by Fiona Gibson
‘A vanity project!’ cries someone else.
‘Thought it’d be fun to have it—’
‘With no thought of what it’d involve …’
‘Bloody idiots, the pair of them!’
I’ve lost track of who’s saying what, and even if I could come up with something helpful to say – something to calm the simmering fury – I wouldn’t be able to get a word in. The only person remaining silent is Harry, one of the few employees I know by name, and whom I hadn’t expected to be here today. He’s just sitting there, staring ahead, in faded jeans and a big grey fisherman’s sweater. I can hardly bear to look at him.
‘You didn’t consider the responsibility of what you’d taken on,’ announces a woman with spectacles perched low on her nose – and it strikes me now that it could be an animal she’s talking about: a dog bought for Christmas with no thought as to who would be walking it and bagging up its poos. And now, as I stand here being shouted at, I’m transported back to a time when my daughter had begged for a dog.
She was almost ten, so it was over a decade ago. I’d explained that, as I was working out of the house all day, it wouldn’t be fair to leave one all alone.
‘We could get a dog walker,’ Frieda suggested.
‘Honey, I’m not getting a dog and then employing someone else to walk it.’
‘What about you, then? You could come home for lunch—’
‘Could I?’ I laughed. I was working in the centre of York at the recruitment consultancy. ‘It’s too far from the office,’ I added.
‘You could run. It’d do you good, Mum. You were saying you need to exercise!’
‘I’m not running back and forth to our house every lunchtime …’
‘You could take him to work then!’ So this dog was already a ‘he’ and not some imaginary, gender-less pet.
‘I very much doubt it,’ I replied, truthfully.
‘Why not?’
I should add that this was long before the entire western world had become obsessed with dogs and started taking them to their offices and lying around on beanbags cuddling them. ‘He might pee on the carpet,’ I replied.
‘Please, Mum,’ Frieda begged. ‘He wouldn’t. We’d train him!’
I knew I was a soft touch. From what I’d gathered, I allowed far more impromptu sleepovers than any of the other mums. However, I refused to give in, and I think I made the right decision in opting for guinea pigs instead. I was still married to Tony then – our children’s father – and he’d grudgingly agreed, adding, ‘I hope they don’t get tired of them, Suzy. You know how fickle kids are.’
We got two, partly so Frieda and Isaac could have one each; plus, I’d read that solo guinea pigs can get lonely. They named them Millie and Maisie (I suspect Frieda over-rode Isaac on that score) and loved them unconditionally. Frieda never asked for a dog again.
I read once that, when you’re in the midst of a terrible situation, it’s not uncommon for your brain to spin off to a happier time to protect you from the awfulness that’s going on. It’s a kind of coping mechanism, I think. Perhaps that’s why, as the lumberjack shirt man jumps up to shout, and is swiftly joined by almost everyone else until there’s a cacophony of yelling and tears are flooding my eyes, I’m picturing that beautiful day – the morning of Frieda’s tenth birthday. When I was just a normal mum, responsible for my own little family and not the inhabitants of an entire island whose lives were about to be wrecked.
‘I love this icing!’ Isaac, who was eight, had said as he lurched towards the cake I’d made the night before. I loved to bake and tend to our little suburban garden. How simple life was back then.
‘Hands off, Isaac,’ I said. Too late, he was already licking a swirl of chocolate frosting off a finger.
I turned towards Frieda, who’d wandered into the kitchen to see what was going on. ‘There’s a surprise for you two in the garden,’ I said.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Go out and see.’ Frieda grinned, then ran out through the back door. Isaac and I hurried after her.
‘Mum!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Mum. Are they ours?’ I nodded, too choked to speak for a moment. She and Isaac bobbed down to gaze at the two bundles of beige and white fluff inside the new hutch.
‘Can we hold them?’ he asked.
‘Of course you can,’ I said, feeling as if my heart might burst, ‘as long as you’re careful …’ Frieda opened the hutch door and they scooped up the animals into their arms.
