by Fiona Gibson
I was only about six when Mum went away and I’m eleven now. I’m at the school here on Sgadansay and it’s pretty good. I actually like school now. Sometimes I even do my homework. Me and Dad live in the house at the other end of the street from Granddad – the yellow one. Dad teaches music here on the island (not at my school thankfully), and runs courses and stuff. He also has a side business repairing instruments. Not just stringed instruments either. He knew the basics, from his teacher friends back in Glasgow, but he’s learning more and more and now he can repair woodwind instruments too.
‘Did you know penicillin was first discovered incubating in a nine-year-old’s oboe?’ he asked me last night, while he fiddled with a disgusting-looking mouthpiece. He thinks he’s so funny. ‘Dad jokes’ – there should be a book of them.
Anyway, that was all yesterday. All day, I didn’t know what to say about Mum’s letter or how to react or anything. We just sat about in Granddad’s living room, and it seemed like no one else really knew how to react either. But I was glad they were there. And I was glad, too, that we’re in the October holidays so there was no work for Dad or school for me. I just wanted to be with my family.
Eventually, Suzy did have to see to some distillery stuff, but she came back and asked me if I’d like to take Scout for the night, so he’d be with me. He slept on my bed. That helped a lot.
And now it’s morning and it’s just Dad and me, having breakfast. Well, Scout’s here too but he doesn’t get his breakfast until after his walk.
I glance at Dad across the table. He looks pale and pretty stressed. ‘D’you know what you want to do?’ he asks gently.
I shrug, not to pretend I don’t care but because I really don’t know. ‘Not sure,’ I say.
He gets up and comes round and hugs me. I’m actually crying now. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t stop myself. Tears are streaming down my face. ‘Dad,’ I choke out.
‘It’s okay,’ he says gently into my hair. ‘Whatever you want to do is fine, son.’
‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘Maybe I will see her, just ’cause she wants to—’
‘Arthur,’ he says, ‘it’s not about Mum. It’s about what you want. And you don’t have to decide anything. I mean, there’s no rush …’
‘Yeah, Mum hasn’t exactly rushed,’ I say, but I don’t mean it really. I mean, I’m not angry. I don’t know what I am. I’m okay, I suppose, being with Dad. Better than okay really. And I don’t even remember that much about Mum. Well, I do, but some of it I try not to remember – like the karaoke machine. But it wasn’t all bad. Some of it, like the pirate game, was really fun.
‘If you think you want to see her,’ Dad says, ‘I’m happy to come with you, if you like.’
Straight away, I know that’s not what I want. To sit there in a café or something with my parents, I mean. ‘No, Dad,’ I tell him, as it all starts to make sense in my head. Like with a jigsaw when you suddenly spot the piece you need.
I sit down on the floor and lift Scout onto my lap and stroke him, enjoying the feeling of his soft, warm body and his gentle breathing. It’s amazing how calming dogs can be.
‘Dad, I don’t think I want Mum to come here,’ I say, looking up at him.
‘Really?’ He looks sort of worried.
‘I mean, not now. Not yet. But maybe one day.’ I pause. ‘I was thinking I’d write and tell her that. But I don’t want to seem … y’know.’
‘Hey, I don’t think you’ll seem like anything,’ he says gently, giving me a hug. ‘But if that’s what feels right, then that’s probably the best thing to do for now.’
I nod, feeling a bit choked up again. ‘I’m not great at writing letters,’ I add.
‘They’re not easy,’ he says, nodding. ‘But I’m sure you can do it, and if you want any help, just tell me …’
‘I was thinking I’d write it and then maybe Suzy could read it?’ I say quickly. ‘Just to make sure it sounds like I want it to?’
Dad smiles. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’ He clears his throat and rubs at his chin and then adds, ‘Whatever you need, you know we’re here for you.’
