by Abigail Mann
‘It’s Scotland, Ava, they eat the insides of a sheep and call it normal, but that’s as weird as it gets.’ Duncan rocks forward in his chair, folding his arms. ‘Look, our audience want to be on this journey with you. If you’re going to explore your family connection anyway, you can take them. Combine it with a diary series – something quirky, eccentric, funny – that’s the vibe we’re angling for.’
‘But I don’t think I’m any of those things,’ I say.
‘You are. The live stream proved that,’ says Duncan, tapping the graph on his tablet. He sits back, eyes narrowed, and raps the table with his knuckles. ‘Let’s say you find your sister, sit her down, announce yourself … you may as well turn it into a video feature, right? We can use it as a follow-up; the viewers get a happy ending, and you get more space on the homepage.’
I nod, but it’s only to buy myself some time. I don’t need to look for ways to justify it anymore. It’s obvious, both for my job and as a way to stitch together the mismatched pieces of my family history. The only problem is figuring out a way to appease Duncan’s need for clickbait content whilst I try to find Moira, thus gently broaching the subject of our father’s Lothario approach to procreation.
‘How long do you think you’ll need?’ says Duncan. He shuffles back in his chair and gives me a hard smile.
‘Six weeks? Maybe less? I’d want to try and integrate within the community. I don’t want to freak anyone out by scribbling things down in shorthand, you know?’
‘Hmm. Just one small factor to consider. If you wait that long, our audience will have moved on by the time you deliver the goods.’
I nod, more to reassure myself than Duncan. ‘It’s not just about the job, though. I don’t know Moira. She might not want anything to do with me, especially if I charge up to the Highlands and announce myself without knowing more about the circumstances.’
‘Take a week,’ he says, swallowing coffee.
‘I don’t know … What if it takes me a while to find her? I’ll keep busy, content wise. I’ll write a bunch of diary entries, travel guides, whatever you want. Snooper aside, this is a big deal for me. I need more time.’
Duncan’s purses his lips to the side. ‘We can figure out the logistics when you’re there, but I can’t guarantee how long this assignment will last. If you’re going to go, go soon.’ He holds his hands up, his shoulders hunched aggressively. ‘Clock’s ticking.’
I nod, swinging my rucksack over my arm, and hover by the door. There was a time I was envious of those who walked out of Duncan’s office with new job titles and bylines. Now that it’s me, I don’t know how to feel. At this point, I can’t sit back and wait for someone else to decide for me.
‘Duncan?’
‘Hm?’ he grunts.
‘I’ll go. This is my story, isn’t it? I’ll figure out the right way to tell it.’
Chapter 8
‘I just don’t understand why you need to go up there. What are they expecting you to learn in Edinburgh that they can’t teach you down here?’
‘Well, it’s to see a different side of the magazine, I suppose. They’ve been encouraging more of us to go up to the Scotland office anyway. The desk cost is way cheaper. I think they’re trying to make it the bigger of the two UK headquarters. Something to do with Brexit. I don’t know the details,’ I garble across the kitchen table. Mum frowns as she snips thyme sprigs from the planter outside.
‘Ava, can you take these off me?’ I get up and walk to the open window, pulling my dressing grown tight around my chest. Mum reaches through and hands me a bunch of herbs, their smell woody and fresh. ‘Pop them in a glass of water, would you?’ I nod and turn the tap on. Mum disappears below the window frame. ‘It seems a bit last-minute. Are you sure they’re not exploiting you?’ she continues. ‘You’re with a union, aren’t you?’
Opening the fridge, I glance at the half-eaten mackerel that was there a few days ago. Tempted by the smell, Pickles winds around my legs, a globule of saliva dripping onto the kitchen tiles. ‘It’s a good thing, Mum. They don’t give these opportunities to everyone.’
Mum frowns and dips below the windowsill again. I close my eyes and breathe in slowly, partly from nerves, partly from the fish juice that has leaked on my hands.
‘Here you go, slugger,’ I say, scraping oily fish skin into Pickles’s bowl. He trots over, his deep purr a token of simple contentment. ‘How is it I’m envious of you right now?’
