by Sue Teddern
‘Minuscule.’
As the bus crosses the Moray Firth and we pass signs for Glack of Kessock, Bogallan and Drumderfit, we get into conversation. In fact, when a bunch of noisy schoolkids get on at Fortrose and insist on sitting together, he takes the seat beside me.
‘I normally leave the car at the airport but Hazel needed it today,’ he explains. ‘And it’s a nice wee journey when the sun’s out.’
‘It’s pretty,’ I say inanely.
‘Not where I work, it isn’t. Port of Nigg.’
My face tells him I have no idea what that is.
‘Dry dock, cranes, marine logistics. Big employer round here. I’m Don, by the way.’
‘Annie. Hi.’
He asks where I’m staying and I tell him I don’t know yet. Fortunately Hazel’s sister, Liz, has a B&B and before we’ve reached the outskirts of Cromarty, my accommodation is sorted and I’ve requested the ‘full Scottish breakfast’. Apparently Liz makes her own white pudding and it’s very popular with her regular guests so she’ll be sure to put some by for me.
Don and I get off the bus at Victoria Hall. He recommends the community market that’s held there. ‘It’s a shame you’ve missed Potato Day. You could have cleaned up on seed tatties, only 15p per tuber.’
He directs me to Liz’s B&B and waves me farewell. We’ve practically crossed the UK together. A Range Rover pulls up beside us and the driver hoots the horn; Hazel has come to pick him up, then they’re popping over to see his mum, who’s housebound after a knee op.
My B&B room is cosy, with fish-themed ornaments and a view of the lighthouse. I check on Dad. I secured the lid with parcel tape before leaving my flat so he’s still all there. Then I kick off my trainers, tip forward onto the bed, and fall asleep in an instant.
I’m awoken four hours later by a polite knock on the door. I’ve slept like a sack and my arm’s numb where I’ve been lying on it. I stumble to the door and Liz is there, in a fish-themed apron, bearing a cheese scone on fish-themed plate.
‘I’m trying out a new recipe,’ she explains. ‘Are chopped chives and sunflower seeds one step too far?’
I haven’t eaten since a hummus sandwich at Luton and I threw most of it away. I am ravenous.
‘There’s two pats of butter. Say if you need any more.’ Liz turns to go, then spins on her heels and pulls a phone out of her pocket. ‘Ooh, nearly forgot. Call for you.’
I’m instantly covered in a sweaty film of guilt. Bev must have found out that I’ve done a runner with Dad’s ashes and she’s called the police. But how does she know where I am? Even I don’t know where I am. Not precisely anyway. Liz leaves me to it.
‘Hello?’ I say tentatively. I’ll come clean. What else can I do?
‘Hello, Annie. This is Don. From the bus.’
Annie to armpits: Please can you calm down now?
‘Oh. Right. Don. Sorry, I was asleep. My brain hasn’t engaged yet.’
‘Shall I call back? I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
I sit on the bed and get my bearings. A print of a leaping salmon next to the wardrobe. A shell-edged mirror above the bedside table. Three fake starfish in flying-duck formation.
‘Not at all,’ I tell him. ‘I’m glad you did.’
‘Oh, that’s a relief.’ Don does one of his hearty chuckles. ‘I told Hazel about us being on the same flight, the same bus, and she said we should take you out for supper, if you don’t have any other plans.’
While he’s been talking, I’ve demolished half the scone. It’s barely touched the sides. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
I pop the phone back in its cradle in the hall and catch myself smiling in the shell-framed mirror. This is going really well. With this distraction tonight, I can forget that Dad and I are parting company tomorrow. Don might even have some suggestions on a good place to scatter him. And I could murder something stodgy and comforting like pie and chips. Result.
I have half an hour to tidy myself up and change into a clean T-shirt. I turn my phone on to check the weather for tomorrow and it practically jumps off the bed, acknowledging all the texts and missed calls in a series of angry beeps. Then it rings again.
‘Annie, where the fuck are you?’
‘Hi Kate. I’m the fuck here. Where the fuck are you?’
She makes a noise like a macerating toilet. I’ve always been super-good at winding her up. ‘Seriously, where are you? I’m worried sick. I even went round to your flat but the curtains were closed. You’re not there, are you, Annie? Please tell me you’re okay.’
