Christian unpacked his things, filling only one drawer and using three hangers, but it felt good to organize a little. The owner said if he needed anything washed, his wife would be happy to do it. Christian might just take him up on that offer since he didn’t want to look a complete mess when he saw Gilly. He lay on the bed for about an hour resting his eyes and surprisingly not thinking about much at all. He figured things would unfold the way they were meant to; over-thinking wouldn’t help. At first glance, Port St. Mary seemed like just his kind of town, and the moment he had arrived, a sense of calm washed over him. How could anyone be stressed in a place like this? He closed his eyes and enjoyed the silence.
A bell tinkled as Christian opened the door to the pub. A stocky man behind the bar nodded at him then disappeared through a door. Christian looked around the dark room, wood paneling everywhere, but didn’t see a soul. He wandered over to the bar to peruse the list of ales on tap. He could almost taste it now. He liked English beer but wasn’t sure if he could call it English on the Isle of Man—Manx maybe? A far cry from American anyhow. He’d gone over the border once to have a beer and swore he’d never do it again. But the Brits got it right. Left a taste in your mouth for more. The man returned wearing an apron.
“Hi ya. What can I do ya for?” he said in a mild, friendly accent.
“What would you suggest?”
“Ya can’t go wrong with O’Kell’s. Brewed right here on the island.”
“Sounds great. Thanks.”
The bartender topped his pint with a frothy layer, letting it run down the sides of the glass just a touch. He’d expected it to be warm, which was often the case during the war, but not this time. It tasted even better than Christian had hoped.
“So where are ya coming from?”
“Southampton,” Christian answered.
“Not with an accent like that.”
“No, sorry, I’m Canadian. I just came from Southampton today. I’ve only been here in the UK over the weekend.”
The man leaned over as if to confide a deep, dark secret. “The Isle of Man isn’t part of the UK, mate. Just a head’s up on that.”
“Yeah, I know. I just don’t know how to word it. I guess it’s a bit like Canada, eh?”
He grinned, “I’ll give ya a history lesson after you’ve had a few. Or better yet, after I’ve had a few!” He began to wipe the counter with a cloth he’d just rinsed out. “So how’s it taste?”
“Really good.”
“Where’ya from in Canada?”
“A small place by the Great Lakes, near Toronto.”
“Oh ya? Heard Toronto’s nice. Don’t know much about it though.” He rubbed his chin. “People around here talk about Halifax. I guess they go from there to the big city, anyhow. Lot of families headin’ to Canada the last few years. Don’t blame them wanting to move their kids to safety.”
“Yeah.”
“So what brings ya here?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Oh yeah. What’s the name?”
“Gilly McAllister or Gillian I suppose most people would say.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know it.”
“I was thinking I’d ask around a bit, but it’s pretty quiet here.”
“Ah, not for long. This place’ll fill up before ya know it. Blokes like their pint around here. Just have to sneak away from the missus.” The bartender put the cloth down then began scribbling something on the chalkboard behind the counter when the bell sounded again. Christian glanced at the door. “Speak of the devil.”
A small group of five came in bantering back and forth. “Hi ya, Roland,” a couple shouted in unison to the bartender.
“Hi ya chops!” he said, throwing his hand in the air. “How’s Mr. Ballard doin’ Gil?”
The guy shook his head. “Not good. He got his manhood sliced off this morning.”
Christian’s eyes widened as he turned to the bartender. “Did I hear that right?”
Roland chuckled. “He’s talking about his pot-bellied pig. Doesn’t want piglets to force him into that line of work.” He glanced at their table, “Walks that thing like a dog.” Christian took a sip then set his glass on the counter. “Hey,” Roland cut through their gritty voices, “any of you know someone called,” he turned to Christian, his brow arched.
“Ah… Gillian McAllister,” Christian darted in.
“Gillian McAllister?”
