The Angels' Share

by Maya Hess

  ‘I’m going fishing later,’ he said unexpectedly. We both stared out of the window at the blue-green chop of a December morning.

  ‘Really,’ I said croakily, thankful for the digression.

  ‘I can guess what you’re thinking,’ he said.

  No you can’t.

  ‘That I’ve come to sell you fish.’

  ‘The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.’ If only he knew how grateful I was to be discussing fish.

  ‘Do you cook on that?’ He nodded his head to the stove.

  ‘I intend to but I think it’s best suited for making tea and I reckon even that will take ages.’

  ‘I can wait,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘You’ll have to wait a long time then, because I don’t have any tea, milk or fresh water.’ Surely this was signal enough for him to leave although, strangely, I didn’t completely want him to go. I was intrigued by the way his appearance contradicted his manner. He was obviously a highly educated and worldly man and yet evidently lived a simple life on the island.

  Lewis ignored me, stood up and walked over to the window. My heart pounded as he picked up the binoculars that I had left lying on the sill. It was now imperative that he leave.

  ‘Where do you live?’ I asked, desperate to drive him homeward.

  ‘Old Bridge Cottage.’ He put the binoculars to his eyes and gazed out to sea. ‘It’s the grey slate cottage on the cliff.’ He panned around the vista for a moment and then something must have caught his eye because he jerked the binoculars to the left again. ‘Good heavens,’ he said, lowering the glasses for a beat. ‘You can see it from here. Who would have guessed that my place was visible from down here on the beach?’

  ‘Heavens, indeed,’ I echoed. ‘But I wouldn’t know,’ I added. ‘I’ve not used the binoculars yet. I found them lying on the sill when I arrived yesterday.’ I felt my face turning scarlet.

  At this, Lewis turned around and stared directly at me. His pale-grey eyes, set in a face that was too experienced to be conned by the likes of me, twinkled within the confines of his weathered face.

  ‘So you haven’t been tempted to spy on your surroundings? Or your neighbours?’ He stood motionless with the binoculars poised at his chest. The only movement about him was the wry smile he was failing to suppress.

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied, adding such a large measure of shock to my voice that I sounded like a guilty child caught red-handed. ‘Besides, it was pitch-dark when I arrived so I wouldn’t have been able to see you or your wife.’

  It felt as if the ground had dropped away and I was speeding towards the earth’s centre at the speed of light, my entire body burning with shame, embarrassment and humility. One word, one word, had confirmed to Lewis that indeed, I had been spying. How else would I have known he had a wife?

  Lewis placed the binoculars back on the window sill, walked to the door and clicked his fingers. Nog obeyed and trotted to his side. He turned abruptly and narrowed his eyes as if to say, ‘I hope you enjoyed the show’.

  ‘I expect to catch dogfish or cod later. I would very much like to share whatever I land with you. I’m a superb cook. Dinner at my place, say eight o’clock?’ The harsh features softened and he offered a charming smile. He pushed his fingers through his wind-tousled hair and took hold of the dog’s lead. ‘Elizabeth would love to meet you and you can tell us all about yourself and your great-uncle. The man’s quite an enigma.’

  If I say yes, will you go away and leave me alone? I thought. My mind raced and I fiddled with my fingernails. I glanced at the binoculars that might as well have been labelled ‘I’ve been spying on you’, but then I was lost in his eyes, which told me going to dinner at his house would prove to be a warm, hospitable and thoroughly enjoyable evening. My mind was made up, regardless of the risk to my predicament.

  ‘I’d love to come!’ I almost squealed. ‘I’ve never had dogfish before.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he replied. ‘I do hope you have a torch to find your way up the path.’ And he winked, leaving me remembering how I had flashed my torch the night before.

  * * *

  I spent the next hour resurrecting the interior of the cottage as best I could. Without fresh water, cleanliness was nearly impossible but I found a broom and a bucket and after I had swept the floor, I drenched the table and windows with sea water. It would have to do. I beat the dusty armchair cushions against the jagged rocks, which gave me an idea for breakfast. When the cottage was as homely as I could make it and had lost most of its fusty smell, I returned to the rocks and used my penknife to loosen two dozen blue-black mussels from their bed of fuzzy seaweed. I stoked the fire and seared the shellfish on the now blazing flames. One by one, they hissed and popped open, revealing delicious salty pouches – the best breakfast I had ever tasted.

