by Jo Thomas
‘Good God, woman! What are you doing just standing there?’ My eyes ping open and I find myself staring at Hector. He has turned from the window and is frowning at me. He waves his arms. ‘We’ve people coming. It’s Christmas! The drinks haven’t been laid out. Is the turkey in? Where are the workers’ presents? Are they wrapped? Where the hell is the tree?! Come on! We’ve masses to do! It’s Christmas!’
The dogs are on their feet, the older of the two standing unsteadily, just like Hector himself. The younger one barks. My heart starts racing. Is this the bully of a man my father told me about? I step back, knocking the radio off the table, and the room falls back into silence. We stare at each other for a moment or two. He has absolutely no idea who I am, and maybe that’s a good thing. Everything that has happened in this house is in the past. We all need to be looking to the future.
‘Um, there’s a cup of tea for you there,’ I say, and Hector turns and sits down again, his moment of panic over.
‘Lovely,’ he says. ‘And how about some of your shortbread?’
He needs to be in that home, I think. I distract myself and my shaking nerves by putting a couple more logs on the fire. When I stand up again, Hector has closed his eyes and the dogs have settled beside him. I walk out of the room to the back door. I need to find Lachlan. I have to put an end to this once and for all.
Chapter Eleven
I pull on a big coat from the pegs beside the door and look down at the row of wellington boots. Who do they all belong to? I wonder. Judging from the dust and cobwebs, most of them haven’t been used for some time. I pick a boot up at random and turn it upside down, banging it for good measure. Obligingly, a dead mouse drops out, making me jump back and shriek . . . but no sound comes out. Just a croak, reminding me that my voice has abandoned me, and making me feel very alone indeed. I feel the familiar ball rise in my throat and wish with all my heart it was my voice coming back to me, but instead it just tightens, and hot, angry tears spring to my eyes.
I brush them away quickly and open the back door, letting in a blast of cold air, which bites at my nose and cheeks. I step into the wellies I wore before, and pull the coat tightly around me, then take a deep breath and head purposefully towards the red-brick building.
I try the door, but it’s locked. Then I try looking through one of the windows to see if he’s in there, but they’re too high up. I check the door again. He’s clearly not here. I have to find him. But where to start?
I decide to head into the village, the only route I know here, and see if he’s at the café. I head down the drive and out onto the road. As I walk, I realise there is no one around. No one at all. An idea occurs to me. The best Christmas present I could have is for my voice to return. I wonder if I should just try it, open my mouth and see if anything comes out. Maybe sing a Christmas carol. The doctor did tell me to rest for two weeks, but I need to know. It’s as if I’m staring at the pile of presents under the tree as a child and lifting the corner of the wrapping paper to see if I’m going to get what I wished for. Just a tiny peek to see if it’s there. Then I’ll definitely rest it like the doctor ordered.
I breathe as deeply as I can and attempt a scale, but it comes out as a strangled squawk, scaring me. Did I just make that awful noise?! I hear a rustle from behind me in the trees, and suddenly a huge animal shoots across the road to the rolling open land in front of me. Again I go to shout with fright, but my tight throat doesn’t make a sound. I hold my hand around it as I watch the deer run off across the moorland towards the hills on the far side, looking as terrified as I feel.
I wind my scarf tighter around my neck and shove my hands into my pockets. I shouldn’t have tried that! I tell myself crossly. Stupid, stupid! Rest, the doctor said! It’s not there. It’s not coming back! I put my head down and march towards the little cluster of shops and houses that make up the village. The cold makes my nose itch, and I have to keep rubbing it and sniffing. The sooner I’m away from this place the better. As I walk, I run the words of the songs from the band’s set in my head to keep me focused and to keep out the anger: anger at my voice for letting me down, for abandoning me; and close behind it, anger that I’m here on an island with a grandparent in a world I was never a part of.
