by KE Payne
“If only you knew me,” Tag said, laughing again, “you’d see I’m the most placid person ever.” She met Freddie’s eye. “Not the angry, argumentative idiot you just saw.”
Freddie didn’t answer. Instead she smiled, stood, and returned to the relative safety of her counter.
Tag sighed.
It was going to be a long few weeks.
Chapter Seven
Tag didn’t believe in ghosts. Her father had once told her that he thought she’d been born cynical and he’d never met anyone in his life who was so contemptuous of myths, or so opposed to any ideologies that couldn’t be proved without rock-solid photographic evidence. Growing up, there were never fairies at the bottom of the Grainger garden. The Easter Bunny was, to Tag, quite frankly a scary concept, and Father Christmas? By the age of four, Tag had decided he was just some big bloke in red who sat in the foyer of Balfour’s one and only supermarket around Christmastime and who was really Frank Peterson, the town’s milkman. Tag told her parents this with absolute conviction because, according to her, he “smelled of curdled milk and anyway I recognized him.”
But for a girl who thought of ghosts as being just a figment of people’s vivid imaginations, Tag nevertheless felt a sense of apprehension the second she stepped into the watermill, barely three hours after her father’s funeral. Everything was exactly as she’d remembered it, and as she walked silently around, the ghosts that she knew didn’t exist nevertheless continually caught her eye. There was her father, hoisting up heavy sacks of wheat and pouring them down a chute, while her mother, flour up to her elbows, watched the corns being shaken into the eye of the runner stone, occasionally glancing up to her husband with a reassuring smile. It was a scene Tag had seen so many times growing up, and now she was seeing it, clear as day, once more.
But, no. No ghosts here.
Tag shivered. She stood in the doorway to the watermill, listening to the deafening grinding of the millstones as they pounded down the wheat, and gazed around her. It was an ear-shattering sound that once upon a time irritated her beyond belief, and yet now it was one she found strangely comforting.
“Does it bring it all back?” A gruff male voice, raised to be heard over the noise, startled her.
Tag swung round. Someone was working? Today of all days?
“I know what you’re thinking.” Whoever he was, he was a mind reader. “Do you think your father would have had it any other way?”
Tag shook her head. “Guess not.”
“Life goes on, even when you want it to pause for a while.” Seemed this old guy was a philosopher as well as a mind reader. “We’ve got an order to get out by tomorrow,” he explained, shaking a sack out and sending a plume of dust into the air. “Remember how you and Blair used to play in here?”
Tag looked at his rugged face, seeking familiarity. “You worked here when we were kids?”
The man gave a smoky chuckle. “Since before you were born.” He folded the sack against his chest.
“I don’t remember your name.” Tag felt her face colour. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s Tom.” He reached out a floury hand.
“Tom Brennan?” He was older. Craggier.
“As I live and breathe.”
“You would always play hide-and-seek along with us.” Tag pictured herself, scurrying between the machinery while Blair stood and counted up to ten by the enormous wooden doors that led out to the mill’s courtyard outside. She always had a sneaky feeling he used to count to twenty. Give her a fighting chance. “Never giving away where I’d hidden myself.” A memory of crouching behind the old thresher, her finger to her lips, eyes fixed on Tom, crashed over her like waves on a rock. “I remember now.” Tag’s mood brightened.
“You used to love it.” Tom gave another wet laugh. “Health and safety would have had a field day these days, though.”
“So who works in here with you now?” Tag roamed the floor, looking about her. “It used to be…Gordon something-or-other, didn’t it?”
“Williams.” Tom shook his head. “You have been gone a long time, haven’t you? Gordon died eight years ago.” He flicked a switch on a wall. The grist stones started to slow. “I have a lad, Alan, in here with me now.”
“I still have to meet so many people.” Tag frowned. Worry, simmering all day, surfaced again. “It all still feels a bit much.”
“They’re wary.” Tom watched as Tag slowed her pace. “The staff.”
“Of me?”
Tom cocked his head. “Of what you’ll do.” He assessed her. “Your plans.”
