Coming Home to Winter Island

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Candlemas?’

  ‘February the second, when all payments for the quarter are due.’

  ‘That’s just over five weeks away!’

  ‘Indeed. Five weeks. After that, sadly, he will have to go to the bottom of the waiting list. And then who knows how long he’ll have to wait to get in there. Five weeks to work out what happens next.’

  ‘Five weeks,’ I repeat.

  He nods, smiles and wishes me good day. I’m left standing there watching him go, wondering what he means and why he isn’t doing more to get Lachlan to leave. Well, if he isn’t going to, I’ll have to do it myself!

  I turn to the shop and duck down through its low white wooden doorway. There are shelves rammed with everything you could think of, from well-worn magazines and tins of food to mud-covered potatoes and carrots. Home-made scones sit under a glass dome on the counter, alongside a humming fridge displaying goat’s cheese and ice cream, a selection of whiskies and another of woollen knitwear. As I round the central aisle, I see an opening into the café next door, and standing opposite, in front of the biscuit section, is Isla from the ferry, holding another packet of ginger biscuits and some tea bags. She’s staring into space as if deep in thought, and I smile.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, and raise a hand, happy to see a friendly face.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, snapping out of her trance and forcing a smile onto her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

  ‘How’s the ferry crossing?’ I ask, for want of anything better to say.

  ‘Great! Well, no, actually. It seems to take longer for my stomach to settle after a rough one these days!’ She holds up the ginger biscuits. ‘How’s . . . business?’ she asks.

  I nod and shake my head at the same time. We stand and look at each other awkwardly for a moment. I seize the opportunity to ask what she knows about Lachlan.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I was just wondering—’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says at the same time, ‘did I just hear you mention Lachlan? Lachlan from Teach Mhor?’

  We look at each other again. She has pale, soft skin, really pale, the colour of the white foam from the sea, and deep red curly hair.

  ‘Yes.’ My eyes widen, realising Isla could be just the ally I need. ‘Do you know him?’

  I’m suddenly aware of three pairs of eyes staring at me from behind the counter. I look back at them and hold up a hand in greeting. One of the three short, stout people nudges the next, and I can’t help but think of the three wise monkeys in a row. They’re all wearing matching thick glasses and warm knitted jumpers stretched over their barrel-like bodies.

  ‘I told you,’ she says. ‘As soon as Isla said there was a guest at the big hoose, I knew it must be a friend of Lachlan’s.’

  ‘You said Lachlan must have a new girlfriend,’ says the one next to her.

  The man on the end by the till nods. ‘Lachlan’s new girlfriend, y’say.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m not . . .’ I hold up a hand and blush, wondering how I’m going to explain my presence at the house without arousing too much interest. ‘I’m just . . .’ What?! What are you, Ruby? Who are you and why are you here . . . still? I look at the expectant faces. ‘I’m here helping Lachlan out for a few days.’

  ‘Helping Lachlan out?’ says the middle wise monkey. From inside the café, a woman in a bobble hat, long padded coat and worn sheepskin boots cranes her neck to get a glimpse of me. I feel like Exhibit A in a courtroom.

  ‘Yes, just helping him out,’ I repeat, hoping this leads me to finding out a bit more about what he’s up to, particularly in that big red-brick shed.

  ‘You’re a friend of Lachlan’s then?’ says the third wise monkey.

  ‘A friend?’ I hesitate. ‘Yes, I suppose I am a sort of friend.’

  ‘See, I told you it was Lachlan’s new girlfriend,’ says the first woman, and they all smile in agreement.

  Isla says nothing; just looks at me.

  ‘So, this lovely shop, is it yours?’ I ask the three wise monkeys.

  ‘Oh, this is a community shop, we all take our turn here,’ says the man.

  ‘Even Lachlan,’ says the first woman. ‘I expect we’ll see you here if you’re helping out.’

  ‘Not here,’ says the second. ‘Up at the hoose, helping out at the hoose.’

  ‘But everyone takes a turn. Here and in the café. Then we split the profits,’ says the first. ‘We’re the Cruickshanks. I’m Lena, this is my sister Lexie and my brother Lyle.’

