by Jane Davitt
“There’s a food shop over the way. Want to stop in there before we leave and get some supplies?”
“Actually, yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.” Nick drank some more coffee and sighed. He stared down into the cup. “I’ve only seen pictures of the house. My mother kept them in an album that I wasn’t allowed to look at unless she was sitting with me. She and my uncle ... they didn’t get along. She used to say ...” He blinked. “Is there anyone who’d be willing to help me with the house, do you think? I can do some of it myself, but I’m not all that handy at anything more than the basics, and if I can stay ‑‑” Nick stopped, cleared his throat, and started again. “If I decide to stay, I’ll probably need to hire someone to give me a hand.”
The leisurely pace of the island life, where there was always tomorrow to start a job, meant that Nick’s request had John blinking at him in surprise. The man hadn’t even seen the house properly and he was after changing it? Well, now. But it sounded as if he was planning to be around for a while. John linked his hands under the table, rubbing his thumb across the palm of his right hand as he thought about spending time with this man, working with him. It’d mean staying off the sea, but the money would probably be better and more reliable.
Nick looked at him, and John gave up trying to find reasons to convince himself that what he’d decided to do the moment Nick had finished speaking was the sensible course of action. It wasn’t. It wasn’t sensible at all to put himself in a situation where the attraction he was feeling might increase, but he had to trust that he could keep Nick from guessing how he felt about him. At the moment he was feeling a combination of protectiveness, because the man looked exhausted, and a slightly less noble desire to hear that cool, drawling voice say his name for the first time. John was starting to feel split in two; he sounded calm and businesslike as far as he could tell, but he felt anything but calm inside.
There wasn’t any way that this could work. It was a huge risk and he really should just back off now. Take the man to Rossneath and drive away.
Nick raised his eyebrows, a faint, polite smile on his face, and John stopped pretending that walking away was an option. Not until he’d seen what the man looked like smiling properly, the wariness gone from his face.
“Not much I haven’t turned my hand to,” John replied. He jerked his head at their surroundings. “Helped Stella to convert this place, if you want a reference.”
“Aye,” Stella nodded It didn’t surprise John at all that she’d been listening in on their conversation ‑‑ any hint of an outsider trying to settle on the island piqued curiosity like little else could. “Trustworthy, and as you can see, he does a fine job.”
“It’s very nice.” It sounded as if Nick were answering automatically. Then, to John, “I’m sure we can work something out. I’m not in a hurry to do anything more than get the place livable again, so I can work around whatever ... schedule, you have.” There was what seemed to be a hint of condescension in his voice.
John laughed, refusing to be ruffled. Or hurt. Off-islanders, they were all the same. “Schedule? No. There may be disadvantages to living up here, but that’s not one of them. The tides are all that stop me from doing what I want, when I want. But don’t be too fast to spend your money; for all you know the place will need no more than a scrubbing brush.” He stood up, snagging a final biscuit. “And in that case, I’ll be after introducing you to my sister, Janet.”
Nick stood up as well, adjusting the strap on the bag that was still slung over his shoulder and had been resting on the chair beside him while they’d been sitting. “You’re very optimistic.” Which was, John thought, less rude than telling him he was mad, although it seemed fairly clear that that was what Nick was thinking.
“Don’t forget your case,” Stella said, as they stopped at the counter so that Nick could pay. “John, you take it for him, that’s a good lad.”
“No, it’s fine.” Nick picked up his suitcase. “I’ve carried it all this way. I can take it a little further.”
John hesitated, but not for long. Nick was clinging onto the suitcase as if it was holding him up, not the other way around. “My car’s just outside anyway,” he said, more to placate Stella, who was frowning at him, than to reassure Nick. “We’ll just put your gear in there, and then I’ll walk with you to the shop.” There was no way that Nick would be able to carry everything he’d need with an injured wrist, but to stave off the refusal of help that he was sure was hovering on the man’s lips, John added, “I’m fresh out of tea bags myself, as it happens.”
Nick nodded and gave Stella a polite smile before heading towards the door, reaching out with his left hand and giving the brightly polished brass doorknob a sharp twist before hissing under his breath in pain and cradling his wrist to him, dropping the suitcase to the floor.
