Page 59 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

‘Och, you know what I mean. I don’t care how good a cook you are, you can’t beat a proper fish supper.’

Freya had to admit that her dad was right, and the appeal of the frozen basa dimmed significantly. A fish supper it was, then. She rarely ate fish and chips from a chip shop, and on the odd occasion when she did, Hadrian always turned his nose up. Food eaten out of paper wasn’t to his liking, and he’d never been able to get his head around the way she referred to the meal as afish supper, even if it was eaten at lunch time.

‘It’ll give me time to finish up here,’ Mack was saying. ‘I’ll put this handrail up, then if you could show me where you want the others—?’

Vinnie said, ‘It’s nonsense, if you ask me. I don’t need bloody handrails.’

Mack chuckled. ‘Give it a couple of weeks, yeah? If you find you’re not using them, I’ll take the bloody things down.’

‘And leave me with holes in the wall?’

‘I can fill in the holes.’

‘I’ll fill you in, you cheeky wee bugger.’ But her dad was smiling as he said it.

Freya thought it was actually a good job that Mack was putting them up, because ifshehad installed them, her father would have been far less amenable and might have refused point-blank to have them.

Driven out of the bathroom by the high-pitched screeching of the drill, Freya retreated upstairs to check on her father’s bedroom, and smiled when she saw that Mack had taken the trouble to place the armchair at an angle to the sofa, so it didn’t look like it had been dumped there. It was almost like her own private sitting room, she thought, deciding it would be an ideal place to retreat to when she and her dad needed a bit of space from one another, which she feared might happen a lot.

It was weird, but ever since her dad’s fall, Freya’d had the feeling he didn’t want her here and was doing his best to get rid of her. She appreciated that it might be embarrassing to have his daughter look after him, but ifshedidn’t do it, there wasn’t anyone else. He’d just have to suck it up.

‘Where do you want the next one?’ Mack called, and Freya trotted downstairs to show him.

While he was putting that up, she’d clean—

She halted. The bathroom was clean and tidy. Bless him, Mack had cleaned up after himself, and his kindness touched her. He didn’t have to do that, but he had, and it was incredibly sweet of him.

Trying not to hover, she waited for him to finish, and when he began to pack away his tools, she said, ‘Cod and chips, and a pot of mushy peas?’

‘Have you got brown sauce?’ he asked. ‘You can’t have mushy peas without brown sauce.’

Freya took a look in the cupboard where her dad kept his jars and condiments, and found a bottle that was half-full.

‘We have,’ she said. ‘Could you put some plates in the oven to warm, while I pop to the chippy?’

Heading out for the second time today, Freya felt grateful to Mack – his presence had lifted her dad’s spirits. Hers, too. She no longer felt as glum as she had earlier this morning, and although she guessed it was only a temporary reprieve, she’d take what she could get.

Her mouth watering, she ordered three fish suppers, and as she waited for them to be wrapped, she spied a large bottle of dandelion and burdock pop in the fridge, so she grabbed it. With a piece of creamy, buttery tablet for afters, this lunch was turning out to be quite a feast.

When she got back, she found the plates in the oven and the table laid, with a bottle of vinegar and the salt cellar placed in the middle. Her dad sat in one of the chairs, a blister pack of tablets in his hand.

Freya wasn’t sure how many he took a day, but it seemed a lot.

Oh, well, the GP must know what they’re doing, she thought, and if taking this many cholesterol tablets meant that her dad could enjoy his fish and chips, she was all for it.

‘I haven’t seen you in the byre yet,’ Mack said, as they tucked into their food.

Vinnie glanced up from his plate. ‘The byre?’

‘I’ve offered Freya the use of it while she’s in Duncoorie,’ Mack explained. ‘For her to make her pots in.’

Vinnie asked, ‘What pots?’ He turned to Freya. ‘Why are you making pots?’

A finger of fear trailed down her spine. ‘That’s what I do, Dad. I’m a potter.’

‘I knowthat,’ he snapped, ‘but why are you making pots in Mack’s cowshed?’

Oh, that’s what he meant! For one awful second, she’d thought he was having trouble with his memory and the spectre of dementia had raised its head.

---