by Fiona Gibson
Later, in the hotel room, she stared through the gloom at the other single bed. Her mother was muttering in her sleep. The room was sparsely furnished; basic accommodation for people passing through. The radiator whined and grunted. She slipped out of bed and peered though the small window. Outside a rectangular pool glimmered beneath silvery streetlamps. Nancy, annoyed that her offerings hadn’t been fully appreciated, had tipped the remaining ham sandwiches into the water. Jane watched them floating, a scattering of Hovis rafts.
The ferry departure point turned out not to be the bustling port that Jane had imagined, but a prefab hut manned by a gruff-looking man behind a glass partition. “We’re booked on the eleven-fifteen,” Jane said, rummaging through her bag for the e-mailed confirmation. The man took the printout from her and pulled in his lips. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Not with your booking,” came the surprisingly soft voice. “But with the weather. Last ferry was canceled. And this one…” He shrugged, as if it might or might not be sailing, depending on a whim.
Jane glanced through the open door where wind was whipping up litter. “When will you know?” she asked.
The man shrugged again. “Hard to tell.”
Hannah was shivering, forcing her arms up opposite sleeves of her sweater. They’d left Nancy in the car. After complaining that her hotel mattress had felt like a ruddy blancmange, she’d fallen into a heavy sleep with her mouth lolling open for the remaining journey.
Zoë was tapping at her phone by a revolving stand, which held a few dog-eared ferry timetables. “Can’t get a signal,” she announced.
“There’s no signal here,” said the man behind his partition.
“What about on the island?” she asked.
“Not a chance.”
“So where can I get a signal?”
“Fort William,” the man said with a chuckle.
“Oh,” she said softly. “I just wanted to tell Mum we’re nearly there.”
Your mum’s on her way to France, Jane thought. She won’t be thinking about you. She glanced at Zoë’s feet, which were prettily encased in turquoise wedge sandals. Why hadn’t Veronica suggested that Zoë brought winter clothing? She saw it then: determination flickering across her perfectly made-up face as she thrust her cell back into her bag.
A girl trying to be brave, a million miles from a Prêt à Manger, and even farther from her mother’s consideration.
Sunshine broke through, as the ferry docked at the island, and Hope House seemed to sparkle. Jane drove along the gravel driveway, which bisected an undulating lawn. The lawn, she realized now, was more of a meadow and clearly hadn’t been mown for several years. And the house—she was close enough to see clearly now—wasn’t quite as it had appeared on the website. Its stone facade was badly crumbling. A porcelain washbasin lay on its side in the long grass, and behind grimy windows there appeared only darkness. “It looks perfectly fine,” Nancy announced, as if reading her thoughts. “Won’t be spending much time here anyway, will we?”
“What will we be doing?” Zoë piped up.
“Jane and I will be doing our courses,” Nancy replied. “You and Hannah can go for long, bracing walks.”
“Oh,” Zoë said weakly.
“I’m sure it’s lovely inside,” Jane added. In fact, as she pulled up on the graveled arc in front of the house, she decided she preferred it this way. Crumbling and unintimidating. She wasn’t sure how she’d have conducted herself in some grand stately home.
Leaving Zoë and Hannah staring sullenly through the windows, she and Nancy stepped out of the car. “It’s quite a place,” Nancy said.
“Yes, Mum, it is.” Jane inhaled crisp, cold air. Turrets soared upward, spearing downy white clouds. It’s full of secrets, she thought. That, and promise.
26
Hannah had been intrigued by the idea of staying in a mansion or castle, whatever it was. She’d imagined chairs with gilt arms and polished dining tables big enough to seat twenty-eight people. She’d envisaged butlers and servants, sumptuous meals kept piping hot under silver domes, perhaps a grand piano or two. “Good journey?” asked Mrs. McFarlane.
The group clustered around the front desk. While Jane said it had been fine—she’d clearly chosen to forget about Zoë’s seasickness on the ferry, not to mention thirteen hours of unadulterated hell in the car—Hannah glanced around the foyer. She skimmed the cheap-looking desk, a stack of metal-legged chairs and a fire extinguisher attached to the scuffed wall. A pinned-up message read: Meals can be prepared in small kitchen please ask Jean if no milk in fridge.
