Coming Home to Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she began, feeling the heat of shame crawling up her neck. ‘I’ve… I’ve got writer’s block – that’s why I didn’t want to talk about my current novel. I failed to deliver it when it was due and my publisher gave me a generous extension and I missed that too. And it was starting to take over my life – I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t function because of the crippling self-doubt. I didn’t know what to do, until I saw your advert. It felt like a sign so I fired off an application, even though I’m pretty sure it was tantamount to fraud.’

  She summoned up the courage to look at him then, expecting him to be angry, but instead she found his gaze was warm with compassion. ‘There’s no shame in that. You wouldn’t be the first person to seek refuge here and I definitely don’t think you’re a fraud.’ He shook his head as though astonished she might even think such a thing. ‘I’ve read your work, remember? And if your reading tonight was anything to go by, you haven’t lost your touch.’

  Merry took a deep breath. ‘That’s the first piece of fiction I’ve written for almost eighteen months.’

  The look he fired her way was filled with horrified sympathy. ‘I would never have known,’ he said quietly. ‘To me, it was beautiful and haunting and so good that I almost asked you to read it again immediately. You could have heard a pin drop in the silence after you’d finished, and believe me, that’s no small achievement in a roomful of Orcadians.’

  A surge of relief flooded over Merry. ‘Thank you,’ she said, blinking back the unexpected tears that prickled her eyes. ‘I was so nervous – I couldn’t tell if it was any good, or if I’d done the story justice.’

  ‘Oh, you did,’ Niall reassured her. ‘It was like we were there when Fen and her people fled and the storm hit.’

  The words gave her a further buzz, this time of delighted satisfaction. ‘Then I can definitely say that being here has helped with the writer’s block. I don’t know whether that means I’ll be able to make any progress with the novel I have to write – I can’t even bear to think about it right now – but just knowing that the ability to write hasn’t completely deserted me helps.’

  ‘Let me know what I can do to help,’ Niall said. ‘I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener, especially over a glass or two of whisky.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said gratefully. ‘Thanks for understanding.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, with a lopsided smile. ‘If there’s one thing you can rely on a librarian for, it’s reading between the lines.’

  He glanced over his shoulder then, surveying the now empty courtyard. ‘Looks like it’s all clear now. I’ll give you a few minutes, shall I? I’m sure you’re desperate for that fresh air by now, along with a few minutes of alone time.’

  It was probably the understatement of the year but Merry appreciated his perceptiveness. She puffed out her cheeks and rubbed her aching shoulders. ‘You could say that.’

  It was a clear and cloudless night. The library was still lit up, and the glow stretched upwards as well as outwards, but it wasn’t enough to dim the stars that glittered against the blue-black sky. Merry gazed upwards, hugging her arms close to her chest and sucking in slow lungfuls of air as she let her tiredness take hold. It had been an adrenaline-fuelled few days: first running with Sheila, then the desperate compulsion to tell Fen’s story and lastly this evening. She was going to pay for it all tomorrow, she knew. It might be better not to bother getting out of bed.

  The faint crunch of gravel made her turn around and she saw Magnús was standing a few feet away. The light caused a halo to dance around his golden hair and she was reminded fleetingly of the angels she’d seen painted on the walls of the Italian Chapel. ‘Hello again,’ she said, managing a worn-out smile. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘I was on my way,’ he replied. ‘And then I saw you were heading for the courtyard too and I must confess that I loitered, in the hope of spending a little more time in your company.’

  Merry thought back to the signing queue when she wished for more time to speak to him and couldn’t prevent a flutter of pleasure that he’d evidently felt the same way. ‘So here we are,’ she said, echoing his words to her.

  He smiled and the skin around his eyes crinkled in a way that made Merry’s own mouth curve into a matching smile. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And I am sure you must be very tired so I will not keep you for long. I simply wanted to extend my hand in friendship once more. I know what it is like to live in a strange place, knowing few people.’ He paused and gave her a rueful look. ‘Although it is apparent from this evening that you have many friends and admirers already, so perhaps you don’t need another.’

  Merry felt something constrict inside her; of all the things she’d left behind in London, she supposed it was friendship she missed the most. Jess couldn’t offer more than phone support; it would be nice to have someone to go for a drink with occasionally, Merry thought, and she couldn’t rely on Niall all the time, no matter how kindly he’d offered. Would it be so very wrong to accept Magnús’s friendship, safe in the knowledge that he thought she was in a relationship?

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she admitted, hesitating for another second or two before making up her mind. ‘I don’t really know anyone and I could use a friend. So if that offer of a drink is still open…?’

  He beamed at her with a mixture of surprise and delight. ‘Of course! Tomorrow evening? I will pick you up at seven-thirty, yes?’

  Squaring her shoulders, Merry nodded before she could change her mind. ‘I’d like that. Yes.’

