by Fiona Gibson
In fact, I’m glad. It’s easier this way. So the odd bits of clothing, a pile of ‘get rich quick’ type manuals, the trumpet and the cycling gear (at least, the items not gnawed by Scout) are dropped off at my nearest charity shop, where the elderly lady is delighted: ‘This is amazing,’ she enthuses, admiring the gleaming instrument. ‘It looks like it’s hardly been played!’
Back home there’s more boxing up of all the stuff I need to shove out of the way for the students moving in. This all goes up into the loft, which prompts me to bring down all the baby and toddler equipment Tony and I stashed up there all those years ago: cots, trikes and highchairs that I’d never got around to passing on. And now, of course, I don’t really know anyone with young children so this, too, is dispatched to new homes via charity shops and Freecycle.
I’m aware of beavering away in order to stop dwelling on whether or not I should drop Ricky a friendly text. I’m conscious that he’s busy, and I’m busy too; all this busyness. And anyway, the thought of anything ever happening between us is ridiculous. Apart from the geographic issues, we are two middle-aged people with our own lives to get on with. It was a little hand-hold on the beach, and a hug, and that was that. Straight afterwards, Ricky had whisked Arthur away – so quickly I’d wondered if he was embarrassed or something. Harry and I had gone for a drink together (not at the Anchor; perhaps he hadn’t wanted his friends to see him fraternising with me in his local). We’d gone to the Ship instead – on his suggestion – and that’s where we’d discussed my distillery plans and he’d agreed to come back and be my right-hand man.
But I hadn’t seen Ricky or Arthur again after that. And the thought that I mightn’t ever again triggers an actual ache in my gut.
In my second week back home, Frieda returns, fresh from her camping trip and is soon joined by Isaac for their grandparents’ golden wedding anniversary.
We arrive en masse at Belinda’s, and she does her usual thing of greeting us with enthusiasm whilst teetering back slightly as if there are dozens of us all tumbling into her house. There are hugs all round – I brace myself for Derek’s customary wet-lipped kiss – but the minute we all settle I know something’s up; something is different around here.
‘I’ve just had a lot on,’ Belinda tells me distractedly as we lift steaming trays from the catering-sized oven: deliciously scented roast lamb, an unfeasibly large chicken and a nut roast for Frieda, plus roast potatoes and numerous vegetables all perfectly cooked, as I knew they would be.
I glance at my sister as she mops at her brow with her Cath Kidston oven glove. Does she just mean her usual, plate-spinning kind of scenario? Maybe. But this feels different somehow. Unusually, she’s been knocking back wine as she prepared the meal. I’ve noticed that so far, Derek hasn’t lifted a finger.
‘So what’s been happening?’ I ask.
‘Oh, me and Derek have just had some stuff going on lately.’ She transfers mint sauce from a jar into a white porcelain bowl. Bought mint sauce, I note. Normally she makes her own with mint from the garden.
However the dinner is wonderful and naturally, I don’t quiz Belinda on what kind of ‘stuff’ she was referring to. The table is cleared, more wine tippled and Mum is holding court about her various fundraising triumphs for local charities, while my father gazes at her in undisguised admiration. He loves her so much, I reflect. After all, she’s a powerhouse, and however hackle-rising I find her, I have to admire her energy and drive. Without her fundraising efforts, I’d imagine that their local, once-derelict swimming pool would never again have seen a droplet of water – not to mention the aqua fitness classes and all of the other stuff that goes on there.
‘Your granddad keeps telling me to take my foot off the gas,’ she announces to Frieda and Isaac, who are watching her with bemused expressions (when did she start saying things like ‘foot off the gas’?). ‘But I can’t,’ she goes on, tipsily, ‘or nothing would get done, would it, Peter?’
‘No, love,’ Dad says, patting her hand. Then, after a pause: ‘The whole town would grind to a standstill without you at the helm, Junie.’ He catches my eye momentarily with a mischievous glint and Mum turns to me.
‘How’s your work going anyway, Suzy? You haven’t really said …’
‘The distillery?’ I ask. ‘Or my writing work?’
