by Karen Swan
Skye paused a moment. ‘You know, if you wanted, I’ve probably got some stuff you could borrow till you get your bags back.’
Alex hesitated. ‘Really?’ She couldn’t see what Skye was wearing beneath that lab coat but there was not, at least, any sign of a pointy-collared shirt.
‘Aye. I mean, it’s nothing fancy. No designer labels or anything but they’d sure as heck look a lot more up to date than that.’
‘Given that Wet Lips Wendy is looking better than me right now, that wouldn’t be hard,’ Alex sighed. ‘Oh God, are you sure . . . ?’ She couldn’t quite believe that she’d been on the island less than twenty-four hours and this was the second stranger from whom she was begging clothes.
‘Absolutely. Come to mine this evening and we can rifle out some outfits for you.’
‘Well, that’s so generous. Thank you so much. But only if you’re quite sure you don’t mind?’
‘Of course. In fact . . .’ Skye hesitated again. ‘Seeing as you’re coming over, why don’t you stay for supper?’
‘Oh no,’ Alex demurred. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that. It’s quite enough that you’re kitting me out, without going to the trouble of cooking too.’
‘Look, I’m cooking for myself anyway and it’d be nice to get to know you better, especially if you’re going to be staying a while. My fiancé lives in Glasgow and doesn’t come back till the weekends, so the company would be nice. There aren’t many folks my age coming round this way.’
‘How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Alex asked curiously.
‘Twenty-six. You?’
‘Thirty-one.’
‘Pretty much twins then,’ Skye grinned, getting up from the wall and wiping the grit from her hands. ‘I’d better get back. Come over for seven?’
‘Great. Oh – I’ll need your address.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Peggie will give it to you. See you later then.’ And with a little wave, she disappeared back indoors.
Alex sighed, the smile fading as she looked back across the courtyard at the little white unit with the puffing chimney stack and closed door. She knew she ought to go back over there and try again but how could she command respect dressed like this?
No, it was better to retreat and make a fresh charge to the enemy camp tomorrow. She had till Christmas, she could afford to take her time. This had been an unfortunate start – the second such, in fact, after his and his cousin’s fun and games yesterday – but it was irrelevant in the scheme of things. She wasn’t the best in her business without good reason and in some ways, his behaviour only made her task here easier. Let him have his fun. She knew which one of them would be laughing longest when it was all over.
Chapter Six
SS Tuscania, British waters, 5 February 1918
The men’s cheers filled every last space as the boxers sparred in the mess, shouts and curses and laughter and gasps lifting them all up as the troopship ploughed through the rearing dark seas. Private Ed Cobb stood against the bulkhead, beads of sweat trickling down from his brow, his own fists drawn into punches as he watched; his money was on Walt Mooney, his bunkie – a Montana boy too, he’d worked as a logger before signing up and had the strength of two men.
There was a roar as a quick 2-2-1 combination allowed Walt to land a sucker punch on Harold Schwartz’s chin and the man staggered backwards into the outstretched arms of the spectators who were doubling up as ring ropes. The cheering men rushed Jack Hawkins who was running the bets but Ed stayed where he was. He was feeling hot, unnaturally so, and he pressed a hand to his brow. It came back clammy. He was shivering too and his bones felt leaden. Was it as hot in here as he thought? No one else was sweating.
Leaving the din behind him, he wove a path through the crowd, out of the room and down to the cabins below. It was almost four thirty and would soon be evening mess, the troops settling down afterwards to the quieter pastime of card games.
Chief Kellogg nodded as they passed in the passage outside the turbine room, Ed saluting with a vigour he didn’t feel before slumping against the bulkhead again and making his way on to his berth.
He was but two doors away when there was a terrific explosion which threw him off his feet and across the corridor as the ship lurched violently, immediately beginning to list to starboard. The lights had gone out and the momentary silence that followed in the darkness was suffused with fear.
But then the screaming started – the scream of steam escaping the ship’s whistle, the scream of a high-pitched voice arrowing through the corridors, and he recognized it as being a kid from Kentucky he was sure had lied about his age.