  ‘Not that there’s much profit,’ says Lyle, looking down at the old till.

  ‘Same for the café. We don’t get many customers these days, though Mrs Broidy is a regular.’

  Ah, so that’s Mrs Broidy, still trying to get a good look at me. I wonder whether I could join her for a cup of tea, maybe find out more about Lachlan that way.

  ‘You have a look about you,’ she says, narrowing her eyes. ‘You remind me of someone.’

  I turn away quickly.

  ‘I must be going,’ says Isla. ‘Enjoy your stay,’ she adds, sounding a little more reserved. ‘How long did you say you were here for? I thought you were just here on business.’

  ‘Yes, some business with Lachlan,’ I say quickly, and smile. ‘Taking a bit longer than we thought.’

  ‘See!’ says Lena, nudging her sister again, making her knock into her brother. I think of Weebles.

  Isla turns to leave.

  ‘Oh, maybe we could . . .’ I start to say, but she’s already gone.

  Mrs Broidy is still looking at me with narrowed eyes. I take a sudden interest in the display of knitwear.

  ‘All hand-made,’ the three monkeys say together.

  I leave the shop with a warm jumper, hat and mittens, and no further in my investigations about Lachlan.

  That evening, after a delicious fish pie, Hector retires to bed and Lachlan disappears off to the red-brick shed again.

  ‘What is it you do down there?’ I ask as he opens the back door.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ he replies with an infuriating wink, and leaves with a smile.

  I decide to stay awake; after I hear him go to bed, I’ll investigate the shed. I stare at my phone, wishing I could text the group chat. But the band are all at a gig. I look through the photos they’ve sent me during the set-up: Moira and Gwilym, heads together, smiling in a selfie; Pixie Rose posing with her saxophone; Lulu looking glamorous; and one of all of them, with a thumbs-up for me. I scroll through more pictures on my phone; most of them are of Joe with the rest of the band. I’m determined to keep myself alert and entertained. I’ll stay awake all night if I have to!

  Chapter Ten

  The following morning is the first Christmas Day I’ve woken before ten since I was a child. Christmas with my dad always started early, but it all changed once I went to live with Mum. There were none of the rituals and traditions Dad had put in place. I remember waking to feel the weight of the big sock on the end of my bed, with the chocolate Father Christmas in it and a satsuma, always, and find myself smiling. Then it was kippers, just like the ones . . . I lift my head . . . just like the ones Lachlan is cooking now by the smell of it!

  Suddenly the memories come crashing in. On Christmas morning, we’d always walk the dog early – our black Lab called Murdo. He was rehomed after Dad died and I never saw him again. I never knew if he was happy, or if he missed my dad as much as I did. A lump rises in my throat. I wish I could have done more, insisted he stay with me. But I was only twelve and my mother hated animals. Then afterwards there was a lunchtime drink at the pub whilst the turkey was cooking, and later, a film and chocolates. I find a big ball rising in my throat and silent tears rolling down the sides of my face. Happy and sad ones all mixed in together. Being here seems to be reminding me of all the things I miss about Dad.

  Once I started working as
a professional singer – backing vocals to start with, holiday camps and cruises like my mum – Christmas was just another working day. And when I joined the band, it became the day after a big gig and the day before another one; a day to rest the voice and get ready for the big New Year jobs. Joe usually stays at mine, and we can pretty much please ourselves, so we take things at a leisurely pace. Here, though, I’m awake as soon as I hear movement upstairs. And smell those kippers cooking.

  I realise that I must have fallen asleep pretty much straight away last night and slept right through. I never do that! I’ve been a bad sleeper as long as I can remember, not dropping off until the early hours, sometimes even as dawn is breaking. Here, though, last night, I slept just as I did as a child, knowing I was at home, safe . . . It must be the air, I tell myself.

  But enough of thinking about Christmases past. I have to get on and find out about Lachlan, or I won’t have a future to go to!

