by Jenny Colgan
And there certainly wasn’t room for him up there. That huge chap, Charlie, though that wasn’t what she called him. Always there. Biding his time. He’d be more suitable. Not someone like Joel, who carried around more baggage than Newark. What if she tried to fix him? She wouldn’t be the first. And then they’d really be in trouble.
It wasn’t in his nature to be unselfish. He’d never been able to take care of more than himself. But when it came to her . . .
He picked up the paper. There it was, as soon as he turned the page, the story about the whale. What was it about her? She wasn’t a supermodel. But somehow, that face, with its clear, direct gaze; the milky, creamy skin that must cover every inch of her . . . it made everyone else look overdone, too made up; those ridiculous eyebrows that looked like they’d been drawn on with a Sharpie. All the other girls he knew looked like bizarre overpriced cocktails, while she was a cool, clear glass of water on a boiling hot day.
Margo came in with a box full of files and he started as if he’d been caught looking at pornography, and thrust the paper underneath the box.
Normally he could attack his work like a machine. Get through it. Get to the nub of things, the nitty-gritty of contracts and points of law, and see clearly to something that was always to his clients’ advantage. Always.
Now he was staring out of the window, wondering what kind of bird he was looking at.
He should call her. But what was he going to say? It felt like stepping out into midair.
He sighed and picked up the phone.
The voice on the other end was gruff, and belatedly Joel remembered that it was very early in New York. This in itself was utterly uncharacteristic; normally he held all the time zones in his head in a tight line, accustomed as he was to doing business everywhere.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Who is that?” said the voice. “No, of course, it’s Joel, isn’t it?”
There was a pause, and the noise of a coffee machine grumbling. Then the voice immediately turned softer.
“I seem to be hearing from you a lot recently.”
There was such kindness in it. Such a gentle tone.
It struck Joel that he had never known how to return the kindness, and thus never had. But now, when he had a real problem, he realized he didn’t really have anywhere else to turn. Flora . . . yes, it was bad what she’d been through. But she had that huge noisy family of hers. And all her friends on the island, and all those people walking past who just seemed to know her anyway.
“So,” said Dr. Philippoussis. “You must have met someone.”
Joel pulled the newspaper out from under the box.
“Um,” he said.
It was a beautiful shot; someone had caught her kneeling down, nose to nose with the beautiful animal, the sun lighting through her hair. There was no one else in the frame at all; they’d cropped out the RNLI and the tractor so that it was just Flora, alone with the whale, singing it back to sea.
“She? He? It?”
Joel blinked.
“She.”
“Interesting.” Dr. Philippoussis hummed.
“Don’t make humming noises,” said Joel. “I don’t need a therapist.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” said Joel firmly.
He paused.
“I need a friend. For advice. Not just for me. Real advice.”
Dr. Philippoussis looked out of the window of his downtown apartment. He never got tired of watching the sun rise through the skyscrapers, even on days that were guaranteed, like this one, to be hot and sticky and difficult to get through. The humidity made him want to shave off his beard. In the bedroom, his wife was still asleep. She’d be delighted to hear Joel had called. She’d have adopted him if it had been remotely possible, if they hadn’t run the risk of making things far worse than they already were. Joel hadn’t been neglected, exactly. He’d been clothed and fed, more or less, all his physical needs seen to.
But there was something about the boy, something so closed. Abandoned by his mother, then passed around, he had not, as so many children in his situation did, become overaffectionate, clingy, and desperate to please in a way adults could find appealing. Instead, he had shut himself off to such an extent it was thought he had a diagnosable illness, like autism.
Dr. Philippoussis had not tried to prize him open; he had simply let the young boy be himself, pointing him toward things he might like—books, order, comprehensibility. Studying the law had been perfect for him—things were black and white, right or wrong. They could be categorized and put into boxes in the way human emotions and messy human lives could not.
“I’m that too,” said Dr. Philippoussis, watching the tall buildings of Manhattan gradually sparkle pink and shiny gold, and the city bristle into life, the streets full of joggers and dog walkers and hurrying professionals whose faces looked every bit as closed off as Joel’s always did.
“She lives on an island . . . sometimes . . . and it’s so strange up there. And she’s a part of it. And I don’t think . . . I don’t think I should drag her into all my stuff.”
“Why not? Is she cruel?”
“No.”
“Would she make you feel small about what you’ve been through?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
Joel couldn’t say it. A long silence fell between them.
“Well, call her,” said Dr. Philippoussis.
“But I’m not . . . I’m not sure I’m ready.”
There was a long pause.
“What? I asked you to give me advice!”
“I can’t,” said the good doctor. “I know we’re friends. But I have a professional responsibility toward you too.”
“You don’t!”
“I do.”
“Well, if it was you . . .”
“Nobody can ever stand in for anyone else,” said Dr. Philippoussis.
“Oh, great, thanks.”
“I could also say that nobody ever thinks they’re ready.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“No. You’ll have to choose for yourself.”
“How?”
“Use your imagination.”
“I don’t have an imagination! I’m a lawyer!”
