Coming Home to Winter Island

by Jo Thomas

  I reach the top of the stairs and feel around for a light switch again. It clunks and fizzles like the one in the hall, and again a dim light comes on. I’m standing on a faded, threadbare rug, and in front of me is a long corridor with doors off it. If downstairs was like a rabbit warren, upstairs is no different. But which door to try first? I sigh.

  ‘Hello?’ I call, but my voice is hoarse and shaking. I don’t want to scare anyone; I am, after all, wandering around someone’s house, even if it does appear totally unlived in; untouched for what looks like years. I’m expecting to see Miss Havisham at any minute, sitting in her wedding dress. I tell myself off for giving myself the heebie-jeebies. I’m cold and tired. There’s nothing to be frightened of. I just need to find my room, have that hot bath and get into bed. Tomorrow will be here in no time. At least I’m resting my voice. Feeling a little easier about things, I gently turn the cold brass handles, open the doors and peer into each bedroom in turn.

  After finding a few sparsely furnished rooms with barren beds, I push open a door to see a made-up bed and a dim bedside light on. It’s a big four-poster with tired, worn curtains. Finally! I step into the room, dragging my case behind me, park it up and start peeling off my sodden gloves. Suddenly I jump back, feeling like blooming Goldilocks, when I realise there’s someone in the bed. A curled-up figure under a pile of eiderdowns.

  ‘Mairead, that you?’

  Two big black dogs jump to their feet and bark and I back out of the room, shutting the door quickly before they can get me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say through the wood, ‘wrong room.’

  My heart is thumping with shock. That must be . . . I roll the word around my head . . . my grandfather. Mairead was my grandmother. I never met her, but I do have her name as my middle name. But what’s he doing here? I thought he was still in hospital. I think back over my conversation with Fraser Gillies. I still have no idea why he phoned me. He knows I’ve never met my grandfather. Hector and my father fell out years ago apparently, and he wanted nothing to do with us. That feeling is pretty mutual. I’m not here to try to get to know him and find out why he never wanted to meet me. I just need to sign whatever paperwork needs signing to allow the sale of this house to go ahead, so he can move to the care home. Although looking around at my draughty, damp surroundings, I’m not sure it’s worth a huge amount.

  I push open the next door and see an empty bed. Another huge dark-wood four-poster. My bones ache with cold. I decide just to take it. Clearly no one has made provision for me. I pull my case in and park it up. This will have to do. It’s just for the night, I tell myself.

  I look in a cupboard and see an untouched pile of sheets and thin blankets. No warm duvets or eiderdowns! Well, the faster I get it made, the faster I can get into bed and sleep. I wrestle the flat sheets onto the bed, trying to fold the corners under. Then I add all the blankets I can find and spread my beach towel across the top as an extra one.

  Once the bed is made up, I look for the bathroom. It’s across the hall. There’s a huge yellowing metal bath. It would take forever to fill, and that’s if there’s any hot water in the first place. I use the loo and pull on the long chain. The flush whooshes and then makes a gurgling sound, and I hold my breath, hoping it hasn’t disturbed the old man. When I hear no sound other than the ancient plumbing, I have a quick wash, exit the bathroom and dash back across the corridor, shutting the door and hoping I don’t have to go to the loo in the night. I put my case in front of the door just for good measure.

  I look round at the sparse room, the bare floorboards and worn rug, the peeling wallpaper and lumpy mattress. I’ve slept in worse conditions, I tell myself, thinking of nights after gigs when we’ve bedded down in the back of the van to save on hotel bills and woken up early to get on the road before we’re moved on from wherever we’ve parked. But somehow those nights were all part of the adventure of being an apprentice in the music industry. Right now, I think I could sleep standing up.

  I glance up at the high ceiling’s peeling paintwork and the huge cobweb draped across the seventies light shade. I walk over to the big Georgian window and feel the cold through the panes. No double glazing here! The wind is whistling around the frame like it’s playing a tune on a set of old bagpipes. I hold my phone to the window to check for a signal so I can text Joe. But there isn’t any. We always text just before bedtime if we’re apart, but with no signal, that isn’t going to happen tonight. I just hope he realises it’s like I’ve stepped into a different world. The last thing I want is for him to worry about me. As I go to pull the curtains, a rip appears in the thin fabric, disintegrating with age. I don’t pull any more, in case they come down altogether.

