Coming Home to Winter Island

by Jo Thomas

  My phone vibrates again. It’s a text from Joe again, asking if I’m on my way yet. I need to move on and find my voice again. Get my own life straight and see if I can salvage anything of the career I left in tatters on the stage at our last gig.

  ‘I know you’re taking advantage of an old man’s situation, and it needs to stop!’ I say. ‘Good job I got the call, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Like I say,’ he says slowly, ‘you know nothing.’ He turns and opens the heavy door into the single-storey building, then stops and turns to me. My spirits lift for a moment. ‘But if you’re staying around, dinner is at seven.’ He steps inside, the lights flicker on and the door closes behind him, ending the conversation with a bang.

  ‘No, wait!’ I call after him. ‘You have to . . .’ But my words are lost on the wind. I’m staring at a big metal door and I have no idea what’s behind it or what this man is up to.

  Now what? I look down at my phone. One thing’s for sure, I’m not going to make my flight this afternoon. I sigh and send an email to the vocal retreat, explaining that I’ve been held up and need to postpone, just for a day, no more than two. Then I send a message to Joe, explaining that I’m trying to save my voice by texting and that I’ve been delayed slightly. He replies straight away, asking what’s going on and why I’m not on my way to the retreat. I tell him there’s been a delay with one of the pieces of paperwork. A hiccup, that’s all. Just needs ironing out.

  I’m amazed how easily these little white lies seem to be rolling off my keypad. I press send, then tap the phone to my chin. Now what? I repeat to myself, wandering across to the shoreline. Looks like I’m going to have to do something I rarely do: ask my mum for advice.

  While I wait for the call to connect, I look out across the moorland to the mountains behind the house, and catch my breath as what I think is a herd of deer run across it. As they disappear, the phone begins to ring.

  ‘Hi, Mum, how’s things? How’s Spain?’

  ‘You’re up early! Spain’s glorious! Been having a few days off here with Babs and George. You remember Babs and George. Met them on a cruise I was doing round the Med, years ago. They loved it so much they bought a place out here. If I was the settling-down type, it would be a great place to do it. But I’m about to go back on board in time for Christmas. So how are you, darling? Don’t hear from you much these days. Not thinking about joining me for Christmas, are you? I could get you some gigs. But you’re probably back to back with gigs of your own, aren’t you?’

  ‘Er, no . . . Actually, Mum, I’m going to be in Tenerife.’

  ‘Tenerife? At Christmas? What are you doing there?’

  ‘Just . . . getting away from it all.’

  ‘With Joe?’

  I think about Joe and his last text.

  ‘No, just me.’

  ‘Sounds like there’s trouble there . . .’

  I think about me and Joe. We’re the most solid couple I know. We have joint dreams. We’re treading the same path in life. Going the same way. He is invested in what I do.

  ‘Actually, I’m having some specialist voice training,’ I lie quickly.

  ‘Over Christmas? But isn’t it your busiest time? I mean, even I’m in demand! But I bet I could get you on the cruise ships if you needed the work.’

  ‘No, everything’s fine.’ I decide not to tell her about the problems with my voice. She’d only worry. It’s about all she does worry about. My voice and where she’s going to be drinking her next gin and tonic.

  ‘Mum, tell me about Hector, Dad’s dad.’

  ‘What? Oh, I don’t even know if he’s still alive. Really, it was such a long time ago. Why do you want to know about him all of sudden? Some things are best left in the past, Ruby. No good ever comes of trying to dig them up. It was all such a long time ago.’

  I sigh and wonder whether to tell her where I am. I go to open my mouth and then my mum says to someone in the background, ‘Coming, darling . . . Ruby, I have to go. My lift back to the ship is here.’ I think about the cruise liner she’s about to board and the ferry I’ll be leaving on. ‘Look, if you want to join me, you know you can. I’ll text you my itinerary for the next month. Bye, darling. Lovely to hear from you!’

  I press the end call button and look at a flock of birds coming in to settle on the beach. I have no idea what they are, but I stand and stare at them. It would have been lovely to spend holidays here, I think, learning about birds. And I can’t help but wonder why I was never a part of it, why I was never wanted here.

