by Jo Thomas
‘Do you need a hand?’ I puff, pointing at the lights.
She looks at me, but doesn’t smile. Her curly red hair is flying around her face.
‘No,’ she says flatly. ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
Taken aback, I have no idea what to say. But it’s Isla who speaks again.
‘So, how’s the gin coming on?’
‘Slowly, but we’re getting there,’ I say.
‘I’ve seen the crowdfunding page.’
‘Good.’ I find myself smiling.
She stops what she’s doing and then seems to soften a little.
‘I hope it works for you. For you and Lachlan,’ she says. ‘I hope you’ll be happy.’
‘Oh, I, we’re . . .’ She’s doesn’t know I’m Hector’s granddaughter. She hasn’t guessed who I am after all. I thought she might have been suspicious, but she’s giving us her blessing. Me and Lachlan. Oh God! I have no idea what to say.
‘He’s a good man, and he deserves some happiness in his life. Island life isn’t for everyone, but I’m glad you’re staying,’ she says with a smile, and I’m worried she’s going to hug me, despite my sweaty, damp state.
‘Thank you, Isla. That means a lot,’ and then with a smile, I turn and carry on running. I run past the café and shop. I see Lachlan there, probably exchanging goods in return for supplies, or maybe sorting out rotas and shifts. He and the Cruickshank siblings watch me as I run past. I raise a hand and smile, as does he.
‘She’s still here then?’ I hear one of the sisters say.
‘Aye,’ replies Lachlan.
‘It must be true love then,’ says the other, and I hear Lachlan cough.
‘Taking each day as it comes,’ he says, and I’m grateful he hasn’t told them who I really am, and find myself smiling even more, feeling a strange connection that I’ve never felt before. Maybe it’s the song running round my head. Maybe it’s the gin starting to come together. Maybe it’s that I’m enjoying myself. But I’m just passing through, I remind myself, and carry on running back to the house, tears smarting at my eyes, mingling with the salty sea air and the rain.
I try to have a bath, but end up with a cold splash-about in the huge tub, which nevertheless makes me feel surprisingly invigorated after my run. Afterwards, I scoop up my hair and dash down the stairs, adjusting another bit of the worn curtains as I go, humming the tune playing over and over in my head.
I make my way into the living room with my pad and pen. The fire is roaring and Hector is looking through the cupboards.
‘Must be here somewhere . . .’
I’m still humming the tune when Lachlan comes in behind me. Hector looks up at me.
‘Ah, Miss Rubes.’ He smiles, then looks down at his dressing gown. ‘One moment, you seem to have caught me unprepared. I’ll just get dressed.’ And with Lachlan’s help he gets to his feet and leaves the room. I raise my eyebrows and smile, delighted that music has made the connection for him once again. I start flicking through the box of records, trying to decide which one we should start with to try and get Hector talking about the other ingredients for the gin. I’m still humming when Lachlan comes back into the room.
‘What’s that?’
‘What?’ I turn.
‘That song you’re humming.’ He stands stock still, holding a tray of tea.
‘Oh, just a song I’ve remembered,’ I say, wondering whether to tell him about the croft. ‘One my dad used to sing to me. Why?’
‘It’s just . . . I just don’t care for it, that’s all,’ he says gruffly, putting down the tray. ‘Not a fan of that old folk stuff.’
‘Oh . . . okay,’ I say. ‘Well, how about this one?’ and I pull a record from its sleeve and put it on the record player. ‘Better?’ I ask, as Billie Holiday starts singing.
He nods, the moment past. ‘Much better.’
‘Okay, let’s see if Hector likes your choice too.’
We smile at each other, and I get that same feeling as I had when running. A feeling of contentment. Could it be a feeling of belonging?
Chapter Twenty-eight
We spend the afternoon in front of the big open fire, the rain sliding down the window panes, the dogs dozing, us drinking tea and playing records and talking to Hector about island life.
