirdness of Meg rushing off, a situation Dad has barely mentioned (emotional matters don’t really feature on his radar) apart from to ask, in a slightly hurt tone, ‘Didn’t she like it here?’
Of course she did, I tried to reassure him. It was nothing to do with that. But he’s seemed to take it as a personal slight, and I’m grateful now that we’ve planned to walk Scout later this morning. I can’t help feeling that Dad’s spending too much time brooding in the house.
Perhaps in an attempt to please him, Arthur gathers up all the torn wrapping paper (a first!) and stuffs it into the broken pedal bin. Dad has given Arthur a couple of crumpled tenners and a birthday card, and Kai has phoned him, but I gather they’re all – understandably – still distraught over Kai’s grandma dying and the conversation seemed stilted and was short-lived.
Now, having had breakfast, Arthur opens the present Meg left for him. It’s a crisp, white, expensive-looking box containing a bottle of aftershave. Aftershave, for an eleven-year-old kid! He probably won’t be acquainting himself with a razor for another four years. If it was meant purely as fragrance I can safely say that my son would be no more likely to spray himself with car paint.
‘Wow,’ I murmur. ‘That’s … an interesting ch
oice.’
‘Yeah.’ Arthur pulls a grim expression and passes me the accompanying card to read:
Happy birthday, Arthur! I know boys of your age start dousing themselves in Lynx and God knows what so I thought I’d get in first with something lovely that you can enjoy wearing. I had it blended specially for you according to your tastes.
Love, Meg xxx
What tastes were they? Fish fingers and Caramel Logs?
‘That’s some fancy stuff you’ve got there, son,’ Dad says, cracking a smile at last.
‘D’you want it, Granddad?’ Arthur asks with a grin, nudging the bottle towards him across the kitchen table.
‘No, I bloody well do not!’
Arthur chuckles. ‘Do you, Dad?’
‘Erm, no thanks,’ I say quickly. ‘It’d feel, um, kind of …’
‘Weird?’
‘Yeah, just a bit. Um, maybe you should just keep it. You might like it one day. Remember how you used to hate tuna? And cheese? You hated cheese. And now—’
‘Dad, this isn’t like tuna or cheese!’ He’s laughing now.
‘It’d smell better if it was,’ Dad remarks, smirking. I chuckle and glance towards the window, relieved to see that, although our famous Atlantic winds seem to be in full throttle, at least it’s not raining.
‘We’ve arranged to walk a dog today,’ I tell him.
‘Aye, Arthur mentioned it.’ Dad smiles at him. ‘That’s nice for you.’
‘Then we’re going to pick up my birthday cake,’ Arthur adds, grinning now.
I stare at him. ‘You know about that?’
Arthur nods. ‘I heard you on the phone in the garden. When you ordered it, I mean. My bedroom window was open,’ he adds.
‘Okay,’ I say with a sigh. ‘But it was meant to be a surprise!’
He sniggers. ‘Sorry, Dad.’
I shrug. ‘Never mind. So, how about getting out of your pyjamas and properly dressed? We should be going soon …’
‘Okay!’ Arthur beams at me and pelts upstairs.
I glance at Dad as I clear away the breakfast things. ‘You know, sometimes I think he’s already hurtling into puberty and becoming all world-weary and cynical. Then something like this happens.’
‘Yeah.’ Dad nods. ‘He’s a good kid. You’ve done a good job there, son.’
This unexpected praise affects me perhaps more than it should. But Dad has already turned his attentions to the aftershave, which he picks up and studies, holding the squarish bottle at arm’s length, as if it’s a souvenir a neighbour has brought him back from their ‘foreign travel’ and he’s not sure about it at all. My father has never been abroad and has never expressed any desire to do so. His diet is so quintessentially British that he even regards pasta as something startlingly ‘different’, from a faraway land, rather than being so ubiquitous it has its own aisle in the supermarket.
‘He doesn’t eat pasta at all?’ Arthur asked once, incredulously.
‘Well, yeah – he’s fine with tinned spaghetti,’ I replied. ‘But not the kind you boil in a pan.’
He laughed in disbelief. ‘What about pizza? Does he like that?’
‘God, no, that’s far too exotic.’
Arthur spluttered. He loves pizza, but I also suspect he enjoys his Granddad’s quirks and stubbornness. ‘Is that right, son?’ Dad marvelled when Arthur explained that ten different languages are spoken at his Glasgow primary school. I could tell it both baffled and intrigued him as Arthur then proceeded to list them all. At Dad’s school, there was just English, of course – and Gaelic.
Now Arthur has reappeared in a sweater and jeans, raring to go. ‘Are you coming with us, Granddad?’ he asks.
‘Aw no, you two go. I’ve stuff to be getting on with here.’ As if to reiterate his point, he goes to fetch the carpet sweeper from the hall cupboard; an ancient yellow plastic model, which he proceeds to rake back and forth vigorously across the living room rug. He moves on to the hallway, clearly intent on an energetic bout of cleaning which, although the house isn’t dirty, is certainly rarely witnessed.
Arthur and I trail after him. ‘I’ll do that later,’ I say. ‘Just leave it for now.’
‘No, you’re fine, son.’ He rakes some more. After Mum died, Dad ‘retired’ the hoover in favour of the sweeper – I suspect because it doesn’t use any electricity.
‘Come on, Dad,’ I say, checking the time on my phone. ‘We’re meeting down at Silver Beach. The day’s brightening up and it is Arthur’s birthday.’ I glance at my son.