‘They got us!’ the boy shrieked, showing the whites of his eyes as he ran for his life. ‘They got us!’
Islay, Thursday 7 December 2017
‘So you’ll no be staying in for dinner then?’ Mrs Peggie asked, looking displeased. Her quantities were going to be out.
‘No. I’m sorry. It wasn’t planned until an hour ago. Skye’s very kindly offered to lend me some clothes, you see.’
‘But you’ve got clothes. What’s wrong with the ones you’re wearing?’ Mrs Peggie asked, looking even more displeased.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. They’re just a little, uh . . . small.’
‘Aye,’ Mrs Peggie said, nodding. ‘I remember Jane was only a girl when she was in those.’ She straightened, heaving her bosom up and folding her arms underneath. ‘Well, I hope Skye will give you double portions at least. You need feeding up.’
Alex wasn’t sure what to say to that, so said nothing.
‘Will you be stopping for breakfast?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’ve got some lovely kippers.’
‘Thank you, but porridge is fine,’ Alex said firmly.
‘As you like. Oh, and the Spanish family have arrived,’ Mrs Peggie said. ‘I’ve had to put a step by the toilet for the toddler – apparently his aim isn’t accurate yet.’
Alex tried not to grimace. She was, after all, the one having to share a bathroom with this child. ‘Um, fine . . .’ she muttered. What else could she say? ‘Skye said you’d be able to give me her address?’
‘Of course.’
‘And I wondered if I could get Jack’s number from you. I need to book him to take me over there this evening. And back again, obviously.’
‘Och, Jack’ll be no good to you. He’s on the mainland. Won’t be back till the day after tomorrow at the earliest.’
Alex’s brow furrowed. How long had he been there for, exactly? Little wonder her bags had been stranded! ‘His son-in-law then?’
‘No need. Mr Peggie’s making a delivery to Euan Campbell this evening; he can drop you on his way.’
‘That’s really not necessary. I can get a cab. I’ll need one to bring me back anyway.’ She made a mental note to get Louise to look into booking a car and driver for her; she was going to need more flexibility and freedom over her comings and goings.
‘David’s in bed by nine, he has such early starts.’
‘Who’s David?’
‘Jack’s son-in-law. He works at the fishery. Up by four every morning.’
Alex bit her lip, trying to contain her frustration. So the island’s gout-ridden taxi driver was stranded on the mainland and his stand-in son-in-law had to be in bed by nine? Hadn’t these people heard of customer service? She didn’t expect the 24/7 hours of New York and London, but this was ridiculous!
‘Don’t you fuss, we’ll get something sorted,’ Mrs Peggie said, patting her arm. ‘In the meantime, can I get you a wee cup of tea? You look awful pinched.’
Worn down, Alex nodded. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘And a finger of shortbread?’
‘No, thank you. Just the tea, please.’
‘Och go on, it won’t kill you. You go on up. I’ll bring it to you in just a few moments. The water’s hot if you want to run a bath.’
Alex retreated, having absolutely no intention of
taking a bath in the middle of the day. She had notes to write up, calls to make and she needed to get to this cyber cafe to Skype New York and check that Howard Connolly wasn’t doing anything stupid like actually leaving his wife. She would need to take her red coat with her to wear for the call; she couldn’t have him seeing her dressed like Karen Carpenter. She might be only a couple of miles off the Scottish mainland, but her day had been curiously warped, like looking at herself in a fairground mirror. Nothing was quite as she expected it to be – there was no Wi-Fi here or corporate hierarchies, no suits or double-shot espressos. Instead, goats nibbled her ear and bras dangled from stag antlers; and as she passed the dining room and glanced in, she saw a set of girdles being stretched on the spoon-back chairs. She felt like Alex Through the Looking Glass.
‘You found me okay then?’ Skye asked, just as Mr Peggie’s pea-green tractor rolled past on the street behind her, the trailer rattling over the cobbles. ‘Oh! Ew!’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Alex sighed as the wind continued its assaults on her hairstyle and blew in the backdraught of the stench that had accompanied her here. ‘My driver is making a manure delivery.’