‘I remember taking Mairead to the pine forest where I proposed. Lots of times. Until she said yes,’ he smiles, repeating the story. ‘And the day our son was born and the gorse was out in flower everywhere.’
He’s talking about my dad, I think. Born in February.
‘It lifts your heart to see the yellow flowers over the heath and moorland. It was everywhere when he was born that cold February morning, here at home. The gorse always reminds me of the day we became a family.’
‘Gorse? Is gorse something you use in the gin?’ I ask, suddenly excited.
‘Of course! The flowers brighten even the darkest of winter days here on the island.’ He chuckles. ‘They say that if the gorse is out of bloom, kissing is out of season! In other words, you can only kiss your beloved when the gorse is in bloom, which is great news, as the gorse is nearly always in bloom!’ As his laugh dies down, his eyes fill with memories once more, ‘It’s always there, the gorse, bringing colour to the island.’
I look at Lachlan and he smiles back at me. So, ingredient number two: gorse. The record comes to an end and I get up and select another one from this amazing collection. Songs from my growing-up. Music from the greats. I’m not sure when I’ve felt happier.
‘And then of course you have the wild juniper.’ Hector is on a roll, and our smiles grow even wider. ‘Gin isn’t gin without juniper. It’s the only stipulation. Otherwise it would just be flavoured vodka!’ He laughs. ‘And the fact that it’s wild is what makes it unique to the island. All the best wild juniper is down by the pine forest and the moorland on the other side of the burn, and then over on the dunes and the cliffs on the far side of the island. But you have to be careful not to get swept away by the wind. Nearly had me off my feet once!’ He smiles at the memory. ‘Always pick them before the frost gets to them, autumn time.’
‘Autumn?!’ I say.
‘And then dry them, or freeze them,’ he continues. ‘Got stacks in the cupboard in the distillery.’ Suddenly all his cupboard-emptying seems to make more sense. ‘But everyone knows you need juniper. That’s not one of the five special ingredients. Rosehips! That’s one! From the hedgerows on the lane around the island. Loved walking the dogs and picking the hips. Used to have four dogs, y’know. Gave one to my son.’
And I remember only too well the black Lab I grew up with when I was young.
‘And the others . . . no, can’t remember what happened to the others.’ He shakes his head, then sinks back into his chair and sips at his tea, spilling drops down his front that he doesn’t seem to notice. He looks tired, but very content, and soon drifts off. I stand and take the mug from his hands and pull one of the tartan blankets on the arm of the chair over him. The dogs raise their heads, then lower them again, as contented as their owner.
Lachlan takes the tray of tea things back to the kitchen.
‘So it really was the music that unlocked his memories,’ he says when he returns to the living room. ‘Just goes to show what I know about that stuff!’ He smiles, and something in me suddenly ignites, like one of the flames from the fire. A new track starts on the record player and Hector suddenly opens his eyes again.
‘Did I tell you about the pine forest where I proposed to Mairead? Kept me waiting for ages, she did!’
We both smile and I go to turn off the record player.
‘I think he’s exhausted,’ Lachlan says. ‘Maybe try some more tomorrow. How do you fancy coming down and introducing yourself to Aggie?’
‘Aggie?’
‘The gin still. Named after Hector’s mother, I beli
eve, a fearsome type!’ His face lights up. ‘And we’ll see if we can find those juniper berries. Hector will sleep for a while now. Tomorrow we’ll go and find the gorse and rosehips.’
‘And the other ingredients,’ I say excitedly.
‘And the other ingredients.’ He nods and smiles as if placating an excited child, and my heart flips over with joy. Simple as that. The joy of just living in the here and now. I push any thoughts of my time here coming to an end out of my head.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The sky outside my window is bright orange, almost red. A long line of it along the horizon, beneath a line of cloud with shafts of red and yellow breaking through like beams of light. It illuminates the other islands in the distance and the rocky shoreline around the bay. It’s like there’s a fire burning all around me. It’s beautiful, and I can’t wait to get out and see it from the shoreline.