‘I’m fine, Katkin. I truly am. I feel like I’ve finally got my mojo back.’
‘So where are you?’
‘Cromarty.’
There’s a pause while she tries to join up the dots. ‘What about Cromarty? Has he died? Oh God, poor Bev, she doesn’t need to bury the cat on top of everything else.’
‘I’m in Cromarty. With Dad. I took him from the Welsh dresser. He’s sitting on top of my bedside table and I can see Cromarty lighthouse from my window, Kate. I’m looking at it right now.’
‘This is you “with your mojo back”, is it? For fuck’s sake, Annie!’
‘I’m going to scatter his ashes here. I should have told you. Hey, if you catch a plane from Luton first thing tomorrow, we can do it together.’
‘You stole Dad’s ashes? I can’t believe you’d do such a – actually I totally can. Bev will be so upset. Oh, Annie. What were you thinking?’
‘Bev is not next of kin. We are. Dad is ours, not hers. And we both know he shouldn’t end up in the bloody Tyrol. Please come, Kate. I should have told you. I see that now. Please let’s do it together.’
She hangs up on me. I’m guessing that means she’s angry and not that she’s gone straight online to book an early flight to Inverness. Yeah. She’s angry.
Then I notice that one of the unread texts, among eight of Kate’s, is from Bev and please can I ring her back. She must have clocked the missing urn. I’m really not ready to talk to her yet and, besides, I need to be downstairs in three minutes to meet Don and Hazel.
I’ve already behaved so badly. I reckon I can risk saving Bev for later . . .
We eat at a pub in Rosemarkie, a ten-minute drive away. Don and I plump for steak-and-ale pie, Hazel gets into a long discussion with the waitress about the salmon and what kind of sauce it comes with because she’s gluten intolerant. She’ll have it sans sauce but with extra veg and will help herself to most of Don’s chips. I like her already.
‘We always eat here when Don’s been for a meeting in London, don’t we, Don?’
He nods enthusiastically as steam comes out of his mouth, which is full of scalding gravy.
‘Is this your first time on the Black Isle?’ Hazel asks.
‘We’re on an island? I had no idea.’
Don is back in the conversation. ‘It’s a peninsula. We like to exaggerate.’
‘So is it your first time?’ Hazel persists.
I nod. ‘My parents came here on their honeymoon. They were planning to come back for their fortieth wedding anniversary but, well, they died. Mum in 2013, Dad three weeks ago.’
Don glares at Hazel. Trust you to stick your nose in.
Hazel gives my hand a little squeeze. ‘Join the club. I’m an orphan too. Oh, hey, you’re little orphan Annie. That’s sad.’
‘Dad used to call me “Annie Lummox” because I was a very clumsy child.’
Don and Hazel love that. Dad has made my new best friends laugh. I so want to tell him. I suddenly feel bereft and Hazel picks up on it. She strokes my arm with one hand and takes the occasional chip off Don’s plate with the other. I explain why I’m here.
They have several suggestions for places to scatter Dad: from the Cromarty–Nigg ferry would be good. Or along the coastal path up by South Sutor.
‘It’s a fine walk,’ Don says. ‘I reckon your dad would like that.’
I’ve managed to push Bev’s message to the back of m
y mind for an hour or so but it doesn’t go away. She won’t understand why I took the urn. And suddenly I’m not sure either.
‘I stole Dad,’ I tell Don and Hazel as they scan the desserts menu. ‘I took him without his partner’s permission.’
They look suitably shocked and don’t know how to respond.
‘They weren’t married, Dad and Bev, so it’s not like she’s next of kin or anything. The thing is, he shouldn’t be scattered in Austria. He should be here in Cromarty. So he is. Here. With me. Well, he’s not here-here, in my bag. He’s back at the B&B. On the windowsill so he can see the lighthouse.’
The waitress asks if we’ve decided on puddings. Hazel bats her away with a friendly smile; we’re not quite ready yet.
‘You mean Bev doesn’t know you took him?’ Don asks.
‘She didn’t, but now I think she does. She left a message to call her back.’
‘And have you?’ says Hazel, gently. ‘Will you? You will, won’t you, Annie?’
