by Jo Thomas
‘Sorry, excuse me.’ I need to work out what’s going on. ‘Are you, um, family?’ It feels weird saying it. He stops what he’s doing and stares at me, clearly disliking me on sight.
‘I’m a friend,’ he says steadily, and I feel he’s being deliberately evasive. ‘Just helping out,’ he adds, as if he’s enjoying making me feel uncomfortable. ‘Someone had to.’
My eyes widen and I stare at him, as if he’s just slapped me in the face.
Ouch!
‘Look, um, I don’t know who you are—’ I say quietly, but he cuts me off.
‘Like I said, a friend of the family. Lachlan,’ he adds by way of introduction.
‘And like I said,’ I repeat firmly, determined not to be toyed with, ‘I’ve never met Hector Macquarrie before. The only thing we have in common is a surname.’ And even then I usually shorten mine to just Mac. Ruby Mac is how I’m known.
‘And a bloodline!’ he says bluntly.
‘Sorry?’
‘The only thing you share is a surname and a bloodline. You are his son’s daughter, yes? His granddaughter?’
I’m flustered. I didn’t expect any of this. ‘Look, I’m sorry but you know nothing about me or my family.’
‘No. But neither do you, it seems, and you weren’t here to find out,’ he says, and turns to the range, opening the door to check if it’s on. I stand and shiver. It’s clearly not.
‘I just got a message from a solicitor. The hospital contacted him, said Hector was no longer able to look after himself. They’ve recommended his house be sold so that he can go and live in a care home. I’m presuming they need my signature as next of kin. I mean, even though we’re not actually . . .’ I trail off. ‘So can you please tell me where I need to go to do that?’
‘Tell you where to go?’ He raises an eyebrow, his eyes dancing with laughter again whilst the rest of his face remains deadpan. ‘I can.’ And I don’t know if he’s being very polite or very rude, but I think it’s the second. Everything about this man is making my hackles rise.
‘I have to sign the papers and then . . . I have somewhere to be.’ I swallow, rubbing my thumb and forefinger up and down my neck.
‘Bad throat?’ he asks.
‘Something like that.’ I’m not going to explain. Two can play at that game.
He holds my gaze. ‘And then you’ll be on your way? Once you’ve been to the solicitor?’
‘I will,’ I say with a firm nod. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to, or any longer than he wants me here.
‘Fraser Gillies, solicitor for Geamhradh,’ he looks at me and possibly my blank expression and then translates with a roll of his eyes, ‘Winter Island,’ he says flatly. ‘Just go to the pub, and it’s the big house next door.’
‘Thank you,’ I say as politely as I can. I take a deep breath and turn to go. Then I stop and turn back. ‘Just one thing I’m confused about. I thought Hector was still at the hospital, going straight to the care home?’
He looks at me steadily. ‘Well, some of us think he would be better off at home. He loves this place.’
‘Well . . .’ I let out a slow breath, ‘I think that’s probably for the professionals to decide, don’t you?’
‘Like I say, someone needed to do what was best for him. He wanted to come home. You weren’t here. I was. Someone has to look out for him.’
Suddenly I can’t hold my tongue any longer. I’m not going to be made to feel guilty about a man I’ve never met, and who has never made any effort to contact me.
‘Well, clearly you’re not doing a very good job, otherwise he wouldn’t have been wandering around in his dressing gown and fallen!’ I say, then bite my lip. This isn’t my business. I’m not involved. ‘Sorry, ignore me. Very tired. Not much sleep. Bad throat. Thought there were . . .’ I stop short of mentioning the ghosts. ‘I should just go. I’ll get my bag.’ I turn to leave.
‘Ah, there you are, Hector! You made it down the stairs. I’d’ve helped!’
I turn to see an old man in worn but clean pyjamas, a nightcap, and a threadbare brocade dressing gown with a cord tie barely done up around his middle. He’s standing in the doorway, waving a crutch in our direction.
‘I’ve buggered my bloody foot. Cannae quite remember how. But must have been a bloody good ceilidh! Ha!’
