by Fiona Gibson
‘D’you want to come with us?’ he asked lightly.
Now I was thinking he probably felt he needed to ask me, because of yesterday, when we’d walked to the lighthouse and he’d told me all that stuff about Meg. And I didn’t want him to think he had to ask me along every time – to feel obliged. ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got tons to get on with today.’
So they came round to pick up Scout, and now they’ve gone I’ve settled down to work at Cara’s kitchen table. I’ve had a positive response from my newspaper contacts, and one of the food supplement editors has suggested I write a series of columns about the inner workings of our island distillery. I’m filled with ideas on what I’ll write about – like our unique water source and the barrels we use from sherry producers in southern Spain. I plan to include mini profiles of our team members, such as Kenny, who’s a mine of information on those ageing sherry casks. He seemed a little surprised – but pleased, I think – when I first mentioned this, and announced that he’d better get a haircut if his picture’s going to be in the paper. ‘My mum will probably buy up all the copies on the island,’ he said with a grin.
After a couple of hours I head out for a walk along the beach. The tide is out and it’s a beautiful day, dazzlingly bright. I can just make out the tiny white flecks of sailing boats far out to sea. Closer to shore, fishing boats in weather-bleached reds and blues bob lazily in the sparkling water. The first time I came here I thought the town was almost impossibly quaint with its muddle of shops selling stout walking boots, fishing equipment and old-fashioned boiled sweets from jars. Paul and I were thrilled by the Seafood Shack, the bakery and the newsagent’s with its faded jigsaws and trays of penny sweets. How quaint, we thought! But I know now that there’s far more to the island than what I first saw as a wide-eyed tourist. It’s a real, living community, bustling with life.
From the beach I stroll back into the centre of town. In a harbourside café I open my laptop at a windowsill table. Fuelled by enthusiasm and strong, malty tea, I launch into a flurry of writing, pausing only to sip from my mug and glance out at the searing blue sky occasionally.
A woman with blonde hair pulled into a high, bouncy ponytail comes over to offer me a refill from a teapot. ‘I won’t be much longer,’ I say, after thanking her. ‘I’ve been taking up this table for ages.’
‘No, you’re fine,’ she says. ‘We’re not too busy just now. Are you here on holiday?’
‘No, I’m working here,’ I say.
‘Oh, whereabouts?’
‘At the distillery,’ I reply without thinking. She nods and smiles and goes to take the order of a young couple with rucksacks who’ve just come in. After a detailed discussion of the various cakes on offer, they ask her for recommendations of places to see. She mentions the ruined castle, the lighthouse and the various walks along the coastline and up into the hills. It strikes me that I know all of those places, almost as if it’s my home – a place where, gradually, I am starting to feel accepted.
‘What about the distillery?’ the man asks. ‘Is it okay to just drop in and visit?’
‘They used to do tours,’ the woman replies, ‘but they seem to have stopped now. I’m not sure why.’
‘Ah, that’s a shame.’
She looks over at me. ‘D’you know anything about that, love?’
‘Um, we hope the tours will be starting up again soon,’ I reply.
‘That’s good to hear.’ She turns back to the couple. ‘You really should visit the lighthouse. And if you fancy trying to catch mackerel, some of the boats do fishing trips.’
The young man thanks her, and when she disappears to the kitchen he murmurs to his partner, ‘People are so welcoming here.’
It’s true, I decide. Apart from the initial hostile reception, I’ve been grateful for the warmth of people I’ve met in shops, cafés and even at the Cormorant Hotel; all the friendly hellos when I’ve been walking Scout, and the dog biscuits given out. And then there’s Cara, of course, welcoming me into her home – and Ricky.
Now he’s popped into my mind I realise I’m smiling, replaying that part of our walk yesterday when he’d told me all that personal stuff. Obviously, he’d been pretty shocked to find his girlfriend had been cheating on him – but he didn’t tell me in an embittered, scorned kind of way. There were funny parts too – like when we were speculating whether she keeps a jar of toasted coconut granola at her other boyfriend’s house too (I had to agree with Ricky that it sounded like he’d have his own). And Arthur saying to his friend, loudly on the phone, ‘Dad got dumped!’ and then asking, ‘Did you consciously uncouple?’