  I licked my fingers clean and drank the last of my water. As well as my initial manoeuvres on Creg-ny-Varn Manor, I would have to make sourcing fresh water and food a priority. A trip to the local shop was risky as I was sure that the villagers would recognise me, or at least see the similarity between me and my mother. I was convinced that the scandal surrounding our shameful departure fourteen years ago would still be flowing in and out of their thoughts as regularly as the tide that washed the shore each day.

  My appetite sated by my unusual breakfast and my body warmed thoroughly by the cast-iron stove, I wrapped up in layers of clothing topped off by my dark-green waterproof. If needed, it would at least provide some camouflage for my advance on my family estate. I even considered attaching twigs and leaves to my body so as not to be spotted when stalking the property’s grounds. I giggled at the thought as I picked my way across the debris-littered beach.

  Yesterday’s storm, which had abated before I arrived at the cottage, had delivered an interesting array of gifts on the pebbles. I hauled several pieces of driftwood to the back of the beach to dry out under the shelter of the cliff and pocketed long lengths of orange twine. Tin cans and plastic bags were tangled with moss-green seaweed and I even spotted an unopened packet of crisps bobbing about in the froth.

  I climbed the steep path that led to the cliff top track and, after fifteen minutes of tramping through the wet, springy grass, I was walking along the road towards the village. The sky pressed down like sodden blankets and I took some comfort in this, hoping that the promise of rain would keep other walkers at home or the mist that pooled in the valleys would shroud the road and render me invisible. As I walked under the occasional stark skeleton of a tree deformed by the insistent westerly wind, plops of water dropped onto my tightly-drawn hood, making me feel as if I was in a portable tent. The island’s climate was so dissimilar to my whitewashed cortijo, which baked for three hundred days a year in a white hot sun, that I felt as if I was hydrating, somehow unfurling from over a decade of desiccation.

  A car sped around a corner and swerved to avoid me. I sidestepped onto the verge, narrowly missing being clipped by the vehicle. A visit to the island’s hospital would be a good way to wreck my mission. As tempting as it was to hitch a lift, risking the idle chit-chat that would inevitably ensue was tantamount to knocking on the front door of Creg-ny-Varn and greeting the impostor, Ethan Kinrade, himself. As I continued the thirty-minute walk on foot, I contemplated the man who had stolen my inheritance.

  So far, I knew only two things about him – his name, thanks to Lewis revealing it, and that he was a thief. I guessed at other unattractive traits he was sure to possess and imagined him to be a big man, enormous in fact, with wobbling pale flesh fattened by his easy good fortune and generous living. He would have a servant to tend to his every need, while he sat in a quilted jacket smoking my father’s pipe by the marble fireplace in the library, reading my family’s books. He would rise at ten and have his clothes spread out by a maid. He would breakfast in the orangery, followed by a leisurely walk around the estate. After a lunch of quail’s eggs and poached salmon, he would nap on the Queen Anne chaise-longue taking in the view to the
coast before drifting into a deep, contented sleep. His evenings would be filled by recounting his good fortune to other scoundrels whom he had befriended, while they quenched their thirst with crystal glass after crystal glass of the estate’s finest Glen Broath whisky.

  My walk became a purposeful march and I puffed as the mist finally gave way to a regular spattering of rain. I balled my fists as I strode to the lane that would take me to the perimeter of the main estate.

  ‘Who does he think he is?’ My angry words went unheard and dropped to the road in bursts of hot breath. Lack of information frustrated me nearly as much as being forgotten in my father’s will.

  It was pure chance that I ever discovered my father’s death, having acquired an out-of-date copy of The Times left behind by a pair of English tourists. I treasured that newspaper, even though it was several months old and had been used by the tourists to wrap pottery souvenirs in the boot of their hired car. They stayed in our cortijo, my mother providing bed and breakfast to supplement our income, and they let me have the newspaper when I spotted them rearranging the contents of their luggage. I read every page meticulously, catching a breath of the British life that I often missed. I even read the obituaries.

