Page 36 of Coming Home to Winter Island
‘Lovely day out, Mairead,’ Hector says over his shoulder.
‘Yes, Hector. Lovely day out.’ I sigh. Not only are we back where we started, but we don’t even have the gin to help us out any more, and it’s all my fault!
Chapter Nineteen
I sit at the kitchen table with the pen and pad I found in the dresser, chewing the end of the pen as I try to remember the list of basic ingredients Hector rattled off when he thought I was his PA, Miss Rubes. Joe has texted me several times wanting to know what’s happening. I’ll ring him later. Tell him I’ve decided we shouldn’t wait to get engaged. But first I have to try and remember this recipe, try and help put things right here.
Lachlan has taken Hector upstairs. He was leaning heavily on both of us when we came in, and I’m guessing his ankle is playing up. I couldn’t feel any worse if I tried. This is all my fault, and to top it off, the last bottle of gin has gone. Now we have no hope of guessing the recipe. I write down what I can remember, then throw down my pen and hold my head in my hands. If it hadn’t been for Lachlan, I find myself thinking, tonight could have turned out very differently. My phone beeps again. I know it’s Joe, but I ignore it.
‘He’s in bed.’ Lachlan’s deep voice jolts me and I lift my head from my hands and the pit of despair. ‘He’s a bit confused, but he’s had a bath of sorts. Takes ages for the water to heat up here.’ He drags the big cream kettle onto the hot plate. ‘I’ll take him up a hot-water bottle and a cup of tea.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I croak, going to stand.
‘Sounds like you could do with a hot drink yourself,’ he says, taking down a couple of chunky mugs from the hooks at the side of the range.
‘I’ll take Hector’s up first,’ I say, coming to stand beside him. He smells of outside; of the sharp, fresh, salty air. Not like back at home, where outside is full of fumes. I swallow, my throat tight. ‘I’m sorry about today.’ I look up at him slowly, feeling strangely shivery, even though I’m out of the cold. ‘And thank you for what you did out there this evening. I...’ My voice gives up on me. I want to tell him so much more. I want to thank him for what he’s clearly been doing here for a very long time. But also to tell him he needs to be able to get on with his own life. He shouldn’t have to wait here, looking after someone who isn’t actually a relative. Hector’smyrelative, I think, but a stranger too. And judging from the illness, it looks like it will stay that way. My chance to get to know my grandfather has been and gone.
‘No problem,’ he says, and turns back to the kettle, which is slowly coming to a whistling, steaming boil.
He makes tea for Hector, and a hot-water bottle, and hands them to me.
‘You sure about this? I mean, you’re just here to sign the papers and move on, remember?’ he says with a twinkle in his eye, and I wince but take it. Iwasjust here for that. I didn’t expect to get emotionally involved. Of course I care; Hector’s an old man who could’ve died tonight thanks to my stupidity...still could! I think with a twist in my stomach. I press the hot-water bottle to it for comfort. But also, I realise, I want to know more before it’s too late – about Hector, about this place, about my dad growing up here. And it’s only Lachlan who can help me with that now.
‘I’m sure,’ I say with a nod, and turn to the door, still holding the hot-water bottle to my fizzing tummy. The dogs are in the kitchen now, getting treats from Lachlan, and as I walk out into the wide hall, I can hear him telling them what a great job they did tonight.
I climb the stairs slowly, thinking about the generations who have walked up these stairs before me, and wondering what happened. When did the clocks stop here? Because that’s how it feels. Like the clocks just ground to a halt one day and the heart of the house stopped beating. Was it when Hector’s wife, my grandmother, died? Or was it before then, when my father left? I think about the baby clothes, knitted but never worn, and the joy on Hector’s face when he talked about getting the bike out of the shed for the ‘wee one’ to play on; clearly my dad’s old bike, the one in the picture where he had such a look of pride and joy on his face. Before it all changed.
I stand outside Hector’s bedroom door and look at the chips in the paintwork, at the layers of paint – years’ worth, generations’ worth. Layers and layers beneath the outer coat. I wonder what will happen to it all once the house sells. Everything will be stripped back and any trace of the past will be gone for good. I knock on the door, but there’s no reply. I push it open gently, feeling the warmth of the hot-water bottle against me still, tucked into the crook of my arm. Then suddenly the dogs arrive and shove past me, wandering into the room, settling on the blankets on the floor by the bed. Clearly their usual place.
Hector is asleep. I don’t want to disturb him. I put the tea by his bed, just in case he wakes and wants it, and then, feeling a little intrusive but doing it anyway, I slip the hot-water bottle into the bottom of the bed and tuck the covers in. As I turn to leave, I take a moment to study him. My father told me Hector was a bully, which is why we never had anything to do with him. Well he’s not now, I think. He’s just an old man. An old man with no family around him. And I wonder briefly who will be there when I’m old, when my singing days are well and truly over, if they’re not already. Will it be Joe? When all the thoughts of recording contracts and record deals are done, will it be just Joe and me, sharing a life together? What will that life be like? And what are the memories I’ll hold dear? I think of Hector tonight, remembering the good times, remembering how important the waterfall and the stream have been to his life on the island. What will I remember of my own life? Will it be the day we finally got a recording contract? Or something else? I think again about the seals bobbing up in the water, and drinking gin from oyster shells on a beach on Christmas morning.
I turn to move away and creep out of the room.
‘Thank you, Mairead. Goodnight,’ Hector says, not opening his eyes.
‘Goodnight, Hector,’ I say, glad he’s safe and well and home.
Downstairs, Lachlan has put out hot drinks and a plate of cheese and oatcakes for us, home-made by the looks it.
‘Hot toddy.’ He hands me a mug. ‘You look, and sound, like you need one.’
‘Thank you,’ I croak, and sit at the table. In my head I can hear Joe telling me I shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, it’ll have an effect on my voice. He read it on the internet. I ignore him and breathe in the hot, alcoholic steam, feeling its restorative powers already.
Lachlan sits down opposite me. ‘Here, tuck in,’ he says, and hands me a knife and plate. ‘Nothing fancy. I expect you’re used to much more glamour as a singer, staying in fancy hotels.’
I shake my head and manage a tired smile. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. I might dream of fancy hotels, but that’s all it is until I get that record contract. If...’ I add, and sip the hot drink. ‘Whoa! That’s powerful!’
‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’ He laughs, a deep, relaxed laugh now that Hector is safe and all is well at Teach Mhor.
The lighting in the kitchen consists of a dim yellow glow over the table. On the wooden board in front of me is a soft white cheese wrapped in nettles, along with the home-made oatcakes and a jar of deep brown chutney.
‘Goat’s cheese,’ he says with a smile. ‘From the goats you saw this evening.’
‘The ones that arrived here on the island after the shipwreck,’ I say, my smile widening.
‘Exactly the same,’ he says, popping a piece of oatcake topped with cheese and chutney into his mouth.
I sip the hot toddy and am unsure whether to grimace or let myself just wallow in its strength. I take another sip and go for the second option. Joe’s disapproving voice in my head is practically a whisper now, like he’s in another room and I’m shutting the door.