I hear it before I see it. I look up and my heart sinks. Oh no, bad timing! A church bell is ringing out merrily, and everyone is piling out of the village’s little church, shaking hands and wishing each other a merry Christmas, just like when I was a child and my father insisted on church on Christmas morning. Of course the church was much bigger than this one, but still, it was the same happy feeling. Everyone I’ve met so far is there. I think I’ll just turn around and go back the other way. The last thing I want is another interrogation about who I am and why I’m here. But it’s too late.
‘Hey, Ruby! Merry Christmas!’ It’s one of the sisters from the shop. I turn back slowly and raise a hand.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I reply.
She beckons me over. I put up a hand, but she’s insistent. ‘Come and join us!’
My heart sinks. ‘Oh no, I have to get back . . .’
But there’s no stopping her.
Isla and Gordan are there, and he kisses me and wishes me happy Christmas. She, on the other hand, looks as frosty as the grass on the little triangle of village green. Fraser is there too, with his big family. He invites me to join them in the pub for a drink.
‘It’s tradition,’ he tells me, and I wonder if this is what my father did every Christmas morning with Hector and my grandmother. Was this their tradition? Just like my tradition has become to ignore Christmas altogether.
‘Oh no, I have to get back. I’m just looking for Lachlan. Thought he might be in the café.’
‘Café’s closed today.’ He points to the door, with the blind down. ‘It’s the pub or nothing today.’
‘Who’s this?’ asks a young woman who could be Fraser’s daughter.
‘This is—’
‘I’m a friend of Lachlan’s,’ I say quickly, looking at Fraser, who nods slowly.
‘A friend of Lachlan’s,’ he repeats.
‘Lovely to see another young person!’ She smiles warmly. ‘Coming to the pub?’
‘No, I’d better get back,’ I say apologetically.
Fraser nods. ‘And Hector?’ he asks.
‘He’s . . . a bit confused,’ I say, and he nods again.
‘It can be a confusing time of year,’ he says thoughtfully.
I look around at the small congregation, which is probably the entire island population. Mrs Broidy is there, but I don’t think now is the time to talk to her.
‘Lovely organ playing, Mrs Broidy,’ Fraser turns to her and she smiles.
‘If only there were more reasons to play it,’ she says sadly. ‘Instead of just Christmas and funerals.’
‘Well, I must go,’ I say. ‘Bye, Fraser, merry Christmas.’
‘Are you sure you won’t join us?’ he asks again.
I shake my head. ‘I’m looking for Lachlan. There are things we need to talk about.’ I raise a knowing eyebrow and he nods. ‘Only trouble is, I’m not sure where else to look for him. I don’t know my way around.’
‘Follow the burn. You can’t get too lost; they all lead back to the sea.’ He smiles.
‘The burn?’ I ask.
‘The stream. Follow the stream, it won’t steer you wrong.’ He smiles again, and his eyes seem to sparkle in the low winter sun. A small child suddenly hugs his legs and he turns away. I look at his family around him, at Fraser lifting his grandchild into the air and the child laughing. The wind makes my eyes sting and burn. At least I think it’s the wind.
As the congregation moves off to the pub, I turn to go.
‘Bye, Isla,’ I call out. ‘Happy Christmas,’ but I don’t think she hears me.
I take one last look at the festive gro
up and just for a second allow myself to wonder what it would feel like to be part of it; like walking into a great big bear hug, I imagine. Singing on stage with the band is the closest I’ve ever come to that kind of communal experience, and right now, I’m not even welcome there. I have no idea where I belong.
My feet seem to have forgotten how to walk, stumbling over each other, as out of place and at a loss as to what to do as I am. Maybe it’s the wellies; I’m not used to them. I need to get back into heels and onto that stage!
