by Jenny Colgan
“We all know what he looks like,” said Andy, to her unending gratitude. Lorna and Saif came down the main street to join the posse.
“Come on then,” said Clark. “Let’s split up. Westers search wester, easters search easter. I’ll knock up hooses.”
Flora nodded, her heart racing, amazed that it had turned so serious so quickly. He’d only been gone a couple of hours.
Charlie came forward.
“Do you want to start searching the mountains?”
“No,” said Flora. “He won’t . . . he wouldn’t do that.”
“That might explain why Bramble wouldn’t go with him.”
Bramble was lapping noisily at a water dish Andy had put out for him. He wasn’t used to the heat.
“No, his sciatica’s too bad for that, I would say . . .”
They scanned the horizon. It was so clear, they could see all the way to the top of the fell, which was usually shrouded in cloud or low-lying mist.
“I’ll radio Jan,” said Charlie, then stalled suddenly as he realized what he’d said.
Flora looked at him.
“Please do.”
She pretended to busy herself with her phone as he took out the walkie-talkie. Evidently Jan had started pitching camp for the night. Flora felt slightly concerned that this was the only time Charlie had felt it safe to see her. She heard him mutter into the walkie-talkie, quite shortly, and it quickly became evident that there had been no sign of her father, but Jan would keep an eye out. Then Charlie paused, and glanced over at her briefly. Her heart skipped a little.
“Also, Jan,” he said. “When you get down . . . can we talk?”
Flora wandered off so as not to eavesdrop. Where had her father gone? Did he want people looking for him? Was he just fed up with the lot of them?
Although the sun was still high in the sky, it was getting on for nine o’clock. If only he’d gotten a mobile phone, but he couldn’t be persuaded, not ever. It simply didn’t cross his mind that he might need one. Everyone he wanted to speak to either lived five feet away from him or he could wander down to the village to find them. Anything more than that just wasn’t for him.
Oh God, Dad. Where the hell are you? Where have you gone? It gripped her, cold around the heart. She couldn’t. She couldn’t lose another parent. The silly old fool. But what if he’d gotten lost? Tripped and fallen down a cliff? Those paths could be hazardous, even in clear weather. And the wind was up again now. Oh God. No. She couldn’t bear it.
She thought about Joel, but for once in a different way: as someone without a family. Without parents. That was what it was about him. Not that he was arrogant or felt above everyone. But because he was so alone in a cold universe. No wonder he was such a brilliant lawyer, such a great negotiator. He had absolutely nothing to lose. Everyone had gotten him wrong.
She couldn’t imagine it. Even when she’d been far away, she realized now, as she watched the street thronged with people, passing on the word, going up and down to talk to each other, the news spreading quickly, more and more people coming out of their homes to look for her father; wherever she’d been, those skeins from her home had invisibly surrounded her, protected her, kept her safe. Showing her that she always had a way to come home, even if she’d never known it.
She blinked at the tears in her eyes.
“Dad!” she called. “Dad!”
She looked at her phone again. Nothing. Bramble moved closer to her, and she dug her fingers into his thick fur, calmed by the dog’s heavy warmth and slow heart rate.
“DAD!”
Charlie was behind her, she knew. And on all sides stretched a line of people, protecting, helping, caring.
A tear ran down her cheek.
“DAD!”
Who? thought Flora fiercely. Who would he want to talk to? Who would he want to be with?
And then, all at once, in a flash, she knew.
Chapter Forty-six
The churchyard was set behind the ruined abbey; they shared the grounds. Most people were surprised when they came to explore the weather-worn ruins to see that there were recent graves among the ancient fallen stones, but there they were.
Flora’s mother’s grave was plainly marked. Her father hadn’t seen the need to make a big fuss—he’d never made a fuss about anything in his life and he wasn’t going to start with some fancy ornate dedication to his wife, particularly since—as Flora knew, and had fallen out with him so badly about—he thought she’d gone back where she came from.
Telling Charlie she was going to quickly check something, she had rushed down the main street, Bramble bounding joyously, delighted she’d finally cracked what he meant. At the little gate that led to the churchyard, she paused. Behind her, the ancient stones of the abbey loomed up, ageless and somber, even in the bright summer sunshine. The tourists had gone back to the pub to eat scampi and remark on the never-setting sun; the place was empty.
Almost empty. Bramble frolicked on ahead, but Flora didn’t need to follow him to know where he was going.
Her mother’s headstone was set at the very farthest end of the cemetery, right up against the seawall, facing due north. She found her father sitting in a heap behind the stone, tears silently dripping off his chin—it looked like the end of a very long crying jag—and Bracken lying with his head in his lap.
“Dad,” she said quietly. At first he didn’t hear her. He was just leaning against the stone, an old man, crying.
“Dad,” she said again, and sat down.
“Och,” he said crossly when he saw her, and rubbed his hands across his face impatiently. “Och no, away with you. No, Flora, no.”
“Dad, it’s all right.”
He shook his head.
“Ach, no. Please.”
“I understand. But I didn’t know where you’d gone.”
“I’ve no been missed.”