  I stop myself in my tracks. That sounds like a dollop of self-pity, Ruby Mac, I tell myself. And I don’t have time for that! I give myself a quick talking-to. I have made my own life, and I will continue to do so. It’s a good life, and I don’t need any of this. But right now, I need to find out what Lachlan is doing here and how to get him to leave. Maybe Hector can throw some light on the matter, I think, and I wander slowly back to the house, breathing deeply with every step, finding the air filling my senses as I do.

  ‘It’s in here somewhere,’ I can hear Hector saying. ‘Got to be in the house somewhere. Got to keep the secret . . .’

  I slip out of the boots and back into the soggy shoes with a grimace. One of the dogs barks. I follow the sound of Hector’s voice down the hall and into one of the front rooms, clearly unused and not heated. He’s still talking, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s the dogs he’s addressing. There are papers all over the floor, the cupboard doors on one side of the fireplace are flung open and Hector is attempting to climb onto a chair, balancing his crutch in one hand. The dog barks again, letting me know she needs assistance with her charge.

  ‘Hector!’ I say. He turns to look at me and nearly topples backwards. I step forward and put out my hands instinctively to steady him.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ he says, and the dogs lie down, happy, it seems, that help is close at hand. I look at his face, finding the similarity to my dad disarming and unsettling.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, glancing around at the emptied cupboards.

  ‘Looking!’ he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘Looking for what? Is it something I can help with?’

  He regards me blankly, and I get the feeling he’s forgotten what he’s searching for.

  ‘I’ll know it when I find it,’ he says finally with sadness in his eyes. ‘I know it’s here in the house.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and sit by the fire?’ I say. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ I wonder suddenly what might have happened if I hadn’t come in. What if he had fallen again?

  I lead him into the big room at the back of the house and the dogs follow. Once Hector is settled by the window overlooking the bay, I go into the kitchen. On the side is a fresh batch of what look like cheese scones. Lots of them. It seems Lachlan has made himself very much at home here. I remember watching him pull the kettle onto the hot plate, and do the same. I make the tea and spread a cheese scone with butter from the dish on the table.

  I can’t just leave knowing this guy is here, living rent free, I assume. There’s been no mention of any financial arrangement. But then there’s been very little mention of anything. I still have no idea what he’s doing here. I don’t even know his surname. Just that he’s a friend of the family and that he’s refusing to move out, despite me explaining that it’s in Hector’s best interests. And what is he doing in that shed? He’s clearly got an agenda, and he’s not telling me! Until he goes, Hector can’t get into the care home. Lachlan needs to find somewhere else to live . . . no matter how good his cheese scones are, I think, picking at the soft yellow crumbs.

  Back in the living room, I put the tea and scone on the table next to Hector’s chair.

  ‘Hector,’ I begin, ‘what exactly do you know about Lachlan?’

  He looks at me, and once again my heart twists as I see my
dad in his eyes.

  ‘Lachlan?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Who is he and what’s he doing here?’

  Hector picks up the scone and takes a bite. To the dogs’ delight, crumbs tumble down his front.

  ‘Lachlan, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ I smile.

  ‘Who’s Lachlan?’ he asks, and I sigh as realisation washes over me. The house can’t be sold until Lachlan leaves. And I can’t leave until he does. I have to find out what he’s up to, and think of a way of getting him to go.

  Chapter Eight

  Dinner is indeed at seven. And it’s absolutely delicious. The smell draws me from the top of the stairs. The big scrubbed pine table in the kitchen is laid at one end, for three. The dogs are happily eating from their bowls in the far corner of the high-ceilinged room, heads down, tails up. Lachlan is ladling the glorious-smelling stew into bowls.

  I stand at the door, feeling uncomfortable. On the one hand this man is refusing to leave and is definitely up to something in that shed. On the other hand, here he is creating one of the most welcoming sights and smells I’ve ever come across.

  ‘Come in if you’re staying, sit yourself down. I’ll fetch Hector.’ He turns to look at me. ‘Unless you want to?’ He raises a challenging eyebrow.