  I hope they manage to find a buyer for this place. It’s clearly not got any modern comforts. It will probably cost a fortune to do up. I can’t imagine there’s much demand for houses this big on a tiny island. But thank goodness that’s not something I have to worry about.

  I brace myself against the cold I’m about to feel, and then swiftly peel off my wet things, bouncing around on one leg trying to get my woolly tights off. I pull all my clothes from my case and start putting on as many layers as I can, including socks as gloves, seeing as mine are soaking, and three pairs of Lycra yoga leggings. I add my swimsuit over them for extra warmth, then, remembering that you lose most of your body heat through your head, pull on a pair of knee-length Lycra shorts as a hat. I feel ridiculous! But no one is going to see me, I tell myself firmly. And it is freezing. I snap a picture for Joe, just to make him laugh, but still it doesn’t send.

  I take my wet clothes to the bathroom and hang them over the edge of the bath. Just as I’m coming back into the bedroom, the lights fizzle and go out. I check the switch. Looks like a power cut. I feel my way into bed, clutching my phone, waiting and hoping that signal will return at some point. The bed is hard, lumpy and freezing cold. The wind is still wailing its way through the window frame. I pull the socks up my wrists and the shorts further down onto my head, glad now that I left them on.

  I try to text Joe again, hoping it will send as soon as the wind dies down. Not easy with socks on your hands, so I keep it short and sweet: All fine, with a kiss, but it ends up not looking anything like that, so I pull off the sock and type quickly, then put the sock back on.

  ‘All fine,’ I tell myself firmly. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around myself and glance fearfully at the shadows in the corners. The rain is still slamming against the window, the wind still whistling and occasionally howling. I try and edge down in the bed, still holding the phone to me, and hope sleep will come. But as exhausted as I am, it doesn’t. I feel totally wired. At home I’d get up and make a hot drink, but here all I can do is lie waiting for morning to come.

  It feels like the longest night. Maybe it’s because I went to bed really quite early, lulled into a sense of bedtime by the dark and the cold. I’ve been here for hours now and it’s still only eleven. Joe and the band will probably still be out at tonight’s gig. I think about Lulu, stepping out from the shadows and into the limelight, and wonder how she got on. I wonder if she was better than me, and shiver. I toss and turn and wrap myself in the bedding like a cocoon, hoping for warmth. It doesn’t come.

  I close my eyes tightly, and am running songs from our set through my head when suddenly I hear a bang, like a door slamming, making me jump. Must be the wind, I think. It’s wild out there. I pull the thin, musty blankets up to meet my ears and screw my eyes tight shut. But then I hear more noises, like a thumping . . . like footsteps. My blood, already cold, suddenly freezes. My eyes ping open. Steady footsteps. And I can’t help but think, even though I’ve never believed in ghosts . . . what if this place is haunted?

  I see a light under my bedroom door and I want to scream, but it catches in my throat and no noise comes out. I check my phone again for signal. None! And I’m nearly out of charge, too! I feel a cold draught whistle aroun
d the room, and then there are more noises, like chairs being dragged around the floor above my head. Oh God! It is! This place is haunted! I sit bolt upright and bite down on the covers, knowing I’m not going to get a wink of sleep and praying for dawn to come.

  I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I wake with a jolt, my head on one side, neck stiff as anything. It’s getting light outside. I try to straighten my neck, making me wince with pain. My eyes are sore and scratchy. I look around, remembering the noises and light from last night, and reach for my phone. Dead! Quickly I push back the covers and, shivering, yank my case onto the bed. I don’t want to be here a moment longer than I have to be. I plan to just throw everything in and get the heck out of here. Pretend I was never here in the first place. I’m going to find the solicitor I’m supposed to be meeting, get the papers signed and get out of here. With any luck, the wind will have dropped and the ferry back to the mainland will be running.