“What do they think I’m going to do?” Tag rubbed at her face. She’d only come in to reacquaint herself with the mill. Not to have an impromptu staff meeting. “I’m relying on them to tell me what to do.”
“They think you’ll sell up.” Tom sat back against the wooden railings that bordered the large bed wheel. He crossed thick, muscular arms across his chest. “Maybe to a foreign investor. Leave them all out of a job.”
Is that what they thought? Tag hadn’t even met them and they were second-guessing what she was going to do. Like she’d be sticking around long enough to even think about what she wanted to do. All she had been concerned with so far had been making a good impression. Letting them all see she wasn’t as bad as she was sure they’d all been told. Seems they’d already all made their minds up about her, though. Had Freddie already made up her mind about what sort of person Tag was too? Her head automatically turned towards the door to the cafe. To Freddie. It wasn’t as if they’d exactly met under the best circumstances, Tag acting like a total fusspot over something so trivial as a five-pound bill, then arguing with her brother in front of her. Did Freddie have her pegged? Decided for herself that Tag was to be avoided and to be suspicious of?
“How can you have all decided what I’m like without even talking to me?” Tag voiced her thoughts. “I’ve hardly spoken to any of you yet.”
“We’re just all a bit worried about the future,” Tom said. “There’s a lot of us rely on this place.”
“Give me a chance.” Tag’s laugh masked her annoyance. “I’ve only been back five minutes.”
“Why don’t you use the ceilidh on Wednesday as the perfect way to say hi to everyone?”
“The ceilidh?” Tag asked wearily. Tiredness was creeping over her.
“For the anniversary,” Tom said. “You’re staying until then, aren’t you?”
“Dad still used to do that?” Tag was amazed. Every year, without fail, her parents had held a traditional Gaelic gathering in the cafe, after hours, to celebrate their anniversary. Started as a bit of a gimmick for their first wedding anniversary, the party had become something of a tradition each year after that. It was a real Scottish affair: a hired band, lots of singing and dancing. And Scotch. Always plenty of Scotch, Tag recalled. Staff, their families, and friends would all be invited, and over the years, it had grown from being nothing more than a bit of fun, to being a yearly event which everyone looked forward to. Even after her mother had died, Adam had continued the tradition, although more out of loyalty to his wife’s memory, Tag had often thought, than anything else.
“We always had one every year without fail,” Tom said. “Now Blair’s determined to keep it going, no matter the circumstances.”
“I remember them well.” Sitting on her mother’s lap, clapping her hands along with the music was just one of many memories. Tag blinked the thought away.
“If I quiz you now on the intricate workings of a grist mill, you’ll be able to tell me everything I need to know?” Freddie spoke from just inside the door. “Hi, Tom.” Tom waved his greeting back.
Tag swung round, Freddie’s appearance in the doorway to the mill a welcome sight. Freddie grinned across at her, prompting both surprise and relief. Freddie, Tag thought, looked genuinely pleased to see her, despite her concerns. “Ah, I can’t guarantee that.” Tag’s melancholy dissolved the instant she saw Freddie again, just as it had in the cafe earli
er. “We were just talking about the mill.”
“Oh?” Freddie came further into the building.
“Apparently the guys up here are wary of me.” Tag nodded her head to Tom. “Wondering about my intentions.”
Freddie caught Tom’s eye. “Understandable,” she said tactfully.
“So I’m going to make it clear to everyone what my intentions are before I go,” Tag said. “Blair already knows that I want to hand over my share to him.” She dragged a sack across the floor to Tom. “Seriously, no one has anything to worry about,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m not here to get rid of you all. Just to help Blair sort out the inheritance. Once that’s done, I’ll be on my way.”
“You’ll come to the ceilidh though, won’t you?” Freddie came over to her and helped her pull the sack the last few feet.
“I told her she has to come.” Tom took it from them and hauled it over to the corner of the mill.
“Yes, you absolutely must.” Freddie’s smile was genuine. Tag liked it.