  ‘I . . .’ I’m still very unsure about how to speak to Hector. I haven’t met anyone with dementia before, and to be honest, and to my shame, I feel nervous. Nervous of saying the wrong thing, nervous that he might work out who I am and be angry at me being here. I feel ridiculous for even thinking these things, but this is all uncharted waters for me right now and I’m confused. I have no idea why I’m here or what to do for the best. ‘Look, I can get something to eat in the village, at the pub,’ I say. Sitting down to eat with this man seems too weird. But my stomach rumbles treacherously.

  ‘Up to you, but you’ll find the chef’s already left.’

  ‘Left? Left to go where?’

  ‘Here!’ He gives a little laugh and looks at me. ‘I’m the chef. I cook and deliver dishes to the café and the pub. And this,’ he ladles stew into the third bowl, ‘is the dish of the day. So you can either eat it here, or pay for it at the pub. The locals will certainly be keen to get to know you.’

  He’s right. The last thing I want is for people to know who I am. They’ll all be jumping to the same conclusion as Lachlan – that I’ve turned up to see what I can get out of Hector – and that couldn’t be further from the truth. I don’t want anything. It was the solicitor who contacted me, and I’m still trying to work out why. He didn’t need my signature, and if he’s known Hector all his life, then he knows that I’ve never had anything to do with my grandfather.

  ‘So . . . you’re running a business from here?’ I look around at the big cast-iron pots by the sink and the crumb-scattered board with a freshly cut loaf of dark brown bread that he’s put on the table next to the butter dish.

  ‘I suppose you could call it that. I catch it, pick it, cook it and deliver it.’

  So that’s it, I think. ‘Is that why you insist on staying here, for the facilities?’

  He puts the bowls on the table. ‘No, I could do this from anywhere. It just makes it easier if I’m here. To be honest, there are a lot better cookers than this old thing!’ He nods at the range with a smile. ‘I’ll get Hector. Sit if you’re staying,’ and he walks out of the kitchen.

  I look at the stew: tender meat surrounded by soft white potatoes, deep orange carrot chunks and dark green cabbage, sitting in a pool of glistening gravy. My stomach barks at me to sit too. The smell rises from the bowl in front of me and my mouth literally begins to water as the aroma wraps around me, warming me, reminding me of one of my dad’s hugs. He was never great with words, but his hugs were amazing. As was his food. A lot like this, I think, looking down at the bowl. I pick up my spoon and, unable to wait, dip it in, lift it to my lips and taste . . . I shut my eyes, imagining myself back there at our little kitchen table. Just him and me. Safe and happy.

  ‘Started already?’ Lachlan makes me jump as he comes back into the kitchen, and I drop my spoon with a clatter.

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t . . .’ I flush with embarrassment.

  ‘It’s fine!’ he laughs. ‘Glad you like it. It’s one of Hector’s favourites.’

  Hector comes into the kitchen, the cord from his dressing gown hanging low. ‘Ah . . . rabbit stew,’ he says, and sits and starts to eat.

  ‘Rabbit?’ I ask, a little more high-pitched than I meant.

  ‘We like to use what we have here on the island. And we have plenty of rabbits,’ says Lachlan. He sits down and hands around the board of bread. ‘Tuck in. There’s plenty more.’

  We eat in relative silence, just the clatter of spoons against the bowls and the contented mopping of juices with chunks of bread. And for a moment I can envisage my dad as a boy, sitting in this big kitchen devouring a Sunday roast. I want to ask Hector about him, but know it’s like an itch waiting to be scratched. Once I start, I might not stop, and it’ll only make the itch worse in the long run.

  ‘So,’ Lachlan says finally when we’ve finished and he stands to clear away the plates. ‘You know what it is that I do; what do you do, back on the mainland?’ He stacks the bowls by the sink.

  ‘Oh, I’m a singer,’ I say, in a voice that doesn’t even sound like my own.

  ‘A singer?’ he says. ‘Me, I’m tone deaf.’ He begins to fill the sink with water from the big kettle on the range. ‘Can’t sing a note.’

