Page 30 of Coming Home to Winter Island
‘What about you?’ I try and clear my throat, and take a sip of wine, which seems to help. ‘How come you’re here, foraging? Haven’t you ever wanted to leave the island?’
‘I did,’ he says flatly. ‘Thought there was something better out there.’
‘And was there?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says flatly. ‘So I came back and realised everything I’d ever wanted had been here all along.’ He sighs heavily. ‘But I’d left it too late.’
‘Too late?’ I frown.
‘Shh!’ he says, putting a finger to his lips. ‘Voice rest, remember, no talking.’
I ignore him. ‘But now that the house is going on the market, you can go wherever you like. Surely you must have plans.’
‘No, nothing like that. There’s an old expression: if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans!’ He gives a derisory laugh. ‘I thought I had a plan, but let’s just say it took me a while to make it, and once I had, like I said, it was too late.’ He nods, clearly shutting down the conversation.
I don’t ask any more, realising he’s diclosed all he wants to on the subject.
We wade through piles and piles of paper: magazines, knitting patterns, bills, and shopping lists written on the back of envelopes. Every now and again I think I’ve found a recipe, but I haven’t. Eventually the pages are neatly stacked and the rubbish is burning brightly in the grate.
‘Ah! There you are, Mairead.’ Hector comes into the room and sits on the sofa, next to the dog. The other dog follows him in and climbs up stiffly to sit on his other side.
‘Here, Hector.’ Lachlan hands him some of the photographs. He takes them, smiles and nods, but his face shows no sign of recognition. Eventually he falls asleep and snores, sounding exactly like the dogs.
Lachlan stands up stiffly and the dogs follow him with their eyes, looking hopeful that it might be dinner time.
‘I’ll get the food sorted. Hector won’t want to eat too late.’
‘Great. Can I help? I’m good with a microwave,’ I try and joke.
‘It’s venison.’
‘Venison?’ I say. He nods. It’s a long way from microwaved takeaway curry. I suddenly remember how Dad always tried to get a piece of venison at Christmas. The butcher would order it in especially.
I pick up the photographs that have fallen from Hector’s hand onto the floor. I look down at a picture of my father and his parents standing on the shore, the wind making their hair stand on end. And another of Dad standing next to a new bike, beaming widely. There are an awful lot of memories buried away in the house, by the looks of it. But that’s the past. I need to move on, I tell myself. Tomorrow we have to find that recipe. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand being in this big, cold house, or how much longer the healing centre will hold my place. And I don’t know whether I will be able to keep my curiosity about my dad’s family at bay for much longer. The last thing I want is to start getting emotionally involved; that will only make everything harder.
Chapter Fifteen
I start the following day by texting Joe, who replies that I need to sort myself out.You really need to think about where your loyalties lie, Rubes. I can only keep things going here for so long. The band are talking. They want to know when you’re coming back...if you’re coming back.
There’s a message too from Jess, checking that I’m okay and saying she misses me, that the band are missing me! She sends it with lots of smiley faces, but I’m worried. I send a silly GIF to the band group chat: a monkey with its hand over its mouth and a surprised look on its face that makes me smile, letting them all know I’m fine and resting my voice. But despite their messages back, laughing and sending me more GIFs, hoping that I get well soon, I can’t stop thinking about what Joe has said. What if Jess isn’t telling me the whole truth, trying not to worry me? What if the band think I’m not coming back? I think about Lulu standing in the spotlight, standing in my place. I have to get my voice back.
I throw myself into looking for the bloody elusive recipe. There are more cupboards full of papers, boxes of books and toys. Nothing in this house has ever been thrown away, by the looks of it. Who were these toys saved for? A tiny voice at the back of my mind wonders whether they were meant for me. Or is that just wishful thinking? I push the thoughts away.
I pull out another box and open it. Inside are layers of aged yellow tissue paper, and beneath them a beautiful crocheted shawl, along with a pile of knitted baby clothes: cardigans, hats, bootees, all in pristine condition, as though they’ve never been worn.
‘Ah, Mairead!’ Hector sees me with a box of toys from under the stairs. ‘Good thought. I’ll get the bike out of the shed too. Campbell always loved that bike.’ I suddenly catch my breath and hold it. Campbell was my dad. ‘Bet the wee one will too!’ Tears spring to my eyes. He thinks he’s getting a visit from his son and...me, I realise. Maybe that means he did care, or at the very least that he thought about me. He thinks we’re coming for a visit!
‘Oh, I’m not...’ I spot Lachlan down the hall and remember him telling me it’s best to go with the flow so as not to cause Hector confusion or distress. He’s living in the past, and from what I can see, it looks like quite a nice place to be right now. He’s obviously very excited about the prospect of a visit from me and Dad. Why spoil that?
‘Yes, I bet she’ll like the bike,’ I say. She would have done too, I think, and brush away the tears that linger there. She’d’ve loved to ride the bike and play with the toys here.
When I glance up to where Lachlan was standing, he’s gone. I look down again at the unworn baby clothes. Were these for me? I lift a tiny hat out of the box and hold it to my cheek, feeling the soft wool against my skin, breathing in the slightly musty smell, the smell of this place, Teach Mhor. Then I place it back in the tissue paper and put the lid on the box, wondering what on earth to do with the clothes. I can’t just throw them out, but I can’t take them with me. They obviously meant something to someone; maybe my grandmother, I let myself think. I put them back where I found them for the time being.
Behind the box of toys is a grey case. I reach in, wondering if it’s what I think it is. I pull it out. It is! It’s a record player. And there behind it is a box of vinyl records. I carry the box into the kitchen and put it on the table, my heart starting to lift at the sight of the beautiful covers. I want to sit and look through them, but I really have to find this recipe first. There are some more photographs tucked into the box, of the buildings behind the house, with workers and big drums beside them, and the shoreline and bay beyond. I leave them on the big scrubbed pine table, worn from years of people sitting around it: my family I think...where my family sat.
Lachlan walks into the kitchen.
I put my hands on my hips and try to pretend I wasn’t thinking about a life I never knew, and say with more tetchiness than I mean to, ‘Where have you been?’