Hannah wondered who Jean was. Could it be this small, narrow woman with pursed lips and a wrinkly neck? Mrs. McFarlane, her mother and Granny Nancy were having a rare old time discussing the weather. “I hope it improves for you,” Mrs. McFarlane said, “because it’s been awful dreicht.”
Driecht? What did that mean? Mrs. MacFarlane’s accent was thick, virtually unintelligible. Yet her mother and Granny Nancy seemed to be having no trouble deciphering it. Could they just be pretending to understand, nodding like puppets while having no clue what the woman was talking about? Hannah tried to catch Zoë’s eye to send a signal. She was too busy checking her reflection in the chrome bracket that clamped the fire extinguisher to the wall.
At least they were here now, liberated from that stinking car. Hannah had spent most of journey gazing at signs for places like Penrith and Carlisle—places that sounded cold and Northern. Zoë had been no comfort. Sulking over having forgotten her iPod, she’d responded to conversation openers in monosyllables and turned back to Cosmo or Glamour. For someone who scoffed at women’s magazines, she always seemed to have an extensive supply.
As for her mother’s driving—was she trying to kill them or what? They’d been stuck in a jam near Manchester, barely inching along, but that was no reason to start doodling in a notepad when you were responsible for four people’s lives. Hannah despaired of her mother’s habit of drawing while driving, the way she’d jab the pen between her thighs when the traffic started moving again. What would happen if she had to brake suddenly? She’d be speared in the belly.
“Hannah?” Her mother frowned at her. “You okay, love?”
She snapped back to reality. “Just a bit tired.”
Mrs. McFarlane gave her a tight smile. “You look tired, dear. Pale as a ghost. Come on, let me show you your rooms.”
Hannah watched her clomping ahead in dumpy brown shoes. Hope House felt more like a youth hostel than a hotel: acres of gloss paint in bleary browns and greens, threadbare carpets and handwritten notices stuck all over the place. Mrs. McFarlane showed Jane and Nancy to their room, then journeyed onward with Hannah and Zoë trailing behind. At the far end of a corridor she opened a door. “Here you go,” she said brightly. “I’ll leave you girls to settle in.”
As Mrs. McFarlane clopped away, Hannah stepped into the room and looked around her. Granny Nancy and Jane at least had a view over the garden and sea. Hannah and Zoë’s room—a dingy cell in the bowels of the house—overlooked a yard furnished with a plastic water barrel. As Hannah peered out, a dollop of bird poo splatted the window.
Beside the window the embossed peach wallpaper was mottled with damp. Hannah read a notice aloud: “‘Loo paper only down toilet please we have septic tank if blocked someone has to clean it out.’ God, Zoë, how d’you reckon they clean out a septic tank?”
“No idea.”
“Will we have to do it?”
Zoë had dropped to her hands and knees and was crawling around at skirting board level. “Aren’t there any plugs?” she muttered.
“You mean a socket?”
“Yeah. You know, to plug my hair irons in.”
Hannah spluttered with laughter. “Who’s going to care about your hair?”
“I care.” Zoë pulled herself up, claiming the larger of the two beds by dumping her case on it and yanking out her clothes. She was in one almighty huff, as if any of this was Hann
ah’s fault. She stared at the clothes that Zoë was flinging out of the case. Jeans—fine. Pink top, aqua strapless dress, extensive array of delicate footwear—less fine. Hannah had packed thick sweaters and ancient jeans that barely saw the light of day in London. Her mother had bought her fleecy gloves, a scarf and a pull-on wooly hat. She’d die a painful death if Ollie ever saw her in them.
Grumbling, Zoë let her head and upper body drop over the bed while she delved into her bag. Now she was tipping out a great mound of creams and oils and makeup. The deep conditioning nourishing masque caught Hannah’s eye. Zoë was the only person Hannah knew whose hair required a ‘masque’.
“What are you looking for?” Hannah asked.
“Earplugs. Mum always gives me them when she’s been on a plane.”
