by Jane Davitt
John appeared in the doorway but didn’t cross the threshold. His gaze went around the room, and then came to rest on Nick for a long moment before he looked away. He put the suitcase down just inside the room and left without speaking, heading toward the bathroom.
Nick frowned, but assumed that John would be back in a few minutes. He moved about the room slowly, picking things up and setting them down where they’d been. A watch, of the wind-daily variety, which he was pretty sure was real gold. A handful of coins, still foreign-looking to him. He wondered how long it would take living in another country before the money looked like actual money and not Monopoly money.
The wallpaper was dark; navy blue stripes with cream and, when he ran his fingers down along it, thinly coated with the same dust that lay thick everywhere else. An asthmatic would have a hell of a time getting settled here, Nick thought. He opened a dresser drawer and looked inside at the neatly folded sweaters.
Wandering over to the bookshelf against the wall near the window, Nick crouched down and looked at the books. A few titles that he recognized, but for the most part none of them were ones he was familiar with.
When he stood up and glanced out the window, the first thing he saw was a small white church.
The second was the graveyard that lay between the church and the house ‑‑ his house. Nick froze, staring at it without blinking, his eyes tracing over each headstone, most of them old and rounded with time and weather, only a few of them appearing to be more recent. Possibly a hundred in total.
“My father’s buried there.”
The voice behind him was quiet, but in the silent house a whisper would sound loud, Nick thought. Unwilling to make a fool of himself in front of John twice, he forced himself to look away from the graves, dropping his gaze to the wide windowsill, bare of ornaments, like the rest of the house, and staring blindly at the cracked, peeling paint.
“Does it bother you, then? The graveyard?” John crossed the room, coming to stand behind Nick. “I can see it from my house too.”
A hand came to rest on Nick’s shoulder, turning him slightly so that he was looking beyond the cemetery to a small gray house in the distance. The warmth of the touch was a welcome distraction. “Over there, see? On top of the hill. If you don’t count the sheep and the rabbits, I’m your closest neighbor, now I come to think of it.”
There was a faint whisper in the back of Nick’s head, but he didn’t want to listen to it. “I remember. I must have still been awake when we drove past it.” Nick didn’t comment on the graveyard because there was nothing he could say that would change anything, and anything he did say was likely to make him sound even stranger than he probably already did, an outsider and an American. The graveyard was there. Sooner or later, he’d have to deal with it.
“I didn’t know there was a church so close by. Does everyone on the island go?” He hoped that might be an indirect way of asking if John went.
“Most do, aye.” John’s hand dropped away, leaving Nick standing alone. “I go myself once in a while, but I can’t say that it’s for more than the chance to make my mother smile. I’m not much for being told what to do and I can’t be doing with the notion that something’s sinful on Sunday and not on Monday.” He sighed. “There’s people on the island won’t watch television on the Sabbath, let alone fish. Pure foolishness to my mind.” He paused, and then added diffidently, “I’ve not offended you? Are you a churchgoer yourself then?”
Nick looked out across the fields between the house and the church, the blue sky and clouds, the rays of sunshine, then shook his head. “No. I’m not ... no.” He turned again to John, who was watching him with what might have been relief. “My mother always said that she thought God could hear her better when she wasn’t in a building full of other people all trying to talk to him, too.”
“She sounds like she was a sensible woman. Although I’ve sat in the church as a boy, when every soul in it was praying for one thing and felt the comfort of it.” John’s eyes clouded. “I can’t seem to recall a time when the prayers were answered, mind you.” He shook himself and gave Nick a small smile. “Not even when it was for Scotland to do well in the World Cup, and you’d think the Lord would’ve been merciful then, if only to prove that he could still pull off a miracle or two.”
There was something there, hovering at the edges of Nick’s vision, but he couldn’t quite see it, and more importantly he didn’t want to. He didn’t want whatever memories ‑‑ memories that didn’t belong to him ‑‑ waiting for him; and he didn’t know John well enough to say anything. Nick thought that if he wanted to get to know John better, which he did, this wasn’t the time.
