Page 23 of Coming Home to Winter Island
‘Because...’ he pauses and looks at me once more, ‘because I made a promise to your grandfather.’ He emphasises the final word, and somehow it stings all over again.
‘Look, I don’t know you or what you’re doing here—’
He cuts across me. ‘You wouldn’t. You’ve never been here before.’
I eye the bag suspiciously again.
‘You want to know what’s in the bag? Want to know if I’m ripping your grandfather off? Taking your inheritance?’ He laughs, and I’m rattled even more. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Look, I’m not here for an inheritance. This place means nothing to me...It’s not mine to inherit. What’s important is using it to get Hector the care he needs. And judging by what I’ve seen, he does need care. As does the house!’
‘He needs to be in the place he’s happiest, where his memories are. Where he feels safe,’ he comes back at me sharply.
‘And how do you...’ I stop myself.
‘Look, Ruby, I saw how scared he was in hospital when I collected him and brought him home. Like I said, we have an arrangement and I intend to keep my promise to him. Loyalty means something to people around here.’
He bends down and takes a box of matches from the canvas bag, then strikes one and puts it to the pyramid of sticks, slowly feeding on more of the wood that he’s collected. As I stand and watch, the flames begin to take hold.
‘Sit down,’ he says, pointing to a large log next to the fire.
‘I’m fine. I just came to talk to you, to find out when you’re going to leave. I need to make plans.’
‘Sit down. It is Christmas Day, after all. Isn’t this when we’re supposed to call a truce for just one day?’ He looks at me with his flecked green eyes, and I sit tentatively on the log and then look out across the water, letting the wind fill my head as I breathe in deeply. I tie my scarf a little tighter in an attempt to protect my damaged vocal cords.
He carries on feeding the fire. His hair is wet and even curlier than usual, like bouncy spirals, and I wonder if he’s been swimming. Mad if he has! But then this guy clearly doesn’t abide by the rules most of us do.
He points to the bag beside me with that mischievous glint in his eyes again. ‘Grab what’s inside,’ he says as the flames lick higher and higher and the waves rhythmically lap the shingle-covered shore.
I look at him suspiciously. ‘What’s in there?’ I ask. Is this him confessing to taking valuables from the house? Is he going to ask if I want a cut in exchange for my silence, or even offer me a chance to get in on the action? I don’t move.
‘Just do it!’ He throws a hand up. ‘For heaven’s sake, can’t a man do something civil on Christmas morning?’ he growls, exasperated.He’sexasperated?! I’m supposed to be waking up today in Tenerife, watching the sunrise from my yoga mat and getting my life back on track!
‘Phffff!’ I let out a long sigh, reach into the bag and put my hand on something cold and damp. I pull it out and hold it up. It’s a bottle containing a clear liquid, and against the backdrop of the water, the glass seems to have a blue and green hue. I run my hands over it. It’s patterned like the waves of the sea, and has an exquisite painting of the island on the front. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, staring at it and then at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Gin,’ he says flatly, and then sits on a log on the opposite side of the fire.
I raise an eyebrow, surprised. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
‘Will you have a drink with me?’
I think about this.
‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’
‘It’s Christmas. Everything is different at Christmas.’
Not for me, I think. It’s much like any other day. Although waking up in Tenerife would definitely have been different.
‘How come there’s no tree in the house or anything?’ I ask, feeling we’ve taken a tiny step closer to being civil to each other.
‘Hector...well, as you’ve seen, he can get confused and anxious. He lives in the past and becomes upset if there’s change.’
I think about the incident with the carols on the radio that morning and feel a stab of guilt.
‘It’s usually best to go with it, wherever he is in the moment. Contradicting what he’s thinking can just cause him stress when he realises he can’t remember things.’
He puts out his hand for the bottle. I reach out and pass it to him. He holds it up and narrows his eyes thoughtfully, holding it almost reverently.
