by Fiona Gibson
‘So what happens now?’ I ask, alarmed. Dad is already making for the door.
‘Mr Vance is fit and in excellent shape for his age,’ the doctor says, ‘and our ribs are remarkably good at healing themselves. But he will need to rest and take things easy for quite some time.’
‘So he can go home now?’
The young man has swept back dark hair and a smooth, almost poreless complexion. It’s hard to believe he’s been through medical school and that my father allowed this youth to examine him. ‘Yes, as long as someone’s with him for the next twenty-four hours,’ he says. ‘But we’ll need to know if there’s any change in him – for instance, if he gets dizzy or vomits or if the pain worsens.’
I look at my father. His hand is already clamped on the door handle. ‘Are you okay with that, Dad?’
He nods. ‘I s’pose so.’
‘You’ve had quite a trauma, Mr Vance,’ the doctor adds, frowning.
‘He really has,’ I say, thanking the doctor quickly and following Dad outside as he makes straight for my car, with Arthur marching along at his side. It’s still raining steadily but I suspect that’s not the only reason he’s so eager to leave. It’s in case anyone else spots him and says, Oh, I saw Harry Vance at the hospital, there must be something wrong with him, maybe he’s not invincible after all.
‘Dad,’ I venture as we drive home, ‘you know this means Arthur and I won’t be going home tomorrow, don’t you?’
He whips round to face me. ‘But don’t you have to?’
‘Well, not really. I mean, there’s still another week of Easter holidays and we don’t have any plans. So I think it’s best that we stay for a few more days, just to make sure everything’s all right.’
Dad exhales through his nose. ‘You don’t need to do that.’
‘Well, maybe not,’ I say lightly, ‘but I’d actually like to, Dad.’ I flick him a quick glance in the passenger seat. He looks all askew in his peculiar outfit with his pale grey hair sticking up in tufts. What I really want to do is pull over and hug the awkward bugger, but it would probably hurt him and even if it didn’t, he’d try to shove me off. ‘Is that okay with you?’ I ask.
‘Uh, yeah, I suppose so. Yeah.’
I suppress a smile and catch my son’s nonplussed expression on the back seat. ‘How about you, Arthur?’ I prompt him. ‘Another week’s holiday, eh? That’s not so bad, is it?’
‘No,’ he replies, brightening now. ‘Does that mean we can borrow Scout?’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Suzy
It’s my father I’m focusing on as I stride towards the distillery on this blustery Monday morning. Dad, who actually picked up the phone and called me. I’m sure you’ll be fine, Suzy, love. You’re a clever, resourceful woman and you know best what to do. And he’d waited until Mum was in the bath to do it. I’d have been no more shocked if he’d gone and got a sleeve tattoo.
And now, as I follow the narrow lane through the oldest part of town, past the boutique gallery and the bow-fronted bookshop, it’s my daughter who filters into my mind. She’s graduating in June. As a trained outdoor leader she’ll be fully qualified to navigate wildernesses, with clueless strangers wittering that they’ve lost a mitten and moaning that there isn’t a pub. And if Frieda can do that, then I can handle the meeting I’ve arranged with the entire distillery team.
Apart from Harry, that is. He didn’t call my mobile or try to reach me at the Cormorant Hotel. And of course, after talking to Ricky on Saturday I can fully understand why. My letter made him so angry he broke his bin.
I’m not even staying at the Cormorant anymore. I’m installed in Cara’s cosy studio instead. Although I’d grown quite fond of my little room in the eaves, it’s lovely to wake up and see her beautiful hand-printed fabrics pinned all over the walls and not just a fire-evacuation-procedure notice. Plus, she is easy-going company and I hadn’t realised quite how lonely I’d become, working away by myself. We had breakfast together this morning: still-warm rolls I’d picked up from the bakery, with local raspberry jam and Cara’s excellent coffee. We also polished off the remains of the sensational dark chocolate Easter egg I’d bought her from the local sweet shop. ‘You’ll be ready for anything now,’ she’d said with a smile.
