Coming Home to Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

  Merry smiled, her suspicions confirmed. She should have anticipated Niall would know the history of Helen’s family – the Orkney community was incredibly close-knit, as she supposed island communities often were, and she’d seen first-hand how fascinated Niall was by the past. Maybe she should tell him about the seeds of the story that was growing on her laptop, but she wanted to run it past Helen first. It wasn’t that she needed permission, exactly – she wasn’t using their story – but Helen’s tale of her grandparents’ love affair had inspired Merry to create characters of her own and she wanted to make sure the family knew what she planned. She hoped they’d be pleased.

  ‘That makes sense,’ she said to Niall. ‘It must have been hard, leaving Italy behind and starting a new life here.’

  ‘He wasn’t the first person to come to Orkney and fall in love – both with the islands and the people. It’s why we have such a rich heritage,’ he replied, and his mouth twisted into a smile. ‘Although in Giovanni’s case, there was a special someone who captured his heart.’

  Merry felt something stir inside her head, a faint tickle that she’d come to associate with the writing part of her brain. Maybe the story she was building wasn’t as far removed from her other books as she’d thought; maybe it was just a different kind of love story – one that embraced different kinds of love: the love people had for their homeland, or other places that touched their hearts. The love they felt for their family and the bonds that held them together when circumstances tried to tear them apart. And perhaps even the love the land had for its people. A shiver danced across Merry’s shoulders at this last thought, and it took her a moment to place the cause – it was the sensation of dots being joined in her imagination; an electric fizz of the kind she’d hardly felt in the last year or more. But Orkney seemed to have the power to inspire her. She had felt that same fizz after visiting Skara Brae with Niall, when she’d almost been able to touch the characters she had created, and it was happening now, when she thought about all the different things love might be.

  Forcing herself to focus, Merry smiled at Niall. ‘Of course. Although Orkney casts such a powerful spell that I can’t imagine anyone ever wants to leave.’

  ‘You’ll get no argument from me,’ he said, making no apparent effort to hide his pleasure. ‘Does that mean the magic is working on you too?’

  She saw no reason to lie. He’d heard her read the story she’d written after her visit to Skara Brae and knew she’d been inspired by the mystery of the village and its people. ‘Do you know, I think it might be.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Niall said, his eyes shining, and Merry had the distinct impression he was resisting an urge to clap. ‘And there’s plenty you haven’t seen. We’ll make an Orcadian out of you yet.’

  She laughed. ‘Do you say that to all your Writers in Residence?’

  His cheeks reddened slightly, but he didn’t look away. ‘No, not all of them.’

  Merry thought back to Clare’s comments a few days earlier, when she’d hinted that some of the previous writers had come across as stuffy. It was hard to imagine anyone staying that way in the face of such friendliness and charm – everyone she’d met so far had been both kind and interested in her, and in the way she interacted with their treasured stories and history. It was, she decided, both an honour and a responsibility. ‘Well, I’m pleased you think I’d fit in.’

  Whatever Niall had been about to say in reply was lost as Helen arrived with their drinks and some grissini. She flashed an apologetic smile as she hurried away to serve another customer.

  ‘Bookings for the writing workshop are going well,’ Niall said as he reached for a breadstick. ‘In fact, I think it’s going to be a sell-out.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ Merry replied, and forced down the uneasy thought that she couldn’t inspire a roomful of writers if she hardly wrote herself. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  Niall paused as he chewed. ‘I hope you’re ready to meet some of our more eccentric residents. I recognize some of the names on the delegate list and at least one has a very high opinion of his own talent.’

  Merry’s heart sank into her boots. ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s written one book already – a semi-autobiographical account of growing up on Orkney,’ Niall said, then sighed. ‘He asked me for advice on getting it published and I tried to tell him I didn’t think it was quite ready for submission to publishers, but that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.’

  She offered a sympathetic grimace; she’d met plenty of writers who were so keen to send their work out into the world that they weren’t prepared to make them the best stories they could be.