I nod, suddenly feeling so guilty and fucked up and ridiculous. But part of me still understands my flawed logic. Don and Hazel didn’t know Dad. Or Bev. They don’t appreciate what these past few years have been like, watching Mum fade away . . . seeing Dad start a new life with a woman I can’t warm to.
They drive me back to the B&B. Hazel tells me firmly that I should call Bev tonight and makes me take her mobile number in case I want to de-brief with her tomorrow. I think, secretly, she wants to know what happens next: her very own soap opera and she’s a secondary character in it.
I make myself a cup of claggy hot chocolate from a sachet by the kettle. I put on my jim-jams, get into bed and dial Bev’s number. She’s a proper nightbird – Dad never was – so 10.30 p.m. isn’t too late. I won’t sleep unless I talk to her.
Bev answers on the second ring. ‘Annie? Is that you?’
‘Hi Bev. Sorry to call so late. Shall I ring back tomorrow?’
I hear the TV being muted.
‘Not at all, love. I was just catching up on last week’s Casualty.’
I don’t know where to start. ‘Anyway, how are you?’ is all I can muster.
There’s a brief pause while she tries to work out where to start too. Then she launches straight in. ‘Kate rang. She told me where you are and what you’ve done.’
‘Wasn’t that why you texted me?’
‘Not at all. I wanted to see how you are. I wouldn’t have known the urn was missing if she hadn’t told me. I could have gone months without realizing. Maybe not until I’d booked my trip to the Tyrol.’
I have no appropriate response. I feel awful, even though I still stand by what I did.
‘I’ve been thinking about this,’ she continues. ‘Ever since Kate rang. I think I understand.’
‘Do you?’ I hear myself say, instantly regretting my petulant tone.
‘Of course I do. I never wanted to compete with you and Kate for your father’s love. He had enough for all of us.’
I feel a big blobby tear wobble down my cheek. I daren’t utter a word in case it turns into an anguished wail.
‘You loved him all your life, Annie. And he loved you from before you were even born. I’ve only loved him for four years. But I did – I do – love him and he loved me.’
‘I know that, Bev.’
‘Now, if you want to scatter his ashes in – where is it again?’
‘Cromarty. Like the cat.’
‘Cromarty, that’s it. If you want to scatter him there, it’s up to you. And Kate, obviously. You do what you think best.’
I’m shocked. I was expecting her to demand Dad’s return asap. Which she then kind of does.
‘But, Annie, you should know that you’ve got the wrong ashes.’
I catch my reflection in the shell-edged mirror. My jaw genuinely drops.
‘Peter is still in the dresser in a temporary urn. A bit like a Pringles box, only bigger, and it’s got a woodland scene printed on it. You’ve taken my first husband, Keith. In the Chinese-looking urn. I never found the right moment to scatter him. Not sure why.’
I look over at ‘Keith’, enjoying the view of Cromarty lighthouse by night. I’ve transported the ashes of a total stranger across the UK. My moment of madness is even more bonkers than I could possibly have imagined.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’
‘First thing tomorrow, I’ll courier your father to Cromarty Post Office. And perhaps you could send Keith back to me.’
‘Or I could just come home with him first thing tomorrow.’
‘No, no, if you want your father scattered in Cromarty, so be it. I wouldn’t dream of stopping you. It’s really up to you.’ Her voice trembles. ‘And now it’s rather late and we both need our beauty sleep. Night-night, love.’
Three texts from Kate when I wake up the next morning.
Text #1: Did U ring Bev?
Text #2: Promise me U did.
Text #3: Oh An-An, this is bad even by yr standards.
Liz’s full Scottish breakfast is indeed amazing, especially the white pudding, which I’d approached with trepidation. Afterwards, I pack my few things into the rucksack, leave it in Liz’s kitchen with her permission, and take Keith to the post office. Several miles of bubble wrap later, he rests securely in a firm cardboard box and begins his couriered journey back to Hertfordshire.
I am at a loss for what to do. Cromarty is very pretty, and very windy, but I’ve covered it in half an hour or so. I could visit Hugh Miller’s Cottage. He seems to have been a big thing around these parts a couple of centuries ago. I could check out the coastal walk Don recommended and find a suitable spot to scatter Dad, when he gets here.
Instead I ring Hazel, and half an hour later we’re ‘ladies who coffee’ in a funky little cafe on the high street. I tell her about Keith. She concentrates hard on stirring her latte for longer than necessary, then emits a loud yelp of laughter. An elderly couple across the room turn to see what’s happened.