I catch those words, and the way he said them: we’re here. Dad and Suzy. And it gives me a warm feeling and I think, actually, I can probably manage to write that letter on my own.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Springtime
Suzy
Obituary for the Sgadansay Gazette
Harry Vance was born and brought up on Sgadansay and was well known to many as Head Distiller at the distillery. As a young boy, living on the family’s croft with his parents and sister, he excelled at both football and science …
I show it to Ricky and he sits down to read it. There’s lots I wanted to put in it but I want to keep it neat, and to the point, like Harry himself. So I didn’t mention that Harry left the distillery, and then came back, all guns blazing – in a good way, I mean. Full of ideas. We have our own gin now; Arthur had suggested calling it Scout Gin, with a picture of him on the label, but after the puffin episode we decided to play safe. So it’s Sgadansay Gin. And it’s Harry’s baby. It was his idea to develop and launch it and it will always be his.
Ricky reads the obituary right through to the end. We are at his place, a cottage similar in layout to Harry’s but painted bright white inside, so much lighter and airier. ‘This is really good,’ he says. I stand behind him, place my hands on his shoulders and kiss the top of his head. Scout potters over to us and looks up, as if waiting. Waiting for his walk.
Mum was wrong, I always thought, when she said writing obituaries must be morbid. I don’t find that. They’re about amazing people, the things they’ve done, the mark they’ve made on the world and the people who loved them. They are a celebration of life.
‘I’m so glad you’re happy with it,’ I say. ‘D’you think your dad will be too?’
‘God, I hope so,’ Ricky says, getting up when there’s a sharp rap on the door. ‘Typical Dad, wanting to vet it …’
And now Harry appears in the living room – because of course he just walks straight in – with a hefty-looking book under his arm.
‘Hi, Harry,’ I say.
‘Hi.’ He raises a brief smile and places the book on the coffee table. I realise now that it’s an album of some kind – of photographs maybe. Its burgundy leather cover is embellished with gold.
‘What’s that, Dad?’ Ricky asks.
‘Oh, I was just doing some clearing out,’ he says with a shrug, ‘and I found this. Your mum must’ve kept it.’ He turns to me. ‘I thought you might want a look at it?’
‘Oh, thank you. And, um, this is for you, Harry,’ I add. ‘You said you wanted to me write it for you—’
‘Yep, that’s right,’ he says as the front door opens again, and Arthur appears in the doorway, having gone out to buy a loaf.
‘What’re you reading, Granddad?’ he asks.
Harry flaps a hand distractedly.
‘Granddad decided he wanted Suzy to write his obituary,’ Ricky explains, going over to put an arm around his son’s shoulders.
Arthur frowns, looking baffled. ‘But I thought they were for when you’ve, like, died—’
‘Aye, I’m not dead yet.’ Harry grins at him. ‘But I wanted to see it. I wanted to have some … input, y’know?’
‘You’re not ill, are you?’ Arthur stares at him.
‘Nothing wrong with me, son,’ Harry mutters. As he continues to read, I pick up the album and turn the pages. It’s a scrapbook really, crammed with cuttings from various newspapers, but mostly from the Sgadansay Gazette, all yellowing now, depicting Ricky as a boy, his face set in rapt concentration as he plays his cello. There are photos too, of a younger Ricky – all cheekbones and angles, and so strikingly handsome – and cuttings from national newspapers from when he’d won prizes for performances as a young man. Everything is captioned in careful, forward-sloping handwriting.
Ricky performing at the Municipal Hall.
Our Ricky winning prize for best performance, June 30, 1981.
Musical concert August 27, 1982. Top prize.
Ricky’s Graduation. A memorable day.
I glance at Ricky, who’s been looking at the book at my side. ‘Your dad’s writing,’ I mouth, and he nods, and I know exactly what he’s thinking: so Harry did care after all. He just wasn’t terribly good at showing it.
The morning has brightened now. It’s one of those crisp, brilliantly sunny April days that would freeze the pants off you. ‘Look, Granddad,’ Arthur announces, peering through the window. ‘Someone’s photographing our house.’ We all turn and look at the woman in red jeans and an Aran sweater who’s holding up her phone right in front of the cottage. Then she marches off down the street, stopping at the other end of the terrace.
