Page 49 of Coming Home to Winter Island
‘Not necessarily,’ says Lachlan. ‘Maybe what you need is some time not thinking about singing. Take the opportunity to look around you and enjoy what’s right in front of you.’
I go to protest, but something stops me. It’s about the most I’ve heard him say in one go. Not right, but still, at least we’re talking and getting along.
‘So, Candlemas,’ he says, and nods. ‘Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ I say. ‘But what if we don’t manage to do it; what if we don’t find the ingredients?’
‘We don’t have a choice. We can’t fail. We have to pull this off, otherwise we’re all stuck here. None of us will be able to move on.’
I nod. We have to do this. We look at each other, and then I press the button, sending the crowdfunding page live.
‘Oh, and Ruby?’
I look at him.
‘Happy Hogmanay!’ he says.
It’s New Year’s Eve, I realise.
‘Happy New Year, Lachlan.’
‘Let’s hope we all get what we want.’
And we raise our glasses over the table, the glow from the candle lighting up the amber liquid. ‘Here’s to Candlemas!’ A smile spreads across both our faces and I feel a bubble of excitement rise in me that I haven’t felt in a long time, and I have no idea why.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The next morning I wake early and look out on the mist rolling in off the sea and almost obscuring the neighbouring islands in the distance. Something in me just wants to get outside on this first day of the new year, and without giving it too much thought, I pull on my yoga leggings, a couple of layers on the top half, gloves, trainers and a hat and make my way down the stairs through the sleeping house to the back door.
Outside, I take a deep breath and do something I haven’t done in a very long time. I put one foot in front of the other and begin to run, breathing in deeply as I do. I head down the path towards the loch and then up to the outreach of rocks. I follow the cliff edge for a while, then stop for a moment and catch my breath. Hands on hips, I breathe in deeply, and within no time, I’m rewarded for my efforts by three little black heads, with huge black watery eyes, bobbing up to say good morning, making me smile. Feeling revived, I decide to run on, following the burn. After all, didn’t Fraser say I couldn’t get lost if I followed the burn? I turn and head for the road, and spot the little croft there. I slow down as I pass it. It looks totally abandoned; no sign of life there at all. Such a shame.
I put my head down and carry on alongside the crystal-clear water, tumbling and hurrying to its destination over rocks and stones. As my feet pound along the single-track road, I can’t help looking around. Behind me the bay and the sea, around me open moorland, in front of me the hills, and in front of them, the forest of pine trees where I climbed my first tree. And now here I am...running! I take deep gulps of the air, filling my lungs with its cool freshness and a hint of sharp saltiness, reminding me of the gin we drank on the beach.
Very quickly the sky starts to darken and spots of rain begin to fall. As I’ve realised here, the weather can change in an instant. I slow up and look around as the rain suddenly gets heavier. I’m halfway to the village. In front of me I can see the herd of deer, and if I’m not mistaken, the two stags in the road, having a stand-off. I look at the stags, then back at the lonely-looking croft. The rain is getting heavier, hitting my face. It’s ahead to the stags or run back to the croft and see if I can just sit it out. If there’s anyone there, I’ll just ask if I can shelter by the front door.
I turn and run back. I open the little picket gate and run up to the front door.
‘Hello!’ I knock loudly, the rain now pelting down. ‘Hello!’ I call again, but there’s no reply. I try the latch, and it opens. I gently push the door. ‘Hello,’ I say, more quietly, not wanting to scare anyone. But I can see the place is empty, and by the looks of it has been for some time.
The open fire at one end is full of embers. On the table, melted wax from half-burnt candles has dripped down and made hard puddles. It looks like someone has just shut the door on this place. A bit like the big house, like the clock has just stopped ticking. Time has stood still. I walk around the table as the rain throws itself against the small square windows. I wonder how long it will last. On the table are two plates, knives and forks and glasses, an unopened bottle and a small jug of very dead-looking flowers.
There is also a record sleeve, and on top of it a record broken in pieces. I pick up the sleeve. The title is familiar and the tune is on the tip of my tongue. A tiny phrase suddenly pops into my head, and I can’t remember where I know it from. It’s right at the back of my memory bank. Something I heard as a child maybe. The same phrase keeps repeating itself, and I suddenly feel like I’m intruding on someone’s life here, their memories. I’m not going to hang around. It could be ages before the rain passes, and Lachlan’s expecting me to talk to Hector about the other ingredients. I put down the record as close as I can to where it was and step out of the croft, pulling the door shut behind me.
Outside, the rain is easing. Thankfully the stags have moved off the road and are up on the hillside, still locking horns, neither of them prepared to walk away or back down. Why can’t they learn to live with each other?! I think of Lachlan and me working together to get the gin made, both travelling in the same direction finally, but for very different reasons.
I set off again, the tune of the broken record running round my head, and I begin to hum it as my feet pound the road. And then the images start to follow. My father, singing the song at Christmas as his after-dinner turn. An old song of the island, he would say, about love, belonging, about home being a feeling that stays with you wherever you go. It was his one song. He’d sing it with tears in his eyes, and when he finished, it was as if he’d put the memories back in the box and closed the lid for another year.
Despite being warm from the running, I can feel the sting of the salty sea air and flecks of rain on my cheeks. I run past the pub, and there outside is Isla, trying to secure the Christmas lights in the increasing wind. I slow down and catch my breath. The run has put me in good spirits.
‘Do you need a hand?’ I puff, pointing at the lights.
She looks at me, but doesn’t smile. Her curly red hair is flying around her face.
‘No,’ she says flatly. ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
Taken aback, I have no idea what to say. But it’s Isla who speaks again.
‘So, how’s the gin coming on?’