  I slide out of bed and walk to the window, looking out over the bay as the mist rolls in. The wind seems to have dropped, and with it, so has the temperature. There is a thick frost, making everything white and glistening, like a Christmas card. It’s beautiful. I pull on the thick jumper I bought in the shop yesterday, dreading to think what my credit card balance will look like when I’m home. Still, I’m glad I’ve seen this place, the island where my dad grew up. I can just imagine how he felt here on Christmas morning, waking up to this sight. I only wish I had someone here to share it with me.

  I pick up my phone and take a photograph out of the bedroom window, trying to stop the camera shaking as I shiver with the cold permeating through the glass. I pull on my hand-knitted fingerless mittens. I was clearly the best customer they’d had in the shop in a long time, I think, remembering their faces as they totted up my items between them with a pen and paper and rang it into the till with a huge smile. But these gloves and jumper are beautiful. It’s a shame more people don’t visit to buy them.

  I send Joe a text. Happy Christmas! How was the gig?

  Great! he replies immediately, with smiley faces, and I realise I’ve probably woken him up and immediately feel bad. I long to be back there. Being on stage with the band feels like home and has done since I joined them. I know where I am, and what I’m doing. It’s the one place I have truly felt at home since I lost mine with Dad. The smell of those hot, buttery kippers has certainly stirred up memories I thought were long gone!

  My phone pings again. Lulu did a great job.

  I’m grateful, but I’m also . . . well, if I’m honest, I’m feeling really fed up about it too. She’s there, and I’m not. I look out of the window again. I’m not very proud of feeling this way. To make up for it, I send smiley faces and Christmas tree emojis back to Joe and tell him I’m missing him. What are you doing up so early? I type, and there’s a delay as I wait for him to respond.

  Just popped out for a few bits for Christmas, he replies.

  On Christmas morning? I think. What could he need and where would he go? I go to ask him, but he sends another message.

  So, where are you? By the pool in sunny Tenerife? He adds a kiss.

  Leaving soon, I say, and quickly send.

  What?!! replies Joe, and I can just imagine his face.

  It’s fine, I say. It’s all in hand. I’ll be on my way soon and back before you know it!

  You need to get to that retreat! The longer you delay, the longer you’re putting the band at risk!

  I know, I know, I type, feeling bad. He’s only saying this because he has my best interests at heart. I send him lots of kisses, but he doesn’t reply.

  I message Jess and wish her happy Christmas too. I don’t expect a reply, but I get one.

  You’re still there then?

  Yes. Hoping to leave soon and still get to Tenerife. Few problems with the paperwork. I find myself rolling out the lie as if it’s the truth. Well, what else can I say? I could leave right now, this minute, but I think about Lachlan, walking around as if he owns the place. It’s Christmas; why isn’t he with family? Doesn’t he have anyone else to go to? I can’t leave until I know why he’s here, what he’s up to in that shed. I need to find out and get him to agree to go. And it has to be today.

  What are you doing awake? I ask.

  Making my way back to my flat. Stayed with a friend I met last night! She adds smiley faces and blushing-cheek ones too.

  Jess isn’t a one-man woman like me. She enjoys nothing better than life on the road, loving and leaving the next day. I like life on the road too, but I also like the fact that I have Joe to go home to. I don’t need any added complications in my life. I just want to focus on the job in hand, being the best I can be at what I do and getting the recognition from the record companies; signing a deal with a label, finally making it over the finish line. Joe knows that and supports me, which is what I adore about him. He loves the band nearly as much as I do.

  My phone pings again.

  How’s the voice? Jess texts.

  I look out through the frosted glass and ponder the question. I’ve been speaking, which the doctor told me not to do, but it’s not like I’ve seen lots of people. I have absolutely no idea how my singing voice is. In fact, right now, I’m too scared to find out. What if it’s still broken? What if . . . what if it never comes back? The lump rises in my throat again. Who am I if I can’t be Ruby Mac on stage with the band?

  Okay, I lie, and this is becoming a habit. How’s Lulu?

  Lulu’s good, but she’s not you! Think you’ll be home soon? Be great to have you back!!