‘She’s probably doing it for her Instagram,’ Arthur says, turning to his granddad.
‘For her followers,’ Harry adds with a nod.
‘Yeah, Granddad,’ Arthur says, clearly enjoying baiting him. ‘Thousands of people are going to see your house.’
Ricky laughs, and then, telling Harry and Arthur we’re going to walk Scout, he takes my hand and we step out of the cottage. No wonder people love this street. It’s beautiful. Who wouldn’t want to share this?
The air is so cold and fresh, it’s almost dizzying. At the end of the street is the sea, shimmering in the sunlight. Scout potters along at my side. We don’t need a lead anymore. He just trots along beside us, such a good boy.
Dogs are so clever, I decide. They can sniff out drugs, find missing people and transport brandy in little barrels under their chins.
And they can bring people together, I think, as Ricky catches my eye and smiles his warm, broad smile that lifts my heart. They can definitely do that.
He takes my hand. ‘Where d’you fancy going?’ he asks.
I look up at the blue, blue sky and at the sea glittering before us. ‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s go to the beach.’
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, Tilda McDonald, Molly Walker-Sharp, Phoebe Morgan, Sabah Khan, Helena Newton and the wonderful Avon team who brought this book to life. Special thanks to Caroline Sheldon and Rosemary Buckman for being reassuringly brilliant during such a challenging year. Thank you Jan Currie and Robin Thompson for help with Gaelic terms, and to Jackie Loughery and Calum Barker – a font of knowledge on distillery matters. Cheers, Calum! Huge gratitude to Aimee McMorrow who answered my endless questions about teaching music in schools, to Agata at Perthshire Abandoned Dogs Society (PADS) for doggy info, and to Ross Fitzsimons for advice on legal shenanigans. Much love to Tania Cheston for reading this book (in her usual insightful fashion) at an early stage, and to my daughter Erin for proofreading when my locked-down brain was boggled. Cheers to Elise Allan’s creativity coaching group: Christobel, Annie, Anne and Mif – you’re all so boosting and inspiring. Thank you Anita Naik for the obituaries idea (you’ve probably forgotten you even mentioned that), to Deborah Bradley and Marion for the guinea pig names, and to Emma Jane Lambert – mum to Arthur – who gave me the idea for Arthur’s name in the book. It fitted him perfectly. Finally, heaps of love to Jimmy, Sam, Dexter and Erin – and Jack, our beloved collie cross, who has owned our hearts since 2011 and is never knowingly under-tickled.
Follow me on Instagram @fiona_gib
twitter @FionaGibson
Website: www.fionagibson.com
Keep Reading …
Sometimes life can be bittersweet …
UK readers, click here to buy now.
US readers, click here to buy now.
When the kids are away …
UK readers, click here to buy now.
US readers, click here to buy now.
Everyone has a last straw …
UK readers, click here to buy now.
US readers, click here to buy now.
What happens when The One That Got Away shows up again … thirty years later?
UK readers, click here to buy now.
US readers, click here to buy now.
Forget about having it all. Sometimes you just want to leave it all behind.
UK readers, click here to buy now.
US readers, click here to buy now.
Midlife crisis? What midlife crisis?!
UK readers, click here to buy now.
US readers, click here to buy now.
About the Author
Fiona was born in a youth hostel in Yorkshire. She started working on teen magazine Jackie at age 17, then went on to join Just Seventeen and More! where she invented the infamous ‘Position of the Fortnight’. Fiona now lives in Scotland with her husband Jimmy, their three children and a wayward rescue collie cross called Jack.
For more info, visit www.fionagibson.com. You can follow Fiona on Twitter @fionagibson.
By the same author:
Mum On The Run
The Great Escape
Pedigree Mum
Take Mum Out
How the In-Laws Wrecked Christmas: a short story
As Good As It Gets?
The Woman Who Upped and Left
The Woman Who Met Her Match
The Mum Who’d Had Enough
The Mum Who Got Her Life Back
When Life Gives You Lemons
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201 301, India
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com