by Fiona Gibson
Arthur has spotted me now. ‘Scout!’ he yells, his face breaking into a wide grin. He starts running towards us and Scout tears towards him in delight.
‘Hey, little man!’ Arthur exclaims, slightly breathless as they meet in an excited blur. He looks up at me. ‘Can we borrow him this time?’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ I say. ‘I can go off and do some work and meet you later. Oh, and happy birthday!’
‘Thanks.’ He beams at me. ‘How long can we have him?’
‘I’ll figure it out with your dad,’ I reply, turning towards Ricky and the older man as they approach.
‘Hi,’ Ricky says with a wide smile.
‘Hi.’ My own smile has frozen. Ricky, Arthur and even Scout seem to melt away as there is only one face I see.
It’s the man who looked crushed at my first meeting at the distillery. The man who’d resigned in disgust after Paul had blundered in and insisted on doing things his way.
Apparently, Harry had kicked against Paul’s every decision. ‘He’s stuck in the past,’ Paul had thundered, following one of his trips to the island. ‘He’s going to have to understand that things are changing. So he can either get on board or fuck off.’ I hadn’t met Harry then, apart from briefly, on that distillery tour, when we hadn’t even spoken directly. I’d thought it was harsh but Paul wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. After all, hadn’t I said from the start that he would take charge, that I hadn’t wanted ‘another strand’?
I’m sorry, I want to tell Harry now. I shouldn’t have believed Paul when he said everything would be okay and we could manage without a head distiller. But all I can manage is a croaky ‘Hello, Harry’ as my cheeks blaze.
‘Oh,’ he says curtly. ‘It’s you. Ricky never told me that.’ He shoots his son a fierce look.
Ricky stares at his father, then at me. ‘You two know each other?’
‘Erm yes, we do,’ I start. ‘I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t realise it was you—’
‘You’re right, we know each other,’ Harry snaps. ‘This is Suzy Medley. The Meddler—’
Christ, is that what they call me? Tears spring into my eyes.
‘You’re the distillery woman?’ Ricky exclaims. ‘But … why didn’t you say?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I start. ‘I—’
‘Was it you who wrote that letter to Granddad?’ Arthur gasps.
‘Yep, she did. Enjoy your walk then,’ Harry mutters before I can answer. Then he stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets and marches away.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ricky
To think I was worried about Dad’s fitness. He’s stormed off now at the speed of a man half his age. I was poised to hurry after him but I know there’s no point. When he’s like this he’s best left alone. Anyway, it would upset Arthur, on his birthday, and now all I can think of is to try and salvage his day as best as I can.
‘I’m sorry,’ Suzy is saying. ‘Honestly, I had no idea Harry’s your dad. Will he be all right, d’you think?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ I say distractedly. ‘I just … why didn’t you tell me that’s why you’re here? You said you’re a writer, that you came here to—’
‘Ricky, I’m really sorry,’ she says, looking genuinely distraught. ‘I am a writer. That part’s true. I was just …’ She rakes back her long hair and her face flushes. ‘I was enjoying our walk last night and, well … the whole distillery business is obviously pretty contentious and I didn’t want to go into it all with you …’ She tails off.
I glance down at Arthur and then back at Suzy. Despite everything I can’t help feeling sorry for her. She doesn’t seem like the heartless monster she’s been made out to be.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘I know I should’ve said.’
Arthur rubs at his nose. ‘Granddad’s just upset,’ he murmurs.
‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘I’m guessing now that it wasn’t a good idea to drop off that letter.’
‘No, he threw it away and broke the bin,’ Arthur announces.
‘Oh God, did he?’ Her eyes widen.
‘Well, um …’ I grimace. ‘It’s all still pretty sensitive, the way he felt forced out by your partner—’
‘Paul’s nothing to do with it anymore,’ she says quickly. ‘I’m taking it over by myself.’
‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘You said so in your letter and Dad already knew that anyway. I mean, people talk around here—’
‘But he was still angry,’ Arthur says, his expression grave.