My heartbeat quickens as the distillery comes into view. The solid stone building sits close to the shore. Up in the hills behind it, I can just make out the wiggly line of the stream – or burn, as Vicki called it, because no one says ‘stream’ around here – that supplies us with our precious water. Cara plans to head up that way with Scout today. Weirdly, I have never felt uncomfortable about him spending so much time with her. There was no, ‘Might he start preferring her to me?’ Because I trust her, of course – and it just feels right.
I think of Ricky and Arthur, and how Arthur had taken such a shine to Scout. Shame they went back to Glasgow yesterday. I wish they’d been able to borrow him as we’d planned. But of course, nothing had gone to plan that day.
As I approach the distillery I find myself hoping that Ricky understands that I really am doing my best, and that I’d give anything for things to have turned out differently. Because, I realise now, it seems to matter very much that he doesn’t think badly of me – and not just because of his father.
He’s a decent man, I think. Thoughtful and kind and because, after all, he still walked with me along the beach despite his dad storming off. He gave me a chance, it seems. A chance to explain, although I can’t really – at least, not all of it.
I can tell the entire team why things went wrong. But I can’t put it into words why I truly believed that Paul would be able to make a go of the distillery. After all, his previous business interests – the ones that were promised to ‘make us a fucking fortune, Suzy!’ – had all gone tits up. I guess I just let him have his own way because I loved him and wanted him to be happy. But of course, it was a mistake.
I hope to God my own kids exercise more care with their future relationships. So far, neither Frieda nor Isaac have seemed in any hurry to involve themselves in anything serious, and I can’t help thinking that’s a sensible way to go about things. Several friends – Dee, for instance – are long-term single, with no interest in dating, and nothing seems to be lacking in their lives. Cara doesn’t seem to be looking to meet anyone either, and she hasn’t mentioned any previous partners.
I pause outside the distillery and try to smooth down my hair, which has been buffeted by the wind. Remembering how my attempts to appear sleek and professional in Dee’s suit and heels had backfired (‘Margaret-fucking-Thatcher!’), I glance down at my blue denim shirt and plain black trousers: smart enough, hopefully, without trying to create any kind of impression.
I look around the bay in all its dazzling beauty and lick my parched lips. Don’t get emotional, I tell myself firmly as I open the door and walk in.
Jean looks up from her orderly desk in the wood-panelled office; the nerve centre of administration. ‘Hi, can I make you a tea or coffee?’ she asks crisply.
‘Thanks, but I’ll make it,’ I say. ‘What would you like?’
‘You’ve got enough to think about,’ she says with a dismissive flap of her hand. As she beetles away to the staff kitchen, I make my way back to reception where the meeting will take place. While I hadn’t expected the genteel sixty-something lady to punch me in the face, I’m a little taken aback by the fact that she’s being slightly more approachable today.
Vicki approaches with a stack of files clutched to her chest. ‘Hi,’ I say brightly.
‘Hi,’ she says, returning my smile. ‘All ready for this?’
‘I think so. Thanks for spending so much time with me last week,’ I add. ‘I really appreciated it.’
‘Oh, that’s what I’m here for,’ she says in her Home Counties accent. I’ve since learned that the previous owner had been thrilled to coax her all the way out here to work on a consultancy basis. Obviously, Vicki knows a thing or two about rock por
osity and moss. But with a little research I’ve discovered that her PhD thesis was on the environmental fate of contaminants of emerging concerns in river catchment systems – or something like that. When Paul had been at the helm I hadn’t even known we had an environmental consultant, although he had mentioned ‘a scary woman from down south who rambles on about water a lot’. I wouldn’t call her scary at all. Highly capable, obviously, and someone I’d far prefer to have on my side, rather than against me; but there’s a warmth about her, shining through her fierce intelligence. Perhaps she just gave Paul short shrift on his visits.
‘Here you go, Suzy.’ Jean hands me a Sgadansay Distillery mug (bearing the original pre-puffin design) and I thank her profusely. ‘You’re welcome,’ she says, placing a plate of several varieties of biscuits, all fanned out neatly, on the low table. Might these be used as missiles when I start my presentation? She hovers around as I unpack my folders and laptop.