I stand and stare. I have no idea what to say or do. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this man does have a look of my father about him, and yet he is a complete stranger. I want to leave. This is just too strange and I’m feeling all stirred up inside. I look at my dad’s father. He clearly has no idea who I am.
‘I . . . Nice to meet you.’ My words tumble over each other and my voice is huskier than ever. I can feel Lachlan watching me, and my cheeks flush. I look at the old man, taking in one last snapshot of what my dad might have looked like if he’d got to grow old. Then I remind myself that just because this man looks like my dad, it doesn’t mean he is my dad. He’s nothing like my dad from what I know. I look back at Lachlan.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ I say, and head for the door as the old man starts opening cupboards and pulling out papers and small pots of dried herbs and spices as if he’s looking for something very specific.
‘I’ll get us some breakfast in a minute, Hector. There’s some bread from yesterday. I’ll toast it once I can get the Rayburn lit again. If your foot hurts, there’s a wheelchair in the front room.’
‘A wheelchair?’ Hector carries on taking pots out of the cupboards.
‘He does this every day,’ says Lachlan with a gentle sigh. ‘Yes, a wheelchair. For your foot.’
‘Who’s hurt their foot?’
Lachlan smiles and shakes his head.
‘I’d go if you’re going; this could take a while,’ he says to me, and I turn and hurry up the stairs.
I gather my things together, then come back down the wooden staircase and stand in the hall. I could just leave, but somehow it feels wrong. I can hear voices from the kitchen. I should go back and say goodbye, wish them both well. We won’t be meeting again, so it seems the least I can do.
Lachlan is putting a big cast-iron pan on top of the range.
‘Bloomin’ thing,’ he says, looking to see if the Rayburn is still alight. ‘More fickle than—’
‘I just came to say goodbye,’ I croak.
He stands and turns to look at me.
‘Ah, Mairead, there you are!’ The old man is waving his crutch in my direction. ‘Hurt m’foot! Cannae remember how! Must have been a great do. What happened?’
‘Oh, I’m not Mairead.’ My throat is so tight I can barely hear myself.
‘Wassat? Speak up, woman. I can hardly hear you!’ he barks, then limps to the big carver chair at the end of the long kitchen table and collapses on to its flattened cushions with an ‘Oomph!’ The cupboards have clearly been turned out, and there are papers and clear glass jars everywhere.
I clear my throat. Just what the doctor told me not to do!
‘I said, I’m not Mairead.’
‘What?’ He looks bemused. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman!’
‘It’s best just to go with it,’ says Lachlan, over the sizzle from his pan, as he starts to stir what smells like melting butter. My stomach rumbles and I hope no one hears it. ‘Tea, Mairead?’ He holds up the teapot, smiling broadly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The old man visibly relaxes and closes his eyes.
Lachlan pours the dark brown liquid from the big pot into a waiting mug. ‘There’s milk in the jug.’ He points.
‘Thank you,’ I say, grateful that he’s helped me out and briefly wondering if I look like my grandmother. I push the thought out of my mind. Hector’s just a confused old man, I remind myself.
I haven’t thought about my grandparents in a long time. There was a time when I wanted to know all ab
out my past and where I came from, but my mum always told me that it wasn’t where you’d come from that mattered, but where you were going. I seem to have lived my life by that maxim ever since. And right now, I’m going to Tenerife, to get things back on track!
I walk over to Lachlan standing by the range. The sight of the kippers sizzling in the pan is making my mouth water. I watch as he puts crusty bread into a wire rack to toast on another hot plate. The smell takes me right back to school mornings, when my dad always insisted on tea and toast to set me up for the day. He’d put a pot on the table, just like now, and a jug of milk, even though it was only the two of us. Once I went to live with my mum, there was never any milk and the bread had mould growing on it. I made do with a Mars bar from the corner shop, not the happiest of starts to the day.
I suddenly feel I need to get things straight with Lachlan.
‘Look, let me just clear this up,’ I say. ‘I’m not here to suddenly lay claim to this place. I’m here because the solicitor called me. Once the paperwork is all sorted out, Hector can move into the retirement home. Probably be a lot more comfortable there, with heating and hot water and all the mod cons.’ I try to be as friendly as I can.