“Why d’you need earplugs? We’re in the middle of—”
“Don’t tell me you can’t hear them, Han—the sheep and that whooshing noise, the sea or the wind…”
“You live in London,” Hannah laughed, pulling on jeans and sweater. “How can you say it’s noisy here? There’s just…silence.”
Locating her earplugs and stuffing them in, Zoë flopped her head back onto her pillow. “Yeah,” she murmured, “There’s that, too.”
“Hey,” Hannah said gently, “cheer up.”
“It’s all right for you,” Zoë muttered.
“Why? What makes it any easier for me?”
Zoë blinked at her. “You wanted to come.”
“I had no choice! Not after I’d been caught—”
“Caught what?” Zoë narrowed her eyes.
She couldn’t tell her. Only idiots get caught, Zoë had said. “Me and Mum had a fight,” Hannah said quickly. “It was nothing really. Anyway, look, there’s a plug—a socket—under the bedside table.”
Zoë’s face softened. “Thank God for that.”
Hannah smiled. Even when she was acting spoiled and annoying, Zoë couldn’t help being funny. Hannah wondered sometimes if this was a good thing; whether she was laughing at Zoë rather than with her, which implied that she thought of herself as somehow superior. “So,” she added, “think you can cope, now you can plug your irons in?”
Zoë rubbed her goose-pimpled arms and glanced around the room. “It’ll be better when the heating comes on.”
Hannah touched an ancient radiator. “It is on.”
“Shit,” Zoë said.
27
Archie’s studio was a proud, stone outbuilding with an end wall replaced by glass. Jane stepped inside, where mass introductions were taking place. There was a young, fresh-faced girl with cropped reddish hair and dangly feather earrings named Paula. A woman with a rich laugh and pregnant bump who spelled her name each time she introduced herself: D-o-r-i-n-a. There was an elderly man, whose pinched eyes and pulled-in lips gave him an air of general discontent, and a younger man in a checked flannel shirt with meaty forearms. “So you’ve come all the way from London?” he asked.
“I’m looking on it as a holiday,” Jane explained, then, fearing that she’d sounded too flippant added, “It was Archie’s work that got me interested in stained glass.”
“Really?” Archie Snail stood in the doorway. He was shorter—way shorter—than Jane had imagined: five foot two at a guess, with a paunchy middle and a round, hot-looking face that made Jane think of a pink balloon. His mouth formed a terse smile as he strode toward her.
“This was years ago,” she added quickly, “at the Barbican. You were showing those pieces with the tiny segments, all the fiery colors—”
Amusement flickered across his face. “Ah, yes. The good days.” He glanced quizzically around the studio as if trying to figure why these random strangers with expectant expressions had clustered around his table. He marched across the room and lowered himself on to a seat behind a small desk in the corner, clutching its edge like some wooden security blanket.
An awkward silence descended on the room. The check-shirted man winked at Jane. “Okay,” Archie muttered, “what I’m hoping to do is show you folks some influences and techniques, arr…” He drifted off, as if suddenly remembering that he had something vital to attend to at home: a leg of lamb in the oven, or a pan of milk on the stove. “So, um,” he continued, “what I’ll do is get started and, er, do something.”
His mouth clamped shut, and he checked his watch. Surely he hadn’t run out of things to say already? Jane was overcome by a wave of foolishness. What had she been thinking, dragging Hannah and Zoë and Nancy all the way here? Archie had picked up a pencil and was scribbling urgently on a pad: making notes, perhaps, on how he might possibly struggle though the next five days.
The door opened and another man strode in. He was tall and angular, with finely sculpted cheekbones and intense blue-gray eyes that hinted at mischief. “Hi, everyone,” he said, “I’m Conor, Archie’s assistant. I’ll show you round the studio, and if anyone needs anything, just ask me, okay?” Jane saw Archie throwing him a relieved look. All the women, she noticed, were gazing at him intently. “If you can’t find me,” Conor added, “I live down at Seal Bay. Just drop by anytime.” Through the window he indicated a tiny white cottage perched at the point where fields met cream colored sand.
“Aren’t you lucky?” Paula enthused. “The island’s gorgeous.”