Nick realized he’d been staring at John for several very long seconds, memorizing the lines of his face, the shape of his lips. “I’m sorry,” he said, which was the wrong thing to say.
“For what?” John gave him a quizzical smile and then shook his head. “We keep chatting like this and we’ll never get you settled. If you’ve the energy, unpack what you’ll need and go and take a shower; the heater’s working fine. I’ll start a fire and bring in the bedding so that you can get some rest. I’m thinking it’s what you need more than anything, although if you’re hungry?”
“No, you’re right ‑‑ sleep’s probably top of the list.” Nick looked over at his suitcase, feeling weariness wash through him now that it had been acknowledged, leaving him warm and weak. “That’d be great. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
John had disappeared downstairs before Nick had finished unlatching his suitcase. He found a pair of flannel pants and a sweatshirt, thinking that he’d definitely need to buy some new clothes once he’d figured out what the weather was going to be like long term.
He struggled briefly with the shower, trying to get the water to the right temperature, but once he had, he was able to wash away the worst of the travel grime. There were towels on a small shelf, and he pulled out the bottom one, shaking it out and sniffing it tentatively to check for mildew, but it seemed okay. He quickly scrubbed himself dry, pulled on the clothes, and went back to the bedroom, where John had moved his suitcase to the floor underneath the window and was just starting to put the sheets onto the bed.
“I can do that,” Nick protested, putting the clothes he’d been wearing and the ace bandage from his wrist down on the chair near the wall.
“You can help me do it.” John sounded as if that was as much of a compromise as he was willing to make.
Nick moved to the opposite side of the bed and caught hold of the edge of the sheet, pulling it taut and tucking it under, using his good hand to lift up the edge of the mattress. There was an unfamiliar smell drifting through the house that had to be the fire; smoky, yes, but oddly homey.
John must’ve noticed him sniffing at the air, because he said, “I’ve banked the fire up well and the chimney’s drawing nicely; it should burn for a good few hours and just take the chill off. There’s rain coming in, and you’ll be glad of the warmth when you wake.” He shook out a thick blanket, letting it settle on top of the sheet, and then added another and a feather quilt, thick and soft.
“There. That’ll do.” He gave Nick one of the nods that seemed to say more than his words sometimes and stepped back from the bed, heading towards the door. “I’ve left you my number on the kitchen table if you’re wanting anything. I’ll drop by tomorrow and see how you’re faring, though.”
The urge to ask John not to go was there, but Nick bit back the words. “Thank you. For everything. You’ve been great. I really appreciate it.”
John paused in the doorway and glanced back at him. “You’re welcome.” Words that would usually have been an automatic response regained their meaning in his soft voice. “Sleep well.” His unhurried footsteps sounded loud on the thin, worn stair carpet as he left.
Nick crawled between the sheets, laid his head on the pillow, and was instantly asleep.
Chapter Three
He didn’t know if it was the
jet lag, sheer exhaustion, or a combination of the two, but Nick slept the rest of the afternoon and through the night, not waking until the first rays of morning light came in through the window. Yawning, he blinked and rolled over onto his back, keeping his arms underneath the covers, gathering his thoughts.
Scotland. He was in Scotland. Where he owned a house.
As someone who’d grown up in apartments and hadn’t owned anything bigger than a car ever, the idea was more than a little bit alarming. Nick knew that his mother would have been disappointed in his decision to come to Traighshee and settle down, and that her attempts to hide her disappointment would have fallen short of the mark.
Eventually, hunger and the need for caffeine drove Nick out of bed. He changed into a pair of jeans and put on his socks and shoes, then rummaged around in his suitcase until he found his toothbrush. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth with the unfamiliar brand of toothpaste that was sitting on the back edge of the sink, and went downstairs.