Lachlan puts down a plate of gorgeous-smelling kippers, and a basket of golden toast with yellow butter melting over the top. Then he raises an eyebrow at me, though this time his eyes aren’t dancing. This time he’s deadly serious.
‘Away from the island he loves? A two-hour ferry ride away, on the mainland? Maybe round here we just have a better sense of belonging and loyalty.’
My stomach suddenly roars loudly. I swallow. Clearly Hector is well looked after here. I bite my tongue. I’m going to be gone very soon. I don’t need to argue with this man. This place is nothing to me. I’m not part of it.
‘Just so you know . . . I’m really not here to claim any of this,’ I repeat, and sip at my tea.
‘If you say so,’ says Lachlan with a nod that tells me he’s not convinced, and I’m infuriated all over again. ‘Now eat up.’ He puts a plate down in front of me. ‘My own smoked kippers,’ he says, wiping his hands on a tea towel. ‘You should never travel on an empty stomach.’
I look from the plate to him. I want to convince him, to tell him that I’m here to do the best for Hector, but my throat feels like there is a vice tightening around it, and my treacherous stomach roars in appreciation as he pushes the plate of food towards me.
‘Eat up, Mairead,’ says Hector. ‘Mrs Broidy will be here any time.’ He picks up his knife and fork. ‘There’s a lot to do before our guests arrive,’ he adds, and Lachlan smiles and shakes his head, letting me know there are no guests arriving, and I feel a prickle run over my skin, like I’ve just had a visit from the ghost of Christmas past, a glimpse of how life used to be here.
Chapter Five
‘So you’re Hector Macquarrie’s granddaughter,’ says Fraser Gillies.
He’s sitting in a high-backed chair in front of a cheerful fire in his front room. I saw Isla from the ferry coming out of the little shop clutching packets of ginger nuts and bottles of Irn-Bru and asked her where Fraser lived. I could tell she was dying to find out why I wanted to see him, but luckily Gordan, smiling good morning to me, tugged her away before she could ask. The two women behind the counter of the shop were straining their necks to get a good look at me too, but the less I have to tell people who I am and try and explain things, the better. Because I can’t really explain what I don’t know.
‘I . . . I suppose I am,’ I say nervously, perching on the edge of my chair. I should be conducting this conversation via my notebook, I know, but I’m not expecting to have to say very much. What is there to say? ‘I’m sorry this couldn’t be done yesterday. I was delayed by the weather, and when I did get here, the phones were down.’
‘Ah yes, they’re working on the mast now. Hopefully we’ll be back in touch with the outside world shortly.’
I think of Joe, worrying about where I am and wondering why I haven’t been in touch. But I’ll be leaving shortly, and I’ll message him once I’m back on the mainland.
‘So . . .’ Fraser puts his fingers together and pauses, clearly not in any rush to get this meeting over and done with. ‘I gather you are Hector’s only remaining relative.’ His soft, rolling accent is like the gentle hills around the island that I can see now it’s stopped raining. He smiles, looking down at the paperwork on his lap.
‘So I believe.’ I give a little cough as I suddenly realise I have no idea if I have any other relatives. This morning, for one brief moment, I thought Lachlan and I might have been related. Thankfully, we’re not, as I’m pretty sure we have nothing in common.
Fraser looks at me. His moustache twitches and his cheerful waistcoat strains as he leans in to offer me a shortbread biscuit, and although they look delicious, I put up my hand. I’m still full from the toast and kippers, the smokiest, tastiest kippers I have ever eaten.
‘A shame we haven’t seen you here before,’ he says taking a biscuit for himself and brushing away the crumbs as he bites into it.
I squirm, not knowing how to respond. How do I say I didn’t even know until yesterday that my grandfather was still alive? We’d never met, and now it seems it’s too late anyway.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been to Winter Island. This is my first visit.’ And my last, I think, contemplating the ferry journey back and not looking forward to it one bit.