  I go to the bathroom to get my clothes, knowing there is no way they’re going to be dry, and try to work out what to do with them. If I put them in my case, they’ll make everything else in there damp. As I step back out into the corridor, I glance around to check the old man isn’t about, and my heart suddenly leaps out of my chest.

  ‘Argh!’ comes out of my mouth like a scratchy growl, my heart racing at the memory of last night’s ghostly footsteps, and I drop the wet clothes at the feet of the dishevelled man who has appeared from nowhere and is standing in front of me.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Argh!’ shouts the ghost, jumping backwards and dropping a big canvas bag he’s carrying. He’s standing in front of a doorway that seems to lead to more stairs.

  ‘Argh!’ I shout again but hardly any sound comes out.

  And another shout comes from the bedroom opposite where we’re standing, where the old man was sleeping. Clearly he’s now awake.

  We stand staring at each other wide-eyed. The ghost has wild light brown curly hair that touches his shoulders, blue-flecked green eyes, a long, straight nose, faint freckles on his cheeks and stubble around his mouth and chin.

  ‘What the . . . ?!’ he splutters in a thick Scottish accent. And suddenly he doesn’t seem quite so ghost-like any more. He must be a burglar, robbing the place, maybe thinking the old man was still in hospital like I did. He certainly wasn’t expecting to see me! And I’m not sure what’s shocked him more: my husky, strained shriek or the sight of a woman with socks on her hands and shorts on her head.

  ‘What the . . . ?!’ he repeats.

  ‘Who are you?’ I blurt out before he can finish his sentence. ‘And what are you doing here?’ My heart is thumping. I mean, you expect to hear about burglars in the city, but out here . . . ? My fear turns quickly to outrage. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself! Taking advantage of an old man!’

  ‘Taking advantage?’ he repeats with disbelief all over his face. ‘And who are you and what are you doing here?’

  ‘I beg . . .’ I stop myself. I have no idea who this man is. There’s another sound from the old man’s room. I go to step forward, to try and explain that I’ve found an intruder but that everything’s okay, when the intruder cuts in front of me and opens the door to where the old man was sleeping.

  I open my mouth to speak, but have no idea what I’m going to say. An indignant ‘Hey!’ is all that comes out.

  ‘It’s okay, Hector,’ he says into the room. ‘Nothing to worry about. Just the wind. Did you sleep okay?’

  There’s a muffled reply from inside.

  ‘It’s Tuesday,’ says the wild-haired man. ‘How do you fancy kippers for breakfast? I have some in the smokery.’ The muffled voice speaks again, and the man smiles. ‘Don’t forget to put some clothes on. You’ll catch your death otherwise. The nurses at the hospital said you’re to get dressed; you’re too fanciable otherwise! I’ll give you a hand downstairs when you’re ready. You’ll need to use that crutch. You’ve hurt your ankle.’

  The muffled voice asks a question.

  ‘Aye,’ replies the wild-haired man. ‘You’ve been in hospital. You fell. You were outside, wandering at dusk again. Looking for something, you said. Bet I know what too. But you’re home now. Back at Teach Mhor.’

  That was it! That’s how it’s said. I remember Isla on the ferry saying it now! Tack More. Not Tack Hore, which probably sounded incredibly rude when I said it in the pub. No wonder they laughed!

  The wild-haired man looks round at me, and I feel a wave of stupidity washing over me. So not an intruder then, and certainly not a ghost. Suddenly he narrows his eyes at me, raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, a teasing smile twinkling in his eyes and tugging at the corners of mouth.

  ‘You have a visitor too, it seems,’ he tells the old man as if he’s actually teasing me. ‘A young lady to see you.’

  ‘Oh no.’ I hold up a hand. ‘I’m not staying. I’m just . . . I’m just here to sign some paperwork. We don’t know each other, you see . . .’

  ‘Yes, Tuesday,’ repeats the long-haired man, not listening to me. ‘And don’t forget to get dressed!’