We both ended up laughing on the way back to town and I was honoured that he’d opened up to me. Now I’m wondering where he, Arthur and Scout are now, and wishing I was there too.
I catch myself, conscious of my heart beating a little faster as I close my laptop. Get a grip, I tell myself silently as I fish out my purse. Yes, he’s an interesting, attractive man. But he’s going home on Sunday, he came out of a relationship about five minutes ago and anyway, I didn’t come here to start having thoughts about someone. That’s the last thing I need cluttering up my brain.
He’s just a man who borrows Scout, I remind myself. And he does it to make his son happy, that’s all. I leave the café, inhaling a deep lungful of sharp salty air, determined to steer my thoughts back to the matter in hand.
I blundered into owning a dog, and a distillery, with no planning or prior knowledge. The distillery part has been somewhat more challenging than getting to know Scout. But I’m getting there – mainly by asking copious questions.
Can you tell me a bit more about heat conduction please, Vicki?
So, how do you think we could improve the layout of the packing room?
Would you mind drawing a diagram for me, so I can understand it better?
I can’t claim to be a world expert on malting, maturation or the harvesting methods of our locally grown barley. However, I do know more than I ever thought it possible to know about crop rotation (once our farmer Martin gets started there’s no stopping him). And, gradually, all of the facts and processes are starting to make sense – so perhaps I am capable of understanding how things are done; and, crucially, why things went wrong.
After a couple of hours at the distillery, during which I have pored over our accounts in an airless cubbyhole, I step outside for a breath of air. Perching on a low stone wall I fish out my phone from my pocket, feeling boosted enough now to call my mother.
I listen patiently as she tells me about the despicable new people over the road who apparently keep ‘taking’ her and Dad’s parking space (as it’s on the street, my parents have no legal claim over it). ‘I sent your dad over to have a go at them,’ she adds. Poor Dad; he’s not the confrontational type. I’ve known him tell a waiter that it didn’t matter when he’d brought the wrong thing; I’ll just have this, it looks very nice anyway. Then my mother: I wish you’d stand up for yourself occasionally, Peter!
‘Anyway,’ she continues now, having giving me a rundown of the various parking crimes in the vicinity, ‘how’s it all going on that island of yours?’ As if I own the entire place.
‘Fine,’ I tell her. ‘There’s still an awful lot to sort out, but—’
‘You should give Belinda a call,’ she cuts in. ‘She’ll know what to do—’
‘Mum, she’s helped me already,’ I say, aware of a vein starting to throb in my temples. ‘She put me in touch with a brilliant legal expert. She—’
‘You’ll be lucky to catch her at the moment, though,’ Mum warns. ‘The amount of work she has on – I don’t know how she does it. But you know what she’s like, keeping all those plates spinning …’
Which plates are these? Granted she has her high-ranking job. Yet she and Derek employ a cleaner – who comes in three times a week – plus an ironing lady, a gardener and a handyman who attends to anything else that needs doing, including changing their halogen kitchen lightb
ulbs and possibly massaging Ralgex into Derek’s meaty thighs, which he always seems to be spraining and clearly enjoys displaying in minuscule shiny shorts. So, as far as I can calculate, that amounts to one plate.
‘I’ve just spoken to her actually,’ Mum rattles on, in full flow now, ‘and you’ll never believe what she was doing …’
Riding Derek like a donkey? ‘I can’t imagine,’ I remark.
Mum pauses, cranking up the tension. ‘Making naan bread. Can you believe, with everything she has going on, that she manages to bake naan that’s as good, if not better, than anything you’d get in a restaurant?’
‘Amazing,’ I drawl, thinking: why would anyone bother to do that? Then, briskly, ‘I’ll be in touch again soon, Mum. I just have to finish some work.’ The call ends somewhat abruptly – like Belinda, Mum is always madly busy – and I step back inside, making my way to Jean’s office. It’s only in recent weeks that I’ve discovered that she became the main point of contact for disgruntled contractors as well as overseeing our online shop, the cleaning team, first aid and health and safety matters and God knows what else. Basically, Jean McDonald runs the place.
