Page 7 of Coming Home to Winter Island
I go to the bathroom to get my clothes, knowing there is no way they’re going to be dry, and try to work out what to do with them. If I put them in my case, they’ll make everything else in there damp. As I step back out into the corridor, I glance around to check the old man isn’t about, and my heart suddenly leaps out of my chest.
‘Argh!’ comes out of my mouth like a scratchy growl, my heart racing at the memory of last night’s ghostly footsteps, and I drop the wet clothes at the feet of the dishevelled man who has appeared from nowhere and is standing in front of me.
Chapter Four
‘Argh!’ shouts the ghost, jumping backwards and dropping a big canvas bag he’s carrying. He’s standing in front of a doorway that seems to lead to more stairs.
‘Argh!’ I shout again but hardly any sound comes out.
And another shout comes from the bedroom opposite where we’re standing, where the old man was sleeping. Clearly he’s now awake.
We stand staring at each other wide-eyed. The ghost has wild light brown curly hair that touches his shoulders, blue-flecked green eyes, a long, straight nose, faint freckles on his cheeks and stubble around his mouth and chin.
‘What the...?!’ he splutters in a thick Scottish accent. And suddenly he doesn’t seem quite so ghost-like any more. He must be a burglar, robbing the place, maybe thinking the old man was still in hospital like I did. He certainly wasn’t expecting to see me! And I’m not sure what’s shocked him more: my husky, strained shriek or the sight of a woman with socks on her hands and shorts on her head.
‘What the...?!’ he repeats.
‘Who are you?’ I blurt out before he can finish his sentence. ‘And what are you doing here?’ My heart is thumping. I mean, you expect to hear about burglars in the city, but out here...? My fear turns quickly to outrage. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself! Taking advantage of an old man!’
‘Taking advantage?’ he repeats with disbelief all over his face. ‘And who are you and what are you doing here?’
‘I beg...’ I stop myself. I have no idea who this man is. There’s another sound from the old man’s room. I go to step forward, to try and explain that I’ve found an intruder but that everything’s okay, when the intruder cuts in front of me and opens the door to where the old man was sleeping.
I open my mouth to speak, but have no idea what I’m going to say. An indignant ‘Hey!’ is all that comes out.
‘It’s okay, Hector,’ he says into the room. ‘Nothing to worry about. Just the wind. Did you sleep okay?’
There’s a muffled reply from inside.
‘It’s Tuesday,’ says the wild-haired man. ‘How do you fancy kippers for breakfast? I have some in the smokery.’ The muffled voice speaks again, and the man smiles. ‘Don’t forget to put some clothes on. You’ll catch your death otherwise. The nurses at the hospital said you’re to get dressed; you’re too fanciable otherwise! I’ll give you a hand downstairs when you’re ready. You’ll need to use that crutch. You’ve hurt your ankle.’
The muffled voice asks a question.
‘Aye,’ replies the wild-haired man. ‘You’ve been in hospital. You fell. You were outside, wandering at dusk again. Looking for something, you said. Bet I know what too. But you’re home now. Back at Teach Mhor.’
That was it! That’s how it’s said. I remember Isla on the ferry saying it now! Tack More. Not Tack Hore, which probably sounded incredibly rude when I said it in the pub. No wonder they laughed!
The wild-haired man looks round at me, and I feel a wave of stupidity washing over me. So not an intruder then, and certainly not a ghost. Suddenly he narrows his eyes at me, raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, a teasing smile twinkling in his eyes and tugging at the corners of mouth.
‘You have a visitor too, it seems,’ he tells the old man as if he’s actually teasing me. ‘A young lady to see you.’
‘Oh no.’ I hold up a hand. ‘I’m not staying. I’m just...I’m just here to sign some paperwork. We don’t know each other, you see...’
‘Yes, Tuesday,’ repeats the long-haired man, not listening to me. ‘And don’t forget to get dressed!’
‘Hurt my ankle, y’say?’ I hear the voice more clearly this time. A gruff voice from behind the door; my grandfather’s voice. Not that I think of him as my grandfather. Grandfathers are there at Christmas, handing out presents and falling asleep after dinner, saving toffees for the grandchildren. I’ve seen the adverts. Judging from that gruff voice, my father’s father isn’t like that. He’s just as Dad described him. A man he never got on with.
They didn’t have anything to do with each other once they went their separate ways. Not that I minded not having any grandparents; I mean, you don’t miss what you don’t know, do you? It was just me and Dad and Mum, and then me and Mum and her constant stream of new friends, many of them boyfriends. Well, I say that, but I actually lived with my dad until I was twelve. They decided it was for the best when they split, not long after I was born. Mum’s life wasn’t what you might call stable. She was pursuing her music career and moving around, and so they decided it was better for me to stay with Dad. And I loved it. We were happy. Mum visited when she could. Life was settled.
Things were never the same after I went to live with my mum. I never stopped missing my dad. He was just...well, he made everything happen. My mum, on the other hand, couldn’t organise her own life, let alone a child’s, which was why me living with Dad had been for the best. But everything changed when he died. Although she never said it, I could tell Mum couldn’t wait for me to finish school and leave home so that she was free to move again. Don’t get me wrong, she was proud of everything I did; she just didn’t always remember to turn up – concerts, parents’ evenings. She was too busy living her own life, still singing, still hoping the big break would come, wherever that might be. Once I left home, cruise ships were her biggest earner. She stays in touch through Facebook and messages all the time, sending pictures of her with friends I’ve never met but who she speaks of as if I’ve known them all my life, and expecting me to keep up. She’s staying with friends in Spain at the moment, in between cruises.
The two big black dogs bark when they see me, and run towards me. I reel back, much like I did last night. They stop and sniff around me.
‘I’ll take the dogs and feed them,’ says the wild-haired man. ‘They’re not used to guests,’ he says pointedly. ‘Looks like you’re not used to dogs either.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, I grew up with one!’ I retort croakily, then bend to pat the dogs.
‘He doesn’t like being far from them. Or they from him.’ The man looks down at the two dogs, one clearly older than the other, as they give me a thorough sniffing. Then he shuts the bedroom door, telling the old man again not to forget to get dressed.