  * * *

  Merry woke late on Saturday morning with the memories of the night before dancing in her head. Had she done the right thing in accepting Magnús’s offer of friendship? But she could hardly take it back now – what was done was done. And as Jess would no doubt tell her, it was only a drink. That would have been much easier for Merry to believe if she hadn’t had a distinctly non-platonic dream about Magnús just before she’d woken up…

  Pushing the thought away, she got out of bed and wandered through to the kitchen for a cup of tea, wincing as her legs protested after her run two mornings ago. Mug in hand, she headed for the sofa and idly reached for her laptop, intending to go through the emails she’d neglected on Thursday and Friday, but instead her gaze landed on her open notebook, with its page of notes about her visit to the Italian chapel. That story of Helen’s was lovely, she thought, imagining the moment her grandparents’ eyes had first met, perhaps outside a café in Kirkwall. The picture in Merry’s mind was so real that she felt she could almost hear the clinking of coffee cups and murmur of conversation. She tapped at the keyboard, easing her way into the scene. The sun was shining. A motorbike might zoom by, sending up a little flurry of dust that neither of Helen’s grandparents noticed. And before she knew it, she’d written half a page of words.

  She swung her feet onto the sofa and tapped a few more thoughts. Two hours later, her tea was untouched. And Merry had the start of a new story.

  Part Two Sea Breezes at Brightwater Bay

  Orkney Literary Society presents

  A Writing Workshop with Writer in Residence:

  Merina Wilde

  Is there a story you’re longing to tell but don’t know where to start?

  Maybe you’ve made a start but don’t know what happens next?

  Or perhaps you’ve reached ‘The End’ and need help to make your story shine?

  If any of this sounds like you, why not get inspired by internationally bestselling author Merina Wilde as she shares the tips that catapulted her to the top of the Sunday Times bestseller list!

  Saturday 4th April

  10am–4pm at Orkney Library

  Booking essential.

  Email: Niall.Gunn@Orkneylib.gov.uk

  Chapter Eight

  There was snow at Brightwater Bay.

  Merry didn’t realize immediately; the thick curtains in the bedroom of the croft were dra
wn for protection against the winter chill, rather than the sun, which, in February on Orkney, didn’t rise until long after eight o’clock. A quick glance at her phone told her it was just after seven, so she closed her eyes, burrowing beneath the thick bedcovers once more. It took a moment or two longer for the curious silence to register, and when it did, it caused Merry to frown. Brightwater Bay was hardly King’s Cross, but there was a pattern to the sounds she normally woke up to: the distant crash of the waves as they pounded the cliffs and the faint cries of the birds freewheeling over the bay. But today everything seemed muffled, as though she’d spent the night at a loud gig in a tiny club. Merry hadn’t been to a club in months, so what was causing this weirdly stifled sense of sound? It was almost as though…

  A fizzle of excitement ran through Merry as she sat up in bed. There was only one rational explanation, although she’d hardly dared to hope it might happen during her stay. Scotland had more than its fair share of snow, but the Gulf Stream that flowed past the islands meant Orkney escaped the kind of freezing conditions that affected the Scottish mainland. And on a practical level, Merry had been relieved to learn that heavy snowfall was unlikely – the last thing she needed was to be snowbound in a remote clifftop cottage. But the part of her that was a writer, the part of her that was still eight years old, couldn’t prevent the thrill of anticipation that coursed through her at the thought of a winter wonderland waiting right outside her front door. Swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress, Merry reached for her dressing gown. There was no point in hiding under the duvet, wondering. The only way to be sure was to investigate.

  The blast of cold air that hit her as she opened the front door of the croft confirmed her suspicions: several centimetres of white powder covered the ground between the front door and the edge of the cliff some fifteen metres away. Beyond the meagre puddle of light from the hallway, the skies over the bay were still dark, but Merry knew dawn would soon break over the roof of the croft. And when the sun rose high enough, she’d have a clearer picture of just how much snow had fallen.

  The sea was loud now that she was no longer insulated by the snow-laden cottage; in fact, it seemed more furious than ever amid the other-worldly silence. A gust of freezing wind hit her, bringing with it a flurry of sharp flakes laced with a familiar salty tang, and Merry shivered in her dressing gown. As tempting as it was to reach down and brush the snow with her fingers, the sensible thing to do right now was close the door and dress in the warmest clothes she had.

  An hour later, full of tea and toast and wrapped up against the cold, Merry ventured over the threshold of the croft. Weak sunlight now sparkled on the freshly decorated landscape; the clouds were leaden, but patches of blue still peeked through. Snowflakes no longer tumbled from the sky, but the wind had thrown those that had fallen into drifts against the cottage wall. Wellies crunching, she picked her way across the expanse of white that led to the fence marking the cliff top. The bench where she usually sat to contemplate the spectacular view was buried, and the cliff walls themselves glistened as though speckled with diamonds. It was almost like being in Narnia, Merry thought, if Lucy Pevensie had emerged from the wardrobe beside the sea instead of into a forest.

  She stood for a while, listening to the roar of the Atlantic and allowing her senses to take in the newness of her environment. If her best friend Jess had been there, they might have made a snowman, or at least exchanged a volley of snowballs. Originally from New Zealand, Jess was no stranger to snow and often complained that even in the depths of winter London rarely managed enough to make an ice cube, let alone a snowball – although it was usually enough to bring the transport system to a halt.

  She’d be in her element now, Merry thought fondly.