  Niall went on. ‘Eventually, after many rejections, he self-published and has sold a fair few copies to locals – enough to convince him that traditional publishing is run by short-sighted idiots who don’t recognize his brilliance.’

  Merry tried not to groan. ‘Is he working on another book?’

  ‘So I understand,’ Niall said. He gave her a rueful smile. ‘Although he hasn’t asked me to read it, what with me being one of the idiots who doesn’t appreciate him. Anyway, I thought I’d give you the heads-up.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Merry replied, and wondered who else she might encounter on the course. She had no doubt there would be some talented writers – there always were. Just as there was often one who came along not to learn, but in the expectation of being discovered…

  And then Helen was back with their food, which caused Merry to push the thought of the writing course to the back of her mind as she inhaled the mouth-watering scent of freshly baked bread and piping hot soup.

  ‘Enjoy,’ Helen said, as she backed away. ‘Let me know if you need anything else.’

  Both the soup and the bread were as delicious as Merry anticipated. She asked Niall about his work at the library as they ate, and he told her about the new computer system that allowed users to access ebooks on their smartphones and other devices much more efficiently than before. ‘It’s perfect for those readers who live on the more remote islands, or those who can’t get to the library as often as they’d like,’ he explained. ‘They can download an ebook from home and read it, or even pick it up on audiobook, and at the end of the loan period, it simply vanishes from their device. No more worrying about late fines.’

  Merry noticed Helen glance over several times as she ate, with a curious gaze that was half professional curiosity and half impatience. She didn’t neglect the other customers, but she was there the moment Merry laid down her spoon and pushed the empty bowl away with a satisfied sigh.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Helen asked, reaching for the bowl.

  ‘More than okay,’ Merry replied. ‘It was the best, freshest minestrone soup I’ve ever had.’

  Niall nodded. ‘Mine was delicious too. Compliments to the chef.’

  Helen threw a delighted look back at the checked curtain. ‘I’ll let my grandmother know. Now, can I tempt you with the dessert menu?’

  Merry smiled and exchanged a look with Niall. ‘I think it would be rude not to look, wouldn’t it?’

  She had the tiramisu, on Niall’s recommendation, and had to concede it was better than any she’d tasted in London. By the time they’d finished eating, the lunchtime rush seemed to be dissipating and the bakery was much quieter. Helen asked whether Merry might spare a few minutes to pop into the kitchen to meet her mother and grandmother.

  ‘Of course,’ Merry said. ‘I’d love to.’

  She could see the family resemblance from the moment she stepped into the bright, airy kitchen. Morag Rossi might be white-haired and almost bird-like in old age, but her chin was strong and her blue eyes lively, just like those of her granddaughter. Agnes had brown eyes – inherited from her father, Merry assumed – but her smile was identical to Helen’s as she greeted Merry and Niall.

  ‘It’s so wonderful to meet you,’ Agnes said. ‘Helen has been raving on about your books non-stop and we’ve all read them.’

  Merr
y smiled. ‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’

  Morag nodded at Niall. ‘You made a good choice with this one. She’s got the magic touch.’

  ‘Thank you, Morag,’ Niall said gravely. ‘I think you’re absolutely right.’

  ‘I’m delighted to be here,’ Merry said, feeling her cheeks start to burn. ‘Orkney is a special place.’

  ‘It is,’ Morag said. ‘Especially for those with the imagination to appreciate it. I hope you find some good stories here.’

  Merry knew an opening when she saw it. ‘It’s funny you should say that. Helen told me the story of how you met your husband and – well, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.’ She paused and took a deep breath, deliberately not looking Niall’s way. ‘So, I wondered if you’d mind very much if I used it as inspiration for a story of my own.’

  The words hung in the air for a moment, long enough to convince Merry that she’d made a terrible mistake. Then Morag let out a surprised-sounding huff of laughter. ‘Goodness, I wouldn’t mind at all.’ She fixed Merry with a twinkling gaze. ‘Although I’m sure your hero will have a wee bit more gumption than my Giovanni. I loved him dearly, but I think if I hadn’t told him I was going to marry another man he’d never have found the nerve to come back to Orkney.’

