Christmas on the Island

by Jenny Colgan

  Chapter Two

  Even though only the first early birds were coming through the door looking for good coffee and a slice of mincemeat tart, Flora found herself to be exhausted. The tiredness she’d started to feel was completely unlike anything she’d ever experienced before: every night she fell asleep in seconds.

  Oh God. How was she going to tell Joel?

  It wasn’t that she thought he didn’t love her. Even though he found it hard to say the words, she knew he did. And that – even when he was working on Colton’s projects overseas – all he wanted to do was come home to her.

  But the last year had been hard. She’d finally found out about Joel’s very difficult childhood in and out of foster care, and understood more about why he needed extremely careful handling. He had never known a home, there had been domestic violence and he’d been fostered around a number of placements until he’d won a scholarship to boarding school aged twelve.

  Clever, handsome and ruthless, he had done extremely well in corporate law and all the perks that came with it – the girls, the watches, the hotels. The idea of settling down on a small island with a pale local girl would never have occurred to him in a million years. Flora was still surprised that he had. She couldn’t see what Joel could see, because she’d been born and raised there. But for Joel, the longer he’d spent on Mure, the more he’d warmed to it. He’d come to see the value in a world that followed seasons, not a stock market ticker; the patterns of the farming calendar rather than CNN. He had found something there, and in Flora, that he’d never had before in his life: peace of mind. Domestic trappings – and there was little more domestic than Flora’s old farmhouse kitchen, her troupe of brothers marching in and out at all hours, her father dozing by the fire, dogs everywhere – had started to appeal to him, even as he kept his cottage at the Rock.

  Joel found it fascinating: Flora didn’t even realise for a second what she had – what he’d never ever had – in a loving home. At first it had scared him beyond all sense. All his life he had run so fast, trying to leave his childhood behind him, thinking that if he was on a private jet or wearing an expensive suit, he would be safe.

  The island made him feel safe; Flora made him feel safe. It had taken a nervous breakdown trying to handle Colton’s affairs in the middle of Manhattan that had finally made him realise it. But he was dreadful about articulating it to Flora.

  So Flora had been patient. Very patient. She couldn’t help it; she had adored him since she’d interviewed at the firm six years ago.

  Except. Now something had happened which, on balance, she should have predicted. Birth control bought over the internet (when you grow up somewhere with a population of about a thousand, secret internet shopping came as a boon on a par with electricity) plus as healthy a sex life as you can imagine when the nights are long, the fires at the Rock are very cosy and the person you’re with has been someone you’ve adored for years who suddenly appears to want to have lots and lots of sex with you . . .

  You can see how it happened. But jings, the timing, Flora knew, absolutely could not be worse. Could not be a bigger spanner in the works.

  Of course she’d dreamed of having his baby – one day! And ‘one day’ was absolutely ages away! Years and years and years.

  After they’d bought a house and decorated it and chosen things together . . . Okay, she couldn’t imagine a universe in which Joel would actually look at wallpaper patterns, so scrap that. Right. Well. Maybe they’d just buy a lovely house together – there weren’t a lot of houses for sale on Mure, for sure. There weren’t a lot of houses full stop. But they’d find something lovely; she had dreams of one of those gorgeous contemporary eco homes they did on Grand Designs, all glass and wooden beams, even though, if she was honest with herself, she was more of a lots-of-tatty-cushions-and-old-worn-blankets-and-lots-of-books-and-mugs-of-tea person than a minimalist.

  Anyway. Those were the dreams she’d had. That’s as far as they’d got. Cushions and south-facing windows. And if she was that far ahead, Joel was probably miles behind her. Miles. She sighed. He was barely recovered from the summer. It was an awful thing to land on him, a dreadful thing to do, and she truly hadn’t meant it, not at all. It was his fault if anything, grabbing her every time he walked through the door . . .

  So at least working in the shop and him being away gave her a bit of breathing space as she worked up how best to tell him.