‘Okay, Arthur,’ I say quietly. Scout is sitting patiently between us with ears pricked, and Arthur bobs down to stroke him. I glance over towards the steps but of course, Dad is long gone.
‘Can we still walk him?’ he asks.
‘You’re welcome to,’ Suzy starts, ‘if you like …’
I exhale. ‘Oh, I don’t think it’s the best time, Arthur,’ I mutter.
‘Yes, you’d probably better go and see if your granddad’s all right,’ Suzy adds quickly, at which Arthur’s face seems to crumple.
‘He’ll be all right, won’t he, Dad? He’ll just go home and make tea. And it is my birthday …’ He grinds a trainer toe into the sand.
‘How about we go and see if your cake’s ready at the bakery?’ I suggest in an overly bright voice.
‘Please let’s walk Scout,’ he mumbles. There’s an awkward silence, broken only by the plaintive cries of the gulls.
‘Well, okay then,’ I say. ‘But we’d better not be too long.’
‘Aw, Dad,’ Arthur says with a sigh.
I look at Suzy. Already, I can understand why she didn’t go into the whole distillery business last night. It had been a lovely evening and, well, she wasn’t obliged to tell me all about her life. It was just chitchat and I’d found myself enjoying her company. And Arthur had loved it. He’d been full of enthusiasm when we’d gone back to Dad’s. ‘How about we walk him to the rocks and back?’ I suggest, turning to Suzy. ‘All of us, I mean? I just think it’s not worth you going away, and then coming back again—’
‘Yes, of course,’ she says, mustering a smile.
‘You mean we’re not borrowing him?’ Arthur says, clearly put out by the injustice of it all.
‘Look, it’ll have to do, okay?’ Impatience has crept into my voice even though none of this is his fault. I’m just pretty eager to get back to Dad’s. And so that’s what we do, with Arthur and Scout running off ahead, our ominous presence seemingly forgotten within minutes.
Suzy glances sideways at me as we fall into step. ‘I’m really sorry about the whole situation with your dad,’ she starts. ‘And I’m doing everything I can. To get things back on track, I mean.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that,’ I say truthfully. There’s been quite a bit of talk around town about how involved she is, how she’s full of questions, badgering everyone and constantly scribbling notes. But the whole situation still seems bizarre. Why would you go onto a partnership with someone and sit back while they screw everything up?
Up ahead, Scout is running in crazy zig-zags. Arthur has brought that manky old tennis ball he found, and Scout charges after it, catching it neatly in his mouth. ‘So, how did it all come about?’ I ask Suzy. ‘You and your partner buying the distillery, I mean?’ She looks at me as if wondering how best to start. And then she tells me, as we walk, how it had been his idea, and how impetuous he was, and why she’d pushed her fears and doubts aside as everything had slid rapidly downhill.
‘It was Paul’s inheritance from his dad,’ she explains. ‘He was set on wanting to do something amazing with it, and when it came down to it I couldn’t bring myself to stand in his way.’ I nod, letting all this new information settle. The day has brightened now, the blustery wind having dropped to a gentle breeze. ‘Can I ask you something?’ she adds.
‘Sure,’ I say lightly.
‘D’you think there’s any chance your dad would agree to meet up with me?’
I stuff my hands into my jeans p
ockets, trying to figure out the answer myself. It would make sense, of course. She’s certainly helped me to understand things better and I know it would help him too. If nothing else, he might be a little less angry. This simmering fury – the bin breaking, the angry carpet raking – can’t be good for him. ‘The thing about Dad,’ I start, ‘is that once he’s made up his mind about someone, that’s that.’
‘Really?’ Disappointment flickers in her greenish eyes.
‘I mean, obviously he’s bitter about what happened,’ I add. ‘So I guess it’s understandable.’
‘Yes, of course it is.’
‘But he’s cut people out of his life for far less,’ I continue. ‘About twenty years ago a local guy did a shoddy job of re-felting his shed roof. They were friends, and they used to have the odd drink and stuff. But Dad never spoke to him again.’
‘Wow,’ she murmurs. ‘So there’s not much hope for me, then.’
