Page 24 of Coming Home to Winter Island
‘So, you’ll join me in a toast?’
‘A toast? What to?’
‘To Hector’s best interests.’ He looks at me steadily and I hold his gaze.
‘Of course,’ I reply with relief. Thank goodness! Maybe now he’s realised he needs to go.
‘Good,’ he says, and stands, casting a dark shadow over me.
‘Have you got glasses in that bag of yours too?’ I attempt friendly. If he’s going, I can stop worrying. I’ll ask Mrs Broidy to come in and look after Hector until the house is sold and he can move to the care home. My work here is done! I think with a smile. Nevertheless, something scratches at the back of my brain. Is it regret? Regret that I never got to know this place, that it was never a part of my growing up? But it wasn’t, and that’s that. I slam the lid down tightly on that thought and look back at Lachlan. I’ll happily drink to moving on.
‘No, no glasses,’ he says.
‘Then how are we going to drink, from the bottle?’
‘We’re not all heathens here, y’know!’ he practically growls from the corner of his mouth, and I realise how fragile our truce is. I mustn’t do or say anything that will make him change his mind about leaving.
‘Hold your hands out and shut your eyes,’ he says. We look at each other with mutual mistrust. ‘Hold your hands out,’ he repeats. ‘Or are you scared of what you might find?’ That teasing smile appears again at the corner of his mouth.
‘I’m not scared,’ I say, feeling terrified. Terrified of what will happen if I can’t leave this island and find my voice again. I shut my eyes tightly and hold out my hands. Nothing happens.
‘Hurry up,’ I say, opening my eyes slightly and seeing him reaching into his canvas bag. He turns back to me and I shut my eyes again, keen to get this over and done with.
‘Okay. Here. Happy Christmas,’ he says in his thick accent, like a low growl.
Suddenly there is something cold and wet in my hands. My eyes spring open and I shriek, but once again no sound comes out. I look down at the round closed shell that I’m holding.
‘What is it?’ I squint at it.
‘Breakfast!’ He smiles and pulls out more of the shells from his bag. ‘Or maybe brunch where you come from.’ He smiles more widely, his eyes dancing, then looks up at the sky. ‘Actually, lunch!’ He nods. ‘You see, I wasn’t stealing the family silver after all!’ It’s as if he’s read my mind.
I look down at the shell in my hands.
‘What’s the matter? You’ve never had an oyster before?’ He gives a deep laugh.
‘An oyster! Of course! Of course I have,’ although I’m racking my brains to remember when. It’s not a regular ingredient in my fridge. To be honest, I live off Super Noodles, cereal and toast most of the time. ‘I thought we were having a drink?’ I say.
‘We are,’ he says, and smiles. ‘Here.’ He pulls out a knife from his bag, and just for a second I blanch. ‘Tool of the trade,’ he says to reassure me, and takes the oyster gently from my hand. I watch as he places the point of the knife beside the hinge of the closed shell, pushes it in, gives it a twist and slides the blade around. Then slowly he prises the shell apart, revealing the flesh inside.
He hands it back to me, then opens another one expertly and tips it straight into his mouth, shutting his eyes, clearly luxuriating in the flavours. I follow, relishing the feel of the soft flesh, letting the flavours of a wild, windswept shingle shoreline imprint themselves on my memory. When I swallow and slowly open my eyes, he’s opening the gin.
‘And now, we drink.’
‘From what?’ I look around.
‘From these,’ he says, and holds up his oyster shell.
‘And are they from the sea round here?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘I picked them this morning. As fresh as you can get.’
He fills both our shells, then raises his in a toast.
‘To Hector and a happy Christmas.’
‘To Hector,’ I echo, and tip the shell up into my mouth again. This time I get a different taste sensation, but it’s still as if I’m drinking in the scenery around me. The gin tastes of the sharp, fresh seashore, of the crisp wind, the clear salt air.
‘Wow!’ I say, and look at the shell.