  I smile and type, Oh yes, back soon, I promise, and as I press send, I feel the determination rise in me. I have to return home before Lulu gets too comfortable filling my shoes. And there’s only one thing standing in my way . . . Lachlan.

  I suddenly spot him striding down the path away from the house with his big bag slung across his body. Where’s he going? And what’s in that bag? I have to get this sorted. I pull on my new hand-knitted hat and run downstairs, straight into the lingering smell of kippers and buttered toast.

  Hector is in the kitchen, and just for a moment I catch that resemblance to my dad again and my past comes rushing back to me like a tidal wave, washing over me and then crashing into pieces on the beach. It’s not my dad; it’s just someone who looks like him. I shake my head, hoping that these moments of my past meeting my present will stop. I don’t know this man, I remind myself firmly. He didn’t want to be part of our family, or for me to be part of his. It’s love that makes a family, not DNA. I know my parents loved me. My dad was always there for me, and even my mum loves me, in her own chaotic way.

  ‘Morning, um, Hector,’ I say. He’s in his dressing gown as usual. A long, worn robe, loosely held together with a tie around his waist over threadbare pyjamas. He looks up from where he’s emptying the dresser cupboards all over again.

  ‘Morning!’ he says, before going straight back to the job in hand. ‘Must be here somewhere . . .’

  Maybe he’s hungry, I think. I really do want to go and look for Lachlan, but I can’t just leave Hector here like this.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask. ‘Are you looking for something to eat?’

  I walk over to the range to see a big pan of home-made soup standing there. There’s some cheese on the worktop too, under a netted dome, and freshly baked bread. It’s like the elves and the shoemaker. I wonder if this really is all Lachlan’s work, or whether Mrs Broidy has been in. I’ll have to speak to her and see if she can stay on and look after Hector after Lachlan moves out, just until the house is sold.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask.

  ‘Thank you, Mairead. Cup of tea would be perfect. Just as I like it . . .’

  I go to correct him, but he’s clearly lost in his own thoughts, muttering as he sifts through papers from the cupboard.

  I make the tea with the big o
ld kettle, and remember that he has diabetes so don’t add sugar.

  ‘How about I put it in here, by your chair?’ I say.

  ‘Perfect!’ he exclaims, and comes and sits by the big living room window, looking out over the lawn to the cove.

  ‘Um, happy Christmas,’ I say.

  ‘Christmas?’ He looks at me and laughs. ‘You’re losing your marbles, Mairead. Christmas indeed. If it were Christmas, you’d’ve had the turkey on hours ago! The drinks’d be laid out and the workers and their families would be here by now! And where are the presents for them all? Christmas indeed.’ He laughs and shakes his head, then takes a sip of tea, seemingly oblivious to the drips spilling down the front of his dressing gown. ‘You’ve even forgotten how I like my tea! No sugar in there! You’re losing your marbles,’ he repeats, then looks back out of the window.

  I clear my throat. ‘I’m not Mairead. I’m Ruby,’ I say, but he’s not listening. He’s standing up and starting to rummage through the cupboards either side of the fireplace again.

  I look around. There is no nod to Christmas in here at all. No wonder he doesn’t realise what day it is.

  ‘Shall I get you something to eat?’ I ask. ‘I think there’s some bread that Mrs Broidy made. Or maybe I could find something else.’

  ‘God! If Mrs Broidy made it, we’re all in trouble!’ He laughs, and the sound echoes around the room. The acoustics in here are amazing. Then he looks out of the window again, frowning, as if trying to remember something.

  I think about the solicitor and his wife, and their family arriving to spend Christmas with them. I think about how different Hector’s Christmas could have been in the nursing home.

  I go back into the kitchen, pick up the old radio and bring it into the living room. I put it on a side table and switch it on. It crackles into life and fills the room with carols from a cathedral choir. I smile. ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’, one of my favourites, and very apt, I’d say, looking out of the window at the icy scene outside. I close my eyes and let the music calm me. I’m desperate to sing along. But I can’t. I can’t bear to test my voice out yet. The doctor said to rest it for at least a couple of weeks. It hasn’t even been one week yet.