  I put my hand to my throat. Nor can I right now, I think, and I suddenly wonder if I ever will again. I remind myself not to get too comfortable here, because I need to get off Winter Island and on to Tenerife as soon as possible.

  Chapter Nine

  When I wake the following morning, I text Joe, telling him I’m hoping to be on my way today and wishing the band luck with the gig tonight. Every bit of me longs to be there with them. I can just picture Lulu stepping up to take my place, and although I know she’ll do a great job, I wish she wasn’t ten years younger than me with a determination to match mine.

  I look at my phone. There’s no reply. But then there wouldn’t be. It’s far too early for Joe. I send a good-luck GIF to the group chat and a text to Jess anyway, and she does reply.

  Hey, what’s happening? Where are you? You’re not in Tenerife?! We’ve been worried.

  Stuck in Scotland on an island called the Isle of Geamhradh, otherwise known as Winter Island! I type back.

  Why? Why aren’t you at the voice retreat?

  Just needed to sort some family stuff here first, I reply.

  Family stuff? Your mum’s in Scotland?! Is she okay?!

  No. It’s my dad’s side. I try and think how to word what I’m doing here, because I really have no idea myself.

  I thought you didn’t know your dad’s side.

  I don’t. But they’re moving my dad’s dad into a care home. Just need to get a few things sorted. I wish her luck again tonight.

  Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Lulu’s been great and Joe’s been really supportive too.

  I have a twinge of what might be jealousy. I’m not the jealous type. Joe’s flirtatious, but like I say, we’re solid. He wants what’s best for me, for us.

  Great, I text back with a smiley face, and just wish I could feel it.

  I creep quietly downstairs. Hector is emptying the cupboard by the fire again, the dogs standing guard. Lachlan is in the kitchen. The smell of toast tries to tempt me in, but I resist. I need to know more about this man and how to get him out of the house. Season of goodwill or not, Hector needs to sell up.

  The wind and rain may have dropped, but so has the temperature. I walk down the grassy lane towards the road, banked either side by hedgerows. A small stream trickles beside it, clear and busily bustling, as if on its way to meet up with friends
. I follow it towards the road and the cluster of shop, pub and café.

  As I approach the shop, I see the familiar figure of Fraser Gillies coming out of it.

  ‘Oh, hello, um, excuse me.’ I wave, knowing my voice alone isn’t going to reach him. He looks up, and my heart lifts. Hopefully he’ll have an idea about how to get Lachlan to leave, and that will mean I can too. ‘Mr Gillies,’ I say, jogging up to meet him.

  ‘Ah, Ruby. How lovely to see you. Glad you’ve decided to stay on and take in the island.’

  ‘Well, I’m hoping to be on my way soon. Um, tell me, this Lachlan, the one staying at Hector’s . . .’

  ‘Ah, Lachlan, he’s a good man. Knew you’d get along. Makes a mean rabbit stew. Well, you know where we are if you fancy a Christmas drink. The family are all here and would love to say hello.’ He turns to leave with his newspaper under his arm.

  ‘No, wait, Mr Gillies . . .’ I catch his arm. ‘I mean, Lachlan . . . isn’t there any way you can get him to leave?’

  ‘’Fraid not. Hector was quite clear that he has a home there as long as he wants it. He has to want to leave.’

  I look at him in despair. ‘But we’re just trying to do what’s right for Hector. Why can’t he see that?’

  ‘Sometimes . . . well, what’s the expression about keeping your friends close and your enemies even closer?’ He smiles. ‘Oh, by the way, I spoke to Flora, the care home manager. She’s still holding that place for Hector, but we have to let her know soon if we’re going to take it. Her mother and mine used to be on opposing bowls teams. Your grandmother played too.’ He smiles, and for a moment I wish I could have seen that. ‘They’d take the ferry across to play against each other, bowling bags in hand. Flora’s very fond of the island. And the home is in the nearest town on the mainland, so not that far from the island really. He should be able to see it from his room. Anyway, she’ll keep the room, but just until Candlemas.’