‘Your writing,’ she says quickly, turning back to Frieda and Isaac. ‘I don’t know how your mum can write about death all day—’
‘I think it’s really interesting,’ Frieda announces, loyally.
‘Yeah, me too,’ Isaac says, adding as he turns to me: ‘Better than a real job anyway. Isn’t it, Mum?’
‘Loads better,’ I say, catching his eye, so grateful that he and his sister are here, defusing things.
‘It’s going really well, Mum,’ I tell her.
‘The distillery is too,’ Belinda pipes up, and I stare at her, amazed. ‘Well, so I hear anyway,’ she adds quickly, ‘from what Suzy’s been saying.’ In fact, I haven’t actually told her very much; just the odd titbit during our occasional phone conversations. I wonder now if she’s been reading about it, googling stuff. Because a lot’s been written about us now, in specialist drinks publications but also in the business and travel sections of national newspapers; about the distillery’s rapid demise, and it being taken over by one half of a former partnership and how things seem to be flourishing again on Sgadansay.
‘That’s nice, love,’ Mum remarks, as if I’ve just won a tenner on a lottery ticket.
Now, as Derek launches into a spiel about how he’s doing terribly well too, with his various ‘projects’, my sister grabs at my wrist and leads me out to the conservatory at the back of the house.
‘Sorry about that.’ She motions for me to sit beside her on the wicker seat.
‘What for?’ I stare at her.
‘For, well … Derek, going on like that. Turning it all back onto him. That’s so typical …’
‘That’s okay,’ I say, still bewildered. ‘I didn’t even notice.’ I wonder now if I’ve missed something, being the only sober person in the room (only because I’m driving later; in any other circumstances I’d be compelled to anaesthetise myself in the presence of my brother-in-law). Perhaps it’s one of those occasions where you need to be on the same plane as everyone else, alcohol-wise, in order to pick up on all of the nuances?
‘And I’m sorry about the other stuff too,’ Belinda adds.
‘What other stuff?’ Genuinely, I have no idea what she’s talking about.
‘I mean … how I’ve been about the distillery and Paul and everything,’ she blurts out, all in a rush.
‘You’ve been … fine,’ I say hesitantly.
Belinda grips the stem of her wine glass and takes a big swig from it. She usually has her shoulder-length hair coloured mid-brown, but I’ve noticed she’s letting the grey come through. ‘I haven’t really. I’ve been dismissive, haven’t I? And not exactly supportive. I mean, for one thing, your relationship ended—’
‘Oh, Bel.’ I reach over and hug her. ‘What happened between Paul and me was so enormous, and such an almighty screw-up, that the actual dumpage part hardly feels significant. And I’m fine, honestly.’
She musters a weak smile. ‘I never really thought he was right for you, to be honest.’
‘Thanks for that.’ I raise a brow and smile too.
‘But I liked him,’ she adds.
I can’t help smirking at that. ‘Yes, I did too. But you’re right – he wasn’t the man for me.’
‘You seemed so in love with him, though—’
‘I probably was – but I don’t really know. I mean, I’ve never been as confident as you. And maybe it’s taken me until the age of forty-eight to realise that, whenever a man has made it clear that he’s keen, I’ve been so surprised and delighted that I’ve tried to mould myself to fit them. Even with Tony, I did it. I always have. But now, there’s someone—’
‘You’ve met someone?’ she excla
ims.
I look at her, already wishing I hadn’t blurted that out. ‘It’s nothing,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve just made a friend, that’s all …’
‘On the island?’ She drains her glass and grins at me, eyes wide, anticipating gossip.
‘It’s nothing, honestly.’ Of course it’s nothing, I tell myself firmly. How could anything possibly happen? Ricky lives in Glasgow, and besides that, Harry Vance is his father – and although he’s back with us now, I’m aware that I need to tread carefully around him. I’m certainly not planning to hurl myself at his son. Christ, it’d probably be on the front page of the Sgadansay Gazette.
‘I never knew that about you,’ Belinda adds.