  ‘Hurt my ankle, y’say?’ I hear the voice more clearly this time. A gruff voice from behind the door; my grandfather’s voice. Not that I think of him as my grandfather. Grandfathers are there at Christmas, handing out presents and falling asleep after dinner, saving toffees for the grandchildren. I’ve seen the adverts. Judging from that gruff voice, my father’s father isn’t like that. He’s just as Dad described him. A man he never got on with.

  They didn’t have anything to do with each other once they went their separate ways. Not that I minded not having any grandparents; I mean, you don’t miss what you don’t know, do you? It was just me and Dad and Mum, and then me and Mum and her constant stream of new friends, many of them boyfriends. Well, I say that, but I actually lived with my dad until I was twelve. They decided it was for the best when they split, not long after I was born. Mum’s life wasn’t what you might call stable. She was pursuing her music career and moving around, and so they decided it was better for me to stay with Dad. And I loved it. We were happy. Mum visited when she could. Life was settled.

  Things were never the same after I went to live with my mum. I never stopped missing my dad. He was just . . . well, he made everything happen. My mum, on the other hand, couldn’t organise her own life, let alone a child’s, which was why me living with Dad had been for the best. But everything changed when he died. Although she never said it, I could tell Mum couldn’t wait for me to finish school and leave home so that she was free to move again. Don’t get me wrong, she was proud of everything I did; she just didn’t always remember to turn up – concerts, parents’ evenings. She was too busy living her own life, still singing, still hoping the big break would come, wherever that might be. Once I left home, cruise ships were her biggest earner. She stays in touch through Facebook and messages all the time, sending pictures of her with friends I’ve never met but who she speaks of as if I’ve known them all my life, and expecting me to keep up. She’s staying with friends in Spain at the moment, in between cruises.

  The two big black dogs bark when they see me, and run towards me. I reel back, much like I did last night. They stop and sniff around me.

  ‘I’ll take the dogs and feed them,’ says the wild-haired man. ‘They’re not used to guests,’ he says pointedly. ‘Looks like you’re not used to dogs either.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, I grew up with one!’ I retort croakily, then bend to pat the dogs.

  ‘He doesn’t like being far from them. Or they from him.’ The man looks down at the two dogs, one clearly older than the other, as they give me a thorough sniffing. Then he shuts the bedroom door, telling the old man again not to forget to get dressed.

  ‘Really, I’m just going to find out where I need to sign these papers and then I’ll get off. I—’

  ‘So it’s
true, then.’ He looks me up and down. ‘Fraser said the hospital had suggested contacting you. You came then? . . . Finally.’

  I bristle, then suddenly remember that I’m wearing a pair of shorts on my head. I take them off, then remove the socks from my hands. I swear I see him smirk, laugh even, making me bristle even more.

  ‘Like I say, I’m just here to sign some papers,’ I say.

  ‘What? You’d run off without introducing yerself to your grandfather?’ His eyebrows are raised, suggesting that the very idea of it is unbelievable.

  ‘No.’ I feel a rush of shame and my cheeks burn with embarrassment. He’s right. That does sound terrible. I take another deep breath and try and explain. ‘But we don’t know each other. He’s not my grandfather in that sense. Just . . . my father’s father. They didn’t have any contact. I’m not sure why I’m here really. From what my father said, he . . . well, I don’t think I’d be very welcome.’

  ‘So . . . not back for a piece of the ol’ pile then?’ He raises an eyebrow again, seemingly having made his mind up about me already.

  ‘The what?’ I look at the doorway he appeared from earlier. ‘Um, sorry, those stairs. So there’s another floor?’

  ‘Uh huh. The attic rooms. Servants’ quarters,’ he says drily and starts to make his way downstairs.

  ‘So does that make you . . . ?’ I follow him down. I have to take the steps at speed to keep up with him, trying to make sure I don’t trip on the threadbare carpet. At the bottom, he disappears into a huge pantry and the dogs wag their tails excitedly as he opens cupboards and puts down bowls. Once they are happily eating, he pulls a big cream kettle onto the stove.

  ‘He’ll be wanting tea now he’s awake.’