  Agnes stared at her mother open-mouthed. ‘I didn’t know that. I’ve always thought Dad came back because he couldn’t stay away from you.’

  Morag dipped her head. ‘Well, doubtless there was a bit of that too. But he’d got settled back in Italy after the war, remembered how much he loved the warm weather, and I was worried we’d become nothing more than pen pals.’ She nodded at Niall. ‘So, I hatched a plan with Niall’s grandfather and I told Giovanni he’d asked me to marry him.’

  ‘Mum!’ Agnes said, aghast, but Morag simply smiled.

  ‘It worked,’ she said. ‘He came over on the next boat and marched straight round to Ian’s house to tell him I wouldn’t be marrying anyone but him.’

  Merry couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Without asking you first?’

  ‘Without so much as a by-your-leave,’ Morag replied. ‘So, naturally, I told him I wouldn’t marry anyone who hadn’t even the manners to ask me if I would.’

  ‘And that’s when he proposed, down on one knee, by the harbour. With all the fishermen looking on and cheering,’ Helen breathed.

  ‘With an engagement ring he’d bought in Italy before catching the boat,’ Agnes added in a fond tone of voice that told Merry that this part of the story at least was family legend.

  Morag sighed. ‘I suppose I should have played hard to get,’ she said, with a sideways glance that encompassed both Helen and Merry. ‘Isn’t that what you young ladies do now? But I knew I loved him – had done since the first moment our eyes met – and it didn’t seem fair to keep him waiting. So, I said yes. And we were married for forty-three years.’

  ‘It sounds to me like Giovanni had plenty of gumption,’ Merry said, smiling. ‘Although perhaps not quite as much as you.’

  ‘I was only nineteen, but I knew I couldn’t leave it up to him to come back of his own accord,’ Morag said. ‘Men have their uses, but they’re simple creatures and easily distracted. They need a kick up the backside sometimes to make them see what’s in front of them.’

  ‘Gran!’ Helen said, firing an embarrassed look Niall’s way, but his mouth quirked into a wry little smile.

  ‘Och, don’t mind me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Everyone knows I’m a total disaster when it comes to romance. Maybe I need you to take me in hand, Morag.’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘Someone certainly needs to,’ she said. She glanced at Merry. ‘Anyway, I hope that helps with your story. I look forward to reading it when it’s ready.’

  Merry smiled in gratitude. ‘Thank you. I’ll make sure you’re one of the very first readers.’ She looked at Agnes and Helen. ‘You too. I’d love to hear what you think, when the time comes.’

  ‘And me,’ Niall said. ‘I want first dibs too.’

  Merry laughed. ‘Of course. I’ve never written a historical novel before – you’re going to be my right-hand man for all things Orkney-related.’

  Helen clapped her hands, her gaze sparkling. ‘This is amazing. A Merina Wilde story inspired by my very own family! I can’t wait to read it.’

  And Merry smiled in response, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of her head telling her she was a fool to even consider stepping outside her comfort zone. ‘And I can’t wait to write it.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Am I keeping you up?’

  Merry finished her second yawn and gave Sheila an apologetic look across the living room sofa, even though the words had clearly been tinged with amusement rather than annoyance. ‘Sorry. I was up late with a book Niall gave me.’

  Her neighbour placed her mug on the coffee table. ‘Sounds like a page-turner. Anything I might have read?’

  Merry gave the question some consideration. As far as she could tell, Sheila’s reading tastes varied from Ian Rankin to Jill Mansell, and she had, since Merry’s arrival on Orkney, developed an almost insatiable taste for Jess’s early bonkbuster novels, which she’d shared with her book club. Niall had mentioned he’d had to put in a special request for additional copies from other libraries to keep up with demand. But Merry had no idea whether Sheila’s range might incorporate a non-fiction account of the Second World War and its effect on Orkney. Perhaps she had read it, given it concerned her home turf.

  ‘It’s called Orkney’s War by Alison Johnson. Do you know it?’

