Page 25 of Coming Home to Winter Island
‘Wow indeed,’ he says, opening more oysters.
‘This is gin?’ I’ve never drunk gin neat before, or anything as fantastic as this. I never knew it could taste so amazing!
‘Uh huh,’ he says, lining up the oysters on a wide log. ‘Made right here.’
‘Here? On Winter Island?’
‘At the house. Teach Mhor.’ He hands me another oyster.
‘This is made here?’ I remember now that Fraser, the solicitor, said something about a distillery and gin and whisky and mince pies at Christmas time.
He shakes his head. ‘You really don’t know anything about this place, do you?’
‘No, I told you, I’ve never been here before.’
‘Why not?’
I swallow another oyster and look at him. ‘I don’t really know. But I’m not some selfish cow who just abandoned her dad’s father.’
‘Your grandfather,’ he corrects, and tops up our shells with gin.
‘I don’t know him as my grandfather. He and my father never got on, apparently, and so, well, we never met. He didn’t want anything to do with my dad or me after I was born. This was never part of my world,’ I say, holding out my hand as a flock of birds flies past.
Lachlan tips his gin into his mouth. ‘He’s not a bad man,’ he says. ‘He is unwell. But the Hector I know is not a bad man, whatever happened between him and your father.’
I have no idea what to think. According to my dad, his father was a bully and a tyrant and we were better off without him in our lives. I just sort of accepted that. I frown as I process what Lachlan is saying, but it’s just too much right now, and too late.
I change the subject. ‘What is he looking for all the time?’ I ask, as the flames from the fire lick higher and warm my face and hands, while the glorious gin warms me from the inside and makes me feel deliciously refreshed.
‘Something he’s lost,’ says Lachlan, leaning on his knees. ‘Something I’m helping him to find.’ He looks up at me, his eyes lit by the flames. ‘That is, when I’m not foraging.’
I look at him, not quite understanding what he means.
‘I live off the land,’ he explains, raising his oyster shell.
‘Oh, I see.’
He laughs, realising that I probably don’t. ‘I forage for food, which I cook and sell to the shop and the pub. I also run workshops with the school here, teaching the kids to respect our island but also to work with it and live off it responsibly.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I repeat.
‘It’s always been that way out here. But it’s dying out. More and more ready meals are making it to the island!’ He practically growls again.
‘Like the ones in the fridge that you threw out?’
He nods. ‘Mrs Broidy thinks she’s helping out by bringing them in, but Hector doesn’t keep an eye on the eat-by dates. So I try and leave him his dinner every day.’
‘And you made the cheese scones?’
He nods again and pokes the fire. ‘You thought it was Mrs Broidy?’
‘I did. I’m sorry.’ I pick up another oyster and look at it.
‘Mrs Broidy is a dreadful cook!’
‘So Hector said.’
‘The ready meals make her feel as though she’s done something. I tell her not to worry, but it’s her way of looking out for him. We all look out for each other here.’
