She made it sound so easy, Merry thought wistfully, probably because it was for her. Jess was a master at dating – she knew the best apps, always kept her options open and was never short of a date. The only man Merry had met on Orkney so far was Niall and he – well, even if Merry had been ready to start dating again, she was far too professional to mix business with pleasure. But with her usual uncanny ability to see inside Merry’s brain, Jess had already interpreted the silence. ‘What about the librarian guy – you said he’s nice? Who knows – maybe he’s read the Kama Sutra!’
The thought made Merry’s cheeks burn even as she laughed. ‘Jess!’
‘What?’ her friend protested. ‘It’s just something to bear in mind, that’s all. Promise me you will, okay?’
It was exactly the kind of advice she would give if the shoe were on the other foot, Merry thought. But Jess didn’t know that Merry had already clanged that door shut by pretending to still be in a relationship with Alex. And Merry was quite happy for her not to find out. ‘Of course, I’ll bear it in mind,’ she lied cheerfully. ‘Author’s honour.’
‘And keep me updated,’ Jess went on. ‘I want written progress reports. And photos. Lots of photos.’
‘Okay,’ Merry said, hoping Jess would let the subject go if she pretended to go along with things. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
There was a brief pause. ‘Don’t worry about the reading, Mer. You’ve got this, babes. Get yourself out exploring, let the scenery inspire you and give yourself the freedom to write something different. You can do it.’
Merry forced herself to sound positive. ‘Good idea. Thanks, Jess.’
After she’d hung up, Merry spent several long minutes avoiding looking at the edge of her laptop sticking out from beneath the sofa. Jess was right, she could do this. But it didn’t have to be tonight. She’d get up early, jump in the car and go in search of inspiration. And then she’d write something that would make the Orkney Literary Society proud.
She thought of Elspeth’s excited expression when she’d talked about Merry signing her book, and Niall’s trust in her ability; she couldn’t let them down. No matter what, she’d write something for Friday evening.
She just hoped it would be something good.
Chapter Four
The cries of the guillemots woke Merry early on Monday morning. She lay still for a moment, listening to the ebb and flow of their calls and picturing them floating on the breeze above the cliffs, then pushed back the covers and headed for the kitchen. She was determined not to waste any time, determined to make this the day she wrestled her writer’s block into submission. And she wouldn’t do that by staying in bed.
Armed with a strong cup of coffee, face muffled by her hat and scarf, she slipped outside into the still-dark morning and made her way to the fence that ran along the cliffs. Someone – presumably Dougal – had placed a stone bench a little way to the left of the croft and Merry sat there now, with her back to the bay, waiting for the sun to come up. She sipped her coffee, savouring the heat and the bitterness, and let the sounds and smells of the morning wash over her.
The air was salty – she could taste it on the rim of her cup – and had that hyper-freshness that she’d noticed when she’d first arrived on Orkney. The cold was biting; it stung her eyes and prickled her skin. Instinctively, she hunched into her coat, shoulders bunching together in an effort to preserve her body warmth. She took a deep, freezing breath in and forced herself to relax, accepting the cold and making it part of her. She was only a few feet away from the croft, there was no danger she’d succumb to hypothermia and so she might as well allow the icy air to wake her up.
The first blush of dawn grew like a bruise on the horizon. Merry forced herself to be still, breathing slowly and deeply as the light suffused the clouds with dim greys and purples. Next came pink, with a hint of orange, and then tentative tendrils of yellow heralded the arrival of the golden sun itself. She shaded her eyes against its brilliance as it washed the land with pale amber light and gazed in silent wonder as the clouds turned from candyfloss to cotton wool. And with the sun came a sliver of hope, because no writer could fail to be inspired by beauty like this, day in, day out.
Maybe everything would be all right after all.