‘Please, Granddad,’ Arthur says hopefully. ‘I really want you to come.’
My father exhales slowly and stands there, gripping the carpet sweeper as if weighing up whether the housework can wait. ‘All right then,’ he says.
Arthur beams at him. ‘Great! C’mon then, let’s go. I can’t wait for you to meet Scout.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Suzy
I worked late again last night, fired up by the thought of moving into Cara’s studio and Arthur being excited to see Scout one last time. Perhaps I worked too late, as even when 1 a.m. rolled around and I crawled into bed I wasn’t properly tired. And then, as if to sabotage any prospect of sleep, my happy thoughts were slowly replaced by the troubling matter of the distillery’s accounts. Although our original accountant – sidelined by Paul – is diligently working through things with me, figures still swarmed around in my head like malevolent biting insects.
Why are things so much more worrying in the middle of the night? I lay there, staring at the ceiling, fretting about how I am going to keep my family afloat. As well as gradually whittling down the distillery’s debts, I’ll also have Rosalind’s bills to settle. Plus, what about Harry? Stupidly perhaps, I’ve all but promised the creditors that our ‘renowned expert’ will be returning to help to steer us out of the storm and into calmer waters. But so far there’s been no response to my letter. The very real possibility that Harry will simply ignore it is something I’m trying not to dwell upon.
My night-worries slid ominously back to the matter of my family. When it comes to supporting our kids, Tony has never been difficult about paying his share, but I can’t ask him to contribute more than he does already – not with four more children of his own to bring up. Yet there are frequent small emergencies where our pair is concerned. I’ll deduce that Isaac needs history textbooks, or a utility bill paying urgently, or it’ll become apparent that Frieda lacks a proper winter coat. And those shoes of Isaac’s, which he refuses to replace! Is it a badge of honour, this thing of shuffling around in disintegrating (and, I have to say, reeking) footwear?
Finally, with my head now filled with rotting shoes and freezing student flats, I must have somehow tipped over into sleep. Because next thing I knew, Scout’s wet, cold nose was probing my ear and it was morning – raining, yes, but who knew how the days would turn out here? It could easily be sunny by lunchtime.
We braved the steady rain together and returned, damp and clammy, for breakfast. By now those barely decipherable accountancy figures had settled into something more orderly in my mind.
Back in our room, I looked through some notes for an obituary I need to write today for a ballet dancer who died two days short of her hundredth birthday. There is a raft of emails to deal with, and Mum has texted. I replied quickly, reassuring her that I am fully in control and everything is going to be okay. I also texted Dee to give her a quick update of how things are here; thankfully all is fine back home. And now, at 10.45 a.m., I glance over to Scout, who’s waiting expectantly by the door.
‘You have another date today,’ I tell him. ‘You’re extremely popular around here and that’s because you’re such a lovely boy.’ I go over to hug him, my spirits lifted by his warmth, his furriness, his everything really.
We set off and make our way through the narrow streets towards the beach. I spot Vicki from the distillery across the street. She smiles, and I smile and wave back. Perhaps I am no longer the antichrist
around here? Tempting aromas of coffee and freshly baked loaves waft from the cluster of cafés, and a few fishing boats are bobbing a little way out to sea.
Already, Scout has stopped to do something like fifteen pees along the way. It seems like a terribly inefficient system when one lengthy widdle would have done the job. I guess the territory-marking aspect must be important. He also tries to munch at some greenery from a terracotta plant pot outside someone’s front door, but I manage to coax him away. This vegetation-eating thing seems nonsensical as it only makes him sick. I’ve already had to wipe up a couple of small puddles from the grey carpet in my hotel room. Maybe it’s the canine equivalent of knocking back those horribly potent alcohol shots that young people appeared to be partial to for a while, and which always seemed to end in vomiting – or, at the very least, copious tears (does anyone drink that stuff anymore? When I was a teenager the preferred alcoholic beverage was snakebite and black, far more sensible).
Now Scout is mooching onwards, pausing only to snaffle a couple of chips off the pavement as we stride towards the beach. I hope Arthur is still excited about walking him and hasn’t gone off the idea. After all, it’s his birthday. He might be too thrilled by his presents to want to come out.
Scout and I trot down the old stone steps to the beach. Frondy black seaweed is strewn across the wet sand like a lacy cobweb. I look around for Ricky and Arthur but the only people in sight are a lone jogger and an elderly lady with a tiny white dog, barely bigger than an ear muff. A second, matching dog appears from behind a rock; a pair of ear muffs, pottering along in the light drizzle.
We wander across the rippled sand towards the sea. When I glance back, I spot Arthur, Ricky and an older man in the far distance. I’m a little taken aback by how happy I am to see them again.
I am actually getting to know people – making connections of my own – here on Sgadansay. A few weeks ago, that would have hardly seemed possible. I’m reminded again how it was always Paul who befriended strangers on holiday; how he’d collect everyone’s numbers and even arrange reunions. He was always far more outgoing than me. Yet here I am, soon to move into Cara’s studio, and about to lend Scout to Ricky, Arthur and Ricky’s dad. Perhaps I didn’t know myself as well as I thought I did. I also seem to have become a keen scholar of Hebridean geological formations, having swotted up on Sgadansay’s metamorphic rock – the oldest in Britain! – with its bands of mica and quartz. I’ve pored over facts about the island’s mosses, which infuse the water and create our whisky’s barely detectable smoky taste.