“Then I will.” Tag returned the look. “I’ll be here for a good few weeks.” She stretched her back and winced. “So you’ll be seeing me around a lot.”
“Well, I just came in to say I’m closing up.” Freddie jammed her thumb over her shoulder. “It’s gone five.”
Tag looked at her watch. “I didn’t realize the time.” She zipped up her coat. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you both here.” She hastened to the door. Shame. Tag could have happily spent much more time in Freddie’s company today. “I was hoping to hide in here for a bit longer as well.” Tag held the door open for Freddie. “Kill a few hours before I head over to Blair and Ellen’s for dinner rather than going back to that soulless B & B.”
“Where are you staying?” Freddie followed Tag out.
“Wind-something or other,” Tag replied, “down on Sheep Street.”
“Connie Booth’s place?” Freddie asked. “Four Winds?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yeah, you’re better off hiding up here,” Freddie said, “or you’ll be quizzed to death for the next two hours.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and looked at it. “I can stay for another hour. Come and sit in the cafe with me for a bit.”
“It’s fine.” Tag smiled. “I appreciate the thought, though.” She started to walk to her car.
“Seriously”—Freddie put her hand on Tag’s arm and stopped her—“I’d like to.”
*
The look of relief on Tag’s face when Freddie had offered to hang out for a few more hours had been cute, Freddie thought as she walked by Tag’s side back across the car park. Freddie hadn’t known what had compelled her to poke her head inside the watermill on her way home, when normally she wouldn’t bother, but she was glad she had. Finding Tag still around the place had pleased her, and seeing her talking to Tom, her face etched with concern, had touched her. That had shown Freddie more of the girl she’d spoken to in the cafe before Blair had crashed in, hostility seeping from every pore, which had evidently upset Tag far more than she would ever let on. Tag’s conversation with Tom, heard muffled by Freddie as she lurked in the doorway, offered Freddie a glimpse of who she thought—wanted, even—Tag to be.
She had felt sorry for Tag’s sake over Blair’s animosity; after all, hadn’t Tag just said goodbye to her father too? She’d have been feeling raw, yet Blair hadn’t seemed to take that into consideration. To Freddie it was understandable that Tag was going to fight back and stand her ground against his onslaught. Anyone would in those circumstances, surely.
And then Tag had felt the need to justify herself to Freddie, had urged her to believe she was really nice. That had comforted Freddie. That Tag was worried about what she and others in the mill—Tom included—thought about her went against any opinions Freddie might have had about her based on rumour and innuendo and gossip.
“Thank you for this.” Tag’s voice pulled Freddie from her daydream and brought her gaze to meet Tag’s. Tag looked tired, Freddie thought. Tired and defeated. Her sympathy towards her increased.
“It’s been a long day, huh?” Freddie asked.
“You’ve no idea.”
“Then a chill-out in my cafe is just what you need.” Freddie meant it too. Skye would be fine with Pete and Sarah for another hour. Suddenly the thought of a chill-out with Tag in her cafe seemed like a very good idea indeed.
For them both.
*
Tag sat back in the cafe, her legs kicked out in front of her. She circled her head, allowing the stresses of the day to ease from her body, and felt herself start to relax properly for the first time that day. There was no need to speak, she figured. Silence was okay. As long as she didn’t have to think about Blair, her father, or the mill for five minutes. Let alone ceilidhs and flour and staff and grists.
“So what was this place like when you were little?” Freddie was the first to speak.
“My mum used to run it back then,” Tag replied.
“I heard,” Freddie said
“It’s nice in here. Mum would have liked it.” Tag pulled a packet of sugar out from its small china holder in the middle of the table in front of her and held it between her fingers, studying it, deep in thought. If she listened very carefully, she could hear her mother’s voice echo round her. Always a towel draped over her shoulder, her mother had been the lifeblood of the cafe. It was the only part of the mill where she had absolute control, where she could do what she wanted, run the place how she wanted, and serve what she wanted. She adored the cafe and treated each and every customer who came in through her doors as a personal friend. Halcyon days, thanks to her mother.
