by Jenny Colgan
But Flora wasn’t listening – she was so shocked her mouth had fallen open. And she was staring at Joel to gauge his reaction.
Marsha’s hand was at her mouth; the other one, that was grasping Mark’s, was shaking.
Joel was still standing, rooted to the spot. From the bed, Flora gently touched his hand, and Marsha and Mark both saw it.
‘Joel?’ she said softly.
But he didn’t answer; couldn’t trust himself. Instead, he wobbled a little unsteadily. Then, without letting go of Flora’s hand, he leaned over to them and put his arm around Mark and buried his head in his shoulder as Marsha’s face lit up with a brilliant smile.
Within moments they were all hugging, and Marsha beckoned Flora in and whispered in her ear, are you sure you won’t mind having a mother-in-law one day, and Flora cried and said she couldn’t think of anything she’d like more, but it wasn’t about her, she realised suddenly. With everything that had happened, it was about the future.
It was about the man she loved having more people to love him, not just her. That it wouldn’t always be on her shoulders. That she wouldn’t have to be watching her step all the time; a slave to his dreadful past.
Plus the pretence that Mark and Joel had a purely professional relationship had, frankly, continued a little too long.
She put her hand to her stomach once again, suddenly feeling how bereft, how sad she was. Marsha put her arm around her, and she leaned into the older woman.
‘It’ll be all right,’ whispered Marsha, stroking her hair, and Flora knew that she wasn’t her mother, and Marsha knew she wasn’t trying to be her mother, but it was something they both desperately needed to do nonetheless.
‘Oh and you don’t have to look after us when we’re old or anything,’ said Mark when he’d recovered himself and Marsha had whisked some champagne from the fridge. ‘We’re all sorted – don’t worry about that.’
‘We’re going together to the Home for Elderly Greeks Who Live For Ever,’ said Marsha. ‘It’s all arranged. You have to drink quite a lot of olive oil.’
Flora smiled.
‘Or you may have to shack up on an island with us . . . if we need the childcare one day.’
Mark’s face was hungry. Marsha looked at the windows. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘Pretty much,’ said Flora.
‘Well, it will probably be fine,’ said Marsha.
* * *
Mark and Marsha left them to sleep, which of course was never going to happen in a million years. Instead, they clung to each other as if they’d just survived a shipwreck, with the bed as the raft.
‘You don’t . . . you don’t feel bad about your real family?’ she said. ‘After all, there might be some remnants of it out there, somewhere.’
‘I can’t,’ said Joel simply. ‘I’ve never had anyone. Anyone on my side. Ever.’
And it was true: his real mother’s family had disavowed his drug addict mother long before his father had stabbed her in front of his eyes when he was four years old.
‘Nobody ever loved me,’ he said finally, quietly, his head under the blankets. ‘And now three people do. And I will never, ever let that go. I promise.’
There was another knock at the door.
‘What is this – Piccadilly Circus?’ he grumbled.
‘Santa?’ wondered Flora.
‘He knocks?’
Joel got out of bed. Saif was standing there, looking haggard and wiping snow off his jacket. He was carrying something that was banging off the walls and making a hell of a noise.
‘I need do check,’ he said apologetically
‘Oh God, yes. Sorry,’ said Flora. It was odd: she wasn’t feeling as bad as she had earlier.
She clambered out of bed; Joel handed her a dressing gown and Saif took her temperature and blood pressure and asked if she’d had more bleeding and she said no, and he asked if she were still cramping and she said she wasn’t sure and he reminded her that it could come on over the next couple of days, and she nodded.
Then he pulled in the machine he’d dragged all the way down from the surgery.
* * *
Iona had, frankly, been very, very busy snogging Anatoly and had barely noticed the power cut, as he was six foot four and pure blond with high cheekbones and frankly a total and utter ride by any standards, not just Mure standards.
