Page 41 of Coming Home to Winter Island
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’ll see Isla when I go to the village at some point.’
‘Not a good idea?’ I ask with a frown.
‘No,’ he says firmly, and I realise he doesn’t want to discuss it any more but have no idea why. Is he worried about Hector? But I’m sure Hector wouldn’t mind people coming to the house. He might enjoy the company. I don’t push it. I don’t want the good mood to evaporate.
‘Maybe you could put up some pictures of the island on the crowdfunding page. We could go and take some new ones.’ I think of the gin and oysters on the beach. ‘From what I’ve seen, it’s very...atmospheric.’
He laughs. ‘Atmospheric! So we haven’t sold the beauty of the place to you yet?’
‘Let’s just say I’m more of a city type. I can see the pleasure in cities. Out here...well, it’s very remote.’
‘Remote...wild, you mean. This is the wilderness.’ He throws out an arm to the window. Outside, the wind is starting up and the long grasses towards the beach are bent, and the sky and the water are darkening. He looks at me and something in me shivers. ‘And once it gets under your skin, you won’t want to be parted from it for long...Well, that’s what they say.’
‘I think we can safely say that won’t happen to me. And it obviously didn’t do it for my father, either.’
‘Maybe there were other reasons your father didn’t stay.’
I hesitate. A voice inside me says:Don’t ask. You don’t need to know. Out loud I say, ‘Do you know about my father? Do you know why he left?’
‘I know there was bad feeling between him and Hector.’
‘My father said Hector was a bully.’ But I’m confused. The Hector I’ve met is far from a bully. In fact, he seems like someone I would have liked to have known. I try and stop the thought before it comes rushing into my head, but too late...Someone I would have liked to have called my grandfather.
Lachlan studies my face and then says slowly, ‘I believe... in life, there are always two sides to a story.’
I think about what he’s said. ‘Just too bad it’s too late. I’ll never get to hear Hector’s.’ The words hang in the air between us, and this time it’s Lachlan who chivvies us into action.
‘More tea,’ he says, picking up the big pot, ‘and then let’s get this crowdfunding page sorted out. We’re going to get Teach Mhor gin back up and running. Whatever was in the past looks like it’s going to stay there. A lot of water has gone under the bridge.’
And briefly I think of Hector sitting at the waterfall last night. It has indeed. Water that I’ll never get to know about.
‘Wait there!’ I stand and go back into the living room, where the fire is lit, as usual, waiting for Hector to sit by it. I pick up the photographs I took in there, then pause and look at the box of records. There are so many I’m dying to play: more Ella, Louis Armstrong, Astrud Gilberto, Billie Holiday, music I remember from my childhood. I always thought it was my mother who gave me my love of music. Looks like my dad had something to do with it too, and maybe Hector before that. There are some other records there that I don’t know, titles in what I think is Gaelic, folk songs I’d love to hear. But it will have to wait; first we have to get the gin business sorted. I close the lid on the record player and return to the kitchen carrying the photos.
‘Let’s put some of these up on the site,’ I say, holding up a black and white picture of the distillery, the workers standing outside. ‘Give people a sense of the history of the place.’
He takes it from me and looks at some of the others.
‘We need to sell the dream!’ I say, starting to feel quite excited.
‘Often dreams can be a long way from the reality,’ he says. ‘And then it’s time to change the dream.’
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Does he mean Winter Island? The idea of it being beautiful as opposed to the harsh reality of living here?
‘We need to stand out,’ I tell him. ‘Look how many gins there are now. We want people to feel they’re buying a piece of this place, a piece of the island and life here.’
He’s still looking through the photos. ‘This is the distillery in its heyday,’ he says. ‘And there’s a lovely one of your dad and Hector and Mairead on the beach. Oh and another of Hector and the dogs.’
I experience that pang again, that feeling of having missed out on visits, trips, Christmases and summer holidays, and suddenly a large tear plops onto one of the photographs. It’s not really a sad tear; more a wistful one, at seeing my dad here, knowing where he came from and how happy he was. Lachlan wipes it away and looks up.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘It’s time we took some new ones. Then and now.’
‘Yes, good idea. Nothing stays the same forever. New photos will show we’re looking to the future of Teach Mhor gin...a legacy for whoever might end up taking it over and taking it forward.’ I see Lachlan’s shoulders droop as he thinks about the not-so-distant future. ‘At least you’ll know you did what you promised Hector. He will have left his legacy here. Now all we need to do is find that recipe!’
I sniff quickly and look around, trying to distract myself by thinking of places I haven’t yet searched. And trying to ignore the fact that a voice in my head – Joe’s voice – is wondering what time the ferry is. I try and ignore it, because I know for a fact I won’t be on the ferry today. Or even tomorrow. But I will be on it soon, and suddenly I feel quite sad. I still have no idea how to tell Joe that I’m staying a bit longer, and judging from our earlier conversation, he’s not going to be happy when I do, not happy at all. But instead of feeling guilty as I have been, I’m starting to feel a bit angry about that. I need to do this, with or without his blessing. There is more to life right now than getting to the vocal retreat. Because who knows if I will ever have another chance to find out about my dad’s past.
A message pings onto my phone. I look at it, then at Lachlan.
‘It’s the care home. Fraser must have given them my number.’