I really have no idea where else to look, so decide to head back to the house. Maybe he’s in that big shed by now. As I walk, I look out for deer, and if I wasn’t so cross that Lachlan was holding me up, this would be a really nice way to spend a Christmas morning. I breathe in deeply as the low winter sun creates patterns with the clouds over the yellow and gold moorland, and the stream gushes and hurries towards the sea. I follow it past the big house, across the sand dunes covered in frosty tufts of grass and what looks to be gorse, until there in front of me in the sandy cove is a lone figure. Whilst everyone else was at church, Lachlan was here at the water’s edge, and I wonder why. He seems to be collecting something from the shore. It looks like wood. His hair is being blown up and back off his face. I stand and watch him. He doesn’t notice me. He’s intent on what he’s doing.
The wind whips my hair around too, and I grab hold of it and stuff it into the back of my borrowed coat. I wonder who wore it last. Was it my father’s mother? My paternal grandmother? Then I wonder why that should matter to me. You don’t miss what you haven’t had. I lift my head to the salty sea air and march down towards Lachlan. It’s time to have this out!
‘You still here?’ He looks up at the sound of my footsteps and drops another piece of wood onto the pile he’s already collected.
‘Yes. You?’ I retort, wishing this man didn’t bring out the worst in me. He straightens up. He’s wearing a worn waxed jacket, a scarf tied tightly around his neck, and fingerless gloves much like mine. I look at his canvas bag, which is sitting next to the pile of wood, and he follows my stare, then looks straight back at me with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and a mischievous glint in his eye.
‘It’s Christmas,’ he says enigmatically, then carries on stacking the wood into a pyramid shape. ‘Don’t you have somewhere you should be? Family?’ he says.
‘Don’t you?’ I reply.
‘Everything I need is right here,’ he says with one eyebrow raised. He straightens up and gazes out to the water beyond the cove. I turn and look at the big house, and then back at him.
‘I’m sure,’ I say pointedly.
‘Look,’ he says, waving a stick at me. I take a step back. This man is freeloading off an old man; who knows what he’s capable of? I put my hand on my pocket, checking for my phone and hoping there’s signal if I need it. ‘Everything I need is right here,’ he repeats, pointing with the stick out to sea and around the cove.
‘But you’re living in my . . . in Hector’s house. Rent free, I presume!’
He takes a deep breath and drops the stick.
‘Hector and I, we have an agreement.’
‘What kind of agreement?’
‘An agreement.’ And then, with a steely look, he adds, ‘And I intend to see it through.’
I find my own eyes narrowing to match his. ‘Because you want to stay here, living in the big hoose.’ It’s a bad imitation, and I cringe at myself and my bad manners.
‘Because . . .’ he pauses and looks at me once more, ‘because I made a promise to your grandfather.’ He emphasises the final word, and somehow it stings all over again.
‘Look, I don’t know you or what you’re doing here—’
He cuts across me. ‘You wouldn’t. You’ve never been here before.’
I eye the bag suspiciously again.
‘You want to know what’s in the bag? Want to know if I’m ripping your grandfather off? Taking your inheritance?’ He laughs, and I’m rattled even more. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Look, I’m not here for an inheritance. This place means nothing to me . . . It’s not mine to inherit. What’s important is using it to get Hector the care he needs. And judging by what I’ve seen, he does need care. As does the house!’
‘He needs to be in the place he’s happiest, where his memories are. Where he feels safe,’ he comes back at me sharply.
‘And how do you . . .’ I stop myself.
‘Look, Ruby, I saw how scared he was in hospital when I collected him and brought him home. Like I said, we have an arrangement and I intend to keep my promise to him. Loyalty means something to people around here.’
He bends down and takes a box of matches from the canvas bag, then strikes one and puts it to the pyramid of sticks, slowly feeding on more of the wood that he’s collected. As I stand and watch, the flames begin to take hold.
‘Sit down,’ he says, pointing to a large log next to the fire.
‘I’m fine. I just came to talk to you, to find out when you’re going to leave. I need to make plans.’