Isla on the other hand was dancing with Vlad when the lights had gone out, and he – a serious-faced engineer from St Petersburg (and also, let it be noted, a total and utter ride) – had immediately glanced out on the pitch-black island and called his friends, who absolutely one hundred per cent were not hiding in a nuclear submarine out in the bay, and up they headed to join them.
Which is how, two hours later, the lights were back on in the Harbour’s Rest and everyone was so jolly, they thought they were just seeing double – or possibly quadruple – as a vast number of pale young men poured into the bar and started attacking the vodka and teaching ‘Tiha noc, divnaja noc’ to the assembled villagers.
* * *
The lights came up as Saif was carefully inspecting the machine.
‘Ah,’ he said to himself. ‘Easier.’
Flora was staring at it, her heart leaping.
‘I thought you said . . . You definitely said you didn’t walk about the village with the scanner,’ she said.
Saif looked at her.
‘People change,’ he mumbled.
Joel jumped up, still not quite understanding what was going on, as Saif washed his hands and then took out a cold tube of blue gel and squeezed its contents onto Flora’s stomach.
There was no sound at all as the snow danced past the windows until the machine started up with a steady hum, and the room held its breath.
‘Don’t move,’ said Saif. He wouldn’t look either of them in the face, just picked up the probe. He wanted to say something – something comforting about how these things just happened – but as he did so, the probe brushed the gel and even before the monitor was properly warmed up, he got an odd sense through his fingers. He pressed harder. He kept the monitor turned away from both of them, as was appropriate. He waited until he was sure.
Then he turned it around. And pressed the volume on the scanner, so they could hear the rustle-thump, rustle-thump, quick and strong and true.
‘Someone,’ he said, ‘is hanging on.’
Which was true for the baby. But that night, everyone in that room felt it was true for each of them too. And, possibly, everybody in the world.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Saif walked out into the blackness. There was nobody around on the freezing streets, although the storm had abated. He wanted to get a little fresh air before he went back – he’d left the boys curled up in front of the fire, having convinced them that the power cut was an adventure even though it was also a reminder of long ago. And they had finally fallen asleep, Ash clutching a huge fluffy tiger – he appeared to have completely lost control of the present-opening situation – and Ib still overwhelmed with amazement that someone would think enough of them to buy them a PlayStation, his lifelong dream. He genuinely couldn’t believe it. There was, Saif thought, a hint in the boy’s eyes of an understanding that people could care for him even if he was angry or disagreeable.
Saif went and stood on the sea wall. It was exactly midnight: Christmas Day. Suddenly the wind fell still and everything was silent and the stars prickled into view overhead and Saif stared at them. The phone in his pocket dinged. It had been completely out of charge; he’d plugged it in for a moment in the car. He stared at the email he hadn’t picked up before in some surprise.
He didn’t know Neda had been a busy bee, working behind the scenes. Of course she knew Dr Mehta. She knew everyone.
And she knew a good thing when she saw it.
‘Dear Dr Hassan,’ read the email.
‘We regret to inform you that on this occasion your application has been unsuccessful . . .’
He
didn’t read on. Just blinked and carried on staring out to sea.
* * *
Lorna wobbled back rather unsteadily from the Harbour’s Rest through the dark streets. She had received a garbled text from Flora, something about all not being lost but also bring all the chipolatas. She smiled and shook her head as she walked carefully on her way, her heels clopping just a little beneath her.
When she first saw the dark shape ahead, she was a little afraid: it was so still, just standing there by the harbour’s edge, staring out over the dark sea.
And then she realised who it was.
Epilogue
Bramble was perturbed, by dog standards. For a start, it was first thing in the morning but someone was jumping up and down and yelling at everyone to ‘GET UP GET UP SANTY IS HEAH GET UP EVONE!’
Secondly, there was a huge tree in the corner of the room that he’d already tried to cock his leg on and been severely told off for, so he and the tree were enemies as far as he was concerned.
And there was also the delicious smell of things cooking which made him think it must be suppertime, except there was nobody offering him anything to eat.
So Bramble was confused, even by his standards.
