Page 3 of Coming Home to Winter Island
I text Joe and Jess and tell them my plan.
Go!Jess replies.Go and relax. You never relax any more!
She could be right. I don’t have time to relax, what with juggling two part-time jobs, my evening gigs with the band and my solo night at the piano bar. I text both my bosses and tell them I’m away. Neither is happy, to say the least.
Do it!Joe insists.Doctor’s orders!
You have to, types Jess.For the band’s sake as well as yours!
She’s right. This isn’t just about me. I blew last night for all of us. I need to put this right. Tenerife, here I come!
I send a sad-face emoji to the band group chat and tell them I’ll be back soon, then scroll through all their messages hoping I’m okay and sending their love. Even Moira tells me that they’re missing me already, and to get well soon and get back to where I belong on the stage with them, part of the family, which is way too mushy for her and makes me smile in a teary way.
As I go to put my phone on the seat next to me and start the van, the screen comes to life with another message. It’s going to be either Joe or Jess, I think. I could leave it until I get home. On the other hand, it could be the voice retreat, wanting to confirm my arrival times. I feel a little spring of excitement in my tummy. Maybe this could all be fine after all.
I pick the phone up and read the message, then reread it just to check I’ve got it right. What on earth...?!
Chapter Two
Forty-eight hours later, I’m about as far away from an expensive vocal retreat in sunny Tenerife as I could get. The wind is throwing itself at the sides of the boat and I’m swaying around as though I’m in a tub on the ocean... Oh, wait! Iamin a tub on the ocean and have been for an hour and forty minutes, having flown in to Glasgow airport from Bristol first thing this morning. I came as soon as I could. The sooner I get this sorted out, the better. According to the skipper, Gordan, we still have another half an hour to go, although it could be longer with the weather like this. We’ve already been delayed leaving, and at this rate, it’ll be dark by the time I arrive. A wave slaps itself against the side of the boat and I clutch my sick bag even tighter, hoping, really hoping, I won’t have to use it.
‘Would you like some tea or cake? There’s some shortbread, made on the island,’ says the red-haired, pale-faced young woman clutching the back of the seat where I’m sitting, on my own. No one else is making this trip today, and looking out of the window at the dark sky and sea, I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t be if I didn’t have to. I try to shake my head, but any movement is tricky at the moment. She smiles, almost gratefully, I think. ‘Give me a shout if you do,’ she says, and moves slowly away, bending her knees, moving with the sway of the boat and back to the galley behind the serving hatch.
I look back out of the window as we dip and roll and wonder what on earth I’m doing here. I try and text Joe to let him know I’m on the ferry, but my message won’t send. I know he’ll be worried. He’s been texting me since I left this morning. He’s as baffled as I am about why I’m here.
I think back to the telephone conversation I had as I was about to leave the doctor’s surgery yesterday. I’d had a message through my Facebook page asking me to ring a number. At first I thought it was a scam, but there was something in the message that rang true. They’d used my full surname for starters, and said they needed to speak to me urgently about Hector Macquarrie. That’s my father’s father’s name. I dialled the number carefully, wondering what it was all about. I don’t use my full surname, and I’ve certainly never had any contact with any of the Macquarries. I don’t know anything about them, other than that my father came from an island in Scotland.
The phone was answered by a man with a strong yet soft Scottish accent. ‘Gillies Solicitors. Fraser Gillies speaking.’
‘Um, my name is Ruby Mac,’ I croaked. So much for saving my voice! ‘I’m not sure if it’s you who sent the message, but I don’t think you’ve got the right person.’
‘Ah,’ he said, and paused. ‘Ruby Macquarrie?’
‘Well, I don’t use—’
‘Your father was Campbell Macquarrie?’
‘Yes,’ I said cautiously.
‘And your grandfather is Hector Macquarrie?’
‘Well, I...’ I hesitated. ‘Um, I suppose.’
‘Is that a yes?’ he said, sounding out every letter in the yes, making it a much longer word than it actually was, the S sitting on the end of his tongue.
‘Um, yes,’ I said. It’s true, I suppose, even if I’ve never met him.
‘Good. I need you to visit your grandfather’s home on the Isle of Geamhradh – Winter Island. Your grandfather is in hospital. He’s been unwell for some time and this recent fall is a worry.’
I felt like I was in a parallel universe. I don’t have a grandfather. Never have. It was always just me, Dad and Mum, even though they were separated.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said as politely as I could, ‘but I’ve never met—’
‘As I say, your grandfather is unwell; dementia is a cruel thing. And as his next of kin and only relative,’ he said slowly and deliberately, ‘you’ll want to be involved in any plans we make now to get him the care he needs, which may not necessarily be in his own home.’
‘I see,’ I said, letting the information sink in. How bizarre, I thought, that someone you’ve never met can be in charge of your future care, just because they’re your next of kin. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to pay for it. I don’t have any money! ‘I’m sure whatever you plan will be fine.’
‘There is a nursing home,’ he continued in a slow, almost rhythmic voice, ‘where there’s a room with a view. Recently vacated, sadly. But of course the house would have to be sold to finance it.’
