Page 21 of Coming Home to Winter Island
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.
‘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.