Hazel tries unsuccessfully to pull herself together. ‘I know, I know. It isn’t funny, Annie. I shouldn’t be laughing but – oh my God, wait till I tell Don.’
As I see it, I’ve got two options. I can either storm off in a huff, hurt by her insensitivity. Or I can laugh too. It is funny. I have cocked up on a major scale. Pretty soon we’re gripped by uncontrollable, rib-hurting hysteria. The waitress brings us a carafe of water and two glasses. Eventually we recover. I can’t speak for Hazel, but I feel surprisingly refreshed afterwards.
‘Bev sounds like a good woman,’ Hazel says, flapping a napkin at her face. ‘She must have made your dad very happy.’
‘She did, I suppose.’
‘Would it be so wrong to have him scattered in Austria?’
‘I could live with it,’ I mutter begrudgingly. ‘But Cromarty meant something to him for much, much longer.’
‘Because he came here once? With your mum.’
‘On their honeymoon. And he named our cat Cromarty, from the Shipping Forecast.’
Hazel likes that. ‘You could hardly call a cat Dogger.’
I feel the need to show her proof of his obsession. I pull the Shipping Forecast tea towel out of my bag and unfurl it on the table.
‘He’d only dry up dishes with this tea towel, no other. It drove Mum spare.’
Hazel surveys sea area Cromarty and finds the Black Isle peninsula. Seeing it on a faded, frayed, much-loved rectangle of Irish linen, it still feels slightly surreal.
I am here. I am here now.
‘And there’s St Albans,’ I say, pointing vaguely at an area to the north of London. ‘Hundreds of miles from Sole and Fastnet and all the rest of it.’
‘Maybe you should take your dad on the full tour,’ Hazel suggests. ‘From, let’s see . . . Norway to Portugal and from Ireland to Iceland. Why stop at Cromarty?’
‘Yeah, right,’ I snort. ‘And how long would that take?’
‘Weeks? Months? I’ve honestly no idea. Anyway, you’ve probably got lo
ts to get back to in St Albans. I wasn’t being serious, Annie.’
We finish our coffee and Hazel hugs me goodbye. She has to take Don’s mum to the doctor’s. I can’t imagine Dad will arrive until tomorrow morning so I ask Liz if I can stay an extra night at the B&B.
‘No problem,’ she tells me. ‘You just can’t resist my white pudding.’ Then she giggles, realizing how end-of-the-pier that sounds.
I noodle around the shops again: a pottery, a Scandi design shop. I check out the cheese shop and think about my university boyfriend, Duncan, who moved back to Edinburgh after we broke up. Last I heard, via a friend of a friend on Facebook, he’d opened an artisanal cheese shop. When we were together, he lived on Kraft cheese slices melted onto crumpets slathered with Branston. So something – or someone? – must have broadened his taste-bud horizons.
I’m heading back to Liz’s for an afternoon nap when suddenly the heavens open. Not just a short sharp shower but stair rods of rain that go straight through to my bra. I spot the open door of a church hall and hurtle in. Shelter from the storm and all that. After I’ve shaken myself down like a damp spaniel, I turn and see ten pairs of mostly bespectacled eyes focused on me. It looks like some kind of meeting.
I offer an instant apology. ‘Ooh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll leave you to it.’
A nippy, silver-haired woman wearing a stunning Fair Isle waistcoat beckons me over. ‘Nonsense. Sit by the radiator and dry off or you’ll catch your death.’
She introduces herself – Joyce – and explains that they meet every Thursday afternoon for a knit ’n’ natter session.
‘Wendy there wanted to call it “stitch ’n’ bitch” but we never bitch, do we, ladies?’
Wendy pulls an invisible Pinocchio nose and they all hoot with laughter. Lesley makes me a cup of tea from the urn and Eileen snaps open the lid of an old plastic biscuit box loaded with home-made, chocolate-dipped oat shorties.
‘Can you knit?’ Lesley asks. She is sewing buttons onto a rainbow-striped children’s cardy. There’s a tam-o’-shanter and scarf to match.
‘Me? God no. My mum tried to teach me but everything I made came out full of dropped stitches and knots where the wool got tangled.’