The windows were closed; John must have done that before he left. Nick felt a surge of gratitude toward the man. Sighing, Nick turned. He’d hoped that there’d be enough of a spark left in the fireplace that he wouldn’t have to start from scratch, but there wasn’t, and it was just warm enough that he decided not to bother. Instead, he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then went through the cupboards until he found a frying pan. There wasn’t a toaster, so he fried a couple of eggs and put them between two slices of bread as a sandwich, which he then ate in about four bites. Licking his fingers, he sat at the kitchen table and drank his coffee, looking out the window that faced the sea.
Because he didn’t know where to start, Nick chose the kitchen. He found that John had been right; the women who’d come in had made sure that there wasn’t anything left that might spoil or attract mice. The cupboards were close to bare, although there were a few cans of soup and beans on the shelves. He couldn’t make a decision about the canned goods, which had apparently been judged worthy of keeping, so he left them for the time being and focused on cleaning.
Two hours spent scrubbing down every flat surface in the kitchen went by quickly. When his hands were so wrinkled from being wet that it was kind of disturbing, Nick moved to the living room and sat down at the small desk, opening up the main drawer and after a moment, taking everything out of it. There was a small trash can just beside the desk, so he began to sort through papers and letters, scraps of newspaper, tossing anything that was obviously trash and making a crooked pile of the things he knew he’d want to read through later. It wasn’t until he found a letter in his mother’s handwriting that he got off track.
It was a short letter, direct and lacking any conventional opening or closure, and the words were familiar because they were the same she’d used when she’d told him that she was dying. He wondered how long she’d taken to reduce the news down to a bare few lines, or, for him, thirty seconds that brought every vague concern into sharply focused certainty. He wondered what emotions of regret or grief had stirred in Ian Kelley when he learned that his young sister was dying.
The letter had been inside an envelope, neatly slit open; the letter opener, a slender silver blade, tarnished now, lay on the desk before him. Nick studied the postmark and realized that by the time his uncle read the letter Fiona would already have been dead. She’d sent it from the hospital, and she’d only spent a few days in there, with the impersonal, inflexible routine doing more to drain her than the treatment she’d endured.
He folded the letter, replaced it inside the envelope, and slipped it back inside the drawer, feeling his mother’s desolation and despair strike at him, carried across an ocean by paper and ink.
Standing abruptly, he left the room and grabbed his jacket from the chair in the kitchen before heading outside. He’d had enough of dust and memories for one morning.
The rain that John had predicted must have arrived, although he’d slept too soundly to have heard it fall softly on the slate roof, and the ground was damp, small tendrils of mist curling up in the warm sunlight. He set off confidently down the driveway, but when he got to the road, such as it was, he hesitated. He wanted to go down to the sea, but although the glitter of blue water was directly ahead of him, about a quarter of a mile away, there was no discernable path, and the rough grass, dotted with rock outcroppings, was home to several dozen sheep, their dirty fleeces daubed with a blue splodge. Was it private land, then?
Deciding to stay on the road for the time being, Nick turned to the right. If his fatigue-blurred recollections of the night before were correct, this road led straight to the town, with no crossroads, so he couldn’t get lost, although he didn’t intend to walk quite that far.
He’d covered enough ground to have his legs aching pleasantly from the exercise and his head full of the thin, salt-clean air when the sound of an approaching car broke the peace.
He’d drifted to almost the center of the narrow road, and for a moment he froze, unsure which way to move, a bend in the road hiding the oncoming vehicle. Shaking off his momentary paralysis, he stepped to his left, onto the grassy verge, and waited for it to pass. Instead it slowed and stopped.
“Good morning to you,” John said through the open window of his car.
“Is it still? Morning, I mean?” Nick realized that he had no idea what time it was.
John turned his head, presumably to look at the dashboard clock. “If you’d walked a few more yards, I’d have had to say ‘good afternoon’ if I was wanting to be accurate,” which more or less answered Nick’s question. “Are you heading anywhere in particular?”