Not expecting any kind of response, he was surprised when one asked if he had a photo. Christian joined them for a beer. He told his story and they told theirs. By that point Christian was on a first name basis with Roland, and this group was a fun mix of old and young.
The guy with the pig twitched a little when he saw Gilly’s photo, scratching his backside. He claimed his eyesight was about as good as that pig of his so he couldn’t help. Blamed it on pinworms. None of the others recognized Gilly until the bell tinkled again… about two hours later. In walked a middle-aged woman as round as a melon with a small boy scuttling alongside her. She meant business. All chatter stopped as her croaky voice silenced the room, “Barnaby Crowe! I’ll have your head if you don’t get your lazy arse home and help me with these gran kiddies of yours.”
“But nan, you’re pulling my arm,” the boy cried out.
“Sorry, darling. You take granddad’s hand now, and show him the way home. I will just sit down with these leeches and give them a piece of my mind.” She glared at her husband, her eyes now twitching in disapproval. “Now off you go!”
As soon as the door closed, the noise in the room rose to a respectable level, a pub now filled to the brim.
“Where’s my pint boys?” she asked gleaming. “Thank God I’m away from that racket. Six grandkids, all under six. They’d drive anyone batty.” Christian smiled when he realized they treated her like one of the boys. Jony, they called her. He figured Jony’s display must have been a regular thing here in Port St. Mary.
Christian settled his tab then returned to his room next door. He tried sleeping, but it was no use. Some fresh air would do him good. When he closed the front door to the inn, he noticed the last pub-goer teetering off down a cobblestone way crooning his own lullaby. Roland was clearing up and wiping the only two tables sitting just outside the front of the pub. Neither table appeared steady enough on the sloped cobblestone, though no one seemed to care. Christian liked that. He nodded to Roland.
“Cheers,” he answered back.
Christian wandered across the street to a low stone wall that felt medieval against the night sky cloaking the Irish Sea. He sat down, lifting his leg to straddle the wall. This one leg always gave him problems since the war, but he paid no mind and did it anyway. From this position, Christian could see the town and watch the sea. A few streetlights shone just bright enough to make the place feel both mysterious and strangely approachable. The curve of attached houses lining the road, some three floors high, some two, each unique in its own way gartered by a chimney between them, stood proud against the elements washing in from the tide. He wondered if Gilly had ever sat where he was now, gazing at the same mystery of such a quaint town.
Christian turned his head to the sea, which he guessed was calmed by the jetty. A handful of fishing boats bobbed gently, and the clanging of a mast on one sailboat reminded him of home. Christian closed his eyes, soaking in every sound. He felt at peace knowing that whatever this venture brought, he’d be okay with it. More than okay. He was grateful for the Barnaby fellow sneaking out this evening for a pint. If he hadn’t, he never would have found out about Gilly. Who’d have known his wife, albeit rough around the edges, would turn out to be Christian’s savior?
Christian reached into his pocket and pulled out Gilly’s photo, not the one in the article but the other one, the one he’d taken with him on his search four years earlier. It was yellowed now but he could still trace her smile with his fingertip, even in the dark. This was the photo Barnaby’s wife was more interested in seeing. Of co
urse, she recognized immediately the spot where the article’s photograph was taken, but it was this photo, the one he was gazing at now, that triggered something. She couldn’t quite place her at first. Her hair was different and she was younger. Not the clearest snapshot. But after two beers, she plopped it facedown on the table and bellowed, “Gawd, blimey! Of course! That’s Gillian McAllister. Skinny little thing she is.” The last time she saw her, she was sitting at a table with Dr. Pilkington, the town’s general practitioner. She happened to be at the doctor’s office getting a nostril cleared after an unfortunate pea incident—not Gilly, but Barnaby’s wife. Christian thought it was interesting how that tidbit of information just rolled past the others as though it were an every day occurrence in this town.
“They looked rather cozy,” she said, “despite the man being her employer. Two odd bods together, I’d say.”
Christian could have done without the commentary, but he wanted to know every detail in case Jony was wrong about the whole thing.