  Sheila nodded. ‘I do – the author came to the islands a few times doing research and suchlike. It’s not my kind of thing, though. I like a good story to sweep me off my feet and it doesn’t feel quite the same when you know it really happened.’ She paused and pulled a face. ‘Especially not when you’re related to some of the people who feature.’

  Merry thought back to the chapter she’d read the night before, which had been about the terrible sinking of HMS Royal Oak by a German U-boat at Scapa Flow in 1939. The ship had been swallowed up by the sea in just minutes, taking 834 men with it. The loss had prompted Winston Churchill to order the construction of permanent barriers to prevent future attacks and the project had taken four years to complete. Helen’s grandfather, Giovanni, had been one of the Italian prisoners of war put to work on the barriers. Did that mean Sheila might have Italian ancestry too?

  But Sheila shook her head when Merry asked the question.

  ‘My father worked as an engineer for Balfour Beatty,’ she said. ‘They were in charge of getting the work done, although he always used to say there was no point in shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted.’

  There had been no more U-boat attacks, at least, Merry thought, and the barriers served a useful purpose in connecting the previously isolated islands. She’d used one of the causeways to visit the chapel on Lamb Holm; it was where she’d first met Helen.

  ‘They’re still an impressive bit of engineering,’ she said to Sheila. ‘It must have been very satisfying to be involved with the construction of something that helps so many people every day and has stood the test of time.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of it that way,’ Sheila admitted, after a moment’s reflection. ‘But you’re right – Dad should have been proud and so should I. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out for his name as I’m reading,’ Merry said.

  As she sipped her tea, she saw Sheila cast a covert look around the croft’s living room. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so in the thirty minutes she’d been sitting on the sofa, and Merry couldn’t imagine what was sparking the older woman’s curiosity.

  A moment later everything became clear. Or at least slightly less puzzling.

  ‘How’s your young man in London?’ Sheila said. ‘Andy, isn’t it? Have you had a wee tiff?’

  Merry felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. There was no possible way anyone on Or
kney could know the truth… was there?

  She took another sip of tea, hiding behind the rim of the mug to regain some of her composure. ‘It’s Alex. He’s fine and, no, we haven’t argued – what makes you say that?’

  Sheila shrugged. ‘My husband always gave me a card on St Valentine’s Day, even after thirty years of marriage, and sometimes he even managed flowers. I know it’s been almost a week since the fourteenth, but I used to leave the card up for a good few days.’ She gave Merry a shrewd-eyed look. ‘And it strikes me that someone who deals in romance for a living might be the type to expect her man to show how much he loves her, but mebbe you’re not the sentimental type.’

  And now Merry’s cheeks flamed even more, because Alex had always made an effort on Valentine’s Day and she’d felt his absence keenly this year. Not that she’d expected a card – he didn’t even have her address on Orkney – but there’d been no message on her phone, nothing to indicate she was still on his mind. After fifteen years together, she might have expected something… but she knew that was wishful thinking. Nothing in the way Alex had behaved since their break-up suggested he felt anything for her, apart from the single message he’d sent a few weeks ago to confirm she’d left London. Jess was right – it was time she got over him. But she wasn’t sure she wanted Sheila to know the truth about Alex. She wasn’t sure she wanted anyone on Orkney to know.

  ‘No card or flowers,’ she said, forcing herself to sound light. ‘We used to do all that in the early days, but not anymore.’

  None of it was a lie, she told herself, but Sheila wasn’t buying it for a second. ‘Not even when you’re hundreds of miles apart?’ she asked, arching her eyebrows.

  It was the only flaw in Merry’s explanation, because that was exactly what most loving couples would do – seek to prove their love to their partner through the time-honoured traditions of the day. ‘Not this year,’ she said and hoped her smile wasn’t as brittle as it felt.

  The other woman studied her for a moment, looking as though there was something she very much wanted to say. Instead, she sighed and folded her hands in obvious disapproval. ‘Well, I suppose it’s your business.’ She fixed Merry with a purposeful stare. ‘And I didn’t come here to poke my nose into your love life – there was something else I wanted to discuss.’