‘So, how’s it all going?’ she asks in a guarded sort of way. I notice that her gaze keeps darting this way and that, as if she’s still a little wary of being spotted collaborating with the enemy.
‘It’s, well … things are progressing,’ I reply.
Jean nods. ‘That’s good to hear.’ She has neatly styled silvery hair and a pink, powdered complexion. I can imagine her as a kind grandma, reading stories, excelling at baking. ‘I’m sure you’re doing your best,’ she adds.
I look at her in surprise. Her comment feels like an unexpected gift.
‘Thank you,’ I say with a smile. I glance over at the wall display of puffin paraphernalia: brochures, posters and tea towels all pinned up on a board. She checks her tiny gold watch. ‘You said you needed Stuart to set up the screen for you?’
‘Oh, I’m sure I can do it,’ I say quickly. Vicki is still loitering and I don’t want to look like some idiot who can’t manage to set up the most basic equipment. But Stuart appears, ruddy-faced and wearing overalls; he’d been one of the shoutier attendees at my first meeting here. Instructed by Jean, before I can even get a word in, he fixes the screen into place.
‘That’s brilliant,’ I enthuse. ‘That’s just what I needed. Thank you so much.’ For Christ’s sake calm down, Suzy. It’s just a screen on a wall.
‘No bother,’ Stuart mumbles. The team is starting to filter in now, clutching mugs, taking seats, selecting biscuits from the plate. Vicki sits pertly, right at the front. The badly drawn puffins stare down at me.
And I begin.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ricky
Of course Dad wouldn’t go to the meeting today. He’d spent Sunday, the day after his fall, in bed and Arthur and I had taken it in turns to sit with him or bring him mugs of tea, until his temper had frayed and he’d snapped, ‘Can’t I get a minute’s peace around here?’ So Arthur and I had relocated to the garden, where he’d guzzled two Easter eggs (one from me, one from Dad) and we’d chatted companionably about this and that.
About how we thought Kai might be doing, and what his other mate Lucas might be getting up to, and whether Arthur’s mum ever thinks about him on his birthday, stuff like that. I was surprised he’d mentioned her and could only assume that he was feeling a bit stirred up about things, with Meg leaving and his granddad having his fall. Or maybe the lack of so much as a card from his mum hurts him every birthday, more than I’ve realised? It’s not as if I’ve ever felt able to ask, ‘Are you okay about her not sending you anything?’ Christ, it’s hard to know whether to try to gauge what he’s feeling or just say nothing and hope he’s all right.
‘I’m sure she does,’ I said, even though I knew – and Arthur knew – that it was a pointless thing to say. Because neither of us know what Katy thinks about anything.
Sometimes I wonder if Dad finds it a bit strange that Arthur and I have managed to muddle along together all these years, without his mother. When I was a kid, Mum took care of everything to do with me and the house, the family, all of that. It wouldn’t have occurred to Dad to acquaint himself with the iron or the potato peeler. Much later, when Mum became ill and he had to step up and take on some domestic duties, I heard that they’d had tinned mushroom soup every day for a week and she’d had to put her foot down and ban it.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ she told me on the phone, ‘you’d think he could manage to fry an egg!’ My heart had gone out to both of them: to Mum, who needed looking after, and to Dad who was no doubt trying to figure out what they could eat, and how the washing machine worked. These past ten years he’s had to learn how to fend for himself.
Thankfully, he seemed to sleep soundly last night. At least, he hadn’t reacted to me peering around his bedroom door sporadically to check up on him. I took him breakfast in bed, consisting of tea, white buttered toast and his painkillers. Once that was done he announced that he was ‘all better now’, and he tottered downstairs, gingerly, to watch TV. It was blaring all morning, alternating between news and some magazine show with shouty presenters. Although Arthur had been a trouper, I could tell he was getting fidgety, alternately poking at his phone and staring out at the billowing clouds.
And now it’s mid-afternoon and the day has turned sunny and a little hazy, and Dad has agreed to sit out in the garden to read the paper. ‘You two should go out,’ he remarks.
‘We are out,’ I say. Arthur has been helping me with a spot of weeding.