He went out on his usual walk down to the village. There were lights on in some windows, and, oddly, people staggering out of the Harbour’s Rest, also looking very confused and smelling not remotely nice. The paper shop, on the other hand, was not open. He stood outside politely for a while, but nobody was going to give him a paper today.
Neither were the fishermen tending their nets. Nor was Milou dancing up and down the beach.
Bramble waited, and sniffed, and mooched, and waited some more until the weak winter sun was almost over the horizon, bouncing pinkly off the snowy hills. Finally, Mrs Johanssen passed, walking Henzil, a growly midget Bramble didn’t like, and told him to get on home, there would be no papers today, and Henzil snapped at his heels, but he still sat there until a heavy-set man emerged from the Harbour’s Rest, and came over and buried his hands in his fur, as if he’d really been in need of a dog, and Bramble finally shook himself all over and headed for home.
And what a different scene awaited him.
There was a huge breakfast spread on the table, put on by Hamish, Innes – and a ‘stranded-by-the-storm’, pink-faced and extremely happy-looking Eilidh, who was snuggling up to Innes and being leant upon by a contented-looking Agot who was dressed up as a unicorn and a bear at the same time, having decided to wear all her Christmas presents at once.
There was French toast and bacon and maple syrup and porridge with thick cream fresh from the dairy as well as scones and new warm soft bread from the Seaside Kitchen, just waiting to be cracked into and the new honey poured on so it spilled everywhere. Bramble positioned himself carefully to catch any leftovers.
There was tea poured from the ancient pot into huge chipped earthenware mugs; Flora’s fancy coffee machine was working overtime too.
Joel was there, looking exhausted but unbelievably happy, his arms around Flora’s waist, never taking his eyes off his gorgeous girlfriend. He stood behind her, leaning against the sink and holding her tight – but not too tight – as if they had a huge goblet of molten gold, and he could not spill a precious drop. Eck sat by the fire, being waited on by everyone. Hamish was still hopping around the room as Colton had told Fintan to get him what he most wanted in the world, and what Hamish had always most wanted in the world was a Scalextric, and he could barely contain himself with glee. And Marsha and Mark had arrived with breathtakingly expensive and carefully chosen gifts for everyone, which was awkward as they’d got shortbread and tartan gloves in return, everyone having been a bit preoccupied to do much in the way of specialised and thoughtful shopping that year, but everyone pretended that shortbread was just as good as real jewellery and cashmere jumpers really and that was fine too.
And as they chatted and ate and opened gifts and got ready to wander down to the church to see everyone, the door opened quietly. Bramble looked around first, but then the others did too, as the pale, wan figure of Fintan sidled in.
And in an instant they engulfed him and sat him down; he had tea in his hands and a dog on his feet and a four-year-old climbing up his arm and, for some reason, a tinsel crown on, and before he even got the chance to explain to Joel and Flora that he couldn’t – not ever – go back to the Manse, that (to him) hideously oppressive house and please please please could they rent it, he had a full plate, and the arms of people he loved around him and he felt like the lost snow child come home, and then Flora turned around again and saw another figure lurking outside looking awkward and a bit hopeless, and she left Joel’s protective embrace, went to the doorway and, with a look to Fintan, beckoned Tripp inside too, even as Agot was announcing yet again, ‘I DO NAVTY, UNCA FINTAN!’ and Fintan smiled tiredly and said, ‘Go on then, la,’ and she stood up straight in her best angel pose, and hollered at the top of her voice:
‘I GOOD NEWS! PEAS ON EARTH! PEAS ON EARTH! GOOD NEWS!’
Recipes
Lanark Blue Scones
Remember with scones: HOT OVEN COLD BUTTER!
* * *
200g self-raising flour
75g butter, cubed
75g blue cheese, Scottish obviously, cubed
1 teaspoon mustard
1 teaspoon baking powder
liberal sprinkling of salt
splash of tonic water
milk, to consistency (approximately 100ml)
Set the oven to 220 Celsius, 200 if fan.