That’s what I’m picturing now, as the shouting goes on and my gaze lands upon the only person in this room who has remained seated: Harry in the grey sweater. In his late seventies, he is by far the oldest team member – but he’s not even employed by us anymore. He resigned a few months ago, apparently disgusted with how things were developing here.
I look at him and he gazes back at me, and I’m on the verge of rushing over to hug him. I don’t, of course, because I can imagine how that would go down around here.
Who the hell does she think she is, coming out here, trying to hug people?
He’s up on his feet now and wiping at his eyes with his hands. Oh God, I think he is crying.
The shouts seem to fade as I watch him striding towards the door. I’m seized by an urge to follow him, even though I know that’s the last thing he’d want. So I just stand there, feeling helpless as he leaves; this dignified elderly man, whom I have broken.
It seems incredible that, once upon a time, everything could be made right with a couple of guinea pigs.
Chapter Four
No one wants to hang around and chat after the meeting. Understandably, of course; it’s hardly a tea and cake kind of scenario. So it seems there is nothing else for it but to leave as quickly as possible and drive through the heavy rain back to the holiday cottage where I’m staying. I park up with a jolt and march – as much as I can march, in those teetering heels Dee lent me – across the gravelled garden and into the low-slung, single-storey cottage where I bolt the door behind me.
And what does a fully functional grown-up woman do when everything’s screwed up? She kicks off her shoes and yanks the screw top off a bottle of wine and pours herself a massive glassful.
I sit at the kitchen table, sipping and sipping and telling myself it’s fine, that 5.15 p.m. counts as evening and anyway, what else would I be doing here, all alone? The wind moans outside and rain streams down the small kitchen window. On Sgadansay it’s still winter in March. At least I’ll be back home in York tomorrow night and not feel quite so wretched and alone.
I’ve stayed on the island several times since that first visit with Paul, in much nicer cottages than this one. However, this time I booked the cheapest one I could find. I wasn’t looking for hot tubs or a Nespresso machine. And at least it was well away from town, down an unmade single-track lane with no other houses nearby. Not that I’d expected anyone to find out where I was staying and egg the windows – but you never know.
Somehow, several hours have spun by. It’s almost nine o’clock and pitch-black outside. I say ‘somehow’ because I’m trying not to admit that I’ve done nothing more useful than guzzle wine, change into my pyjamas and finally relocate from the kitchen table to the well-worn sofa in the living room. I must have dozed off here, clutching my greasy glass. Now I’ve woken with a jolt to realise it’s still welded to my hand.
And then I hear a noise outside and realise that’s what woke me. Something – or someone – is out there. I sit bolt upright, my heart hammering. One of those angry employees has found out where I’m staying and come to get me. Perhaps there’s a whole bunch of them out there?
There it goes again; a sort of whine. It doesn’t sound like a person, but a thing. It’s high-pitched and plaintive. It stops, then starts up again. We’ve all seen those films where the scared woman ventures out into the dark – in pyjamas – to investigate. ‘Don’t be so stupid!’ we implore her. ‘Just leave it. Make this the one where the lone female in the holiday
cottage stays indoors with the TV on and makes a cup of tea.’
So I try to ignore it and tell myself that whatever it is, it’ll go away.
In an attempt to keep busy, I turn my attentions to the reams of paperwork I’ve brought with me in the hope of making some kind of sense out of the distillery’s finances. Admittedly, numbers aren’t my strong point, and it seems that the associates Paul had roped in on that side of things have turned out to be as flaky – and elusive – as he is. Calling the team together seemed like the most urgent thing to do. If nothing else, it felt important to meet everyone properly and to show that I cared, that I was trying to take control of things now.
I’d asked Paul about the team numerous times, but he was always so evasive. Whenever I was more forceful and demanded to know what kind of financial state we were in, he’d become defensive and more than once it had erupted into a row. Didn’t I trust him? Couldn’t I understand that he was giving the business his all? Although I hadn’t invested any money I was still a director – because he’d insisted it would be a joint venture – and the situation had started to give me sleepless nights.
