Page 54 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

‘I wouldn’t mind listening toThe Archers.’

‘OK, we’ll do that, then.’

‘I don’t need babysitting,’ he stated, using the last of his roll to wipe his bowl clean. For someone who’d complained that the soup wasn’t Heinz, he’d managed to polish off the lot. He added, ‘Haven’t you got anything to be getting on with?’

Freya hesitated. She did, although she wanted to keep an eye on him. At the same time, she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate if he hadThe Archerson full blast. She could work in the kitchen, she supposed, then she’d be on hand if he needed anything. But to be honest, she wasn’t in the right frame of mind for designing, although hopefully things would settle down in a day or two, when her dad became more used to having her around.

He pushed his bowl away. ‘Thanks, lassie, it was tasty.’

‘Glad you enjoyed it. Go through to the sitting room and I’ll bring you a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

‘What kind of biscuit?’ His tone was suspicious.

‘I bought one of those tins with an assortment, so you can take your pick.’

‘I don’t like my tea too strong,’ he reminded her, getting to his feet with considerable difficulty.

Freya wanted to help, but knew he had to do it on his own. It was hard, though, and she was forced to look away until he was upright and holding on to the walker.

With a heavy heart, she watched him shuffle out of the room. How had he got to look so old? She knew it was because of his hip, and only temporary, but it was a distressing glimpse into the future. One day he would be old for real, and the thought made her feel incredibly sad.

Freya glanced up from her drawing pad as the sound of laughterfiltered into the kitchen from the sitting room. A visit from Rhona wasjust what her dad had needed to cheer him up. His neighbour had beenchatting with him for nearly an hour, filling him in on the goings-on inthe village, while Freya had made herself scarce after supplying theinitial cups of tea and plate of biscuits.

Rhona was a better tonic for Dad than an hour’s nap, although Freya suspected the fatigue would catch up with him soon. Never mind, he could have a snooze in the chair before tea, then after they’d eaten, they could settle down to watch some TV before bed, though she assumed it would be an early night for both of them.

‘More tea, anyone?’ she asked, popping her head around the door.

Rhona heaved herself to her feet, the sagging armchair briefly holding her captive. ‘Not for me, hen, I’d best be away. I only popped in to see how your dad was and to thank him for the flowers, and he’s kept me gabbing.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ Freya said, as the elderly woman headed for the small hallway.

‘I’ll pop in again, Vinnie,’ Rhona promised.

‘See that you do,’ Vinnie called. ‘And thank you, lassie, I don’t know what would have become of me if you hadn’t heard me caterwauling.’

At the door, Rhona paused. ‘He’s looking better than the last time I saw him, and he’ll look better again with you to take care of him. He’s been letting himself go a bit, has Vinnie. I said the same to Jean the other day.’ She clutched Freya’s arm. ‘You be sure to take good care of your dad – he’s the only one you’ve got.’

‘I will,’ Freya replied.

After Rhona had left, guilt nibbled at her. She really should have visited him more often. But she’d always found it so difficult being back on Skye, and especially being in this house. It echoed with memories of her mother and she’d found it easier to stay away. Her poor father had borne the brunt of her selfishness.

Ironically, now that she’d been forced to spend more time here than she’d done since her mother’s funeral, the pain was lessening. The ache in her heart would always be there, but it no longer tore at her with sharp claws whenever she caught sight of the dresser that her mother had loved so much, or the rose bush she’d planted in the garden, or the teapot she’d bought in the church jumble sale and had treasured because it was rumoured to have come from the castle. Or the hundreds of other things that brought memories of her mother welling to the surface.

Freya peeped into the sitting room, closing the door softly when she saw that her dad’s eyes were closed. A little sleep would do him the world of good.

Returning to the kitchen table, and her pad and paints, Freya resumed her seat. However, she didn’t pick up the brush she’d been using. Instead, she stared into space, thinking of all those times when she could have visited him but had been too busy. It wasn’t a lie – shehadbeen busy. Life had been hectic and would be even more hectic if she moved to the States, but he wasn’t getting any younger, as his fall had brought sharply home to her.

Never had Freya felt so torn. She knew what her dad would say – he’d tell her to go, to follow her dreams, because if she didn’t, she’d always regret it.

A thought occurred to her. A direct flight from New York to Edinburgh took about seven hours and from there she could either get an island hopper flight, or rent a car to get to Skye. That wasn’t long, considering the distance. Twelve hours door-to-door? Maybe less.

The more Freya thought about it, the more doable visiting Dad from New York became. She’d have to make sure she made the effort and didn’t slip back into her old ways of letting life get the better of her, but she’d have to do the same if she stayed in London because she was determined to keep a closer eye on him.

Feeling somewhat nearer to making a decision, Freya returned to her task with renewed enthusiasm. Despite the upheaval of the day, she’d had a productive hour or so, as the germ of a whole new range had begun to take root. When the materials she’d ordered arrived, she would definitely take Mack up on his kind offer of using his byre.

‘He’s home, then,’ Jean announced, as Mack walked into his mum’s kitchen.

‘Who is?’

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