Flora tactfully decided not to mention that about 80 percent of the village was currently searching the island’s every nook and cranny, and was going to make it to the churchyard eventually.
“Oh, Dad. I’m so sorry. Nobody wanted to upset you. Fintan . . .”
He shook his head.
“Och no, I’m no worried about the lad.”
He turned his face away, still ashamed of letting Flora see his tears.
“But the farm . . . that’s hard. That’s a hard one on a man. Generations of MacKenzies have worked that land.”
“But they still will, Dad, that’s the point! If you don’t change, that’s what will end it. This way your name will reach out, will carry on . . . way beyond the island. Way beyond you even having to work! I mean . . . It’s the best thing. You see that, don’t you?”
The old man stared out to sea.
“And think of the money. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a little bit of money?”
“What would I do with money?”
“You could travel! Go places. Buy . . .”
Flora realized he was absolutely right. Her father had never seemed to want for a thing. Changed his Land Rover once every twenty years; wore the same clothes, then stitched them up himself when they grew threadbare. The idea of him going to a fancy restaurant or staying in a hotel, sitting by a pool . . . Her mother had once insisted on taking him away to Spain on a package tour when the children were all grown up, and he had hated every single second of it.
“Oh, it wasn’t so much that he hated it,” her mother had said later. “It was that he simply didn’t comprehend what he was doing there. It just made absolutely no sense to him at all.”
“It will still be our farm,” Flora said. “People will call it the MacKenzie Farm long, long after all of us have gone.”
Her father patted her mother’s grave.
“Och, and does that even matter?” he said.
“Of course it does!” said Flora, horrified.
He nodded, and gave one great sigh. Then he turned to her.
“She loved you so much, you know.”
&
nbsp; “I know,” said Flora. “I miss her too. Every day.”
“She missed you. She missed you.”
“She told me to go.”
“Of course she did. She thought it was the right thing to do. She thought there was a grand life out there waiting for you.”
Flora blinked back tears.
“She couldn’t bear to make you stay. She didn’t mind so much for the boys. And I think yon Fintan felt the thin edge of that.”
Flora nodded, the lump in her throat making it impossible for her to speak.
“But she always hoped . . .”
“Please, Dad,” Flora managed, with some trouble, staring hard at the ground. “Please don’t say she always hoped I’d come back. I couldn’t bear it.”
He looked up, startled.
“Oh no, love. Oh no. Not at all. She always hoped you’d make a life for yourself that you loved, wherever you were.”
He hung his head.
“After the funeral . . .”
“I didn’t mean it, Dad. I was so upset. I was out of my mind. I’m so sorry. I wish I hadn’t . . .”
“No. No. I thought on it. These last years, I’ve thought about it a lot. And I think maybe you were right. That I should have let her spread her wings. Not that I actually thought she had wings, before you go accusing me of anything else.”
This was a long speech for her father, and Flora listened intently.
“That’s why I never chased you down. Never fussed you. I didn’t . . . I hated the thought that she felt chained here. Chained to us, to the farm.”
Flora shook her head. A thought struck her, and she rummaged in her bag.
“I thought that for years, Dad. I did. But now that I’ve come back, I realize I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
She pulled out the tattered old recipe book, spattered and worn.
“Look,” she said.
“Your mother’s recipes.” Eck, confused, put on his glasses. “Aye, right enough.”
“No,” said Flora. “Look inside.”
She turned to a chocolate cake entitled Best Birthday Cake in the World Ever for My Best Big Boys. Another, for soup, had an asterisk with Good for Hamish when he’s crushed the other kids again and feels bad. There was a recipe for fudge with a picture of all their happy faces, crudely drawn, and WILL FIX MONOPOLY FIGHTS!!!! written next to it. All the little phrases she’d used, ingredients she’d liked—More white pepper than Eck can stand was scribbled on one page—tumbled down the years and out from the pages; the Christmas section was particularly delirious, with excited drawings of Santa, including some clearly done by the children, next to the Christmas cake.
Eck held the book like it was a sacred thing.
“That is not,” Flora said, never more sure of anything, pointing out Campers’ Stew, and Happy Pie, and Goodnight Possets, illustrated by a crib in the light of the moon, “that is not the work of a woman who was unhappy with her choices.”
Eck could barely speak. He looked up at her.
“Why are you carrying it around with you? It could get lost or stolen or anything.”
“Because I’m copying it,” said Flora. “For the Café by the Sea. For posterity. For Agot. There will be lots of copies, I promise.”
“Good,” said Eck. “Because I want this one.”
And he tucked it tenderly inside his old coat.
They sat there for a while, the two of them, Flora in her dad’s arms, rocking gently in time with the waves behind the churchyard wall.
And when she was all cried out, he said, “Give me a hand up, dearie,” and she did, of course, and as they stood up, arm in arm, they saw the first of the searchers entering the churchyard, shouting, “Eck! Eck!” and then yelling with happiness and relief to one another. The old man blinked, entirely surprised, leaning his hand on Bracken’s broad back to steady himself.
“Och no,” he said. “You didn’t send out a search party.”
“They sent themselves out,” said Flora. “They were worried about you.”
