Page 9 of Coming Home to Winter Island
‘Fraser Gillies, solicitor for Geamhradh,’ he looks at me and possibly my blank expression and then translates with a roll of his eyes, ‘Winter Island,’ he says flatly. ‘Just go to the pub, and it’s the big house next door.’
‘Thank you,’ I say as politely as I can. I take a deep breath and turn to go. Then I stop and turn back. ‘Just one thing I’m confused about. I thought Hector was still at the hospital, going straight to the care home?’
He looks at me steadily. ‘Well, some of us think he would be better off at home. He loves this place.’
‘Well...’ I let out a slow breath, ‘I think that’s probably for the professionals to decide, don’t you?’
‘Like I say, someone needed to do what was best for him. He wanted to come home. You weren’t here. I was. Someone has to look out for him.’
Suddenly I can’t hold my tongue any longer. I’m not going to be made to feel guilty about a man I’ve never met, and who has never made any effort to contact me.
‘Well, clearly you’re not doing a very good job, otherwise he wouldn’t have been wandering around in his dressing gown and fallen!’ I say, then bite my lip. This isn’t my business. I’m not involved. ‘Sorry, ignore me. Very tired. Not much sleep. Bad throat. Thought there were...’ I stop short of mentioning the ghosts. ‘I should just go. I’ll get my bag.’ I turn to leave.
‘Ah, there you are, Hector! You made it down the stairs. I’d’ve helped!’
I turn to see an old man in worn but clean pyjamas, a nightcap, and a threadbare brocade dressing gown with a cord tie barely done up around his middle. He’s standing in the doorway, waving a crutch in our direction.
‘I’ve buggered my bloody foot. Cannae quite remember how. But must have been a bloody good ceilidh! Ha!’
I stand and stare. I have no idea what to say or do. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this man does have a look of my father about him, and yet he is a complete stranger. I want to leave. This is just too strange and I’m feeling all stirred up inside. I look at my dad’s father. He clearly has no idea who I am.
‘I...Nice to meet you.’ My words tumble over each other and my voice is huskier than ever. I can feel Lachlan watching me, and my cheeks flush. I look at the old man, taking in one last snapshot of what my dad might have looked like if he’d got to grow old. Then I remind myself that just because this man looks like my dad, it doesn’t mean heismy dad. He’s nothing like my dad from what I know. I look back at Lachlan.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ I say, and head for the door as the old man starts opening cupboards and pulling out papers and small pots of dried herbs and spices as if he’s looking for something very specific.
‘I’ll get us some breakfast in a minute, Hector. There’s some bread from yesterday. I’ll toast it once I can get the Rayburn lit again. If your foot hurts, there’s a wheelchair in the front room.’
‘A wheelchair?’ Hector carries on taking pots out of the cupboards.
‘He does this every day,’ says Lachlan with a gentle sigh. ‘Yes, a wheelchair. For your foot.’
‘Who’s hurt their foot?’
Lachlan smiles and shakes his head.
‘I’d go if you’re going; this could take a while,’ he says to me, and I turn and hurry up the stairs.
I gather my things together, then come back down the wooden staircase and stand in the hall. I could just leave, but somehow it feels wrong. I can hear voices from the kitchen. I should go back and say goodbye, wish them both well. We won’t be meeting again, so it seems the least I can do.
Lachlan is putting a big cast-iron pan on top of the range.
‘Bloomin’ thing,’ he says, looking to see if the Rayburn is still alight. ‘More fickle than—’
‘I just came to say goodbye,’ I croak.
He stands and turns to look at me.
‘Ah, Mairead, there you are!’ The old man is waving his crutch in my direction. ‘Hurt m’foot! Cannae remember how! Must have been a great do. What happened?’
‘Oh, I’m not Mairead.’ My throat is so tight I can barely hear myself.
‘Wassat? Speak up, woman. I can hardly hear you!’ he barks, then limps to the big carver chair at the end of the long kitchen table and collapses on to its flattened cushions with an ‘Oomph!’ The cupboards have clearly been turned out, and there are papers and clear glass jars everywhere.
I clear my throat. Just what the doctor told me not to do!
‘I said, I’m not Mairead.’
‘What?’ He looks bemused. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman!’