  This trip he was on was the first piece of proper work he’d taken for ages – he was selling off companies for Colton, who was attempting to divest his money and spread it among various charities without alerting anyone – and she was incredibly worried about him.

  Fortunately, instead of checking into a hotel, he was staying at his therapist’s apartment. His therapist, Mark, had known him as a boy – had been his child psychiatrist – and they maintained an active friendship with a lot of counselling thrown in. Mark, who was childless, had confessed to Flora before that the greatest regret of his life was not taking the clever, terrified boy into his home and adopting him when he was little, and so he had spent his life trying to make it up to him. He and his wife, Marsha, were the kindest people Flora had ever known, and if anyone could keep an eye on her boy while she wasn’t there, they could.

  It occurred to her that she might talk to them before she talked to Joel. They could definitely help.

  On the other hand, it felt wrong to ask them for professional advice, and there was a limit to how much Mark could discuss. Plus it felt really wrong to tell other people before she told the father of the baby.

  A baby! Even with all the worry, she couldn’t quite get her head round the entire thing. I mean, it was incredibly inconvenient. And she was terrified of telling Joel. And she couldn’t afford it, and she didn’t have enough time and the farmhouse could hardly handle a baby which would crawl over Bramble and straight into the fire . . .

  She stroked her stomach thoughtfully. Even so. A baby!

  Chapter Three

  It was bitter outside, and Flora smiled at her customers’ faces as the door banged open in the wind, letting in gusts of frosty air, their expressions shocked by the harshness of the wind outside.

  ‘There’s snow on it,’ warned the old ladies, who always warned about snow even though they very rarely got any for long. There would be snow on the air, but the wind seldom let up for long enough for it to actually stay on the ground. Snow on Mure was a living, dancing thing; a whirlwind that ran through on its way to the mountains and deep-filled glens of the highlands.

  When she was a very little girl, Flora remembered, her mother had found her dancing out there one night and had told her the story about the spirits in snow that stole children away, and she’d remarked that she was half snow child already – quite blue – and that children of the sea shouldn’t mix with children of the snow, and so had taken her back indoors and warmed her up with creamy hot chocolate, and then Fintan had woken up and complained vociferously about who was getting hot chocolate, so he had had some too before they were sent back to bed each with a hot water bottle, a whacking great kiss and a cuddle from their mother, who smelled of chocolate and flour and everything safe.

  The snow coming, Flora knew, was not the reason she was thinking about her mother that morning, even as she used her strong pale arms to stir the thick fruitcake mixture, Isla and Iona making a tidy production line of scones and sandwiches for the morning crowd. She glanced around. There was Mrs Johanssen, obviously on her way to bother Saif. She liked to have a weekly appointment, more or less just to discuss herself and her ailments, which were, for a woman of seventy-eight, quite extraordinarily minor. She was in fact a medical miracle and as strong as an ox, having done heavy manual labour while eating lots of fish and turnips for the previous seventy-seven years.

  It was entirely to Saif’s credit that, despite his heavy workload, he treated her as seriously as he treated anyone else. At the Seaside Kitchen, Mrs Johanssen would ask for a plain scone, and check
four times with them that it didn’t have raisins in it as that played havoc with her digestion.

  The knitting group was also in. They didn’t spend much money and were mostly using her fuel to keep warm rather than their own, but Flora couldn’t begrudge them: they helped with the overspill from original Fair Isle knitters from the south so the beautiful, intricate garments could still be labelled as locally made, and they shared a pot of tea and a couple of scones and sat next to the radiator to help warm up their arthritic hands, bent into twisted twigs by years of contorting needles. The rhythm of the clicking was a nice accompaniment to the work, along with the ever-present hum of BBC Radio nan Gàidheal, which played all day.

  A few spots of snow tossed and played outside, and Arthur, who made the beautiful earthenware cups and plates for the café, as well as being a loyal customer, stood outside looking mournful. He lifted his head.

  ‘No,’ said Flora.

  ‘I’m just saying . . .’