Of course I should have tried harder and forced the information out of him. Orders were being cancelled; loyal customers who’d stocked Sgadansay whisky for years were switching to other brands. There were technical problems that Paul wouldn’t address, and a radical rebranding he’d ‘masterminded’, which had proved to be so unpopular as to be laughable. But still, everything was ‘fine’, he kept insisting – or we were ‘just having a few hiccups’.
I fiddle about with spreadsheets, scribbling notes in the dimly lit living room. But the whining continues, making it impossible to focus. Perhaps it’s trees blowing, or just the wind – or maybe I’m imagining it? Admittedly, I worked my way through the whole bottle of wine I’d bought at what was quaintly termed ‘Mary’s Store’, having had no proper dinner. Whilst I’m not exactly staggering around, crashing into doors, I wouldn’t like to operate heavy machinery.
Maybe I should try to knock together some semblance of a proper meal to mop up the booze? At least the noise seems to have stopped. I go through to the kitchen and peer around in the gloom. I’ve been here for two days, existing on food that needs no chopping, cooking or in fact any prep whatsoever, apart from being opened. There’s a tub of paprika Pringles, a sliced white loaf, some cream crackers and a couple of packets of unexciting biscuits. They look like the provisions of a student who can’t get it together to boil a pan of pasta, not a forty-eight-year-old mother of two.
I’m eating the Pringles disgustingly – cramming them in by the stack – when the whining starts up again. ‘Sod this,’ I mutter. I stride to the porch window and peer out. It’s so dark out there, and still raining so heavily, I can’t make anything out. And I find myself wishing – maddeningly – that Paul were here. Never mind that he’s the very reason why my life’s in this mess. At least he’d go out to investigate, and come back in to reassure me that there was nothing out there, nothing to worry about at all.
And then I could go back to hating him.
But Paul’s not here. It’s just me and jaunty Mr Pringles with his swirly moustache. ‘Stack ’n’ share’, it says on the orange tube. No chance of that, even if there was anyone here to share them with. Back in the kitchen, I’m crunching them by the handful to try and sober myself up and drown out the noise of the thing outside (multitasking!). Now it’s not only whining but scratching at the door as well – with claws, it sounds like. What kind of thing has claws around here?
In panic, I try to list the animals I’ve ever seen on the island: cattle, horses, red deer, sheep – and seals. It’s none of them, obviously, so what the hell is it? I’ve heard that there are wildcats in the Highlands, but I didn’t think there were any on the islands. Maybe one swam across? What kind of cat would do that? A deranged one, I decide, picturing it ploughing determinedly through the cold, black water, its fur slicked back from his face.
I peer through the porch window again. ‘Hello?’ I call out sharply, trying to give the impression that I’m a tough, no-nonsense islander rather than a feeble visitor. I wish I could phone someone, not for help or advice (what could anyone do?), but just to hear a friendly voice – another human being. But there’s no mobile signal here. For that, I’d have to go down to the end of the lane, climb onto the big rock at the side of the main road and wave my phone in the air (I only know this because a previous guest was kind enough to write detailed instructions in the visitors’ book). There’s no landline either, or even Wi-Fi, which I’d viewed as a positive when I booked this place; a chance to clear the mental clutter. But really, what was I thinking? Anything could happen to me and no one would know.
Idyllic remote location, read the blurb when I booked this place, as if I were coming here for pleasure. Glorious views over the bay. Now I’m starting to imagine Isaac and Frieda being delivered the terrible news that their mother’s body was found, mauled to death by some unnamed beast, and the autopsy revealed that she was entirely full of Echo Falls and Pringles.
How did I plummet from being a calm, capable, cake-baking mother to this? ‘Get a grip on yourself,’ I instruct myself, tipsily. After all, a wildcat is just a cat. It’s simply a bit bigger, and more feral, than your average puss. So how scary can it actually be?
I stare down at the letterbox. It has one of those brushy things to stop draughts coming in. Every nerve in my body seems to be jangling as I wait for a paw to jab through it. I crouch down, lean in close and call out, shakily, ‘Go away!’
That’ll scare the shit out of it.
There’s another scrape on the door.