The dark wooden door is ajar but I knock anyway. ‘Yes?’ she says pertly.
‘Erm, Jean, I’m heading off pretty soon.’ I pause. ‘But I wondered if you’ve got time to have quick cup of tea with me?’
She looks surprised. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll go and make it.’
‘No, no, I’ll do it,’ I say, zooming off to the staff kitchen and ferrying our drinks back to her. I place the mugs on her desk and perch gingerly on the chair opposite her. ‘I just wanted to thank you,’ I start.
‘What for?’ She has a Sunday school teacher’s manner; no nonsense, but not unkind.
‘For basically keeping things going here,’ I say. ‘For doing way more than your actual job.’
‘Oh, that’s quite all right,’ she says.
‘I really appreciate it,’ I add. She nods, pressing her lips together, and a small silence hovers between us.
‘Well, if there’s anything you need I’m here to help.’ Such a Jean thing to say; brisk, efficient, capable.
‘Actually, there is something,’ I say.
Her fine, fair brows shoot up. ‘What is it?’
I get up from the chair. ‘Would you mind coming out to reception with me?’
‘Er, no problem.’ Looking quizzical, she follows me out of her office to the main reception area.
The gigantic display board still dominates the whole space. Jean glances at me, then follows my gaze towards it. I catch a glimmer of amusement – of mischievousness really – in her soft grey eyes.
The board is covered in puffin paraphernalia: posters, brochures, calendars – even tea towels. A flock of badly drawn seabirds, masterminded by Paul on one of his visits here. It’s our new identity, Suze. We need it to smack people in the face the minute they walk in.
Jean is smiling now. It’s as if she can read my mind. ‘Shall we?’ I ask.
She nods and touches her beaded necklace. ‘Oh, yes,’ she replies.
We start slowly, unpinning the items one by one and placing them on a nearby table. But then I rip down a poster more forcefully, and it feels so good, I tear another one down. Catching my eye again, Jean smiles naughtily and reaches for a gatefold brochure, which she not only tugs off the board but also rips cleanly in two. We are chuckling like naughty teenagers.
‘What’s going on here?’ Now Stuart has appeared, and we’re in a flurry of ripping and tearing as he stares, mouth open. Brochures and posters are flying everywhere.
‘Help us out, Stu,’ Jean commands, so he joins in too and soon the floor is covered in ripped pictures and flung-down tea towels.
‘We thought it was time to get rid of all of this,’ I explain, belatedly.
‘Yep, you’re right there.’ He stops and looks down at the tattered papers. ‘I’ve nothing against puffins,’ he adds.
‘Neither have I,’ I say quickly. ‘I think they’re beautiful.’
Stuart nods. ‘But it was never right, was it? That new label and stuff. The modernising.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ I say. ‘It was a big mistake.’
‘Bloody right it was.’ He catches my gaze and I detect a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Then off he goes, and Jean and I gather everything up and stuff it all into the bin.
‘No more puffins,’ I say when we’re done.
She nods and smiles. ‘That felt good, doing that.’
‘Well, thanks for helping me.’ I pause. ‘I guess I’d better get back and see how my dog’s been doing. Friends have taken him out and they’re due back pretty soon—’
‘Um, just before you go,’ Jean says quickly, ‘I wanted to say …’ She smooths down her short, fine hair. ‘A lot of us here, we’ve been worried about losing our jobs and what that’s going to mean for us. I don’t mean just us older ones,’ she adds. ‘I mean the younger ones too.’
‘Yes, I can understand that,’ I murmur.
‘What I mean is,’ she goes on, ‘it’s a common misconception that every young person who lives here is desperate to get off the island, to escape to the cities for a more exciting life.’ I nod, waiting for her to continue. ‘Of course, some do,’ she adds. ‘They’re off the minute they leave school. They’re virtually running for the ferry, dying to get to Glasgow or Edinburgh or London or whatever. But they’re not all like that.’