  I believe in fate. How else would I have learned of my father’s death? My mother appeared saddened for a while but then went about her business in her usual diligent manner. But the words ‘Sole Heir Gains Manx Millions’ swilling about in my mind finally drove me to leave my Spanish home and return to the Isle of Man where my estranged father had died. The heir’s name had not been printed in the newspaper, fuelling my curiosity further. I was aware that my father had remarried after my mother and I were driven off the island but apart from that I knew nothing about the man I had once gambolled about the garden with as a playful child. My mother had never encouraged contact and I had grown up believing he didn’t want anything to do with me.

  I walked close to the leafless hedge as I turned up the lane and proceeded away from the coast. I soon caught sight of the white painted pillars that supported the ornamental wrought-iron gates and, as I tentatively approached the entrance to the long driveway, I saw the name ‘Creg-ny-Varn Manor’ etched in a large slab of slate. It was tempting to stride confidently up to the gates and press the intercom buzzer and demand access to my home but I had another method of entry planned. Glancing around to make sure there were no cars coming or walkers approaching, I pushed my way into the waist-high bramble hedge and scrambled over the wooden fence that separated the adjacent field from the Manor’s formal gardens. The tangled hedge provided perfect cover as I scooted towards the house, bent low with my body skimming the thorns. I was beginning to feel the damp seeping through my clothes. I wiped the back of my gloved hand across my rain-glazed face and sniffed, unsure whether the cold air had made my nose run or if it was the sight of my childhood home.

  I reached the end of the hedge, the point at which the topiary garden intersected with the field and the lower corner of the Glen Broath whisky distillery. The long slate barn, housing the mash tuns and copper stills, flanked the southern boundary while the tall slate-clad roof of the kiln house dominated the matching grey sky. Nothing had changed in fourteen years. I was suddenly startled as a low rumbling noise and what sounded like the hiss of brakes filled the air. As I peered through the thorny hedge, I saw a coach load of tourists disembarking, evidently set for a tour of the distillery. Thankful for the diversion, I pressed on. After easing myself through the scrub and gorse, I bypassed the bustling yard, wound my way through neatly clipped box sculptures and crept around to the kitchen garden of the Manor. I was thankful, at least, that Mr Kinrade had seen fit to keep the beautiful gardens immaculate.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I froze. The voice was deep and assured, causing the skin on my back to prickle with fear. My peek through the kitchen window thwarted, I used those few precious seconds as I turned slowly to conjure an excuse. I straightened my back, but even standing tall I was only shoulder height to the man who had caught me red-handed. I swallowed and smiled through the drizzle, realising that I must have looked a terrible sight with my hood strung tightly around my rosy, wet face and my muddy walking boots and wet jeans. I wasn’t sure he would even recognise me as female – a good thing perhaps, since remaining unidentifiable was paramount. I hadn’t bargained on being caught, let alone so soon into my mission.

  ‘I was just admiring the beautiful gardens,’ I croaked. ‘Even at this time of year, they are truly impressive.’ I smiled, hoping to warm the hard, angular face that glared back at me.

  ‘But that’s the kitchen, not the garden.’ With his green Wellington boots, his arms folded over a waxed jacket and his dark hair flattened against his forehead by the rain, he seemed likely to be the estate’s gardener. A quick glance behind him to a wheelbarrow containing an assortment of tools confirmed my guess. A few more compliments about his work would surely ensure my release.

  ‘I wanted to see if there was anyone home.’ I shifted uneasily. ‘Just to say how I much admire the topiary.’

  ‘It’s a private estate,’ he continued, holding his stance firmly. ‘The coach tour’s over there.’ He finally moved, making a quick gesture towards the grey buildings of the Glen Broath distillery. He was assuming I had strayed from the party, offering me the perfect alibi.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said with a grin. Remaining casual was imperative. I loosened the tie of my hood, pushed it back and shook out my long hair. ‘But I couldn’t resist a glimpse. I’m passionate about –’

  ‘You’re trespassing.’ The powerful voice, the unwelcoming stare and hard features remained but I noticed his eyes flick down my body as my hair settled in long, dry swathes.