  ‘I read your petition,’ said Flora. ‘If I start letting dogs in the café, where will it end? Lions? Buffalo?’

  ‘There’s just not that many buffalo on Mure.’

  ‘What about all the people who are allergic to dogs? What if they get hair in my scones?’

  ‘I’m just . . .’ Arthur narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re in a cranky mood this morning.’

  ‘I am not. I’m just slightly weary having to explain the dogs ban nine hundred and forty-nine times a day.’

  ‘Just because you don’t like dogs.’

  ‘Arthur! What kind of bugger doesn’t like dogs? I have a dog. I just don’t like pawprints in the flour!’

  From outside, Ruffalo, a vast oversized beagle/terrier cross who had absolutely no idea how big he was, crooned a low howl.

  ‘If you didn’t pamper him, he wouldn’t be upset by a bit of sleet,’ said Flora.

  ‘It’s hard to look at an upset puppy,’ said Arthur thoughtfully.

  ‘He weighs more than a small car!’ said Flora. ‘I don’t force you to come in.’

  ‘When you make those cheese scones you do,’ said Arthur, and Flora nodded her head complacently.

  The door opened again, letting in a huge draught. Flora smiled; it was Charlie and Jan, who ran the Outward Adventures courses on the island, sometimes for corporations to make money, and sometimes for disadvantaged youngsters – Joel helped out with the latter from time to time.

  ‘Teàrlach!’ she called; most people used the Gaelic form of Charlie’s name.

  ‘You are not taking your mites out on a day like this.’ She started pouring Charlie’s tea the way he liked it. He stamped his feet and blew on his fingers, then wiggled them, revelling in the warmth. Jan didn’t, looking around at the Seaside Kitchen as she always did, as if she considered heating a terrible wanton extravagance and Flora’s life one of unparalleled ease and leisure.

  ‘Och no,’ said Charlie, accepting the tea gratefully. Jan watched the interaction beadily. She didn’t trust Flora, who had kissed Charlie for about ten seconds once while she (Jan) and Charlie weren’t even dating. The fact that they had subsequently gone on and got married hadn’t dissipated the tension quite as much as Flora had hoped.

  ‘Um, would you like a tea, Jan?’ offered Flora meekly.

  ‘I’m working,’ said Jan, as if Flora had offered her a double vodka Bru.

  Charlie handed over his cash and Jan looked at that too, as if scandalised Flora would actually take money just because she ran a business.

  ‘No,’ Charlie went on, happily oblivious to the undercurrents as always. He was a blissfully uncomplicated man. ‘No, it’s corporate this week. A firm of accountants from Swindon.’

  Flora peered outside. Despite it being 10 a.m., it was still pretty murky out there. She saw a group of unhappy-looking men and women in unflatteringly large waterproofs, blown sideways by the wind, and couldn’t help but smile. They were doing worse than Ruffalo.

  ‘Tell me they’re paying thousands of pounds for the privilege,’ she said.

  ‘They are indeed,’ said Charlie gravely. ‘And they have Loch Errin to kayak across before lunch.’

  Flora beamed. ‘Oh God, they’re going to hate it. Have they even kayaked before?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘It must be a force four. Are you taking tea out to them?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh Teàrlach, it’s not like you to be cruel.’

  ‘I’m not being cruel. Look at them.’

  In a huddle, the Swindon accountants were chatting ferociously to one another.

  ‘See? They’re debating whether to mutiny, whether to just leave and how much they hate us. They really, really hate us.’

  Flora nodded. ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Well, that’s how it works,’ said Jan. ‘Team-building. They’re bonded in their hatred for us.’

  Flora blinked.

  ‘I never knew how that worked before. It makes a lot of sense now you say it like that. But the boys get sausage rolls!’

  Charlie shrugged.

  ‘The boys get anything we can give them . . . But yes, order me up fifteen of your plainest sandwiches for later. Use yesterday’s bread if you like.’

