Page 22 of Coming Home to Winter Island
‘He’s...a bit confused,’ I say, and he nods again.
‘It can be a confusing time of year,’ he says thoughtfully.
I look around at the small congregation, which is probably the entire island population. Mrs Broidy is there, but I don’t think now is the time to talk to her.
‘Lovely organ playing, Mrs Broidy,’ Fraser turns to her and she smiles.
‘If only there were more reasons to play it,’ she says sadly. ‘Instead of just Christmas and funerals.’
‘Well, I must go,’ I say. ‘Bye, Fraser, merry Christmas.’
‘Are you sure you won’t join us?’ he asks again.
I shake my head. ‘I’m looking for Lachlan. There are things we need to talk about.’ I raise a knowing eyebrow and he nods. ‘Only trouble is, I’m not sure where else to look for him. I don’t know my way around.’
‘Follow the burn. You can’t get too lost; they all lead back to the sea.’ He smiles.
‘The burn?’ I ask.
‘The stream. Follow the stream, it won’t steer you wrong.’ He smiles again, and his eyes seem to sparkle in the low winter sun. A small child suddenly hugs his legs and he turns away. I look at his family around him, at Fraser lifting his grandchild into the air and the child laughing. The wind makes my eyes sting and burn. At least I think it’s the wind.
As the congregation moves off to the pub, I turn to go.
‘Bye, Isla,’ I call out. ‘Happy Christmas,’ but I don’t think she hears me.
I take one last look at the festive group and just for a second allow myself to wonder what it would feel like to be part of it; like walking into a great big bear hug, I imagine. Singing on stage with the band is the closest I’ve ever come to that kind of communal experience, and right now, I’m not even welcome there. I have no idea where I belong.
My feet seem to have forgotten how to walk, stumbling over each other, as out of place and at a loss as to what to do as I am. Maybe it’s the wellies; I’m not used to them. I need to get back into heels and onto that stage!
I really have no idea where else to look, so decide to head back to the house. Maybe he’s in that big shed by now. As I walk, I look out for deer, and if I wasn’t so cross that Lachlan was holding me up, this would be a really nice way to spend a Christmas morning. I breathe in deeply as the low winter sun creates patterns with the clouds over the yellow and gold moorland, and the stream gushes and hurries towards the sea. I follow it past the big house, across the sand dunes covered in frosty tufts of grass and what looks to be gorse, until there in front of me in the sandy cove is a lone figure. Whilst everyone else was at church, Lachlan was here at the water’s edge, and I wonder why. He seems to be collecting something from the shore. It looks like wood. His hair is being blown up and back off his face. I stand and watch him. He doesn’t notice me. He’s intent on what he’s doing.
The wind whips my hair around too, and I grab hold of it and stuff it into the back of my borrowed coat. I wonder who wore it last. Was it my father’s mother? My paternal grandmother? Then I wonder why that should matter to me. You don’t miss what you haven’t had. I lift my head to the salty sea air and march down towards Lachlan. It’s time to have this out!
‘You still here?’ He looks up at the sound of my footsteps and drops another piece of wood onto the pile he’s already collected.
‘Yes. You?’ I retort, wishing this man didn’t bring out the worst in me. He straightens up. He’s wearing a worn waxed jacket, a scarf tied tightly around his neck, and fingerless gloves much like mine. I look at his canvas bag, which is sitting next to the pile of wood, and he follows my stare, then looks straight back at me with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and a mischievous glint in his eye.
‘It’s Christmas,’ he says enigmatically, then carries on stacking the wood into a pyramid shape. ‘Don’t you have somewhere you should be? Family?’ he says.
‘Don’t you?’ I reply.
‘Everything I need is right here,’ he says with one eyebrow raised. He straightens up and gazes out to the water beyond the cove. I turn and look at the big house, and then back at him.
‘I’m sure,’ I say pointedly.
‘Look,’ he says, waving a stick at me. I take a step back. This man is freeloading off an old man; who knows what he’s capable of? I put my hand on my pocket, checking for my phone and hoping there’s signal if I need it. ‘Everything I need is right here,’ he repeats, pointing with the stick out to sea and around the cove.
‘But you’re living in my...in Hector’s house. Rent free, I presume!’
He takes a deep breath and drops the stick.
‘Hector and I, we have an agreement.’
‘What kind of agreement?’
‘An agreement.’ And then, with a steely look, he adds, ‘And I intend to see it through.’
I find my own eyes narrowing to match his. ‘Because you want to stay here, living in the big hoose.’ It’s a bad imitation, and I cringe at myself and my bad manners.