Dad peers at him as he plucks a plant from the narrow border. ‘That’s not a weed!’
‘Sorry, Granddad.’ Arthur springs back and wipes his soily hands on his jeans.
‘Why don’t you both go to the beach or something?’ Dad mutters, frowning.
I look at my father, aware that he’s still clearly in discomfort and he didn’t mean it the way it had come out; implying that Arthur was being a nuisance. ‘I’m not sure about leaving you here by yourself,’ I remark.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you had a fall, Dad …’
‘I’ve told you,’ he says gruffly, raising the opened newspaper in front of his face, like a shield. ‘I’m fine now.’
With a sigh I put an arm around Arthur, but he shrugs me off and wanders back to the house. ‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask Dad.
‘No-I’m-all-right-thanks.’ He lowers the newspaper a little so I can just see his dark eyes. Whilst he looks tired and beleaguered, his steeliness – that brittle exterior – is very much still there.
‘Okay, if you’re sure.’ I’m conscious of him studying me over his newspaper.
‘Is Arthur all right?’
‘Yeah, he’s fine,’ I reply. ‘But I was thinking …’ I hesitate, wondering how best to put it in order to minimise the risk of him flaring up again. ‘You know how he loved being with that dog the other day?’
‘That woman’s dog?’ His eyes narrow.
‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘Well, I thought it’d be nice for him to do that again.’
Dad’s gaze is drilling into my forehead. ‘Go ahead then.’
‘Would you be okay with that?’
He shrugs. ‘Yeah, I s’pose so.’ He glances towards the house. ‘Look, son … I didn’t mean to snap at him just then.’
‘Oh, Dad. It’s okay. He’s fine about it.’ I reach out and squeeze his bony arm, and he flinches.
‘D’you know where she’s staying?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘You don’t have her mobile number, do you?’
‘I think it was on that letter of hers, but I slung it out.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Never mind then.’ I turn and make my way back towards the house.
‘Ricky?’ he calls after me. ‘I s’pose someone at the distillery would know, wouldn’t they? Jean, maybe? She knows everything.’
I nod. ‘She certainly does.’
‘You could give her a call, or go round …’
‘Mmm, yeah,’ I say, pretending to consider this, but by the time I’m back in Dad’s kitchen I’ve already decided it’s too risky for me to show up the
re and ask. What if word got around that it was probably Dad who wanted Suzy’s number? The whole island would be buzzing with rumours that he desperately wants his old job back. I can’t think of a way of asking for Suzy’s contact number without sparking an international scandal.
My gaze drops to the pedal bin. I open it and carefully pick out the crumpled birthday wrapping paper, then a few tins, an instant coffee jar, a newspaper with jam all over it and some other random bits and pieces. The deeper I delve, the more unpleasant it becomes and by the time I’ve reached the bottom it’s pretty clear that Suzy’s letter to Dad isn’t there.
Of course it’s not. Dad must have emptied the bin since then. Upstairs in his room, Arthur is chattering away on his phone – probably to Kai or Lucas. I glance outside to see that Dad is up on his feet now, poking at the borders with his hoe. I’m not prepared to start rummaging about in his wheelie bin while he’s there. I’m also aware that even entertaining this thought probably signals that I’m not fully in control of my faculties right now. But I suspect that, once Arthur has finished his conversation, he’ll slide back into gloom and we’ll just hang around with that uneaten carrot cake still sitting out on the kitchen worktop.
‘Will you have a bit?’ I asked Dad earlier.
‘No, you’re all right, son,’ he said, edging away from it as if I’d scraped it off the pavement.
Then a miracle happens. At least, a miracle by Sgadansay standards. Dad leans the hoe against the fence and ambles back towards the house. He nods at me as he passes and heads straight upstairs to the bathroom. I hear tinkling, then the taps being turned on. Detective Vance surmises that his father is washing his hands.
I dart outside to the wheelie bin and flip it open, checking the vicinity as I lift out a knotted black bin bag, trying not to think how Meg would react if she could see me now. I bet Brihat does Pilates on holiday. He doesn’t rummage through bins, opening bags and poking around in them, wincing at the smell.