  ‘I will not!’ said Flora, scandalised.

  ‘ . . . and charge top dollar please.’

  ‘Well, that’s not strictly necessary,’ said Jan.

  ‘No, do it, yarta,’ said Charlie. And the localised term of endearment – ‘my darling’ – fell out of his mouth before he could stop it, and Jan glared at him and Flora squirmed a little as she took back his tea mug (he had his own, hanging up on a rack at the back) and waved them on their way.

  * * *

  By lunchtime it wasn’t looking much better outside, and it was obviously going to be a slow day inside, at least until 3 p.m., which was the precise moment everyone working up and down the high street in Mure decided that they needed a piece of Christmas cake. Flora feared withdrawal symptoms come January. Plus the fishing fleet came in at 4 p.m. and they needed mountains of tea and toast and to be shepherded into the furthest corner so they wouldn’t stink up everybody else.

  Flora decided to slip out and take lunch to Fintan, who would be on vigil up at Colton’s place. In the summer, they’d spent a lot of time down on the beach, and everyone had managed to pop in.

  Now, as Colton weakened, fewer people were able to casually drop by, even as Colton was withdrawing into himself. It was a time for family now. Just for them.

  She packed some Cumbrae pinwheel and bacon roll with a cranberry jelly she’d been experimenting with, and headed out to her father’s mucky old Land Rover.

  As soon as she pushed the door, she understood why everyone had come in that day looking so shell-shocked: the weather had deteriorated since the morning and now the wind caught you by the throat the moment you opened the door. It blew right through you, and Flora shivered inside the down jacket that was a necessity of life on Mure, pulling her scarf up over her nose and mouth. Tiny bits of snow mixed with rain threw themselves against the side of her head and she jammed down her pompom hat, but her hands were still freezing by the time she got to the car ten metres away, parking not really being a problem this time of year.

  It took for ever for the rusty old heating to start up, though it barely mattered as the wind whistled through the tarpaulin at the back, and Flora set off.

  Chapter Four

  Colton’s mansion was quite something. It had been an old rectory at one stage, remodelled and extended to turn it into – well, a home fit for a billionaire, Flora supposed, as she went up the immaculate gravel drive, past the grumpy peacocks – who must be freezing, surely – the security gates opening to an unseen voice when she gave her name.

  The snow in the air was thicker here as they were on higher ground; the house perched on the edge of a cliff which looked down over water to the north – seemingly endless, all the way to the pole – save for one field of wildly spinning windfarms, zipping around today
like futuristic whirligigs. All of the waves were cresting white. It would be a long and miserable slog for the fishermen today, even the ones born to the sea.

  The heat when the door was opened to her (round the back; nobody on Mure ever used their front door and few people locked either) was as shocking as the cold had been.

  Colton kept his house – and had done, even before he got sick – at tropical temperatures so he could pad about in his bare feet if he felt like it on the underfloor-heated stone flagstones imported from Italy.

  Flora couldn’t get her top four layers of clothing off quickly enough. She glanced around. Fintan was coming down the hall. Normally such a sprite, he looked older these days, warier. Flora glanced around.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said.

  And indeed it was. The entire house had already been decorated for Christmas, even though it was barely December. Huge swathes of ivy looped around the old banister in the great hall, holly covered every fireplace, and fires roared in the downstairs library and sitting room, even though there was nobody in them.

  Flora found it heartbreakingly sad. It was such a beautiful house, immaculately, beautifully restored, exactly like the Rock, the hotel Colton had bought just to the east of where they were that was meant to provide every possible comfort to visitors and tourists. Only it hadn’t quite worked out like that now he was ill. She looked in the kitchen; every type of herb and spice was arranged in futuristic bottles on perfectly dusted floating shelves. The whole place should have been buzzing with parties and children and families and joy because such an amazing thing had happened: Colton and Fintan had both found the loves of their lives in each other, and they were newlyweds.

  Instead it felt like a mausoleum, and she could tell Fintan could see it in her eyes.