Eventually, Merry sighed and stretched, feeling the muscles in her back complain about being still for so long. A quick glance at her watch told her it was almost nine o’clock: time to go in search of her transportation. Empty mug in hand, she headed for the garage.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find – an ancient rust-bucket that ran on hope and prayers, maybe, or a trusty second-hand Ford that had been around the block a few times – but she certainly hadn’t anticipated a shiny, cherry-red Mini Cooper. She stood for a few seconds, blinking at the gleaming car, then backtracked into the house to rummage in the drawer for the key. Of course, if she’d bothered to seek it out earlier, she’d have known just from looking at the fob exactly what kind of car it was.
The goat was there when she stepped outside again. It stood directly in her way, staring at her with yellow and black eyes, unblinking. Merry stopped and let out a huff of disbelief. ‘So, I didn’t dream you. What do you want, Mr Goat?’
It didn’t reply. Obviously.
‘Go home. I don’t have any food.’ She could have sworn its eyes swivelled briefly to the grassy roof. ‘And don’t get any ideas about climbing up there again – I need it more than you do.’
She was just about to consider going in search of a broom to shoo the animal away when she heard a shout ring out. Glancing around, she saw a white-haired woman marching along the clifftops towards her. ‘Hello!’ the woman called, waving an arm cheerfully in Merry’s direction. ‘And a very good morning to you! I see you’ve met Gordon.’
Merry felt herself sag in relief; surely this must be the goat’s owner coming to reclaim him? ‘Yes, he’s been eating my roof. Is he yours?’
In a few more purposeful strides, the woman was standing in front of Merry. ‘Goodness, no. He belongs to the Watson farm, a few miles that way.’ She fired a severe look the goat’s way. ‘Have you been making a nuisance of yourself again, Gordon? You ought to be ashamed.’
The goat let out an unconcerned-sounding bleat and wandered towards the clifftop to snatch at a tuft of grass. The woman shook her head and thrust out a hand. ‘I’m Sheila, your next-door neighbour.’
Now that she was nearer, Merry could see that she was older than her brisk walking pace suggested. Her face was brown and wrinkled beneath her shock of coarse white hair and her eyes were the faded blue of overwashed denim. She must be seventy if she’s a day, Merry marvelled as she shook her hand. ‘I’m Merry. The new Writer in Residence.’
‘I know. Bridget McGinty told me.’ Sheila cocked her head. ‘But it’s Merry, is it? As in Merry Christmas, not the Virgin Mary?’
‘As in Merry Christmas,’ Merry confirmed. ‘But I’ll answer to Mary if needed.’
Sheila snorted. ‘Well, you shouldn’t. Names have power, girl – never take them for granted.’ She lifted an arm and Merry saw she was carrying a sturdy canvas bag. ‘I brought bannock for breakfast. It goes best with plenty of butter and a cup of tea.’
She fired a meaningful look towards the open door of the croft and Merry realized with a sinking heart that she was going to have to invite her in. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, summoning up her most professional smile. ‘Would you like to come inside?’
Sheila contrived to look surprised. ‘That’d be lovely. If you’re sure you’re not too busy with the writing?’
Merry’s smile dimmed a little. ‘I haven’t actually started yet. Your timing is perfect.’
Once inside, Sheila’s gimlet gaze roamed over every surface. Merry left her examining the bookshelves and went to put the kettle on. She’d had no idea what a bannock was, but it turned out to be an oval fruit loaf that was still warm and smelled utterly delicious. She cut four thick slices and spread
them with butter, before placing them on a tray with Niall’s tea-cosy in pride of place.
She found Sheila with Jess’s paperback in her hand, peering at the writing on the back with avid interest. ‘Jessie Edwards. I don’t think I’ve heard of this author before. Is she good?’
Merry didn’t trust herself to look up from the tea tray without spilling. She concentrated on sliding it safely onto the coffee table before answering. ‘Yes, she’s brilliant.’
The older woman turned the book over and stared at the cover, which featured a bikini-clad blonde with bubble-gum-pink lips hovering suggestively around a lollipop. ‘It looks a wee bit trashy.’
‘It is,’ Merry agreed, knowing that Jess would be the first to concede that her books were a long way from being literary in style and content; they had a plot, for a start. ‘Bonkbusters usually are. But I guarantee you won’t be bored.’