‘Just-fuck-off!’ I bellow eloquently as I straighten up. I stand there and wait. Behind me in the kitchen, the fridge – which was possibly manufactured in something like 1967 – grumbles ominously. I try to transmit to whatever’s out there that I am not to be messed with, and it must go away.
WOOF!
It barked. The thing actually barked like a dog.
Woof! it goes again. It barked like a dog because it is a dog! Why would anyone come to my door with a dog at nearly ten o’clock at night?
‘Hello?’ I shout out, more forcefully now. ‘Who is this?’
Could they be lost, or having some kind of emergency? Maybe they need help. But surely they could say something, to show they’re not planning to rob or attack me? There’s a short burst of barking and another plaintive whine. It’s a smallish dog, judging by the pitch. It doesn’t sound like a robber’s dog. I peer through the porch window and glimpse a wagging tail and a distinctly non-threatening face. Crucially, I can’t see anyone with it. The dog needs help, I decide. I ease the door open a little.
A nose appears first, black and trembling, then a small, wet face – mainly a scruffy biscuit brown with lighter patches around the eyes. It’s a terrier type, I think; possibly a mixture, with a white patch in its chest. Whatever it is, it looks terribly skinny and hardly seems like it’s planning to tear me limb from limb. ‘Well, hello,’ I say cautiously. ‘Who are you?’
The dog is shivering, obviously cold and scared. I glance around for a person but there’s definitely no one out there on this bleak, wet night.
I look down at the dog. It stares back at me, not barking now but just standing there, looking hopeful. ‘You poor little thing,’ I murmur. ‘Are you lost?’ Maybe he – he’s definitely a he, I realise now – ran off during a late-night walk, and someone’s out there looking for him. ‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘There’s a dog here! Has anyone lost a dog?’
It’s so quiet out here, and so dark – the kind of velvety blackness you never see in a town or a city. You certainly don’t see it in York, or even in the small North Yorkshire market town where my parents live and where I grew up. Here, there are no street lamps or lights from other houses, or sounds from distant cars. There aren’t even any stars visible tonight.
I bend down to pat the dog’s head. He licks at my hand. Gath
ering courage now, I beckon him into the tiny porch where we shelter from the rain, with the front door open, as we wait for someone to show up looking for him. He has a collar, I notice – a smart red leather one – but no tag, no form of ID as far as I can make out.
I stroke him some more and tickle him gently behind his ears. Dogs usually like that, I recall now, although the only dog I’ve ever really known was Daffy, my Aunty Helen’s huge, fluffy blonde pillow of a golden retriever who I’d loved to cuddle as a kid. But my mother had always warned me to never go near any dog that I didn’t know. ‘They’re not all like Daffy,’ she warned. ‘They can snap with no warning. Never trust a dog that just comes up to you.’ I study my visitor as he sits pertly, close to my feet, as if trying to demonstrate how unthreatening he is.
‘So, what shall we do with you?’ I ask him. My options seem to be to send him away into the miserable night (clearly unthinkable), or to stand here in the doorway for God knows how long – or I could let him in.
When I booked this place, the owner was adamant about the no pets rule. She even messaged me just to make doubly sure I’d understood, even though it was stipulated on the website. It’s fine, I replied, I don’t have any pets.
You’d be amazed at how many people try to sneak a dog in, Shona had messaged back. I had wondered if she was being prickly because she knew who I was, even though I’d used my maiden name when booking (I’ve kept my ex-husband Tony’s surname – Medley – simply because it matches the kids’). But then, on previous visits to the island, everyone I’d met around town had been friendly. You’re just being paranoid, I told myself. She just doesn’t want dogs bringing in mud and chewing the soft furnishings.
And now, as the dog peers at me expectantly, I’m thinking: never mind Shona and her rules. She’ll never know. I’m about to beckon him in when he gets up and shoots past my pyjama-clad legs, straight through to the kitchen where he stands, wagging his short white tail and panting up at me.
‘Oh, okay then,’ I say. ‘Do come in.’ My God – my mouth has actually formed a smile! It feels like nothing short of a miracle tonight.