She tried to smile but in truth she was feeling stretched, her emotions brittle and alarmingly close to the surface. The jet lag didn’t help, of course, but then neither did the fact that in the just over twenty-four hours that she’d been on the island, she had lost her bags, been tricked by the local Casanova, manhandled by her client, nibbled by a wild goat and now stank of cow dung. ‘I’m so sorry. I smell to high heaven – and you must have such a sensitive nose, too.’
There was a pause and she hoped Skye couldn’t read her low mood.
‘My nose . . . ?’ Skye echoed, a smile twitching her lips.
‘Well, yes, you’re a blender by profession. You must be very sensitive to smells. Me cadging a lift on the manure delivery perhaps wasn’t the best—’
But she didn’t get to finish, for the wind took her hair and tipped it over her face like a bucket of water and Skye threw her head back in laughter, an arm strapped across her stomach at the all-round pathetic scene. It took only a second for Alex to join in too, her ‘laugh or cry’ moment turning into hysterics on the doorstep instead and for several moments, the two of them laughed until they had to clutch the walls for support.
‘You’ve got to come in,’ Skye cried finally, wiping tears from her cheeks as she continued to chuckle. ‘Or the neighbours will think we’re drunk.’
Alex followed after her, smoothing her hair with her hands as she stepped into the warmth. Skye’s house was one of the terraces on the waterfront in the heart of Port Ellen, overlooking the jetty and four down from the Co-op. It was white-painted with a window either side of the black door, and a large dog bowl was set at the bottom of the stone steps.
‘Oh, this is lovely,’ Alex exclaimed, walking into a front room that could have come straight from a Laura Ashley catalogue with duck-egg checked armchairs, a camel-coloured sofa, an oak-lintel fireplace and bookshelves groaning under the weight of books, DVDs and photographs. It wasn’t going to be appearing in World of Interiors any day soon but the house had an easy intimacy to it and its details spoke warmly of the lives lived within it: the hiking boots drying by the fire, a couple of football trophies on the mantelpiece, a basket filled with fishing rods by the window and stacks of wedding magazines on the floor beside the sofa. And from the kitchen wafted the most delicious aroma of what she guessed was chicken pie.
‘Well, it’s not much but we call it home,’ Skye said, almost shyly.
We. Alex remembered she had mentioned her fiancé lived in Glasgow. ‘What’s your fiancé’s name?’
‘Al. Or Alasdair Gillespie to his mam!’
‘Skye Gillespie,’ Alex smiled. ‘It’s got a good ring to it.’
‘Yeah,’ Skye giggled, looking younger now that she wasn’t in a lab coat, although to Alex’s mild alarm, she was wearing a bibbed, short black denim dress with a plum-and-custard striped Henley top that was straight off the Topshop home page. ‘Oh, let me get you a drink. Where are my manners? Would you like a dram? Or prefer wine?’
‘I always say when in Rome . . .’
Skye smiled and disappeared into the kitchen and Alex waited by the fire, peering at the photographs – some of them black-and-whites – arranged along the mantel. They showed Skye as a little girl standing on some rocks in a pair of red-and-black ladybird wellies, her hair plaited into pigtails and heavy pink glasses perched on her nose; Skye and a little boy – her brother? – sitting in a rowing boat together, each holding one enormous oar; Skye sitting on the shoulders of a man with a bushy black beard and kind eyes; Skye as a baby in her christening gown being kissed by her adoring mother; a landscape shot of the port that looked to have been taken in the 1950s, judging by the cars parked and the fashions of the people passing by—
‘Here you go.’
Alex straightened up as Skye came back into the room with a couple of glasses, a bottle of the Kentallen 12 and a ramekin filled with a few squares of dark chocolate. ‘I was just looking at these photographs,’ Alex said. ‘You were a ridiculously cute child.’
Skye tutted, grinning as she poured them each a dram. ‘Honestly, those ladybird wellies. I loved them so much, my mother says I wore them in the bath, in bed . . . Cheers! Or as we say here, Sláinte mhath!’