‘Knew what?’ I ask.
‘The “moulding yourself” thing. You’ve always seemed very much your own person to me, doing your own thing. And all my male friends used to go on about my gorgeous little sister—’
‘Oh, come on,’ I retort. ‘That’s not true.’
‘It is!’ she exclaims.
I look at her, my incredibly high-achieving sister who has this huge, immaculate house, and a wardrobe of smart designer outfits in colours like teal and taupe, and always seemed to have everything all sorted out. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ I add. ‘I always thought that trying to meet someone is a bit like shoe shopping. It’s such a horrible, soul-sapping business that whenever I’ve spotted some I like – that I really like – I’ve forced my feet into them even if they’re too small, completely the wrong shape and painful. It’s like I can’t accept the shoes aren’t right for me. I’m convinced it’s my feet that are wrong—’
‘And then you end up with blisters and bleeding toes, possibly crippled,’ she remarks with a trace of glee.
I laugh. ‘Yeah, I guess so. But you’re not like that. You always knew Derek was right, didn’t you?’
‘Um … maybe.’ She looks down at her empty glass. ‘I s’pose so.’
I frown. ‘Bel, what is it? What’s been happening?’
She rubs at her face and jumps up from the seat. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I guess we should get back to the party—’
‘Belinda?’ I stand up too. ‘Is something going on with you two? Because you seem—’
‘I was just wondering,’ she says blithely, already marching ahead, ‘if I could come up and see you sometime? On the island, I mean?’
‘Yes, of course you can. I’d love that!’
She stops in the doorway. Her cheeks are blotchy and her eyes are a little pink. ‘D’you mean both of you?’ I add. ‘Because there’s the dog issue, obviously. With Derek’s allergies …’
‘Oh no, it’d definitely just be me,’ she says firmly, flouncing ahead of me to the living room now. ‘To be honest, Suze, I could do with a little break.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
Two Weeks Later
It felt like such an adventure that first time I came to Sgadansay with Paul. Even the lack of phone signal on much of the island seemed somehow exotic. As we drove off the ferry, Paul was clutching the paper map he’d had the forethought to buy, and was giving directions from the passenger seat.
‘Follow the road inland,’ he said. ‘It’s about fifteen minutes away.’ We passed clusters of cottages, a tea shop, the smokery and a church. Then the buildings petered out into rolling hills with the craggier peaks visible hazily in the distance. He switched on the car radio, but the signal was so faint he turned it off again and we settled into a pleasant silence. We passed through a village with neat front gardens, the odd boat in a driveway, and a red telephone box. I spotted a village hall, its white paint peeling slightly, with a rust-coloured corrugated-iron roof. In less than a minute we were out in the wilds again with nothing around us but sheep.
Although the island is far more familiar to me these days, I still feel a surge of something when I first arrive. Ricky and Arthur may be in Glasgow but it’s okay, I tell myself, because Scout is here – and Cara. I knock lightly on the side door and Cara answers it, greeting me with a tight hug as Scout shoots out. ‘Hey, we’ve missed you!’ she announces.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ I say, smiling. I bob down and gather Scout into my arms, his whiskers tickling my face as he jumps all over me. ‘It’s so good to be back,’ I add, and it is. It feels like home.
‘Heard from Ricky?’ Cara asks later, when we’re settled in front of her wood-burning stove.
I shake my head. ‘I wasn’t expecting to really.’ She gives me a look because she knows, I think. But I can’t say it because there’s nothing to say really.
‘Maybe he’ll be back in the summer holidays?’ she adds. ‘When do schools break up again?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, although of course I’ve looked this up, and I know that, in Scotland, the summer term finishes soon. But to admit that I’ve checked, and that I’m hoping they’ll come back soon, would be to admit to myself that I’m hoping. And anyway, there’s still a whole heap of work to be done, which is why I’m here after all.
To put things right and, more than that, to push us forward. That’s what I’m focusing on. There’s an ambition welling in me that I’ve never experienced before; certainly not in my job at the recruitment consultancy. That didn’t truly excite me. But this does. I’d never imagined I’d be excited about barley – or water, for that matter. How had I never realised that water is such a thing?