Stella had already disappeared into the restaurant area to deal with the order from the Edinburgh man, but John was still careful not to sound too concerned as he joined Nick at the door. “Always been a wee bit stiff, has that door. There’s a knack to it.” He gave Nick a sidelong glance, noting his pallor. “If you want, I can maybe get what you’ll need while you wait in the car? Bread, milk and the like?”
“I’m fine,” Nick snapped “It’s just ... I’m fine.” He did, however, let John open the door for him before he picked up the suitcase again.
Fortunately, the car really was just outside, and Nick seemed willing to accept John’s help in putting both bags into the trunk. He still seemed pale as they started toward the food shop, his wrist still held carefully against his chest as if he was protecting it from being jarred further.
After a moment, Nick glanced sideways at John, seeming to understand that an explanation of some sort would be polite. “I broke it about three months ago. There was a plate and screws in there. They had a hell of a time putting it back together.” His smile was strained. “The bandage is more to remind me to be careful with it than anything else. Although you can see how well that works.”
“It’s not surprising you don’t like being reminded to be careful. I’d be the same myself, I shouldn’t wonder.” They reached the village shop and John made sure he got to the door first, without making it obvious, lengthening his stride a little.
The shop wasn’t too busy; the children were still in school, which meant that the narrow aisle in front of the comics section was easier to navigate than it was at the weekend. John gave the shopkeeper a pleasant smile and murmured, “How are you, George?” He didn’t like the man; George Dunn would sell you the air you breathed if he could, the tight-fisted old sod, but John preferred to keep his feelings to himself. He’d had a lot of practice at that.
The shop was ‑‑ just ‑‑ big enough to mean that there was a choice of cart or basket. John pulled out a cart and murmured casually, “I’ll push it, you throw stuff in. Well, maybe not the eggs. And don’t let me forget my tea bags. My mother comes visiting on Wednesdays, and if I can’t give her a cup of tea after her walk up the hill, I’ll never hear the last of it.”
“Your family all lives on the island?” Nick asked, putting a tin of soup into the cart.
“I’ve two sisters.” John was willing to talk in the hopes that it would encourage Nick to open up a little. “Both married. Andrea’s the youngest; she had her second baby not two weeks ago. She lives at the top end of the island. Janet lives here in town; she’s got two kids too, one of each.” He smiled, because it was hard not to when he thought about his nieces and nephews. His mother adored them all but was determined not to spoil them. John, with a cheerful indifference to the consequences, indulged them as much as his sisters would allow.
“What does your father do?”
“Passed away last year,” John felt the sheer unreality of it, as he always did. “They went out on the boat, he and my uncle Collum, and a storm came up. They were in sight of land when a wave took the boat and capsized it. Dad had hold of Uncle Collum by the scruff of his neck, keeping his head out of
the water because Collum’d broken his collarbone, the clumsy devil.”
They’d come to a halt now, side-by-side in the aisle, with Nick looking a little awkward, if sympathetic.
John sighed and reached for a tin of baked beans. “Dad got thrown against a rock. Knocked a hole in his head you could put your fist through. And then it was Collum’s turn to do the hard work and get them both home the best he could.” He studied the picture on the tin and then put it back on the shelf, giving Nick an apologetic smile “Sorry. You’ve losses of your own to bear without hearing about mine.”
Nick looked shaken, but he swallowed and nodded, his good hand tightening on the edge of the cart before he moved it to touch John’s hand briefly. “I ‑‑” His voice broke a bit, and he cleared his throat before trying again. “I’m sorry. It’s good for me to be reminded that it’s not just me. I ... I didn’t know my uncle Ian. He and my mother didn’t get along. I don’t even know why he left the house to her, unless it was just because he didn’t have anyone else to leave it to.” The man seemed to be making an effort, at least, which was good. He wouldn’t last long on the island if he had everyone convinced that he was just a typical American, rude and thoughtless.