  ‘Are you the gardener?’ I pushed my hands deep into my jacket pockets and dug my fingernails into my palms. He was right. I was trespassing. I was a stranger in my own home.

  He nodded and couldn’t seem to help the twitch of his jaw or the small swallow that fluttered in his throat. ‘Passionate about what, exactly?’ he asked.

  ‘Gardening, of course!’ I took a chance and walked past him to the formal shaped beds of the kitchen garden, thankful to escape the corner in which he had me trapped. I knew little about ornamental plants and shrubs, especially British ones, having grown up eking out an existence in the olive and orange groves in Spain. Our garden stretched to pots of geranium and creeping, scented jasmine roaming wildly over the veranda but my horticultural knowledge pretty much ended there. I did, however, recognise a few twiggy herbs in the kitchen garden. I plucked a sprig of lavender and crushed the spiky leaves between my fingers.

  ‘I love lavender,’ I said, inhaling the scent and taking a few more steps away from the gardener. In a moment, I would be retracing my path and thinking of a better way to gain entry to Creg-ny-Varn Manor.

  ‘That’s rosemary,’ he said flatly and, before I could admit how silly I had been, his hand was fixed firmly around my wrist in a painful grip that caused me to drop the leaves at my feet. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ He pulled me closer and our puffs of white breath mingled as I tried to concoct a believable story. He virtually shocked the truth out of me.

  ‘I want to see…Ethan Kinrade,’ I stammered, refusing to surrender to the man’s aggressive demeanour. He was only the gardener yet acted as if he owned the place. I pulled my arm but the grip tightened. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Mr Kinrade’s not home. He’s gone away.’ The gardener’s voice dropped a little, almost saddened as he spoke. ‘I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

  The grip on my wrist slackened too and I took the opportunity to yank myself free. I could have run and hunkered down in the beach cottage for a couple of days to rethink my plan, but something prevented me from turning and fleeing back to the road. This man was a valuable source of information. He knew Ethan Kinrade.

  ‘You’re getting wet.’ His tone changed, strangely softened, perhaps by my increasingly bedraggled condition. B
ut his sudden concern threw me off guard and I was unprepared as he took hold of my arm again. Stupidly, I allowed him to drag me across the garden.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ I stumbled through the wet grass beside him as we headed for a small building tacked onto the rear of the big house. The tool room, I recalled.

  ‘Somewhere to dry off and talk.’ He opened the wooden door of the ramshackle hut and virtually pushed me inside. Once my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, I saw that it was not just a tool shed any more but a gardener’s den with an old sofa bed, a rug and upturned onion crates positioned amongst the numerous gardening implements. ‘Sit,’ he ordered and fastened the door shut.

  Vague childhood recollections filled my mind of gathering poppy seed heads that had been hung up to dry in this very room, of searching for worms in buckets full of mud, of happy days playing in the sun. How times had changed. The gardener lit an oil lamp, bathing the grey slate walls in an orange glow.

  ‘Take off your wet jacket.’ He tossed me a towel and draped my coat next to the wood burner in the corner. He took off his own weather-proof jacket and mussed up his damp hair so that it reclaimed its natural shape. His outdoor clothing had given nothing away of his undeniably lean and muscular body and, as I rubbed my face and neck with the towel, I tried to ignore the covering of dark hair on his arms as he pushed up the sleeves of his checked shirt.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, passing back the towel. I stared down at my boots, feeling like a naughty child.

  ‘You’re not from the coach party at all, are you?’ He poured two shots from a familiar bottle of Glen Broath single malt and handed one to me. ‘Drink and get warm,’ he ordered, ‘and sit while you tell me your story.’

  Despite there being room enough beside him on the shabby sofa, I chose to kneel beside the wood burner. My legs ached from my long walk and the December drizzle and cold had finally ground into my bones but there was no way I was succumbing to the cosy exchange this rather arrogant man now appeared to be offering.