Page 43 of Coming Home to Winter Island
Lachlan looks like a caged animal, with his mane of curly hair and his broad shoulders. With his hands behind his back he’s pacing up and down by the big windows, gazing out, and I’m not sure if it’s the garden outside or the island beyond it that he’s hankering after. Hector sits looking at the cup of tea in front of him, and the oatcake turning to soggy mush in the slops in his saucer.
‘It’s very hot in here, isn’t it?’ I say to Flora.
‘Like summer all the year round,’ she says with her wide, happy smile, and I can’t help but like her. ‘Our residents prefer it that way. Nothing worse than feeling cold.’
Hector won’t miss the draughts at Teach Mhor, I think. And then I think about the big, welcoming open fires there, and I know he will miss those.
‘We have cinema night once a week,’ says Flora. Please God don’t say bingo, I think. ‘And bingo twice a week, because the residents love it so much. Other than that, well, we’re working on trying to bring in some new ideas. But with staffing cuts, it’s not easy.’ Her smile has become somewhat strained. ‘Still, with more residents, maybe we’ll get a staff member or two back again.’
I look around the lounge. So that’s it? They’re put in front of a TV and treated to bingo twice a week?
‘It’s hot in here...mind if I get some air?’ Lachlan points to the French doors.
‘Not at all. Give them a shove. They haven’t been opened for a while.’ Flora turns to Hector. ‘So, when do you think you might like to move in?’ He just stares at his teacup and she looks at me.
‘Um, just...getting the finances in place,’ I say.
‘Right.’ She smiles hopefully. ‘Well, I can only keep the room for a while. There are always people wanting to move in. When a place comes up, it’s usually snapped up, and there’s a waiting list.’
‘I understand. We just need to get Hector’s house sold.’ My mouth is dry.
‘Of course. Look,’ says Flora, ‘I know how important it is to see your granddaddy sorted. But as I told Fraser, I can only hold the room for a while. Just until Candlemas. Then I’ll have to let it go and you’ll have to go to the back of the queue, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes, fine,’ I say. ‘Candlemas.’ I look at Lachlan walking the garden and occasionally glancing out to the island. At least Hector will be able to see it from here, I think, trying to be positive, but it doesn’t seem to bring me any comfort.
‘We look forward to welcoming him here. Now, let me show you the rooms.’ A buzzer goes off. ‘Oh, excuse me,’ and Flora gets up. ‘All our rooms have buzzers for residents if they need us, night or day,’ she says, looking flustered but still smiling.
I glance around the room, smiling at some of the residents, though I don’t get much reaction. I look out at the garden again. Lachlan has been joined by an old man, and it looks as though they’re having a chat about plants. I find myself wondering how much longer we’re going to be here. I could do with some fresh air myself. My throat feels dry in the sweltering environment, and I gulp the tea from the cup I’m holding. There’s an upright piano against one wall and I find myself drawn to it, lifting its stiff lid and running my fingers over the keys. It reminds me of the piano I learnt to play on as a child. It’s the only time I really remember spending quality time with my mum. She would visit us at Dad’s house and sing while I played. They were happy times.
I press down on a couple of keys. It’s out of tune, but still, the sound makes me smile. I look around. No one seems bothered by me tinkering on the piano. I put my cup on top of the piano and sit down, then let both hands run over the keys.
‘Ooh, smashing! The entertainment’s here,’ says an old man, looking over from the TV. I glance outside. Lachlan has been joined by another resident, a woman this time. He’s crouching down, picking some leaves from a plant, holding them up and tasting one, then offering them to the two residents to smell. They’re listening intently to what he’s saying. It makes me smile.
‘Do yer know “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond”?’ asks the old man.
I smile and attempt to remember the notes, singing it through in my head. I’d like to sing out loud, but I know I can’t. My voice is tight and dry. If I’m honest, I can’t bear the idea that it’s deserted me for good after my clumsy attempt on Christmas morning, and I have no idea how I’ll tell Joe and the band if it has. But the feel of the keys under my fingers brings me a real sense of happiness, and so I launch into playing the song. When that one’s finished, I dredge up some of the songs I learnt in my early days with my piano teacher, and carry on playing as the residents begin to smile, clap and even sing.
As I start playing ‘Daisy, Daisy’, the room goes suddenly very quiet. I look around, wondering what’s happening and whether I should stop playing. Everyone is looking at a frail woman sunk into a chair with a blanket over her legs, and after a moment I realise that she is singing in a thin, wavering voice, moving her head gently from side to side. I play to the end of the song. The room still doesn’t make a sound. Flora is standing by the piano now, tears rolling down her big round cheeks.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ I ask. ‘I just thought it would be nice to play...’
Flora smiles and shakes her head.
‘Quite the opposite,’ she says. ‘That was wonderful. Agnes hasn’t spoken a word since she came here three years ago. That’s the first time we’ve heard her say anything. You’ve obviously unlocked something in her.’ She clasps my hand, her eyes full of happy tears. ‘Thank you!’ I find myself tearing up too.
‘Yes, good work, Miss Rubes.’ Hector is suddenly standing behind me, bolt upright, chest pushed out. He turns to Flora. ‘It’s a lovely place you have here. Please tell me if there is anything else we can do to support your work.’ Flora’s eyes widen. ‘My company likes to help out where it can. Perhaps we could send over a few bottles for the residents to enjoy on their bingo night. Make a note, will you, Miss Rubes? Better still, a visit to the distillery...Miss Rubes will organise it. She’s new to the job, but really quite efficient!’
‘Um, of course.’ I pull out the notebook and pretend to make a note.
‘Now, I really do think we should make tracks. It’s all go at the distillery at this time of year. The still’s never off. Great to meet you all. Interesting smell in here...pine, I think.’
‘It’s the disinfectant,’ says Flora.
‘Like the pine trees by the distillery. We always use pine in the gin. Gives it a unique flavour. Reminds me of my courting days when Mairead and I were teenagers.’
Pine! He just said that they used pine in the gin! It’s one of the five special ingredients, I realise.
As I stand and stare at him, it hits me like a brick. It wasn’t drinking the gin that brought back his memories yesterday. It was the music! The Ella Fitzgerald record I was playing when I asked him about the recipe must have triggered something in him, taken him back to when he was running the distillery. Just like on Christmas morning, when I put the radio on and he suddenly realised what day it was and panicked that nothing was ready. Oh, stupid me! Of course! I jump up.