Joel stared at the paper. His own life, below the surface, was empty. A gaping hole, he sometimes thought. And hers was not. It could not be a little step. It would be everything. And he knew what the worst thing that could happen was, because it had happened every single time he’d been moved on to a new family. Until he’d learned to seal himself off.
Chapter Forty-four
Several weeks had passed, and Flora had never known what it was like to be so busy, even after the ridiculous fuss of her being in the paper had passed. The Café by the Sea was absolutely inundated. They started doing picnic hampers with homemade Scotch eggs and plowman’s lunches, and these were even more crazily popular, with locals and visitors alike. The visitors liked to take them up the fells, or through the ancient abbey, whose gray stone walls cast a somber shadow on gloomy days but in high summer proved an irresistible playground for young children, who ran up and down the ruined spiral staircases, jumping in and out of the low glassless windows, as their parents sat in the long grass, sharing a bottle of Eck’s bramble wine, which they shouldn’t technically exactly be selling, at an utterly shameless markup.
The oddest thing was, Flora couldn’t be heartbroken. She couldn’t. She was sad not to hear from Joel—and she had to occasionally file reports, to which Margo would respond. But she didn’t blame him, or wonder whether what had happened had meant anything to him. It was all on her side. She had to get over it. Her crush had extended slightly, one strange afternoon, that was all, and now she had to . . . well. She had to get over it. Get on with things. Get on with the job. Even the less pleasant parts.
Which was why, finally, one glorious August day, as the breeze rippled across the s
ea—meaning everyone needed a cardigan, but otherwise it was so very pleasant to sit out on the stone wall and watch the insects buzz lazily over the headland—Fintan summoned Innes and Hamish down from the fields, had a quick telephone call with Colton, and whispered urgently to Flora. She nodded.
Eck was snoozing outside the farmhouse with Bracken at his feet.
“Dad,” she whispered. “Dad, can we talk to you?”
“Family meeting!” said Fintan.
Agot was dancing in circles and swinging on Innes’s and Hamish’s hands.
“I’S THE ONLY GIRL! I’S THE PRINCESS!”
“Hi, Agot,” said Flora, bringing warm shortbread from the oven and a fresh pot of tea. Innes eyed it warily.
“Are you trying to bribe us?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“YOU NOT PRINCESS, AUNTIE FLOWA,” came the insistent voice.
“Yes, I know that, my darling,” said Flora.
“YOU SELKIE.”
“Could you stop with this, please?”
“YOU IN PAPER.”
She didn’t like to think of that day. Not anymore. She was here till the Lughnasa—the late harvest. Then Joel would be gone to the States and she could simply go back to work and all would be fine. And she would never see him again. And everything would be beyond awful.
No, she wouldn’t believe that. She would get on with the job in hand. And she was making a difference; they all were. They absolutely were. But they’d hit crunch point now, if Fintan was going to go and work at the Rock.
“Dad,” she said.
Innes looked concerned. Hamish as usual sat silent in the corner of the yard, his face still smeared with muck from doing the lion’s share of the heavy work.
“Well, everyone, really,” she added. The farm was in their father’s name, but there was no doubting the way of things. The boys would inherit, and that was how it had always been and always would be, as long as the sun set in the west and the tide reached the wild seagrass.
“Fintan and I . . .” She turned to him. “Do you want to do it?”
He looked straight at her and shook his head.
“Can you do it, Flora?” he said.
“No,” said Flora. “Well. Both of us.”
She took a deep breath.
“There’s been an offer,” she said. “A good offer. A really, really good offer. To buy the farm.”
It was as if Eck didn’t quite understand. Flora found herself repeating it in the old tongue, just to make sure he knew what they were saying. Fintan was on his phone, obviously repeating everything to Colton.
“But,” her dad kept saying. “But I’m fine, Flora.”
“This is Agot’s birthright,” Innes was saying.
“NO FARM! ME PRINCESS!” Agot yelled.
“I’m not sure we need a three-year-old at the negotiating table right now,” said Flora, slightly peevishly.
“But, Flora . . . I mean, it’s fine.” Eck was completely bewildered.
Flora looked at the sagging lintel over the door, the rusting farm machinery out in the field. He couldn’t see it, she knew. In his head he still lived in a long golden summer where she and the boys ran about the outhouses half naked, utterly filthy, and laughing their heads off; or lined up in front of the television, furiously pushing and shoving for space to watch Countdown; or begged him to tell them stories of the olden days, when they’d had to make their own clothes and were regularly cut off from the mainland for months at a time and there’d been no television, they’d just had to make their own music; at which point she and the boys would giggle and sigh in utter disbelief, and their mother would tell them to hush, it was exactly like that, though it was nice too, and she’d smile, and suggest a round of cheese on toast and homemade soup for everyone, and they’d all cuddle up in front of the fire, until Flora and Fintan fell out about who was taking up too much space, then everyone would collapse laughing and the dogs would bark madly.
That was what he saw. Flora knew it.
“Dad,” she said. “I’ve seen the books. You know I have. Innes knows it. You know we can’t go on like this.”
Suddenly she wanted to sit in his lap, like she had as a very little girl. But he had shut himself off from her a long time ago, and she knew why.