Mix the flour, salt and baking powder, then rub in the butter and cheese to make crumbs. Add the mustard, plenty of salt, a splash of tonic for luck (my friend Sez swears by it) and then add the milk slowly until it’s a proper, quite soggy consistency. Roll the dough out nice and thickly, then cut out with pastry shapers or, if like me you can never find them at the right moment, any jam jar or glass you have to hand.
You can paint a little beaten egg for shininess onto the tops if you like but I think that’s for sweet scones really; savoury don’t need it.
If you’re feeling particularly adventurous, good things to add include cooked chorizo and if you have any leftover roasted peppers, they are delicious in them. Otherwise a few chopped fresh chives are lovely too.
Stick baking paper on a big tray and space them nice and far apart so they can expand, then 10–15 minutes in the oven: you’ll be able to tell by the colour and by the amazing number of passing friends who suddenly just pop up, attracted by the smell.
Black Bun
* * *
Black Bun is eaten on Hogmanay – New Year’s Eve – so as to keep you nice and stodgified and warm enough to go out first footing, which is when you visit all your neighbours after the bells at midnight, and hopefully have a little dram here, there and everywhere. Hence you need something to soak up the whisky. It is heavy, but you only have a little bit. If you’re modern, you can have it with cream ☺. It’s a two-hour bake and can do with being thrown together the day before but it’s not remotely difficult. You don’t have to buy the pastry, obviously. But I buy the pastry.
250g plain flour
450g currants
250g raisins
125g brown sugar
125g mixed peel (that’s what recipes traditionally say for balance. If it’s me, I like all the mixed peel!)
1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
50g maraschino cherries
1 glass whisky to taste
1 tsp each: cinnamon, mixed spice, ginger
1 clove
1 egg
Milk, to moisten
Mix all of these ingredients together – NB this will be even better if you leave them overnight (except the egg and milk!).
Butter a loaf tin and roll out the pastry so it fits (you are aiming for a large square sausage roll-looking thing). Tightly pack the mix together. Then stick down the pastry with a little egg and bake at 180 degrees Celsius for two hours. Let it c
ool thoroughly, then cut into small but utterly delicious slices – and may the first person through your door after the bells be the coalman.
Shortbread
* * *
You can’t make Scottish recipes without making shortbread, and this one is nice for kids to join in with as it’s so simple. If you can’t get your hands on Fintan’s unsalted butter, buy the highest quality you can afford.
150g very good butter
60g caster sugar
200g plain flour
Pre-heat the oven to 180 degrees Celsius and line a baking tray.
Cream the sugar and butter well, then add the flour until you get a paste. Roll it out to about one centimetre in thickness, then cut it however you like – be creative (or lazy, like me, and just use the top of a glass ☺!
Sprinkle some extra sugar on top, then chill the dough in the fridge for at least half an hour otherwise they won’t bake nicely.
Put it in the oven for twenty minutes, or until golden brown and delicious.
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Acknowledgements
Thanks: Maddie West, Jo Unwin, Milly Reilly, Joanna Kramer, Charlie King, David Shelley, Stephie Melrose, Emma Williams and all at Little, Brown; Deborah Schneider, Dan Mallory, Rachel Kahan, Alexander Cochran and his frankly astounding team at C+W; the Faceboard and my Beatons, big, small and those getting ridiculously big and taller than me even though in my head they are in fact quite small.
Laraine, of course, without whom I couldn’t function; Sandy Tjolle and Major Kat for suggesting I told the entire book through the medium of dogs. (I did not, obviously, but I did borrow a chapter.) And apologies to cat-lovers who always write to me after books with dogs or puffins in and say, ‘Cats are very nice too.’ I agree. Cats are very nice too.
Some sad things, because life always has both types of things, and both should always be acknowledged. I have written about cancer in this book. As I was writing about it, two people I was profoundly fond of died of that horrible disease. All love to my beloved Tantan, Anne Kilkie (1942–2018), and Kate Breame (1979–2018), and to the NHS who cared for them so well.