I pull on my trainers. They’re no longer brand new, waiting to be broken in at the vocal retreat. Now they’re covered in mud and, frankly, moulded to my feet, and possibly a bit whiffy too from where I’ve been out running every day now for just over the past three weeks.
Life has fallen into a pattern. I run, Lachlan goes out to see Aggie, the still, and works on trial batches of the gin. There have been tasting sessions too, where we’ve written notes and tried to think what might be missing. Then we work our way through the record collection, sitting with Hector, looking through old photographs and listening to stories of his life and my father’s here on the island. The days out fishing, the winter when the snow came, the big storm that knocked out the electrics at Hogmanay, the parties they threw in the house. And I don’t know when I’ve smiled and laughed as much as I have in these last few weeks, or eaten as well, or slept as well. We’ve also been checking the crowdfunding page. There’s a bit of interest. Not enough, though, and we really need to find a way to get some more. Time is beginning to run out.
I tie the trainers tightly, then put on my scarf and hat, no longer worried about my appearance, and grateful for their warmth. It might look glorious out there, but I’ve learnt one thing: however it looks, it will be bracing. But although the cold will hurt, it will make me feel like I can take on anything. And today, we need to try to work out the last of the ingredients. We have just over a week left now before the tea party and our crowdfunding deadline, and to get the deposit together for Hector’s place at the care home. And although it was great that Hector remembered the first three of the special ingredients, since then, he’s been on a loop, like a broken record, recalling the same memories and the same ingredients each time we put on music and start talking. The stories about him and Mairead getting engaged. The day my dad was born. The day they nearly lost the house and business but he went out walking and saw all the juniper berries on the heath and by the dunes and the gin saved them from going under . . . and then, nothing. He doesn’t seem to go any further. Why my dad left and never came back. Why I never knew this place or him. Why we can’t find the last two ingredients! We can’t seem to move forward at all. We’re stuck. I don’t think we’re going to do it, and I have no idea what to do if we don’t.
Annoyingly, Lachlan doesn’t seem that fazed. ‘Take your time. It’ll happen,’ he tells Hector, but I’m not sure it will, and part of me still thinks he doesn’t sense the urgency here. But I do have to leave and go back to my life, back to Joe. And Hector needs to go into the care home, because once I’m gone, it will be only Lachlan looking after him again, and he needs to move on too. Whatever happened between him and Isla, he clearly isn’t comfortable around her and Gordan. Getting this gin recipe matters, for everyone’s future. Without it, I may never make it to the healing retreat, Lachlan can’t leave the island and get away from his past, and Hector . . . well, what will happen to Hector if we can’t afford the nursing home? Where will he go?
I run downstairs and outside and nearly get swept off my feet by the vicious wind. It’s almost as if it wants to knock me off course, send me retreating inside. But I won’t.
I put my best foot forward, and once again am nearly blown over. I take my usual route, down to the edge of the bay and up the hill to the outcrop of rocks to say good morning to the seals. But even they’re not out today as the waves crash against the rocks, sending up arcs of salty white spray. The wind stinging my cheeks, I turn away and run towards the heath, where we found gorse for the gin, and on to the pine forest and the craggy mountains and the dunes where the juniper grows and the sea eagles nest. Every bit of this landscape is there in the gin, I think. What are we missing? They have to be here, the last two ingredients!
My feet pound the road, following the burn across the island, full to bursting, bubbling and tumbling as the rain starts to set in and I splash through puddles. I run up through the forest, remembering my treetop climb, and on to the cliffs, where I stop and drag in air whilst looking down at the white horses galloping into battle on the stony shore. A gust of wind suddenly flings itself at me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I feel my lungs filling with fresh, crisp air, making me feel light as a feather on my feet, lifted by the winds as I turn for home.
Home?! Where did that come from? Home is still a dingy flat that I haven’t seen in nearly four weeks, and where my poinsettia will most definitely have wilted. Winter Island can never be called home, I tell myself. We have to make the gin so we can sell it and get as much money as we can for Hector and his nursing home.
