Page 33 of Coming Home to Winter Island
I make it to the outbuilding and pull at the heavy door. This time, it opens. I step inside and look around at the high-ceilinged room. It’s huge, and in the middle of it is a big piece of kit that looks like it could be one of Caractacus Potts’ inventions fromChitty Chitty Bang Bang.
‘Hey! What’s up?’ Lachlan appears from round the back of a huge copper drum, making me jump.
‘It’s Hector!’ I’m out of breath and very croaky, and suddenly feeling wildly excited.
‘What?’
‘He’s...well...’ I can’t think what to say.
‘He’s what?’
‘He’s...He can remember everything! Including the gin recipe!’ My smile widens. ‘He can remember the gin recipe!’ I repeat, and Lachlan runs to the door, clearly keen to see for himself. I follow as fast as a drunken duck can, the wind still nipping at my cheeks and lips. He beats me to the back door and throws himself in through it. I follow, stumbling and tripping, to find him standing in the living room doorway with his back to me.
‘See! See what I mean?’ I say in hushed tones as I slip out of the boots.
‘You said you’d keep an eye on him,’ he says, not turning round.
‘Yes,’ I beam. ‘And not only have I done that, but he’s... well, he’s completely back to how he was. Although, of course, I don’t know how that was, obviously. But see for yourself. Ask him. He can remember the recipe for the gin...the basics and the five special ingredients that “capture the spirit of the island in the bottle”.’
Lachlan turns slowly round to face me.
‘Hector’s gone,’ he says flatly.
‘What? You’re joking, right?’
The look on his face says he’s doing anything but.
I elbow my way into the doorway next to him. I can smell woodsmoke on his jacket.
The record player needle is clicking in its groove, signifying that the record has come to an end. But other than that, there is nothing and nobody in the room.
Chapter Seventeen
‘We have to find him!’ Lachlan’s face is etched with worry.
‘Oh God! What have I done?’ I say quietly to myself.
He turns slowly towards me. ‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘Well...I just thought...’ I start to roll my hands over each other nervously. My throat tightens. He stares at me, his eyes narrowing. ‘I just thought...’ I’m feeling hot all of a sudden, very hot.
‘Quickly! We’ve got an old man with dementia possibly out in the freezing bloody cold. Anything could happen!’ he says angrily, and I feel like crying. But I can’t. This is my fault and I have to put it right.
‘I’ll find him!’ I say.
‘What...did...you...do?’ he says slowly and clearly.
‘I just thought...maybe if he could smell the gin, taste it like we did on the beach, the recipe would come back to him.’
‘And did it?’
‘Yes! That’s when I came to get you!’
The record player clicks and clicks. I step forward and remove the needle and set it back in its home position.
‘And he was drinking gin, you say?’
‘Just one...or two.’ I sniff.