Scout and I leave Cara’s, and I settle into my new life on the island, in a tiny one-storey rented cottage now, as I couldn’t impinge on her any longer. She’d been going out the odd evening, and seemed a little flustered and evasive when she came home.
‘Did you have a nice time?’ I’d ask her.
‘It was great, thanks,’ she’d reply, then explain that she was having an early night or planned to get stuck into some painting, or printing, in her studio. A slight awkwardness had crept in. I hated to think she might feel obliged to ask me along on a night out, or feel bad if she didn’t, as if we were student housemates. But there was something, I knew it. Maybe she was just ready to have her place to herself again, and who could blame her? She’d been more than generous to me and Scout.
My cottage is basic and plain but also beautiful with its bare, rough stone interior walls, just like Cara’s place, and a tiny garden out the back. There are a few beleaguered shrubs that I hope to resurrect. The lawn is soggy and waterlogged, but I’m planning to ask the landlord if I can dig channels on either side to drain it. That’ll keep me busy. I also have Rosalind’s plant, which I’ve brought back with me. She seemed quite startled when I asked if I could take it, but I’m planning to return it to her, renewed – the way Ricky told me he mends his pupils’ instruments and then hands them back.
‘Well, you have a good track record for nursing things back to good health,’ Rosalind said, with a flicker of a smile.
Meanwhile I’ve been spending most of my time at the distillery, learning new things every day. Like the fact that, according to Vicki, here on the island we have the ideal ingredients for gin. The perfect water and botanics that could give our own spirit a unique flavour, she means. ‘Have you heard of sugar kelp?’ she asks one afternoon as she hands Harry and me mugs of tea in the distillery’s reception area.
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘Is it a kind of seaweed?’
‘’Course it is,’ Harry exclaims, in a don’t-you-know-anything? voice.
I catch Vicki shooting him an exasperated look. ‘Why would Suzy know that, Harry?’
He shrugs and blows across the top of his mug.
‘Maybe you could look into it, Harry?’ I venture.
‘Oh, I know how to distil gin,’ he says blithely, as if it’s nothing – like Isaac and his mates gathering nettles to brew beer. They thought all they’d have to do was stuff the whole load in the cask, with water and bicarbonate of soda nicked from my kitchen cupboard, and that would be that.
‘What’s special about sugar kelp?’ I ask Vicki.
‘It has a distincti
ve sweet and salty taste,’ she says. ‘There’s nothing else quite like it. And there are huge beds of it around the coast here that can be harvested sustainably at the right time of year.’
‘That’s right,’ Harry says, as if we’re talking about picking lettuce.
‘Could we do that?’ I ask him. ‘To use as a flavouring, I mean?’
He nods. ‘Yep, there’s a diver I know who does that.’
‘What, harvests seaweed?’ I gasp.
He nods. ‘Aye, of course.’ I know better than to bombard him with questions, but I have to ask, ‘Harry, d’you really think we could produce a gin? One that’s unique to us?’
‘I think that’d be fantastic,’ Vicki says quickly. ‘It’s been mooted before, and I’ve always said we’re ideally placed to do it – but you know how things were around here. Very traditional, with nothing ever changing …’
‘Well, maybe now’s the right time to try it?’ I glance at Harry. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but could we start to think about that? Just in a small way, to see how it goes?’
‘I’ll have a think,’ he says. Then he gets up, signifying that he has far more important things to get on with than sit around chatting to us. Harry isn’t really a tea break kind of man.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The gin idea is pushed firmly out of my mind as Belinda arrives on Sgadansay. Windswept and looking bewildered, she stomps into the cottage with her smart wheeled suitcase, then flings it aside, virtually collapsing onto the sofa. ‘My God, Suze,’ she announces. ‘That ferry crossing!’
‘I know,’ I say sympathetically. ‘It’s pretty rough today.’
‘Is it always like that?’ She frowns, as if it were someone’s fault, and there might be a number she can call to lodge a complaint.