“I know it’s her. I’m certain of it,” she said. “I had my eyes checked just the other day, in fact. Ruddy things have been giving me problems ever since Gilbert dropped by with that fat pig of his. I could swear there’s something seeping from that animal, some God-awful fume.”
Christian pressed for more details then finally managed to get an address from her. Well, not exactly an address but a map she’d drawn out on the back of a coaster. It was where he’d find Gilly—at “Dr. Pilkington’s surgery.”
It was all a bit surreal, like a hazy dream. Christian tucked Gilly’s photo back in his pocket and closed his eyes again, listening for the sounds that he knew so well. No loons perhaps, but the washing of the tide on shore was soothing. He couldn’t quite believe that only hours from now, he’d be walking into a doctor’s office where Gilly McAllister was working. On the other hand, he wasn’t the least bit surprised that she’d be employed helping others. He had no clue what he’d say or how he’d behave, even though he’d rehearsed it a thousand times since she walked out of his life.
Christian couldn’t help but think how easy it was to find her this time, all because of one photograph in an article. The fact that Percy had a fascination with the Channel Islands and those in the Irish and North Sea couldn’t have been coincidental. Christian had never really understood what fate was or how it worked. He just figured everything that happened in life happened because it was meant to, otherwise it wouldn’t happen. Simple enough. But maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t meant to find her four years ago. Could it be that this was the right time? He was sure she’d have no bad feelings toward him. He’d never done anything to hurt her, but if she had a family, if she was seeing this Dr. Pilkington, then she might be angry with him for showing up out of the blue after all these years. Even so, it was a risk he had to take.
Brooding wouldn’t do any good. Christian rinsed it from his mind with the next gust of wind. The air here was much cooler at night than in Tobermory, and he was chilly now. His bed was waiting for him just over there, in this small fishing town smack in the middle of the Irish Sea, a town he never would have imagined he’d visit, yet a town he could fully imagine staying in for the rest of his life.
The morning sun crept quietly into the room while Christian lay staring at the ceiling. He expected his mind to be a whirling mess, but he woke with a confidence he’d always had until meeting this incredible Irish girl. She had a power over him then that made him dizzy at the best of times. She was prettier than he had words to describe, and what he liked best was that sometimes she knew it—you could see it in her walk—and other times she was completely oblivious to it. He liked her unpredictability. Gilly was spontaneous and daring and fun and willful. She made him feel alive. He’d never felt that kind of love before or since.
Christian propped himself up, curious and excited to see what the day would bring. He drew a bath down the hall and soaked for ages. He didn’t want to hurry. Something compelled him to take it all in stride. He squeezed the facecloth and let the warm water drip down his torso. He glanced at his chest hair and wondered if she’d notice there was more now. Of course, who’s to say she’d even see it. He rubbed a bar of soap that smelled like a strange mixture of talc, hair tonic, disinfectant, and cheap coffee over his chest then lay back, letting the rippling water take it off slowly. Not a bubble to its name. He had a feeling the barber shop next door would smell exactly the same. The tub was small, practically squeezed into a storage cupboard next to the water closet. Every time he’d shift his body, water gushed over the sides, drenching the claw feet and floor. But it still felt good.
As he lay there, his arms draped over the sides, Christian was in no hurry at all. Oddly, he thought Gilly could wait, that she’d waited this long for him to show up, what were a few more minutes? It was almost as if their squabbling had already begun. They had done their fair share of that, but it always ended in lusty moments with no holes in their apologies. On the other hand, maybe she hadn’t been waiting at all.
A twisty road and a handful of paddocks away, Gillian was in her garden cutting roses for her breakfast table. She chose one of every color, each one for each little mood she was sure to squeeze out today. She loved her garden, filling it with as many flowering trees and shrubbery as possible but never once let them grow to shade the cottage in any way. Sunlight drenched the garden this morning, and the only place to be was out in it. She daren’t say it would last knowing this island, so Gillian grew to appreciate every moment the sun would gaze down at her.