‘Yes, I can imagine,’ I say.
‘I mean, a lot of young people are happy here. It’s their home. It’s where they belong. And they love it.’ Shockingly, her eyes have filled with tears. I’m stuck for how to respond but of course, I know why she’s telling me this. And, although I’m grateful to her for speaking out, I also feel helpless that I can’t promise everything will turn out okay.
She pauses and adjusts her spectacles. ‘You can understand that there hasn’t been a lot of goodwill for the current management.’
‘Of course, yes.’ I nod.
‘But for the company there is,’ she goes on. ‘For the heritage and the history, I mean. No one wants to see this fail, Suzy.’
She’s used my name. I feel quite choked and I’m about to thank her for telling me all of this – for caring enough to ensure that I understand. But, brisk as anything, she’s already marching away in her sensible brogues as she says, ‘Anyway, I’d better crack on. There’s a couple of glitches with the online shop and they’re not going to fix themselves.’
Chapter Forty-Four
Ricky
I love Sgadansay. Even as a teenager I still loved it even though I was desperate to get away. Like, you still love your parents even though you don’t want to live under the same roof as them anymore. You don’t want them dictating the rhythms of your day or for your mum to be washing your underpants. You want to be yourself – or at least to have a decent stab at finding out what that might possibly mean.
This time, I don’t want to leave. I keep telling myself it’s because of Dad, and that I’d like to hang around a bit longer, but it’s not just that. I mean, he’s pretty much back to his usual self, going at the carpet with the sweeper like he’s trying to rake the pattern off it and virtually fighting me off when I say I’ll do it.
It’s because of Scout, I try to reason with myself. After all, being able to spend so much time with him has been sheer joy for Arthur. So, yes, there’s that.
But that’s not the real reason either.
‘So, how long d’you think you’ll stay here?’ I ask Suzy as we stroll along the water’s edge. These past couple of days, she’s come along on our walks (‘We’re not here for much longer,’ I told her. ‘We’d like you to come too.’ I was careful to say ‘we’ and not ‘I’). But the truth is, I’ve wanted her to come. Just for the company, of course. I love hanging out with Arthur, but obviously, Scout’s far more appealing than his tedious old dad and it’s nice to have someone to chat to.
‘A fe
w more weeks, I think,’ she replies. ‘It’s so much easier to do things from here, being close to everything and being able to get to know everyone better. And apart from that, it’s been brilliant for writing, away from all the distractions of being at home. It’s kind of refreshing.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine that.’
Suzy smiles, and as our eyes meet for a moment everything looks brighter. I catch myself and wonder what’s happening to me. Less than two weeks ago Meg was here. Maybe it’s sent me a bit mad, that whole thing; the ‘sparking back up’ and all the lying. It’s probably just as well school starts on Monday. I’ll be back to the manic whirl of teaching and my head’ll be too full of Arthur’s packed sporting schedule and the impending June concert – Christ, will Joey get to grips with that cello part? – for any other distracting thoughts.
‘How about you?’ she asks. ‘When d’you think you’ll be back?’
‘I’m not sure, but definitely over the summer at some point. I’ll need to make sure Dad’s not getting himself into any more bother.’
She nods, and as we slip into an easy silence I wonder if she seems a little sad that we’re leaving. No, that would be ridiculous. She has her hands full. Every minuscule detail of everything is discussed here, and I’ve heard that she flits around the distillery, observing keenly, calling meetings and getting involved in everything from helping to process orders to tidying up the grounds, tending the plants, even scrubbing down the signage so it looks bright and inviting again. She won’t think about us for a minute.
‘D’you worry about your dad?’ she asks suddenly.
‘Um … yeah, I s’pose I do. I mean, especially after his fall. That shower’s not safe – I keep telling him that …’
‘But what do you know?’ she teases.
‘Yeah. Obviously, I’m still his little kid who can’t tie his shoelaces properly. I mean, I had the cheek to suggest he gets one of those rubberised mats for the bath. You know, the non-slip kind?’
She nods, grinning.