He shook his head one last time. Then he looked at her.
“Oh, I will miss you when you go, Flora MacKenzie.”
“I’ll be here till the Lughnasa,” murmured Flora. But her heart wasn’t in it.
Chapter Forty-seven
So, we’re ready for the meeting,” Colton was saying. He was leaning back on one of the ramshackle chairs they’d pulled outside the farmhouse on a mild, clear night. Given the extraordinary luxury he lived in, Flora couldn’t understand why he was always over here. Well, she could: he was in love with her brother; but if she lived somewhere as nice as the Rock, she’d never leave. Fintan was sitting on the arm of his chair, leaning against him from time to time, looking the picture of happiness. Everyone had a beer, and Flora, who had had a very long working day sorting out both dairy and shop issues, was perfectly happy for the evening, which stretched until the dawn, to meander on its own way.
Agot was sitting playing with Colton’s incredibly expensive Gucci loafers. How on earth anyone could wear loafers to a farm and not get them filthy was beyond Flora. Maybe he just put on a brand-new pair every day. Agot had planted several twigs in one of the shoes and was attempting to make it sail down the sluice like a boat. Flora was going to draw his attention to it, but it was such a lovely evening, they all deserved to relax, and anyway, stopping Colton in full flow was harder than stopping Agot.
“Can you send all the council members a pie before the meeting? The blackberries are coming out, and they’re sensational,” he said. “And some of the cream.”
“You mean absolute and outright bribery,” said Flora.
“Not at all. A gift for the important dignitaries and respected elders of this island. Who sure hate wind farms. And love you and me.”
“Are you sure that won’t just set them even more against you?” said Flora. “Especially Reverend Anderssen. He’ll want to make a point about not being corrupt.”
“A man who thinks so much about his belly, being sent a huge pie. Yeah, all right, whatever.”
“Everyone will see straight through it,” said Flora.
“Come on!” said Colton. “I’m employing half the town here. I’m asking for an extra couple of hundred yards. Which, by the way, will easily be paid for with all the tax dollars I’m about to start handing over because I employ people. Did you know your country has maternity leave?”
“I know, we’re psychos,” said Flora.
“Not that you need it,” said Colton.
“Shut up!” said Flora.
“No, I mean it. What happened to that nice guy who kept coming to see you?”
Flora sighed. It had been awkward, to say the least, just as she thought she’d finally stopped being the focus of all gossip on Mure.
The day after her father had vanished, Charlie had turned up at the Café by the Sea for the last time.
His bulk had filled the doorway and she’d looked into his kind face and blue eyes, nervous and worried all at once.
Charlie was not a flame that burned hot, that would scald her and go out as quickly as it had lit. He was a slow burn, an ember. Something she could keep close, that would smolder for a long time. She moved closer to him.
“Teàrlach?”
Then she saw it in his face. And appearing behind him, the little crocodile—different children, she supposed, although the pale, haunted faces remained the same. They pressed sticky hands up against the windows of the pink house in awe.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“What?” said Flora, shocked. “You were going to talk to Jan.”
“I did.” He smiled weakly. “She was going to get her father to withdraw . . . I mean. We’d have had to fold the business. Everything we’ve built and worked for.”
Flora nodded, aware of Isla and Iona pretending not to be eavesdropping from the kitchen.
“It would be a lot to give up,” she said softly. “I understand. Of course.”
“You don’t,” said Charlie sadly, raising his huge hand and gently touching her hair.
“No, I do,” said Flora, finding it difficult to swallow. Of course. She wasn’t worth it. She knew that. How many times did she need to be taught the same lesson? She wasn’t needed. Never enough.
Charlie shook his head vehemently.
“No,” he said. “You don’t. I would have done it in a heartbeat. Started over straightaway.” His voice sounded strangled.
“So why didn’t . . .?”
“Because none of that matters if you don’t feel about me the way I feel about you. And you don’t.”
Flora flushed, startled.
“What? But . . . but we could . . .”
Charlie smiled sadly.
“No, Flora. I tried . . . I hoped. That you might like me better than him. But there is always someone else behind your eyes. You’re not hard to read.”
“That’s bollocks!” said Flora crossly.
“And also Jan told me.”
“Oh, good. Right. I’m glad she knows,” said Flora bitterly.
“And I saw him in your house.”
“But he’s gone! It was . . .”
She was going to say it was nothing, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t say that. It might have been nothing to Joel. To her it had been everything.
“Oh, Flora,” said Charlie, looking into her face. “Better a cold bed than no bed at all.”
Flora just stared at him.
“Good luck with everything,” he said. Then he rounded up his little gang and prepared to lead them away.
“Wait!” said Flora. “Wait!”
She brought out the entire tray of little pastries they’d tried that morning, and put them in a large bag.
“Here,” she said to the children. “Please. Have a wonderful visit to Mure.”
And the children, suspicious for a moment, gathered round the bag, chattering excitedly, and Charlie stood there watching as she retreated back into the shop.
Iona and Isla were standing at the back twisting their aprons, although Flora was too caught up in herself to pay them much attention until Isla stepped forward.
