Page 56 of Coming Home to Winter Island
We’re going to need a miracle to pull this off now, I think.
Chapter Thirty-one
‘Seaweed! Loads of seaweed!’ Lachlan says as he wanders along the wet sand and over the rocks, still sodden from their soaking last night.
‘Ah!’ says Hector, holding out his arms and breathing in deeply.
Although the storm has passed, the sea breeze is still rolling gently in with the waves, buffeting our cheeks and blowing away any cobwebs. Hector might not remember why we’re here, but he’s clearly happy that we are. The dogs sniff around in the grassy dunes, then wander down to stand next to him as he steps down unsteadily onto the beach; the beach where Lachlan and I sat on Christmas Day and ate oysters and drank gin from oyster shells. Back where it all began; where we made a pact to work together to find the gin recipe. And now we’re nearly done, I think with a mixture of joy and sadness. I hold out a hand to help Hector, but he doesn’t take it. Proud to the last, I think with a smile.
Lachlan is inspecting glistening clumps of what I presume must be seaweed. ‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘it’s not the best time of year to be harvesting. It’s usually left to rest over the winter and harvested later in the year. But if we take what we need, carefully, and from places where there’s plenty, we should be able to get enough for this limited edition batch, and then we...’ he stands up, ‘or whoever owns Teach Mhor gin next, can come back and harvest what they need in the spring. They can dry it or even freeze it,’ he adds. ‘Harvesting when there’s plenty and then freezing the ingredients could be the best way forward. These are things to look at...’ and suddenly he stops talking, ‘for the new owners,’ he finishes flatly.
I stand and look at him. ‘We’re doing this for Hector,’ I say, reminding myself as much as him.
‘Quite right,’ he answers, and gets back to collecting the seaweed.
Hector is strolling cheerfully up and down the shoreline, and I begin to scour the area for driftwood, just like Lachlan did on Christmas Day. I pull my scarf around my neck and let the clean, crisp air wind its way around me, and focus on the sand beneath my feet, somehow feeling anchored there, part of the landscape. I look up briefly at Lachlan and Hector, both content in what they’re doing, then look down again, and find myself thinking about the night before, the house full of music and laughter.
My life in the city with Joe seems so far away. I feel like I’m living in some kind of parallel universe. There are hardly any cars on Winter Island, no buses or sirens, all the things that used to connect me with life and living. Out here there’s just the seals, bobbing up to say good morning as if asking if we survived the night okay. The eagles no doubt will be circling the clifftops, and I can see the deer covering the golden heath. I bend to pick up another piece of wood and breathe in deeply, so it fills my whole body. Then, without even noticing I’m doing it, I start to sing, the tune that has been playing in my head since I found the record in the croft, making me feel like my soul has grown wings and taken off. I carry on singing, I can’t stop: the songs we played on the record player last night, the songs I heard when I was growing up with my dad. The songs that I realise now were his connection with this place and that have now in some way connected me too. I look out across the bay, holding back my hair from my face and singing as if no one is listening. I have never felt more alive.
I turn to see Lachlan with his phone held up, photographing me. He lowers it and looks at me. ‘You sing beautifully,’ he says as he walks towards me.
‘Thank you.’ I blush. ‘I didn’t know I was...or if I could...I mean, I joined in last night. But that was different. My voice, it’s taken on a whole new tone. Something about this place just made me want to sing.’
‘I know,’ he says quietly. ‘Sometimes we don’t know what we want until we stop thinking about it.’
‘I...I can’t believe how good that felt.’ I’m suddenly beaming, feeling like I’ve just crossed the finishing line in the Olympics and broken a world record. ‘And you really thought it sounded okay?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah, y’know me...what would I know, tone deaf!’ he laughs, but suddenly what he thinks really matters to me. ‘You sing beautifully,’ he repeats. ‘Here...’ And he shows me the phone.
‘You videoed me!’ I say, surprised. I don’t usually like seeing myself on film, but something in me is delighted to hear the song back. He smiles down at me.
‘It just seemed right. You don’t mind?’
‘I...love it!’ I say. I look up at him, feeling excited, alive. I want to throw my arms around him and hug him. Because he made this happen, I realise. Spending time in this place made this happen. Seeing something of the past, the present and maybe thinking about my future. I feel like me, but not like the old me. A different me! A freer, happier me, living in the moment! I think about that kiss, and how I long to feel his lips on mine again, taste the clean, salty sea-filled air on them. But why?! Why would I think that? Because I’m grateful for what he’s done, or because those lips feel a lot like home right now and they are within touching distance? But there’s no way I can start to fall for Lachlan. I just can’t. That would be far too complicated. There are so many reasons...There’s Joe, for starters! Joe who thinks I’m at a vocal retreat and is waiting for me to come home! We have to make the gin and move on!
‘It was here, here that he told me he was leaving.’ I hear Hector’s voice and turn away from Lachlan to face him. Lachlan stands behind me, right behind me, and puts his hand on my shoulder. Hector is looking out across the bay.
‘Are you okay, Hector?’ Lachlan asks.
But the old man looks pale, as though he’s seen a ghost.
Chapter Thirty-two
‘Let’s get this fire lit, shall we? Hector, you sit down. Here, have a nip.’ Lachlan guides Hector to the big log and hands him a battered silver hip flask from his jacket pocket. His kindness makes me smile, and my heart beats just a bit faster too.
I smile warmly at Hector, but his expression doesn’t alter. Something is troubling him. He wobbles as he goes to sit on the log, and we both reach out to catch him, making sure he doesn’t fall. It’s what we’ve come to do, the three of us: make sure none of us falls. We help Hector to sit down. And then Lachlan begins to build the fire.
‘Ruby will sing for us again, won’t you, Rubes?’ he says.
‘Was that you singing, Miss Rubes? Very good. Brought it all back to me,’ he says, his eyes filling like pools of water. Suddenly tears spring to my own eyes, seeing the pain in his, and a huge lump bobs up in my throat. Is he about to tell me? Is he about to tell me what I’ve been wanting to hear? Why he and my father never spoke? Why I was never a part of this place?
I look at his face. When I arrived, it shocked me at how familiar it was, yet I knew nothing about this man. Now... well, I know him for who he is now, not who he used to be. The Hector who is forever emptying cupboards looking for the recipe. The Hector who forgets to dress and forgets how many dogs he has. Who loves a boiled egg cooked ‘just so’ and who has forgotten that his wife and son have died and lives as if they were still here.
‘What...’ my voice is tight, ‘what did it bring back?’
He gazes out across the water. ‘Um...’ He looks round at me. Lachlan is building a sort of washing line for the seaweed close to the fire. ‘Oh...my son. It was here he told me he was leaving.’ He looks out at the water again. ‘We had a terrible row.’ He shakes his head as if wanting to forget the memory. And I don’t want to cause him any pain, but I do want to know.
‘What did you row about?’