Today her breakfast table sat just right, in a spot that even as the sun moved across the sky, she’d be warmed. She had a tendency to move the table around to suit her whims. She scraped the thorns on the lower half of the roses then arranged them in a small vase, lastly setting it on the table. It was a table for two, which had never bothered her until now. As she glanced at the empty seat, she had an odd feeling that it should be filled and that her roses would be even prettier had it been.
Gillian reached across the table and took her small, blue notebook. On occasions like this when the white walls and two latticed windows of her cottage nestling under the thick thatched roof looked like something from a fairytale, she’d feel compelled to write.
She thumbed through the pages until she came to the next blank one then flipped the notebook over while she poured herself a cup of tea. It was lovely not to be expected at the surgery quite so early today. She wasn’t even sure Dr. Pilkington would open unless he received a dire call. Perhaps he’d ring her and say that he’d stick to house calls today. She quietly hoped so yet worried about how he’d taken her rejection the other day. The last thing she intended was to hurt him, especially when she wasn’t completely sure of her own feelings.
She turned over the notebook to let her fountain pen speak for her. She shook it then checked that the nib was wet. A small drop soiled the paper, and she began writing. She couldn’t understand why the words came easily this morning. Normally, she’d battle with words trying to find just the right ones, but not today. She tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear then continued. It was a spirited poem this morning, one that had a feeling of new beginnings. Maybe it was all the life around her.
Some crunching under the bushes caught her attention as two meadow pipits hopped playfully from them before flying off. But it was a tiny dragonfly sitting stock-still on the table that captivated her. Gillian wanted to be sure it wasn’t dead, so she reached to the ground to find a small twig then gingerly touched its legs. With a start, the dragonfly darted up but didn’t fly away. Instead, it seemed to be watching her as it hovered for ages, moving sideways then back again. Gillian sat quietly admiring it when she could almost hear a faint voice from the past saying, “Don’t move.” She gasped remembering that moment as though it had just happened. A breeze rushed across her skin making her hair flutter. When she looked down, tiny goose pimples rose from her forearms as she noticed that the wind had flicked the pages to the first poe
m she’d ever written about Christian, just after they’d met for the first time.
Christian silently tussled with the cobblestone underfoot. Though unsteadied, he took that challenge like any other. He noticed a few more boats in the harbor this morning, five of them tucked against the stone wall he’d sat on last night. The water was low against it and quietly teased the small beach at the bottom of the steps.
Barnaby Crow’s wife was a character that one, but she couldn’t draw a map to save a Manx cat’s tail. Christian followed her scribbles confident that in a town this size everyone would know where the new doctor had set up his office. They seemed an earthy lot. If something was different, they asked about it. Christian liked that raw spirit, and everyone who passed either nodded or stopped to chat. He wondered how anyone got any work done around this place—they were too busy gabbing. On second thought, work wasn’t just a means to live but a social way of life. He saw that first hand at a vegetable stall outside the grocers, the bookshop he’d just passed, the docks where no one grumbled but genuinely appeared happy to help others. Just like Tobermory, only bigger.
As Christian turned the corner, he noticed a small sign above a black door that read,
Seaside Surgery at Port St. Mary
Medical Practice—Dr. Reginald Deak Pilkington
Christian was confused because this place looked nothing like the one in the article. This was obviously the doctor’s private office and maybe the photograph was taken at the hospital—if there was one in such a small town. He rang the doorbell twice, an unmistakable buzz. He waited, but there was no answer. Even if they’d been busy, the office would have been open. Christian turned to the narrow street, wide enough for just one car. His eyes traveled the opposite walls as he wondered what he should do now. Scrambling out the neighboring door, a woman carrying a hefty basket filled with scallops stopped to chat. She knew where Gilly lived and described a simple route through the countryside that went further down the coast.
The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley Page 11