John couldn’t fault him for not mourning the death of a man he’d never met, but it was clear from his reaction that some bereavement was still troubling him. His mother’s death, maybe? Although that was four years ago, and you’d have thought by now ‑‑
Chiding himself for being overly inquisitive, even though it was motivated by concern, John carried on walking. “He spoke of you. Not often, no, but there’s a picture of you on the table in the hall that your mother must’ve sent him, so maybe they weren’t always at odds.” He gave Nick a small grin. “You’re older and wearing more clothes now, which is why I didn’t recognize you. You’d have been about three, and having a fine time in your bath by the looks of it.”
“My mother had a tendency to take pictures like that. I think the last one she took was when I was about eight. After that, I learned to lock the bathroom door.” Nick smiled a little bit, as if remembering. He stopped and looked at the shelf in front of him. “Tea bags,” he said, gesturing “Which ones did you want?”
“The cheapest, but as my mother would notice, we’d better make it PG Tips instead.” He took the box from Nick and put it in a separate section of the cart.
“Hello, John!”
They both turned, and John attached a polite smile to his face. Moira. Hadn’t taken her long to spot a new face, he thought uncharitably. They’d grown up together and she hadn’t improved with age.
“Well, now, someone’s stocking up.” Her gaze flickered inquisitively from the shopping cart to Nick’s face.
Giving in to the inevitable, John introduced them, and Moira’s pale-blue eyes widened with pleasure. “You’ve come to live here then, Mr. Kelley?”
“That’s the plan,” Nick agreed.
“Well, now.” Moira beamed at him, getting a strained smile in return. “We’ll just have to make you feel at home then, won’t we?” She edged a little closer and rested her hand on Nick’s arm. John rolled his eyes without troubling to hide his feelings because Moira had forgotten he existed ‑‑ something he wished she’d done a good ten years earlier ‑‑ and then frowned as Nick’s hand curled into a fist and he stepped back.
“I’m sure I’ll like it here. But I’m really tired, and I don’t want to infringe on any more of Mr. McIntyre’s time than I have to, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll finish up here so he can drive me out to the house.”
Moira tittered. “Oh, he’s got nothing better to do,” she said dismissively. “Not when he can’t go fishing, anyway. Isn’t that right. John?”
John took a tight hold on his temper. “I was brought up never to contradict a lady, Moira.”
She smirked, and then, as Nick moved away abruptly to study a display of homemade jam, bit her lip, turned on her heel and left with a brisk nod to John and a final, lingering look at Nick.
“And that being so, you’re wrong, Moira, like always,” John muttered under his breath.
“Why didn’t you tell her that to her face?” Nick asked, coming back to stand at John’s side.
John shook his head. “Quickest way to get rid of her. I’m not one for arguing. And I got the impression you’d be happier with her gone.”
Nick stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. “She wasn’t all that polite, but she seemed, I don’t know ... honest, I guess.”
The wheels on the cart squeaked as John gave it a shove and got it moving again. “Aye, I’ll give her that,” he said dryly, not bothering to share his opinion that in Moira’s case honesty wasn’t a virtue. Not when it was fuelled by spite.
“I’m sorry,” Nick murmured. “I didn’t mean to ‑‑” He gave John a look that wavered and fell, as if the effort of focusing on John’s face was too much.
“It’s not of any consequence at all,” John said firmly. “Now, will you be wanting some of that jam for your toast or not?”
They finished the shopping in a silence that was friendly enough, broken by the odd question from Nick, who seemed more surprised to find brand names he recognized than by oddities like oatcakes, which usually had the tourists exclaiming in delight or distaste. By the time they got to the checkout, where George Dunn’s eyes traveled between the two of them, alight with speculation as his bony hands dealt deftly with the groceries, Nick was a shade paler and his signature on the credit card slip was a wavering scrawl.
John would’ve bet his boat that they wouldn’t get out of the shop without George satisfying what with him was pure nosiness, and he was right.
“I didn’t know you had a friend visiting, John.” A winter-cold smile creased George’s thin lips as he placed John’s box of tea bags inside a plastic carrier bag. “Your mother never mentioned it when she was in here earlier.”