‘Well.’ He looks at me. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay with us. Take in the island. Enjoy Christmas. If you and your grandfather have nothing else planned, you’d be very welcome to join us here. There’s always the full works on.’
‘Thank you. But I’m afraid I won’t be staying. I have a flight to catch.’
‘Not staying for Christmas? But it’s only three days away.’
Fraser’s house is indeed very welcoming and warm. The plate of shortbread on the table in front of us was put there by Mrs Gillies with a welcoming smile. If I was a Christmas person, this is the sort of Christmas I would love.
‘Our children and their families will be coming home, so you won’t be alone in being the only visiting relative. Lots of families come back for the festive period. This island has a way of drawing you back.’ He smiles. ‘Once it’s in the blood, it never leaves.’
I smile politely and try and push on. I won’t be here long enough for the island to have any kind of lasting effect on me. And looking at the lashing rain starting up again against the window, I’m still struggling to see the appeal. I cough, and Mrs Gillies brings me a glass of water, which I take gratefully, my throat as dry as the desert.
‘Of course,’ Fraser continues, ‘when the distillery was still up and running, we’d all go to the big house at Christmas. There’d be whisky and mince pies and gifts for everyone!’
‘Oh yes, those were the days!’ says Mrs Gillies fondly.
‘Then when the distillery was in trouble and your grandfather brought in the gin and saved the place, it was a double celebration for all the workers there who owed him their livelihoods.’
I swallow. This is all news to me. It sounds fascinating, and part of me wants to ask more, but I know I can’t. This isn’t my world. Whilst they were celebrating Christmas with whisky and mince pies . . . well, I had no idea any of this was going on. I was on the naughty list, clearly. Uninvited. There wasn’t a place for me at the big Christmas table.
I look down. ‘I’m sorry, but I really do have to get going,’ I say, putting the glass down on the table, my voice getting huskier.
‘Of course,’ says Fraser. ‘So, let me get to the point. I don’t want to hold you up.’
I feel bad, but I really do want to get back to the mainland and start Christmas my way, without baubles and tinsel and shortbread. They weren’t part of my growing up, not after Dad died. Mum always worked at Christmas, taking singing jobs where sh
e could. Lunch was whatever she could buy from whichever local shop was open when she finally woke up on Christmas morning. It wasn’t how it used to be when Dad was alive, when he would cook a turkey and Mum would join us for lunch and board games afterwards. I loved those Christmases. But they’re in the past, and right now, sunshine and yoga and getting my voice back is what I need.
‘You are Hector’s sole remaining relative. However, as he hasn’t made a lasting power of attorney, it is up to the courts to rule on who should decide his fate. Stubborn old bugger. I suggested it many times, but he never thought this would happen to him, and what Hector didn’t want to think about, he put right out of his mind, trying to ignore the reality of it. So I am acting as deputy power of attorney, so to speak. The court has put me in charge of deciding his welfare. The hospital has suggested that he move into a home, as he is no longer able to care for himself. However, his house will need to be sold to finance that.’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘You said on the phone. He did seem rather confused when I met him. I think he’d be better off being cared for.’
‘On the mainland,’ says the solicitor slowly, looking at me.
‘Yes, you said there was a home with a place available if we can act quickly. Are there papers you need me to sign?’
‘No, no papers, my dear. I just wanted to check with you that this is what you want for Hector. That this is what we all agree.’
‘I’m sure it’s for the best,’ I say. ‘As soon as there’s a buyer for the house, he can move into the care home. No more worries about him wandering and hurting himself.’ I nod my head at this very practical solution to solving the problem. Although I never knew Hector, and I’m not likely to now, I still want what’s best for him. If that’s what the hospital recommend, then I agree. I think briefly about the big draughty house. He’ll be much better off in a warm home, being looked after properly. I have no idea why Lachlan was at the house, or what he’s up to, but he’s not responsible for Hector. The old man is on his own. He needs to be safe.
‘It’s been tough since your grandmother died and the distillery closed down. The farm animals are gone too and the house is falling into disrepair. And clearly his . . . forgetfulness is getting worse.’