‘I don’t think so, no.’ We settle back into silence for a few moments.
‘Well, look,’ she says finally, ‘if he won’t meet me one-to-one, d’you think he’d come along to a meeting at the distillery? Not to take part or anything, but just to be there?’ She looks at me expectantly. ‘I’m holding one for all the staff on Monday,’ she adds. ‘I think a huge part of the anger and frustration came about because no one had the full picture of what was going on.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ I nod.
‘I’d be hugely grateful if your dad would agree to come, Ricky.’ She smiles then and, for a moment, I wish I didn’t feel the need to head back to Dad’s. Because I like this woman, this Suzy Medley. She didn’t lie to me exactly. In fact, she strikes me as being honest and decent and she’s just trying to do her best.
‘I’ll mention it to him,’ I tell her.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Thank you so much—’
‘But I’m sorry, I can’t promise he’ll agree to come—’
‘No, of course not. I understand that,’ she says as I wave to Arthur in an attempt to catch his attention.
‘Hey,’ I call out, ‘we should head back now!’
‘Already?’ he yells back.
‘Yeah. C’mon, son.’ We turn back, with Arthur lagging way behind us and Scout meandering along at his side.
We reach the steps and wait for them to catch up with us. ‘Did you enjoy that?’ I ask him.
‘It was a bit quick,’ he replies. ‘Can we do it again, properly?’
‘We’re going home tomorrow,’ I remind him.
‘Yeah, I know that,’ Arthur says. ‘I mean, next time we visit Granddad.’ He turns to Suzy. ‘D’you live here?’
‘Oh, I’m just staying here for a while,’ she says. ‘I’m not quite sure how long for.’
The twinge of regret takes me by surprise. We’ll probably never see her and Scout again. ‘Well, good luck with everything,’ I say.
‘Thanks.’ Her smile is warm and wide now, no longer hesitant. ‘Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Arthur.’
‘Thanks,’ he says with a smile.
‘We’d better pick up your surprise cake that you’re not supposed to know anything about,’ I add. ‘And then we’ll get back to see what Granddad’s been getting up to.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘Jesus, Dad. We’ll need to get you looked at!’
My father is perched on the edge of the armchair, groaning and clutching at his chest. All I’ve been able to deduce so far is that he slipped in the bath. What was he doing having a bath in the middle of the day? He rarely has them anyway. He seems to think they’re wildly extravagant – to be savoured only on special occasions, like steak. ‘Looked at by who?’ he barks, his face milk-pale.
Who does he think? The postman? ‘The doctor, of course!’
‘I’m all right,’ he insists. ‘Just leave me. I’ll be okay in a minute.’ He flaps me away as if I’m a bluebottle, buzzing around his face.
‘Dad, I’m not leaving you. This could be serious.’ Arthur and I had come back to find Dad clutching at the bannister, struggling to make his way downstairs. Still wet, with hair dripping, he’d managed to pull on his dressing gown but his face was contorted in pain. It now transpires that he’d returned from the beach to throw himself into an energetic bout of gardening. Angry weeding, I’d imagine. The furious hoicking out of dandelions, and perhaps some vicious jabbing with the fork. He’d worked himself up into such a sweat that he’d gone for a shower – it’s an antiquated over-the-bath type – and that’s when the accident had happened.
Why hadn’t we just come straight home with him instead of walking with Suzy and then going to collect the cake?
‘Where’s the pain?’ I ask now. ‘Is it your ribs, d’you think? Around your chest? Let me see …’
‘Are you gonna be okay, Granddad?’ Arthur is hovering, agitated, at my side.
‘I’ve just winded myself, son,’ he mumbles.
‘Dad, please let me have a look.’
Reluctantly, he lets me open his dressing gown. The sight of his chest, thin and pale with a few straggly greying hairs, tugs at my heart. Some bruising is evident already. ‘The surgery’s not open on Saturday, is it?’ I ask.
Dad shakes his head. ‘I don’t need the doctor.’ No, of course not. A seventy-eight-year-old man injures himself to the point at which he can barely move without flinching – but heaven forbid he might require medical attention.