I wonder what this place is like in the spring. But I’ll be gone by then. Candlemas marks the start of spring. A new beginning for us all. Maybe I’ll come back, I tell myself. Come back and visit later in the year. What, when Hector’s dead and buried? I can hear Lachlan’s voice in my head and shake it off. My thoughts are as dark and brooding as the sky around me. Somehow right now I can’t imagine not seeing Hector again . . . or Lachlan for that matter, I realise. I can’t imagine not seeing Lachlan.
I throw myself in through the front door of the house.
‘It’s blowing a hooley out there!’ Lachlan says, pulling on his coat.
‘It certainly is!’ I say as I stand with my back to the door, soaked to the skin.
‘And it’s getting worse. I was just coming to look for you.’
I blush, suddenly touched by his concern.
‘The power’s gone out in the community centre over the other side of the island. Loads of houses have lost electricity and heat. It’s getting worse. Forecast is pretty bad.’
‘Oh no, that’s terrible!’ I say.
‘Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning. It won’t be long before the whole island is out,’ he says, and with that, the lights flicker and die.
‘Oh no! Now what?’
‘Plenty of candles in the drawer in the kitchen, and a head torch there too,’ says Lachlan. ‘Thing is, it’s Burns Night, and what with the community centre being out of action, and Teach Mhor having the backup generator . . . I said I’d have to ask you. It’s not up to me, and Hector clearly can’t make the call on it.’
‘On what? Can’t make the call on what?’ I’m confused.
‘Like I say, it’s the twenty-fifth of January.’
‘I know. We have just a week left on the crowdfunding and to get the gin made. I’m worried, Lachlan, really worried!’
‘It’s Burns Night,’ he repeats. ‘The community centre is out, the pub too. There’s a backup generator here at Teach Mhor. It’s where all the parties used to be held. The locals have asked if we can have the celebrations here instead. I said I’d have to ask you.’
‘Me?’
‘Well, you are Hector’s granddaughter.’
‘But they don’t know that, do they?’
He shakes his head. ‘You have my word, I’ve said nothing. But it’s still your call. If you don’t agree, I’ll say Hector is . . . unwell.’
I can hear Hector humming in the other room.
‘No, it’s fine. Um . . . what do you think?’
‘I think,’ he says with a gentle smile, ‘Hector may just like having the house full of people again. And maybe we can get a few more to sign up for the crowdfunding while they’re here, by way of payback!’
‘Then of course it’s fine by me,’ I say, feeling very strange about being asked. ‘There’s a storm, we should do what we can.’ I think of people in their homes with no electricity or heat. ‘Of course we should.’
‘Great. I’ll let them know everyone’s welcome at the house,’ he says, and goes out.
‘Be careful!’ I call after him as the wind catches the door and bangs it shut.
I find the head torch and start lighting candles, then have a quick tidy-up. I wonder how many guests there will be, and if they’ll be staying over if the storm hasn’t passed.
To my relief, Lachlan returns shortly afterwards. He opens the back door of the Land Rover and starts pulling out various crates and trays. I hold the door open against the driving rain as he unloads them into the kitchen.
‘Haggis and neeps,’ he announces. ‘Picked up the ingredients from the café. Now all I need to do is remember where I’ve put my sporran.’ And my stomach suddenly flicks like the flames of the candles dotted around the hall.
‘Oh, the choir has arrived. Wonderful!’ says Hector. ‘It wouldn’t be Hogmanay without the choir!’ I don’t bother to correct him and tell him Hogmanay has gone and it’s actually Burns Night.
‘Is it okay? The power’s out!’ people ask as they turn up at the door.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Come in! We’ve plenty of room.’
There are candles all the way up the dark staircase along with the dim lighting in the hall and on the big sideboard in the hall. In the front room, Lachlan and I have put tea lights everywhere – along the window ledges and on the mantelpiece to add to the lamplight. Outside, the wind is howling and the rain is throwing itself at the window panes, doing its very worst. I’ve never felt more frightened yet safe at the same time.