John threaded his fingers through most of the plastic bags stacked neatly on the counter, leaving Nick to take the last two in his good hand. Nick was staring at the shopkeeper, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Is that so?” John murmured noncommittally. A soft answer might turn away wrath, but in his experience it was the one thing guaranteed to drive George mad with frustration.
“Aye. I would have thought that’d be the sort of thing she’d mention. Assuming she knew about it.” George was looking at Nick with shrewd interest, his eyes flickering over to John as if gauging his reaction.
“There’s nothing for her to know,” Nick said smoothly, with more aplomb than John would have anticipated. “I’m new to the island. I’ve hired Mr. McIntyre to drive me out to my late uncle’s home, and he’s been gracious enough to help me with my shopping. Did you know my Uncle Ian? Ian Kelley?” Nick dropped his voice, conjuring up something reminiscent of deep sorrow. “We were very close. I ... I can’t believe he’s gone.”
While George was still sputtering out an awkward apology, Nick and John made their exit. It wasn’t until they were outside and a good dozen yards from the shop that Nick glanced sideways at John and grinned.
“The last time I saw him that flustered, a sheep had wandered down from the moor, gone into his shop, and was eating his cabbages,” John observed, an answering smile spreading across his face. “If you find yourself in the Castle Arms one night, I’ll buy you a pint by way of a thank you.”
“He deserved it. People like him ...” Nick shook his head, something dark crossing his face. “No. It’s not my job to mete out justice, not even to people like him.”
“No,” John agreed qq uietly, losing the smile from his face as they neared the car. “It isn’t. And you’re right; he does more harm than I think he realizes. There’s a difference between those of us who ask questions out of interest, and, aye, curiosity, because there’s precious little else to amuse ourselves with, and those who ask to find ways of hurting folk.” He changed the subject abruptly, not wanting to dwell on the malice behind George’s beha
viour. “Will you open the trunk, please, and save me setting these bags down? It isn’t locked.”
“Sure.” John watched as Nick very carefully opened the trunk with his bad hand, moving slowly so as not to hurt himself. The little flash of triumph on Nick’s face as he managed it was worth the risk John thought he’d taken in asking.
They put the bags into the back and got into the car. Nick immediately fastened his seatbelt before John had even had a chance to start the car.
John started to tell him that he didn’t have to wear his seatbelt if he didn’t want to; Tom Stewart, the local bobby, had started out easygoing, and ten years on the island had done nothing to change that. But something made John swallow the words and pull his own belt across his body.
“It isn’t far.” John started the engine, pulling away. “Maybe five miles or so. You could walk it if you’d a mind to; your uncle did, in fair weather, anyway. Come to think of it, he’d a wee car that should still be at the house. It’ll need some work after sitting all this time, but if you like, I’ll take a look at it for you.”
“I don’t drive,” Nick said tightly.
John let the words hang between them, expecting more, but when Nick turned his head to stare out of the side window at nothing more interesting than the garage on the edge of town, he realized that was all he was getting. John had been driving since he was tall enough ‑‑ not old enough ‑‑ to see over the steering wheel. He’d never had an accident, and the one time he’d driven drunk, on his fourteenth birthday, his father had taken the skin off his arse with a belt and that’d been that. Driving was as natural as walking, as sending a line hissing out across the wind-ruffled water of the loch, as gutting a fish with a slice, a scrape and two swift chops of his knife. Didn’t take much to connect a broken wrist with a car accident though, so he kept quiet as they left the village and headed along the narrow road.
“That’s my place,” John offered a few minutes later, by way of breaking a silence which was verging on uncomfortable. Lord knew he wasn’t much of a talker himself, but Nick wrapped himself in silence as if it was all that was keeping him warm. He took his hand off the wheel and touched Nick’s arm, bringing Nick’s head around sharply. “See? On the hill? It was my grandparents’ house, and when they’d gone, my mother decided that sooner than sell it, she’d rent it out, expecting to make a penny or two from the tourists. But I’d been wanting a place of my own, and I convinced her that tourists were chancy customers, and a weekly rent from someone she trusted was better by far.”