***
Duncan wants me on a train by next week so I’ve spent the last few days trawling the internet for accommodation. I was hoping to stay on the outskirts of Kilroch to keep a low profile, but with the North Sea on one side and a roughly stitched patchwork of fields on the other, there isn’t such a thing as a suburb. The two B&Bs I’ve called so far have already closed up for the winter, so I’ve turned to my last resort.
I found it on a volunteering forum, hidden on page five of Google under ‘Kilroch home stay’. Braehead Farm. And not a scrubby urban farm like you get in London featuring fat goats, a depressed donkey, and bags of pellets for toddlers to chuck at the animals. A proper, working farm with a muddy track, sun-strewn fields, and an assortment of disused machinery rusting in the driveway.
A farmer named Kian needs a volunteer to ‘help with the family’s rare breed pigs and chickens, as well as extraneous duties in exchange for free bed and board’. Although I’m dubious about how legitimate this is, the reference point I’ve latched onto is ‘no experience necessary’. The nearest I’ve come to animal husbandry involves pulling fledglings out of Pickles’s mouth back when he was fit enough to climb trees, so this suits me. With no phone number listed, I ping Kian an email. If Duncan wants me to get ‘stuck in and chase a story’, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
I lie back on my bed and click through photographs of the farm: a whitewashed house smothered in wisteria, set within patchy heathland. It looks idyllic.
‘Where is it you’re staying again, Ava?’ shouts Mum from across the landing. This is a trick question. She’s framing it as though I’ve told her already (which I can’t have done, as the only bed I’ve booked so far is a single berth on the Caledonian Sleeper train up to Inverness) so she must think I’m lying about something. Which I am. Sort of.
‘Not sure yet, someone is going to meet me at the station.’
I glance over the half-filled suitcase and sigh as Pickles climbs on top of a neatly rolled jumper. He paws it, his purr throaty and self-satisfied. I haven’t got a clue what to pack. I’ve tried checking the east Highlands forecast, but between October and December it’s like a weather tombola: rain, sleet, sun, or fog in any combination, sometimes multiple times a day.
As I attempt to manhandle my stiff, sun-bleached rain mac into its zip-up hood, my laptop pings with an alert. I stuff the mac into a trainer, open my email, and experience the now familiar pang of anxiety that comes with knowing I’ve pulled off a plan that part of me was hoping would fail.
Hey, Ava!
Thanks for responding to the volunteer call-out. I was starting to think I’d have to prepare the farm for winter on my own! We’ve got a spare room in the house that you’d be welcome to use. It’s an old building, but we’re well prepared for whatever Storm Sandra decides to fling our way when she lands next week. Bring thick socks and you won’t go too far wrong.
You didn’t mention whether you’d done any labouring or farmhand work before, but don’t worry because you can shadow me. I’m learning the ropes again myself after spending some time away, but I’ll explain all that when you get up here.
Hope the train journey isn’t too painful. The Caledonian Sleeper can be a wee bit temperamental, but as long as you hold on to the bed rails round the corners you shouldn’t fall out of your bunk. I’ll pick you up outside the station near the war memorial.
Apologies if this all sounds rushed—the internet is temperamental so I have to get this sent off before it disappears again.
See you soon, i
f I haven’t put you off!
Kian
I read the email again, my foot jiggling against the bed frame. Pickles opens one grumpy eye and stares at me.
‘Mum!’ I shout into the hallway. ‘Have you got some fleecy socks I can borrow?’
***
‘God, what’s that smell?’ I ask, as Rory opens the door to Ginger’s flat. Mum kicks her boots off by the door and smacks a kiss on Rory’s cheek before breezing through to the kitchen.
‘Dried porcini mushrooms. Mum found them at the back of a cupboard and she’s trying to boil them into a soup. Don’t worry, I’ve ordered us pizza. I’ve told the delivery guy to post it through the window.’
Inside, Ginger greets me with red eyes and a staggered sniff between each word.
‘Oh, Ginge. You didn’t have to go to all this effort,’ says Mum, blinking at the gelatinous grey liquid bubbling on the stove.
‘I can only apologise on Mum’s behalf,’ says Rory.
‘See how cruel she is to me?’ says Ginger, jerking her thumb at Rory.