‘Sláinte mhath!’ Alex echoed, taking the glass with a nod of thanks and moving over to the sofa as Skye curled herself up in the armchair. ‘Yes, I feel much the same whenever I get a new pair of shoes, to be honest,’ Alex said, picking up the conversation. ‘I can’t bear to take them off.’
‘Aye, but I bet you have the loveliest shoes so why would you take them off. Jimmy Choos, Christian Louboutins . . . ?’
‘Well, a few.’ All.
‘I’m wearing a pair of Louboutins at the wedding. I can’t wait,’ Skye said with an excited shrug. ‘Alasdair almost died when he saw the receipt.’
‘Has he seen what you’re wearing then?’
‘Och, God, no. I’m terrible superstitious, I don’t want to invite any unnecessary bad luck in our lives.’
‘Yes, right,’ Alex agreed, even though she believed you made your own luck. ‘So when’s the wedding? I see you’ve got lots of magazines.’
‘Aye. It’s on the twenty-third.’
‘Of December?’
‘Mmhmm.’
‘You look awfully calm for a woman who’s about to be married in a couple of weeks!’
‘Honestly, this is the calm before the storm. We’re moving to Glasgow straight after the honeymoon so I’m having to pack up the house too. I’ve pretty much done most of upstairs and now I’ve got to tackle down here,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘But I’m getting there. Most of the wedding preparations were organized a while back – the dress, church, vicar, venue, band, cake, catering – they’re all done.’
‘I’m impressed. Are you having bridesmaids or pageboys?’
Skye grinned. ‘Well, now, you’re going to think I’m mad when I tell you this but, the ring-bearer is going to be . . . my dog!’
‘Huh?’ Alex spluttered, almost choking on her drink.
‘I know, it sounds so mad but she’s the love of my life – apart from Alasdair, of course – so I had to find a way to give her a starring role. We’ve got her a beautiful new powder-blue leather collar, so she can be my “something blue” as well, and we’re going to tie the rings to her collar with a satin bow.’
‘Oh my goodness, make sure you double-knot it, whatever you do!’ Alex laughed.
‘That’s exactly what my mam said. She’s terrified they’ll get lost somewhere between the east door and the altar.’
‘Well, it sounds like a lovely thing to do. And highly original! None of your guests will forget it, that’s for sure. Where is she, by the way?’ Alex asked, looking around the room.
‘She’s with my ex; we share her. He’ll be dropping her back later.’
<
br /> ‘Oh. Right. And that . . . works out okay, does it?’
‘Mainly. It’s getting easier. When we first split up, we had terrible arguments about who got her for Christmas Day, who for Easter, that kind of thing, but everything’s a lot more mellow now.’
Alex tipped her head to the side. It sounded like a nightmare. ‘How long were you with your ex?’
‘Six years. We got together just before I went off to uni. My usual marvellous timing!’ she said with a roll of her eyes.
‘Was it an acrimonious split?’
‘You could say that.’ Skye looked down. ‘He jilted me. The night before our wedding.’
‘What?’ Alex spluttered.
‘It’s . . . it’s not as bad as it sounds.’ She squeezed her eyes. ‘Well, no, it was. I just mean that he did me a favour, the marriage would have been a disaster. I met Al soon after and this time I know it’s right.’
‘How long after?’
‘About a month.’
‘Wow, that was soon. How did your ex take it?’
Skye arched an eyebrow. ‘He went off on a three-day bender on the far side of the island.’
‘So he’s allowed to leave you at the altar but no one else can have you?’ Alex frowned. ‘Sorry, but what a pig. After what he did, he has no right to hold any opinion on what you do or who you see.’
Skye looked back at her. ‘Are you married?’
‘God, no,’ she said, before adding hurriedly, ‘I mean, it would be lovely, of course, but I don’t get the time. I travel so much with work.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve not been snapped up,’ Skye sighed.
Alex shrugged. ‘It’s not about someone else doing the snapping – it really hasn’t been a priority for me. My career’s my great love.’
‘So far,’ Skye said with a knowing tone.
‘Maybe for ever, we’ll have to see.’
Skye rested her chin on her hand, her eyes narrowed with interested scrutiny. ‘Are men intimidated by you, do you think?’