‘Sit down. It is Christmas Day, after all. Isn’t this when we’re supposed to call a truce for just one day?’ He looks at me with his flecked green eyes, and I sit tentatively on the log and then look out across the water, letting the wind fill my head as I breathe in deeply. I tie my scarf a little tighter in an attempt to protect my damaged vocal cords.
He carries on feeding the fire. His hair is wet and even curlier than usual, like bouncy spirals, and I wonder if he’s been swimming. Mad if he has! But then this guy clearly doesn’t abide by the rules most of us do.
He points to the bag beside me with that mischievous glint in his eyes again. ‘Grab what’s inside,’ he says as the flames lick higher and higher and the waves rhythmically lap the shingle-covered shore.
I look at him suspiciously. ‘What’s in there?’ I ask. Is this him confessing to taking valuables from the house? Is he going to ask if I want a cut in exchange for my silence, or even offer me a chance to get in on the action? I don’t move.
‘Just do it!’ He throws a hand up. ‘For heaven’s sake, can’t a man do something civil on Christmas morning?’ he growls, exasperated. He’s exasperated?! I’m supposed to be waking up today in Tenerife, watching the sunrise from my yoga mat and getting my life back on track!
‘Phffff!’ I let out a long sigh, reach into the bag and put my hand on something cold and damp. I pull it out and hold it up. It’s a bottle containing a clear liquid, and against the backdrop of the water, the glass seems to have a blue and green hue. I run my hands over it. It’s patterned like the waves of the sea, and has an exquisite painting of the island on the front. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, staring at it and then at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Gin,’ he says flatly, and then sits on a log on the opposite side of the fire.
I raise an eyebrow, surprised. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
‘Will you have a drink with me?’
I think about this.
‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’
‘It’s Christmas. Everything is different at Christmas.’
Not for me, I think. It’s much like any other day. Although waking up in Tenerife would definitely have been different.
‘How come there’s no tree in the house or anything?’ I ask, feeling we’ve taken a tiny step closer to being civil to each other.
‘Hector . . . well, as you’ve seen, he can get confused and anxious. He lives in the past and becomes upset if there’s change.’
I think about the incident with the carols on the radio that morning and feel a stab of guilt.
‘It’s usually best to go with it, wherever he is in the moment. Contradicting what he’s thinking can just cause him stress when he realises he can’t remember things.’
He puts out his hand for the
bottle. I reach out and pass it to him. He holds it up and narrows his eyes thoughtfully, holding it almost reverently.
‘So, you’ll join me in a toast?’
‘A toast? What to?’
‘To Hector’s best interests.’ He looks at me steadily and I hold his gaze.
‘Of course,’ I reply with relief. Thank goodness! Maybe now he’s realised he needs to go.
‘Good,’ he says, and stands, casting a dark shadow over me.
‘Have you got glasses in that bag of yours too?’ I attempt friendly. If he’s going, I can stop worrying. I’ll ask Mrs Broidy to come in and look after Hector until the house is sold and he can move to the care home. My work here is done! I think with a smile. Nevertheless, something scratches at the back of my brain. Is it regret? Regret that I never got to know this place, that it was never a part of my growing up? But it wasn’t, and that’s that. I slam the lid down tightly on that thought and look back at Lachlan. I’ll happily drink to moving on.
‘No, no glasses,’ he says.
‘Then how are we going to drink, from the bottle?’
‘We’re not all heathens here, y’know!’ he practically growls from the corner of his mouth, and I realise how fragile our truce is. I mustn’t do or say anything that will make him change his mind about leaving.
‘Hold your hands out and shut your eyes,’ he says. We look at each other with mutual mistrust. ‘Hold your hands out,’ he repeats. ‘Or are you scared of what you might find?’ That teasing smile appears again at the corner of his mouth.
‘I’m not scared,’ I say, feeling terrified. Terrified of what will happen if I can’t leave this island and find my voice again. I shut my eyes tightly and hold out my hands. Nothing happens.