“It used to be fit to burst back then,” Tag said. “Returning customers, regular new daily ones.” She looked around her. “A hive of activity.”
“If only I could say the same now,” Freddie said.
“It’s not like that?”
“The modernizing I told you about before?” Freddie waved an arm around. “We did it because we thought it might bring in a fresh wave of customers.”
“Did it?”
“I wish.” Freddie laughed. “But we manage.”
“I didn’t realize.” Freddie’s laugh seemed to mask deep discomfort. When had the cafe last been full? It was half Tag’s for now. But perhaps this gave her more impetus to jump ship sooner rather than waiting a few weeks. “Is it very bad?”
“No, of course not.”
Tag changed the subject. Now was not the time to talk business. “It’s colourful in here, just how Mum liked it.”
“You think she’d approve?” Freddie cast her a look.
“I do think she’d approve, yes.” Tag nodded. “The sunshine went out of this place when mum died. Dad never bothered with it after that, but I think you persuading him to bother has brought some of the happiness back.”
The day her mother had died, darkness gathered over the mill and never left. Tag always believed that by moving away and leaving her past behind, she could outrun the dark clouds and at last get some light back in her life. Over the years Tag thought that once the clouds had gone, the sunshine her mother had always offered her would return. But it never did. Always chasing happiness, she had spent years moving from city to city, always seeking the contentment she’d known as a child. The companionship. The laughter.
“I heard about your mum,” Freddie asked carefully. “It must have been awful losing her in a car accident like that.”
Tag now started to make small circles in her sugar pile. “It was,” Tag said. “It was years ago now, but it still feels like it happened the other day.”
“I’m sorry.” Freddie’s cheeks flushed and her voice rang with compassion.
“I’ve been thinking about her a lot all over again,” Tag said. “I guess Dad dying as well has brought it all back to me. Everything suddenly becomes a reminder, you know?”
“It does,” Freddie agreed. “I lost my sister a few years back and I still get reminders every day
. It’s hard.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks” she said. “Losing a member of your family’s awful at the best of times, but for you, I guess losing your second parent makes everything all so final, doesn’t it?”
“Makes you realize you’re really not a kid any more, that’s for sure.” Tag’s voice sounded thin to her own ears. She cleared her throat. “You’re no one’s child. It’s just you on your own from that day on.”
Freddie nodded. She glanced at the clock on the cafe wall and her face fell. “Shit, I have to go.” She scraped her chair back noisily and went to a tall, wooden coat stand by the door. She grabbed her coat and bag from it. All in the blink of an eye. “I’m sorry,” she said. She yanked her coat on and looked at Tag.
“No, I’m sorry.” Tag hastily brushed her sugar pile into her hand and hurried to the bin behind the counter. “I’ve kept you talking when I’m sure you had other things to do.” Had they really been talking for nearly an hour? It had felt like just minutes, and now she didn’t want Freddie to leave—not just yet.
“Not at all,” Freddie said. She opened the door. “It’s been really nice.” Freddie held the door open wider for Tag, then followed her outside. Freddie wrapped her coat around herself against the cold. “Are you coming back up here again tomorrow?”
“Not sure.” Tag pulled her car keys from her trouser pocket. “I have to phone work. I’ve taken time off, but I still have to check in with them, you know?”
“Of course.” Freddie pulled out her own car keys. “Well, it’s been great to meet you.” She held out a hand to Tag, who shook it quickly. “Even if it wasn’t in the happiest of circumstances.” Freddie walked down to her car then looked back over her shoulder to Tag. “It’d be good if you could make it tomorrow though,” she said with a smile. “I’m baking scones—you can be my guinea pig.”
Chapter Eight
Glenside, Blair and Ellen’s cottage, was an unassuming place, hidden halfway up a rough track around five minutes out of the centre of Balfour. Tag remembered the ancient crofter’s cottage fondly as being old Mrs. Marshall’s, the widow that used to run the newsagent’s in the town square, and who used to let Tag pick apples from her tree each autumn.