‘It looks lovely, Ginger. We had a nibble before we came out, but I’m sure a little bowl wouldn’t hurt, right, Ava?’ says Mum, fixing a smile. Bloody liar. I’m absolutely starving and I know she is too because the only thing I could find in our fridge was a single bendy carrot.
‘Well, I hope you’ve got a robust digestive system,’ says Rory.
‘I’m sure it’ll go down just fine,’ says Mum. She turns to Ginger, folding her arms. ‘What’s going on with this bloke then?’
From the stove, Ginger’s shoulders judder. Rory raises an eyebrow and nods towards the corridor. We slip out and head to her old bedroom, where we pull out a futon to lie back on. Rory smacks my leg, her glee uncontained.
‘A sister?’
‘Half-sister,’ I add.
‘Pfff, like that makes a difference. Does Lorrie know?’
‘No. You know what she’s like when you bring up anything remotely uncomfortable,’ I say, tucking my feet underneath me.
‘She makes a speech about not living in the past and then cleans the house for five hours?’
‘Exactly. You haven’t told Ginger, have you?’
‘God, no. She can’t keep secrets for shit. She’s distracted, anyway. Some bloke.’
‘Who is it this time?’
‘Hmm. I think he’s called … Richard,’ says Rory. ‘Richard the Third. Pretty textbook, if the previous two are anything to go by.’
‘Recently divorced, recently retired, and a new member of the golf club with “no partner” for the annual dinner dance …’
‘… which Mum will expect an invite to, only …’
‘… he’s taking his wife back.’
We’ve been through this routine every few months since we were twelve or thirteen and it’s only funny now because of its familiarity.
‘Have you watched it back yet?’ asks Rory, her voice softening.
‘Oh God, no. That would be a form of masochism.’
‘Have you messaged each other yet? What’s she like?’
‘I guess I’ll find out when I see her,’ I say, biting my lip in anticipation of her reaction.
‘What?’ says Rory. I shush her as she smacks my arm repeatedly.
‘Yeah. I’ve told Mum I’m going on a mini sabbatical to Edinburgh, but I had a job stopping her from looking through my suitcase. I’ve not exactly packed for the city.’
I tell Rory about the geo-tag that came up on The Ancestry Project, Kian’s farm, and the diary I’m planning on writing for Snooper.
‘Maybe don’t tell Kian where you work. It makes it sound … dodgy.’
‘No, I’m going to avoid bringing it up at all. I don’t want anyone to think I’m taking advantage, but it’s not like I can go around admitting that I’m on the hunt for a sister I only discovered a week ago. There are only 300 people in the village, so someone’s bound to know her, right?’
‘Good point. If a random English girl turned up in my neighbourhood looking for me, I’d assume I owed them money.’
‘That’s because you’ve taken out too many store cards.’
‘Now is not the time for lectures, peach. I’m not downplaying this though; it is mad, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, leaning my head against the bamboo bed frame. I feel uncharacteristically relaxed. The only thing missing is a cup of Ovaltine and half a Nytol tablet, a form of deep relaxation that I treat myself to on a strictly once-a-month basis. Generally, I rely on a certain level of neurosis to function.
‘Do you know anything else about her?’
‘Moira? No, other than her hometown. Luckily, there’s nothing else near Kilroch and it’s not like you can pass through it because it’s surrounded by sea on three sides, so there’s a strong chance she’s there.’
‘What about her age? Are you big or little sister? Both have their ups and downs, speaking from experience. Remember when Amélie used my Ghds to straighten her pubes? Unforgivable. I can’t wait until she brings her uni boyfriend home. The ammo I’ve got to hand …’
I laugh. It feels good, like someone’s kneading the furrow out of my forehead. ‘I guess a lot depends on what kind of person our dad was, right? There could be ten of us. I just don’t know.’
‘Good point.’
‘That’s why I’ve got to tread carefully. Get a sense of what went on before I pop the confetti cannon and shout, “SURPRISE!”’
‘You didn’t pack a confetti cannon …’ says Rory, her voice two octaves lower.
‘No, I’m not a total maniac.’
‘Ha! Good. Look, I’ll drip-feed Lorrie some info about this sabbatical you’re on via Mum. If anything kicks off here, I’ll get a message to you.’
