Page 16 of Coming Home to Winter Island
Dinner is indeed at seven. And it’s absolutely delicious. The smell draws me from the top of the stairs. The big scrubbed pine table in the kitchen is laid at one end, for three. The dogs are happily eating from their bowls in the far corner of the high-ceilinged room, heads down, tails up. Lachlan is ladling the glorious-smelling stew into bowls.
I stand at the door, feeling uncomfortable. On the one hand this man is refusing to leave and is definitely up to something in that shed. On the other hand, here he is creating one of the most welcoming sights and smells I’ve ever come across.
‘Come in if you’re staying, sit yourself down. I’ll fetch Hector.’ He turns to look at me. ‘Unless you want to?’ He raises a challenging eyebrow.
‘I...’ I’m still very unsure about how to speak to Hector. I haven’t met anyone with dementia before, and to be honest, and to my shame, I feel nervous. Nervous of saying the wrong thing, nervous that he might work out who I am and be angry at me being here. I feel ridiculous for even thinking these things, but this is all uncharted waters for me right now and I’m confused. I have no idea why I’m here or what to do for the best. ‘Look, I can get something to eat in the village, at the pub,’ I say. Sitting down to eat with this man seems too weird. But my stomach rumbles treacherously.
‘Up to you, but you’ll find the chef’s already left.’
‘Left? Left to go where?’
‘Here!’ He gives a little laugh and looks at me. ‘I’m the chef. I cook and deliver dishes to the café and the pub. And this,’ he ladles stew into the third bowl, ‘is the dish of the day. So you can either eat it here, or pay for it at the pub. The locals will certainly be keen to get to know you.’
He’s right. The last thing I want is for people to know who I am. They’ll all be jumping to the same conclusion as Lachlan – that I’ve turned up to see what I can get out of Hector – and that couldn’t be further from the truth. I don’t want anything. It was the solicitor who contacted me, and I’m still trying to work out why. He didn’t need my signature, and if he’s known Hector all his life, then he knows that I’ve never had anything to do with my grandfather.
‘So...you’re running a business from here?’ I look around at the big cast-iron pots by the sink and the crumb-scattered board with a freshly cut loaf of dark brown bread that he’s put on the table next to the butter dish.
‘I suppose you could call it that. I catch it, pick it, cook it and deliver it.’
So that’s it, I think. ‘Is that why you insist on staying here, for the facilities?’
He puts the bowls on the table. ‘No, I could do this from anywhere. It just makes it easier if I’m here. To be honest, there are a lot better cookers than this old thing!’ He nods at the range with a smile. ‘I’ll get Hector. Sit if you’re staying,’ and he walks out of the kitchen.
I look at the stew: tender meat surrounded by soft white potatoes, deep orange carrot chunks and dark green cabbage, sitting in a pool of glistening gravy. My stomach barks at me to sit too. The smell rises from the bowl in front of me and my mouth literally begins to water as the aroma wraps around me, warming me, reminding me of one of my dad’s hugs. He was never great with words, but his hugs were amazing. As was his food. A lot like this, I think, looking down at the bowl. I pick up my spoon and, unable to wait, dip it in, lift it to my lips and taste...I shut my eyes, imagining myself back there at our little kitchen table. Just him and me. Safe and happy.
‘Started already?’ Lachlan makes me jump as he comes back into the kitchen, and I drop my spoon with a clatter.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t...’ I flush with embarrassment.
‘It’s fine!’ he laughs. ‘Glad you like it. It’s one of Hector’s favourites.’
Hector comes into the kitchen, the cord from his dressing gown hanging low. ‘Ah...rabbit stew,’ he says, and sits and starts to eat.
‘Rabbit?’ I ask, a little more high-pitched than I meant.
‘We like to use what we have here on the island. And we have plenty of rabbits,’ says Lachlan. He sits down and hands around the board of bread. ‘Tuck in. There’s plenty more.’
We eat in relative silence, just the clatter of spoons against the bowls and the contented mopping of juices with chunks of bread. And for a moment I can envisage my dad as a boy, sitting in this big kitchen devouring a Sunday roast. I want to ask Hector about him, but know it’s like an itch waiting to be scratched. Once I start, I might not stop, and it’ll only make the itch worse in the long run.
‘So,’ Lachlan says finally when we’ve finished and he stands to clear away the plates. ‘You know what it is that I do; what doyoudo, back on the mainland?’ He stacks the bowls by the sink.
‘Oh, I’m a singer,’ I say, in a voice that doesn’t even sound like my own.
‘A singer?’ he says. ‘Me, I’m tone deaf.’ He begins to fill the sink with water from the big kettle on the range. ‘Can’t sing a note.’
I put my hand to my throat. Nor can I right now, I think, and I suddenly wonder if I ever will again. I remind myself not to get too comfortable here, because I need to get off Winter Island and on to Tenerife as soon as possible.
Chapter Nine
When I wake the following morning, I text Joe, telling him I’m hoping to be on my way today and wishing the band luck with the gig tonight. Every bit of me longs to be there with them. I can just picture Lulu stepping up to take my place, and although I know she’ll do a great job, I wish she wasn’t ten years younger than me with a determination to match mine.
I look at my phone. There’s no reply. But then there wouldn’t be. It’s far too early for Joe. I send a good-luck GIF to the group chat and a text to Jess anyway, and she does reply.
Hey, what’s happening? Where are you? You’re not in Tenerife?! We’ve been worried.
Stuck in Scotland on an island called the Isle of Geamhradh,otherwise known as Winter Island!I type back.
Why? Why aren’t you at the voice retreat?