“Not really. I spent the morning cleaning and I thought I’d get some fresh air.” Nick looked at John thoughtfully and decided to take a chance; no matter how nervous it made him to think about all the things that might go wrong, the urge to get to know John better was strong enough to outweigh the nerves. “Are you busy? I could buy you lunch. You know, to say thank you for yesterday. If it wasn’t for you I probably would have ended up sleeping on the couch with my shoes on and half freezing to death during the night.”
“You’d have managed better than that. And there’s no need to thank me for doing no more than anyone would, seeing you were ready to drop where you stood with the tiredness.” John smiled. “No, I’m not busy. I was on my way to see you, and that’s all I had planned for today.” He squinted up at the sky where a few clouds were gathering, although they were too high and wispy to look threatening. “Might do some fishing later on ... d’you want to come out on the boat with me and catch yourself some supper?”
Nick frowned, not sure if that was John’s way of saying no to lunch without actually saying it. Maybe it felt a little too much like Nick was asking him out on a date, which was definitely something Nick could understand John wanting to avoid. But on the other hand, John wasn’t saying no to spending time with him ...
Confused, Nick answered as honestly as he could. “Fishing sounds good, if you don’t mind that my total sum of knowledge as far as that goes is that I can tell the difference between a fish and a fishing pole.”
John gave the soft chuckle that Nick was starting to like hearing. “You’ll soon pick it up with a head start like that. Now will you be getting in and letting me take us into town so you can buy me food and I can buy you a pint?”
“Okay.” Nick felt himself smiling despite the cold fear that woke and stirred in his belly at the thought of the car ride. He’d had dozens of therapy appointments since the accident and been driven back and forth to all of them, but it had always been in cabs and he’d been in the back seat.
Getting into the car, he noted that John gave him time to fasten his seatbelt before starting up. “Thanks.” Nick tried not to tense up too much as John put the car into gear. He found himself wanting to explain, at least a little bit. “I was in a car accident ‑‑ that’s how I broke my wrist.”
John nodded as if it wasn’t news to him, driving along the road until he got
to a place where he could turn safely. “There’s some would say you were lucky it was no worse, but I’m thinking you wouldn’t agree?”
Nick didn’t know how to answer that. He couldn’t answer that. All he could manage was a quick nod when John glanced in his direction, his throat too closed up to say anything.
John tapped his fingers against the wheel, clearly wanting to say something, his gaze flicking between the road and Nick a few times before he sighed. “I’m sorry it was like that. You’re living on a place you could walk across in an afternoon and around in a day, so you’ll get by on foot easily enough until you mend.”
Nick didn’t think for a moment that John meant his wrist, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get behind the wheel of a car again. Just sitting beside John without showing his feelings now that he didn’t have the shield of fatigue was difficult enough.
“That was one of the points in its favor,” Nick managed. “The island, I mean. Knowing that I wouldn’t need a car.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. Five miles is a long way to walk with your shopping in the winter, with the sleet and the wind scouring the skin off your face.” John shrugged. “But it won’t hurt you to walk in this weather, and if you get blisters or you’re in a hurry, just stick out your thumb; any islander will stop for you.” He smiled without taking his eyes off the road. “Or you can call a taxi.”
“I thought that’s what this was ‑‑ what you were. Oh God, I still owe you for yesterday’s ride, don’t I?” Nick flushed, momentarily distracted by the quiet hum of the car’s engine as he chastised himself for what would probably be viewed as typical self-centered American behavior.
John snorted. “You do not, then.” He sounded emphatic, “I was on my way home, anyway. If you decide you do want work doing to the house, we’ll come to an arrangement about that, but when I said you could call a taxi, I didn’t mean ‑‑ I ‑‑” He slowed down to allow some sheep to amble across the road, giving the horn an irritable thump with his fist when they turned and began to walk along the middle of the road, causing them to bleat and scramble off to the side. “Do you Americans not recognize a joke, then?” He sounded more put out than the occasion called for.