Sheila sniffed and put the book back on the shelf. ‘So how are you enjoying Orkney so far? I hear you’ve been exploring Skara Brae.’
A wry smile tugged at Merry’s lips. She shouldn’t be surprised that word had got around; every aspect of island life she’d encountered so far suggested a close-knit community that was totally different from what she was used to in London. ‘Yes, Niall showed me round yesterday.’
‘He’s a kind one, right enough,’ Sheila said. ‘Totally useless with anything practical, but his heart is in the right place.’
Merry almost frowned; Bridget had said something very similar at the airport but that hadn’t been Merry’s impression at all. Niall was obviously clever and bookish, but he’d managed the logistics of her arrival on Orkney with impeccable attention to detail that suggested he was very capable on a practical level as well as intellectually. But she didn’t want to argue so she took a bite of bannock instead. It was melt-in-the-mouth delicious. Sheila watched her eat with obvious pleasure. ‘What are you hoping to write while you’re here?’ she asked, once Merry had washed down the cake with a mouthful of tea. ‘I’m sure you’ve got professional commitments to meet, as well as taking inspiration from the islands.’
The question raised the usual storm of anxiety in the pit of Merry’s stomach. ‘I’ve got a novel to write,’ she said vaguely, keeping her eyes on her plate.
The older woman nodded. ‘What’s it about? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.’
I do mind, Merry thought, as her nerves started to jangle. I mind very much. But she couldn’t think of a way to politely fob Sheila off, so she decided to stick with vagueness. ‘Oh, it’s early days. I’m still finding my way with the story.’
‘Is that how it works, then?’ Sheila asked, raising her eyebrows. ‘Only I heard your next novel is due out in November – I don’t know much about these things but that doesn’t feel very long away for a book you’re still finding your way with.’
The mere mention of November made Merry’s ears roar. Ten months away. And before then, the book had to be edited, and copy-edited, and proof-edited and subjected to a final read-through to catch any final typos or errors before it was printed. Ten months was no time at all – not when she hadn’t written a single word of it.
The mug shook in her hand and she was forced to put it on the table.
‘Merry?’ Sheila’s voice sounded as though it was coming from a long way away. ‘Are you okay, lovey?’
She dug her fingernails into her palm, forcing herself to focus on the sharp pain, and counted slowly to twenty, taking long deep breaths in through her nose and letting them out through her mouth. And gradually, the panic lessened its grip on her. Merry opened her eyes to see her neighbour was watching her in alarm.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, dredging up a brief smile. ‘Sorry. I had a bit of a panic attack then.’
Her eyes strayed to the laptop, which was now in plain view. Sheila followed the direction of her gaze and understanding dawned on her face. She busied herself with topping up the tea and flashed a businesslike smile Merry’s way. ‘You know, I find going for a run very helpful when things get a bit much. The scenery along the cliffs certainly helps get things into perspective.’
It was the last thing Merry had expected her to say. ‘A run,’ she repeated, staring at the old woman beside her on the sofa. ‘Along the cliffs? But you’re – I mean, can you…’
‘Out with it, lassie,’ Sheila said, but her expression was amused rather than insulted. ‘Don’t beat around the bush.’
There was nothing for it, Merry decided, she’d have to just say it. She squared her shoulders. ‘Isn’t it a bit risky running along the cliffs at your age?’
Sheila inclined her head. ‘You sound like my daughter. But, as I always tell her, I’ve been running around this island for the last seventy-nine years, ever since I first learned what my legs were for, and it hasn’t killed me yet.’
Merry felt her jaw drop open. ‘Seventy-nine?’
‘Aye,’ Sheila replied, unperturbed. ‘Eighty in June. You should come to the party.’
‘Wow,’ Merry said, still trying to get her head around the idea of an almost-octogenarian racing along the cliffs in all weathers. ‘I’m impressed.’
The old woman leaned towards her and patted her hand. ‘My point is that it’s very good for your peace of mind. Helps me sort out all kinds of problems. And maybe it would do the same for you – what do you think?’
