Page 39 of Coming Home to Winter Island
He raises an eyebrow; clearly he has no idea what this has to do with the gin.
‘So he crowdfunded his next album. Put on a special event for fans who bought it upfront.’
‘How does that work then?’
‘Crowdfunding? You build the business up with the help of investors. In our case, gin drinkers. You offer them something special in return for putting up money. For pre-ordering.’
He looks at me thoughtfully.
‘I mean, what do you need money for?’ I ask.
‘Well, ingredients, running costs, bottles and packaging. In the past, the bottles were made on the island. A family-run business. But they went under when the gin business did. Isla used to work with her father hand-painting them, but she runs the ferry with her husband now.’
‘Oh, I’ve met Isla,’ I say, thinking about how she practically blanked me in the shop and on Christmas Day. I thought she was lovely when I first met her. I wonder what changed. ‘But essentially we need enough money to put down a deposit on the place in the care home, just until the house is sold. Agreed?’
‘So you say,’ he says. I look at him, and this time it’s me who raises an eyebrow. ‘Okay,’ he says reluctantly. ‘So...this crowdfunding. How does it work?’
‘I’ll get my laptop.’ I go to stand, and realise the whisky was indeed strong. But when I return with the laptop and put it on the kitchen table and we start to look up crowdfunding pages, Lachlan sploshes more whisky into the mugs and I don’t complain, and the deal is sealed.
By the end of the evening, the whisky has taken control of my lips and my legs and indeed my voice too, which seems positively perky. It’s clearly time for bed. Feeling happier than I have in a long time, I say goodnight to Lachlan and make my way up to my room, where I find the fire lit and a hot-water bottle in my bed. I photograph the fire and send it to the band, who all want to know where I am and what’s happening. I send a smiley face, then look back at the flames, which seem to be warming me from the inside out. It could only have been Lachlan!
Chapter Twenty
The next morning, I think back to the phone call I had with Joe last night before I went to sleep, and cringe. I was trying to tell him about Hector and the gin and the waterfall, but I have no idea what words actually came out. And something about not letting it all pass us by and that we should get engaged straight away, whether my voice came back or not. I can’t remember his reply. But I don’t remember him cheering for joy. In fact, I seem to remember the call finishing rather abruptly. If only I could remember what I actually said, and what he said, and where he was for that matter. I remember there was loud music.
I ring him again.
‘It’s very early, Rubes! Especially after your late call last night!’ he says grumpily. ‘You’re supposed to be on voice rest, for goodness’ sake, not going out and getting hammered.’
‘I know, I know,’ I croak, and my head bangs.
‘I mean, I’ve been working hard here to make the best of this situation. I’ve managed to get a couple of women’s magazines and a Sunday supplement interested in your story: “My road to recovery”, covering your time at the vocal retreat. If it works, it’ll definitely help get a label interested again. I’m going to try and get you on some medical phone-ins. And it would be good to book a big gig. A comeback event to really give the story some weight.’
Joe’s enthusiasm is great, but right now all I can think of is tea. A big mug of tea.
‘Won’t be long before you’re back. Once we get that contract signed, we can start living life like we planned it. We’ll be in that plush apartment. I can be the house husband and bring up the kids while you do what you’re good at. Just like we talked about.’ There’s no mention of my suggestion that we get engaged and find somewhere to live straight away, with or without the contract, and I decide it’s best not to bring it up again. ‘Just need you to get to that retreat,’ he says firmly. ‘I mean, like I say, I can’t do it all, and I’m doing this for us, Rubes. I want to give up working at the office, be your backup team. Maybe take on a few select clients, but nothing that will interfere with what you do. But we need to strike while there’s still interest in the band.
‘Surely you’ve done what you need to do there by now? You don’t even know this man,’ and just for a moment I wonder if he’s talking about Lachlan or Hector. ‘He’s not part of your life. It’s not like he was there while you were growing up. You don’t owe him anything. Look, tie up any loose ends and tell whoever, the solicitor and the carer bloke, that you have to go.’ So I must have told him about Lachlan last night! My cheeks heat up and I have no idea why. ‘It’s down to them to get more help in if they need it, not you!’
I stare out of the window and don’t say anything. I spot a group of deer running across the moorland, and feel a moment of envy for their freedom to roam wherever they like.
‘Okay. Good. Don’t talk. Keep resting your voice. I’m off to work. Message me later when you’re on your way. Love you,’ he says in his usual way, and finishes the call.
I think about Joe’s plans for our future, with him working part time from home so that I’m freed up for recording sessions and going on tour. It’s what I’ve always wanted too. So why, as I look out over the bay and the mountains towards the low golden sunlight emerging on the skyline, am I thinking about nothing other than the big gin still and how crowdfunding actually works and whether the seals are there again this morning? I lift my phone and snap a picture of the view and send it to the band group chat, and then reply to their concerned messages, telling them I’m fine and hoping to be at the retreat really soon.
I pull on my jumper and hat and follow the cooking smells rising up through the house from the kitchen.
‘How’s Hector?’ I ask, my head thumping with each syllable.
‘Alive, and demanding breakfast!’ Lachlan laughs, standing by the open door of the big cream range. He turns up the heat, checking the gauge to see if it’s responding, and then shuts the door firmly, making my head bang. ‘Better than you by the looks of it,’ he adds. His curly hair bobs cheerily as he stirs bright yellow soft scrambled eggs. ‘From the croft down the road,’ he says when he sees me looking. ‘She keeps hens. I swapped her a batch of scones for them. Want some?’
My rumbling stomach and watering mouth tell me I would very much like some. ‘Yes please. They smell delicious,’ and I smile tentatively. At this rate we might even become friends, and my stomach flips happily over and back again at the thought.
He serves up the fluffy eggs beside thick slices of home-made wholemeal bread. I help myself to hand-churned butter from the dish on the table while he takes Hector his breakfast in bed, and I’m suddenly feeling very much better.
‘And you’re sure Hector is okay?’ I ask when he returns, through a mouthful of crunchy brown bread softened by the salty melting butter.
‘He’s fine. Just thought he should rest his foot. He’s happy to stay in bed, which isn’t really like him, but he doesn’t remember a thing about last night.’