Jane didn’t register Conor’s reply. She was transfixed by the way his mouth curled as he spoke, drawn in by the softness of his voice. To distract herself, she delved into her bag and pulled out her sketches for Max’s window. By the time she looked up, the check-shirted man was bounding toward her. “I’m George,” he said, shaking her hand firmly and planting himself on the next stool. He snatched her wodge of sketches, licking his thumb in order to flick through them as speedily as possible. “Nice work,” he murmured. “You’re a very talented lady.”
Jane recoiled in her seat. “Thanks,” she said, wishing he’d leave her drawings alone and put them back on the workbench.
“So, some dump we’re staying in,” he declared. “What d’you make of the place?”
“Actually, I like it. It’s fine.”
“You would—got the best room, haven’t you? You and that older woman—”
“My mother.”
“Hey,” George said, nudging her, “check out those two.” Jane turned to the glass wall to see Hannah and Zoë plodding across the undulating field, their faces set in grim determination. “Blond one’s wearing high heels!” George spluttered.
“That’s my daughter’s—” Jane started.
“You’re kidding! You’re not old enough, surely….”
“Friend,” she added, watching Zoë cupping her hands around her face as she tried to light a cigarette.
George made a ffrrr noise. “Jailbait.” He grinned leeringly. Conor, who was sliding sheets of colored glass into pigeonholes, threw Jane a sympathetic glance. She smiled, feeling warmth in the pit of her stomach. “Look like they’d rather be at the pub,” George added. “Hey, Conor, any pubs around here?”
“Yes, there’s a couple in the village.”
“Great. Up for a drink later, Jane?”
“Um, maybe,” she said, glimpsing Hannah striding purposefully, Zoë tottering unsteadily behind her still trying to light her ciggie in the buffeting wind.
“Well, Jane,” George announced, shifting his stool to be as close as possible without actually clambering onto her lap, “let’s do that. Find a cosy pub, warm our cockles and all that.” He beamed at her. “I think I’m going to like it around here.”
She caught Conor’s glance across the studio. It didn’t unnerve her, the way he kept looking as if he could read her thoughts. She wasn’t in Albemarle Street, being Hannah’s mum or deputy manager at Nippers. Here on this island, with its wildly changing skies, she could be anyone, do anything she wanted.
You’re right, George, she thought, returning Conor’s smile. I think I’m going to like it here, too.
28
The mountains that lo
omed before Max were such a familiar image, he could think only of Alpen cereal. He could picture its box in his kitchen cupboard: snow-dusted peaks, impossibly blue sky, 100 percent natural ingredients.
“Isn’t it awesome?” Veronica said.
Max turned from the bedroom window. It was 8:00 a.m. and she was already kitted out in a jaunty mint-colored zip-up top and salopette ensemble. He wondered if she was wearing a base layer underneath. She hadn’t worn a base layer last night; Max had been taken aback by the complicated lingerie she’d swiftly changed into while he’d been brushing his teeth in the bathroom. He’d been looking forward to snuggling against the luscious curves of her body. Instead, he’d been confronted by an abundance of complex fastening devices and dangly bits to which sheer stockings had been attached.
“It’s breathtaking,” he said now, and it was. These were the Alps, for Christ’s sake. Why couldn’t he appreciate them? Veronica had a rosy flush to her cheeks, and her makeup—which she usually troweled on rather too enthusiastically for Max’s taste—looked natural and fresh. She looked lovely, standing there in the white-and-pine bedroom, yet Max seemed to be having difficulty appreciating beauty.
He glanced back at the mountains, trying to figure out how he might describe them to Hannah. They were huge. They had snow on them. He wondered how Jane and the girls had settled into that grand stately home in Scotland, and quickly shooed the thought away.
“Aren’t you getting ready?” Veronica asked. “The lifts will be open already. We don’t want to waste good skiing time.”
“I am ready,” he said, throwing a ta-da pose in his stretchy gray boxer shorts.
Veronica smirked. “Very nice, Max. Not bad for an old man. Come on, though—Jasper and Hettie are keen to get out.”