He turns away, pointedly avoiding my gaze the way a child might whilst being told off. My God, how did he get to be so maddening? How did Mum put up with him all those years? I look around the living room. Apart from the bulky three-piece suite, there’s also the highly polished sideboard, a nest of tables that no one ever uses and another table that will probably sit in its stowed-away configuration, adorned by a lacy doily, forever. When it’s fully extended it’s too big for the room, and was only ever used on special occasions when Mum was still here and the best china came out. Back home, Arthur and I don’t have a ‘best’ anything.
‘Could you make Granddad a cup of tea?’ I ask Arthur. He nods and scuttles off, dutifully, to put the kettle on. However, even when it’s brought to Dad, loaded with his customary three spoons of sugar, it doesn’t seem to have its usual restorative effect. Still pallid, he is sweating now, his brow visibly moist.
‘We’d better take you to hospital,’ I say.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! It’s not for this kind of thing.’
Arthur and I exchange a quick glance. ‘It’s not for people who are hurt?’ I ask. ‘What is it for then?’
He huffs some more and I detect that, as well as the pain of the fall, there’s also resentment lurking about us having walked that woman’s dog. Dad clearly views the matter as an act of treachery on my part.
‘We’re going to hospital,’ I say firmly.
‘I told you, I’m not going!’ He tries to get up from the chair and groans loudly. ‘Uhh, bloody hell …’
‘Come on, Dad, please,’ I say firmly. ‘Arthur, go upstairs and get Granddad some jeans, pyjama bottoms … anything you can find.’
He makes for the stairs. ‘And a top and some pants?’ he asks.
‘Don’t worry about pants.’ Dad glowers at me as if affronted by having his underwear discussed at all. ‘If you can find some,’ I add quickly. ‘And grab a jumper and his slippers.’
‘I’m not going in slippers,’ Dad thunders, as if it’s a wedding we’re about to attend. However, he acquiesces and, minutes later, I have managed to ease my father into his clothes, and then my car, and we pull up at the hospital across town just as the sky darkens dramatically and heavy rain starts to fall.
Sgadansay’s main medical facility is quaintly known as a cottage hospital. It looks like somebody’s house – albeit a fairly substantial one – with a rose garden at the front and a summerhouse that I can’t imagine anyone ever uses.
The waiting room has sage green walls and vases of faded fake flowers on the w
indowsills. Two snowy-haired women are chatting about Mrs McLeod from the bank’s retirement party, and who’s going to make the meringues for it; it seems meringues are essential. The women register Dad’s presence with nods and smiles; it’s clear that they know him, as virtually everyone does. He turns his back on them abruptly, emitting powerful ‘do not talk to me’ vibes. Thankfully their conversation about party catering soon resumes.
Dad gazes down at the floor, looking pale and glum, and slightly eccentric in checked fleecy pyjama bottoms, his felty grey slippers and a light-blue cable-knit sweater that I think I might have given him several Christmases ago, and which appears distinctly unworn.
‘I’ll do the meringues if Sandra will at least make a flan,’ one of the women says.
I glance at Arthur, who’s sitting to my left. Although I’m trying to remain positive, I have to admit that his eleventh birthday probably hasn’t been one of his best.
He was pleased with the laptop, the football strip and books, and the cash from his granddad, but then there was the weirdness of the aftershave.
I’d promised he could borrow Scout, but he didn’t get to really.
His chocolate cake turned out to be a carrot cake as the bakery had mixed up our order with someone else’s. Arthur had pretended it was fine, but as his father I know his true feelings about vegetables hiding in cakes.
And now he’s sitting in a hospital waiting room, leafing miserably through a copy of Woman’s Weekly while his granddad is seen by the doctor (Dad flatly refused for me to accompany him into the consulting room). Finally, the doctor appears with Dad looking even thinner than usual at his side, as he explains that my father has in all likelihood fractured a rib, although they haven’t X-rayed him because they don’t have the facilities here. For that, he’d have to be air-ambulanced to the mainland.