  She gazed around until her nose started to run and her toes felt numb, then reluctantly went back inside. Her phone was flashing on the coffee table as she knelt to light the fire, and when she checked the screen she saw there was a message from Niall, the librarian who was her main point of contact as Orkney’s Writer in Residence.

  Everything OK? We don’t have much snow in Kirkwall but it might be different in the wilds!

  Merry smiled as she tapped out her reply – it was so thoughtful of him to check on her.

  That’s because it’s all here. It’s a good job I planned to spend the day writing because I don’t think I’m going anywhere! Thanks for checking on me, though.

  Niall’s reply was instant:

  Happy writing! Let me know if you need anything.

  She watched the flames as they began to lick the logs, then padded to the kitchen to make a scalding cup of coffee. When she returned, the fire had started to warm the small living room and her toes had almost defrosted. Settling on the sofa, she reached for her laptop and focused on the words she’d written the day before.

  The throaty rumble of an engine outside interrupted her train of thought. She frowned; the croft wasn’t exactly on the beaten track – who on earth could it be? And then there was a hearty knock on the door. Pushing her laptop aside, she went to find out.

  The man on the doorstep was tall, his features partially obscured by a thick tartan scarf and a black woollen hat. He tugged the scarf down to smile at Merry.

  ‘Good morning. We’ve been sent by Niall to make sure you’re not snowed in. I’m Hugh Watson.’ He waved a gloved hand in the direction of the Land Rover that was parked beside the croft. ‘And getting out of the car is my wife, Clare. We’re responsible for the menace that is Gordon, among other things.’

  Gordon was the goat Merry had found eating the grass roof of the croft the day after she’d first arrived, and he’d been a sporadic visitor since, generally contemplating her with a mildly judgemental expression every time he saw her.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said, as Clare slammed the car door and trudged through the snow to join them. ‘I’m Merry.’

  ‘Can you believe this weather?’ Clare said in an accent that hinted at Essex roots. The pom-pom on her bobble hat wobbling as she glanced around. ‘I haven’t seen this much snow for years.’

  Merry shook their hands. ‘It’s very kind of you to take the trouble to come.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ Hugh said. ‘We’ve been meaning to drop by and say hello since you arrived, but the farm has kept us busy.’

  Clare flashed a smile Merry’s way. ‘The weather just gave us an excuse.’ She bent down to lift a wooden basket from the ground at Hugh’s feet. ‘And we brought some emergency supplies. I’ve got bread, milk, eggs and cake.’

  The kindness of the gesture touched Merry. ‘Thank you. Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘We’d love to,’ Clare said promptly, but Hugh was gazing at the snow piled up against the doors of the shed housing the car that was part of the Writer in Residence package.

  ‘It’s a Mini, isn’t it?’ he asked her.

  She nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Hugh squared his shoulders. ‘Not ideal for this kind of weather, but better than a push bike. The temperature is set to stay low for the next few days so I’ll clear you a path to the road, just in case you need to get out and about.’

  ‘Oh, you really don’t need to—’ Merry started to object.

  ‘It’s no bother,’ Hugh said again. ‘It’ll take less than twenty minutes – just long enough for you to make the tea. I’ll have two sugars, please.’

  He was already heading back to the Land Rover so Merry decided to give in gracefully. She stepped back to let Clare inside. ‘How about you – tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ Clare said. She pulled the hat from her head, revealing silky blonde hair, and gazed around inquisitively. ‘You know, I think this is the first time I’ve ever been in here.’

  Merry took her coat and hung it by the front door, then led her through to the kitchen. ‘Oh? You’ve never visited any of the other writers who have stayed here?’

  Clare lowered the basket to the small square table and began to unpack t
he contents. ‘No.’ She pulled a conspiratorial face. ‘Between you and me, they’ve tended to be a bit stuffy, and I’ve never been a fan of their writing anyway. You, on the other hand…’

  She trailed off and offered Merry a look that was a mixture of embarrassment and admiration. ‘Well, let’s just say I’ve read all your books. Maybe more than once.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Merry said, a pleasing glow washing over her. ‘It’s always lovely when someone says that. Makes up for all the times I’ve wanted to throw my laptop out of the window.’

  The other woman laughed. ‘I’ve never thought of it like that. Being a writer sounds like a dream job, but I suppose it’s still hard work.’ She gave Merry an openly curious look. ‘Is your next book going to be set on Orkney?’

  Merry hesitated. Her next book – the one she’d agreed on with her editor, which everyone was expecting her to deliver in two months’ time – was currently gathering metaphorical dust in a file on her computer, and she hadn’t so much as looked at it since arriving on Orkney. The book she was actually writing, the story that kept her awake at night long after she should have been asleep and had her fingers itching for her keyboard almost from the moment she woke up, was most definitely not agreed on with her editor. It wasn’t the kind of book Merina Wilde was famous for. It was uncharted territory; a story she really didn’t have time to tell. And no one knew she was writing it, not even Jess.

  ‘I’m certainly finding the island inspirational,’ Merry said carefully, after a few seconds of thought. ‘How could anyone fail to fall in love with such a beautiful place?’