“There’s nothing left.”
“And, Da,” said Fintan, his face as pale as Flora’s suddenly. “Da, I don’t want to farm anymore. I want to work with Colton Rogers.”
Her father blinked. Flora looked at Fintan intently.
“And also. Colton’s my boyfriend.”
Even Agot was silent at that.
The blood rushed to Fintan’s face.
“Well. He’s someone . . . someone important to me. I don’t know if I’d call him . . . I mean, it’s very early days.”
Innes and Hamish just sat there, unmoving. Flora wasn’t entirely sure Hamish had even understood, or Eck, for that matter. Fintan’s stance was sullen, as if daring them to challenge him. He looked more like sixteen than thirty-two.
Agot went up to him.
“YOU GOT BOYFRIEND?”
Fintan smiled shyly, and shrugged. “Well, kind of. Not sure. He is nice, though.”
“I’S GOT BOYFRIEND.”
He crouched down.
“Who’s your boyfriend?”
“PEPPA,” said Agot.
“Pepper?”
“PEPP-A! HE PIG.”
Fintan smiled.
“Well, it’s nice to know I haven’t got the actual weirdest relationship in the place right now.”
Innes stood up and stepped forward, bright red too. They weren’t used to talking like this, the MacKenzies. His hand went to the back of his neck. Flora flashed back to all the teasing—at school, yes, but at home too. Pansy. Girlie. Wimp. All of it. On and on.
Innes stuck his hand out.
“Congrats, bro,” he said, with some difficulty. “Glad you’ve met someone.”
Fintan started shaking his hand, but they ended up in an uncomfortable hug.
“Mum would have liked him,” he said.
“Mum knew?”
“Of course she knew. She didn’t tell you?”
“No, she just skited us round the ears if we ever wound you up.”
“You deserved it.”
“I suppose we did. But yeah, she would have liked him—he’s got money.”
“Oi!” said Flora.
“What! Excuse me, fancy-pants posh girl, what was that exactly?”
“She might have liked him because he’s nice.”
Hamish raised a hand.
“Well done, mate.”
“No problem.”
They all turned to Eck. He was still sitting there, shell-shocked.
“Dad?” said Flora. She wondered if it was too early for whisky, and decided it was not.
“Oh weel,” said Eck. “Weel weel weel weel.”
Flora put a hand on his shoulder. Fintan was trying to look unconcerned, but Agot was in his arms and he was holding her very tightly in a way that betrayed his nerves.
“I DOES LOVE PEPPA,” she said again, hoping to repeat the positive effect this had had the first time.
“Weel . . .”
Eck seemed almost untethered with confusion.
“Are you all right, Dad?” Flora knelt down at his elbow. “It’s okay, you know,” she said. “It’s okay.”
Eck shook his head.
“I know,” he said in a bewildered tone. “I know youse all think I’m an ancient fuddy-duddy from the dawn of time.”
“Why would we think that, Dad?” said Innes. “Just because you are an ancient fuddy-duddy from the dawn of time.”
“You know, in those days,” said Eck, ignoring him. “I mean, what the minister said at the kirk . . . that was all we needed, you know. That was how we lived and what we all believed. And everything was normal.”
“No, that’s what people pretended to believe,” said Fintan. “Think back. You mu
st know that’s true. What about old Mr. MacIlvaney, who ran the sweetshop? He never married, he lived with his mother. Why do you think he got so fat?”
“Because he ran a sweetie shop,” said their father.
“NO!” said Fintan. “Because he was repressed. Because he had to hide what he was. You can’t look at the past and think that life wasn’t like that just because it wasn’t talked about. Because it absolutely certainly was.”
“But the kirk—”
“Och, the kirk was as bad as the rest. Worse.”
Eck sighed.
“Nothing changed, you know. My life was much the same as my grandfather’s, which was the same as his grandfather’s, and so on, and so on. And then suddenly, BANG. Everyone wants everything and it all changes.”
Flora shook her head.
“I promise, Dad, it hasn’t changed. Not that much. Not compared to the world outside.”
“That’s why I never bother with the mainland,” said Eck.
“Quite right too,” said Flora. “But you can handle this, can’t you?”
Eck looked up.
“Do I have to like it?”
“Naw,” said Fintan.
“Is this why you hate working on the farm?”
“No,” said Fintan. “I hate working on the farm because it’s shit hard and freezing half the year.”
“The other boys dinnae mind.”
“I don’t like it either,” said Innes.
Eck’s face really fell then.
“Hamish?”
Hamish shrugged.
“I’d rather be inside sometimes,” he said quietly. This was a very long speech for Hamish.
Eck got up. The sunshine was glowing over the fields, even as a stiff wind blew through the tall, spiky grass of the dunes.
“Bramble! Bracken!” he growled. “Get in noo. Dhu going fur a walk.”
The dogs leaped up, looking round warily, as if they could sense the atmosphere. Eck grabbed his old stick from the doorway and strode away, Bramble and Bracken at his heels.
The siblings looked at each other.
“Well,” said Flora, cautiously. “That went—”
Innes had already turned round.