Merry nearly laughed, until she saw the determined expression on her neighbour’s face. ‘Oh no. I couldn’t. I can’t run – I’m not even a member of a gym back in London.’
‘Hush, woman, of course you can run. You just put one foot in front of another. Come out with me one morning and I’ll show you how it’s done.’
‘I couldn’t,’ Merry repeated, more firmly. ‘Thank you for the kind offer but I’m really not a runner.’
Sheila sat back. ‘Maybe you’re right, but it’s like most things, isn’t it? You don’t know what you’re capable of until you try.’ She glanced at the laptop, and then back at Merry. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’
She drained her tea and got to her feet. ‘I’ll just put this in the kitchen, shall I?’
‘Let me,’ Merry said, taking the mug and placing it on the tray. By the time she returned from the kitchen, Sheila had her coat on and was standing by the front door.
‘Lovely to meet you, Merry,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the tea and the chat.’
Merry smiled. ‘Lovely to meet you too. And thank you for the cake.’
‘Bannock,’ Sheila corrected. ‘I’ll see you at the library on Friday evening if I don’t see you before.’
It wasn’t until Merry had loaded the dirty plates in the dishwasher and got herself ready to try her luck with the Mini that she noticed Jess’s book had vanished from the bookshelf. Smiling, she made a mental note to tell Jess she had a new reader. And then she went out to explore the island.
* * *
Niall was delighted to see her at the library that afternoon.
‘Merry, you made it!’ he said, when he arrived at the front desk. ‘Let me give you the tour. Or perhaps you’d like a cup of tea first?’
It was obvious he was bursting to show off his domain so Merry shook her head. ‘Tour first, tea afterwards.’
He beamed at her and led her through the stacks, taking time to linger in the bright and inviting children’s department and pointing out the display that proudly declared she was Orkney’s Writer in Residence. Once again, Merry was struck by the deep pleasure he so obviously took in showing her around, and by his heartfelt love for his job. Yesterday, she’d wondered whether he might have made a good archaeologist; today, she was certain he was a librarian through and through.
‘This is the room where we’ll hold your event on Friday,’ he told her, pushing back a folding door that opened into a large hall. ‘As you can see, we’ve got plenty of space for a decent-sized audience.’
‘It’s perfect,’ she said, smiling. ‘And well done for enticing so many bums on seats.�
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Now it was Niall’s turn to smile. ‘That’s down to you, not me. All I’ve done is present the opportunity; it’s you they’re coming to see.’
He rounded off the tour with a visit to the Orkney Archive rooms, which held the thousands of records relating to the islands dating back centuries. It was quieter here than in the library; Merry had to force herself not to tiptoe, and the air was filled with the smell of old paper.
‘Tea?’ Niall whispered, as they returned the way they’d come in.
‘Yes, please,’ she murmured back.
It wasn’t until they were sitting in his cluttered but orderly office with steaming mugs of tea that he asked how her morning had been.
‘It started well,’ Merry said, and described the glorious sunrise she’d seen. ‘And then I met a couple of interesting characters.’
Niall slapped his forehead when she told him about Gordon. ‘Of course! I should have mentioned him. A few of the previous writers have had similar trouble – months can go by and no one sees him and then he seems to take a shine to one of you and you can’t get rid of him.’ He gave her a rueful look. ‘Sorry.’
‘I don’t really mind, now that I know he’s not my responsibility,’ Merry said. ‘I just had visions of being expected to look after him, and you could write what I know about looking after goats on an extremely small postage stamp.’
‘Me too,’ Niall said. ‘But let me know if he becomes too much of a nuisance and I’ll have a word with the Watsons. I’m sure they’ll find a way to keep him away.’
‘Thanks,’ Merry said. ‘I also met one of my other neighbours – an older lady called Sheila.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Niall said. ‘I didn’t think it would be long before curiosity got the better of her. Did she behave better than Gordon?’
Merry laughed. ‘She didn’t jump on the roof and start eating the grass, if that’s what you mean. But she did try to persuade me to go running with her.’
Coming Home to Brightwater Bay Page 5