‘I wouldn’t bother texting. The reception is terrible, Kian’s warned me about that already.’
‘I’ll figure out something. Leave it to me, I’ll be your eyes and ears back in London.’
We both turn to the window when a man wearing a motorbike helmet appears, pointing to a pizza box held against his hip.
‘Is this a mad idea?’ I ask, my stomach tight.
‘Nah, window pizza delivery is the only solution to Mum’s shite cooking.’
‘No, going to Scotland. Trying to find her.’
‘It is,’ says Rory, bending the box to squeeze it through the window. ‘But that’s also the reason why you should do it. Don’t worry about Lorrie. Mum will keep her busy.’
I smile. Rory has plucked out the thought hovering at the forefront of my mind. ‘Hey, I owe you one.’
Chapter 9
I’ve done my fair share of sleeping on public transport. When you’re jostling between a hundred other passengers, tactical napping becomes an art form, one that requires a specific toolkit. You want a hat (berets work well), headphones (noise cancelling), and The Goldilocks Seat (middle of the carriage, headrest, least crowded). As a Londoner, I’m well trained in making the best of bad travel, which is probably why my cabin on the Caledonian Sleeper was such a pleasant surprise. Sure, you can touch every wall from the bunk bed, but there’s a duvet, mini toiletries, and a nice porter in the corridor who asks if you’d like tea or coffee as part of your wake-up call. On a train!
I pull my suitcase out from under the bunk and sift through layers of thermal vest tops to find my laptop buffeted by my tightly rolled M&S knickers. I sit on the lower bunk with my back against the wall, a can of mojito and a packet of pitta chips wedged between my knees. I check my email in case Kian has experienced a last-minute change of heart, although there’s not much I can do about now if he has.
A restless energy is lodged somewhere in my throat that makes me want to walk laps of the train. Seeing as two people can’t pass each other in the narrow corridor without grazing cheekbones, I resist. Instead, I wriggle into a pair of fleece pyjamas, accidentally flashing my boobs to an old couple at a level crossing in the process. Before I have time to feel embarrassed, the train picks up speed and heads ou
t of the city.
***
As I step down from the carriage early next morning, the wind hits me like a slap in the face. I only just manage to hold onto the tassels at the end of my scarf before it’s pulled from my neck by the wind, its length whipping behind me like a flag. My suitcase rolls backwards at an alarming speed in the few seconds that I’ve not been holding it. A glance over my shoulder shows that I’m not the only one, going by the five-bag pile-up that a station guard has managed to intercept with an extended foot.
I swing my rucksack on, hook my suitcase on my elbow, and attempt to steer it towards the exit whilst gusts of wind lure the wheels in different directions. By the time I reach the covered doors, I feel thoroughly beaten up, my hair stuck across my forehead by the haze of drizzle threaded through the air.
It’s barely eight o’clock, but the tiny station car park is full of mud-slicked hatchbacks and grumbling taxis. I stand on tiptoes to spot the four-by-four that Kian said to look out for, but so far, I seem to be the only person in Inverness who doesn’t know exactly where they’re going. Passenger doors open, hooded heads dip inside cars, and swaddled children are chivvied round the corner. As the station falls quiet (well, as quiet as it can get when the wind sounds like an old man whistling with no front teeth) I start to feel real, acute panic. What in the fucking fuck was I thinking?
I walk back inside to where the Caledonian Sleeper train is and strongly consider getting back on it. How did I possibly think this idea would go down well? I’m so far north that the sun has barely risen, but already it looks to be sinking back down below the horizon, I’ve got a Pac-a-mac and a pair of barely used trainers in my bag to serve me in what feel like near Arctic conditions, and the only thing I know for sure is that somewhere in a thirty-mile radius is a sister who doesn’t know I exist.
I turn around and press my forehead against a brick wall. From behind, it must look like I’m initiating a game of hide and seek, except I’m a grown-up woman and the only things I’m hiding from are the consequences of my ill-thought-out decisions. I try and slow my breathing down, but it’s not working. My heart beats faster than the time Duncan took us bouldering on a staff ‘away day’; I got stuck three feet up the climbing wall and had to accept a piggyback from Max to get me off the bloody thing.