Wildflower Bay

by Rachael Lucas

  ‘But what about the –’ Isla cast a glance over her shoulder at her bedroom. The huge cast-iron bedstead stood on a bleached, stripped wooden floor. Stacks of white cushions lay atop a White Company waffle bedspread. A fragrant aromatherapy candle glowed on the bedside table, emitting delicious and soothing scents of lavender and jasmine. It was her sanctuary. Neutral, immaculate, perfect. And if she left, how would Hattie cope with living alone? When Isla had arrived, the place hadn’t looked quite like this . . .

  ‘Eight weeks?’ Hattie reached into her bag, pulling out a Mars bar. Through a mouthful of chocolate, she continued thickly, ‘I won’t even have time to notice you’re gone, sweetie. And – between you and me – I’m rather hoping that Marcus might spend a bit more time over here.’

  Isla wrinkled her forehead, trying to remember which one was Marcus. Hattie was generally followed by an adoring string of admirers who were pretty much interchangeable. Despite the fact that they were universally well brought up, polite and charming, Isla regarded them all as vague irritations who got in the way of her relaxation and tended to leave a trail of wet towels and shaving cream in the bathroom when she’d just cleared it up.

  ‘Anyway, you can always come back at the weekends, it’s not like you’re emigrating to Australia or anything like that.’ Hattie still hadn’t noticed – after all this time – that hairdressers don’t get weekends off. Friday and Saturday were Isla’s busiest days, the salon always packed with people desperate for a last-minute appointment.

  Hattie crumpled up the Mars wrapper, throwing it at the coffee table. It missed, landing on the floor. Hattie stretched her arms above her head, flicking on the television. ‘Excellent, Real Housewives of LA.’

  Isla had to resist the temptation to pick up the wrapper and put it in the bin. It was Hattie’s house, after all, and she’d have to face facts – eight weeks away from here would mean it was going to be in a state of devastation on her return. She’d leave some Marigolds and cleaning stuff out on the kitchen worktop when she left. Maybe Hattie would take the hint.

  It was hard-going fitting everything into her little car, which wasn’t exactly designed with practicality in mind, but Isla wanted to be prepared for every eventuality. Who knew what island life was going to be like? She was being installed in the little flat above her aunt’s salon, which had been used for years as a holiday let. It had lain empty for the last two summers, used only as a storage space for the shop equipment. Jessie had assured her dad that it was ‘a bonny wee place, lovely views over the sea, and nice and close to town for Isla – she’ll be able to do a bit of exploring when she’s not working.’

  Isla, who had absolutely no intention of exploring whatsoever, shoved the box of books she’d brought along to keep her going onto the back seat. That was everything. She didn’t have much faith in the library having anything from this century. She didn’t have much faith in anything on the island being from this century, to be truthful. She closed the back door of the little car, and locked it with care. One last trip upstairs to gather everything she needed for now, and she’d be gone.

  She took a last look around the flat, straightening the sofa cushions and neatening the edges of the rug by the fireplace. She didn’t have anyone to wave her off; after spending the last couple of days with her dad she’d said a final goodbye to him the night before, and he was on a long day shift today, though he’d promised to give her a ring at Jessie’s house that evening. It was hard to believe that only a week ago she’d gone to work as usual, on top of the world. Now a new week stretched in front of her – and an entirely different life.

  Isla set her chin determinedly, and closed the door on Edinburgh for the next eight weeks.

  Chapter Four

  ‘That’s a braw motor you’ve got there, hen.’

  Calum was Aunt Jessie’s second husband, and the human embodiment of an ageing Popeye. His thick, tattooed arms were squeezed into a white T-shirt. In the corner of his mouth was a smouldering cigarette, rather than a pipe. He ran an appreciative hand along the bonnet of her car.

  Picking up her suitcase without waiting to be asked, he hefted it into their whitewashed house, which sat over the hill, looking down into the little valley where the town of Kilmannan stood.

  ‘What’ve you got in here – a dead body?’ Calum joked, swinging it down onto the spotless carpet in the hall.

  Isla felt herself blushing. ‘Nothing much, running kit and things.’

  ‘I know what you young lassies are like. Jessie’s Pamela comes away from here with a ton weight of stuff from SemiChem every time she’s back home. It’ll be all thae bargain shampoos and the like, am I right?’

  Isla shook her head. After the early years, where she’d worked with hands red raw from the strong chemical products she’d used, she’d sworn never to go anywhere near anything like that again. She wasn’t taking any chances on what Jessie would have in her salon, so she’d stocked up in advance – not just for her own personal use, but enough to keep the salon going until she could order in supplies. And Calum was trying to heft the whole lot into the sitting room, only to have to bring it back out again. He puffed his way back to the car and pushed the door closed.

  ‘I’ve made a brew for us, hen. Now are you absolutely sure you don’t want to stay here tonight? I’ve got a spare room made up.’ Aunt Jessie, who was almost as square and solid as her brother, stood in the doorway to her kitchen, hands on hips. She had an apron tied around an ample waist and her dark hair set neatly in curls that framed her handsome face. The house smelt of a combination of bacon sandwiches and air freshener.

  ‘No, honestly,’ Isla felt a wave of panic. ‘I’d rather just get in and get myself settled. And you must be desperate to get off to Pamela and the children.’

  ‘Aye, well, her William has to get back to work, right enough. If you’re sure, hen?’

  ‘Absolutely certain.’

  Isla sat down on the pink velour sofa and waited for her drink to arrive. The television was on in the corner, playing a radio station through huge speakers that were wired to each corner of the room. Everything else, though, was just how she remembered it.

  ‘I’m sure you’re self-sufficient enough, being Ellen’s lassie, so I’ll let you find your way round the shop in the morning, seeing as you’re the expert in the family.’ Jessie bustled in, handing Isla a mug with a cartoon Highland cow on the side, and offering her an opened packet of chocolate digestives.

  Unthinking, she took two. The unexpected mention of her mum’s name had thrown her slightly. At home with her dad it seemed to have become an unspoken rule that she wasn’t mentioned. She smiled down on them from the wall, but when Isla had been younger she hadn’t been able to find the words to ask her dad about her. Once she was old enough, the time seemed to have passed and Isla had found herself skirting the subject awkwardly.

  ‘Aye, your mum was an independent woman.’ Jessie gave a knowledgeable nod, settling herself down into the cushions, holding her hand out for the mug of tea, which was passed to her, wordlessly, by Calum, who appeared to be very well trained. ‘It’s a shame your dad was always so busy once she passed away. I’d have liked to have seen a bit more of the two of you.’

  Isla smiled politely and sipped her tea. Jessie, apparently oblivious to her silence, continued, filling in the gaps where Isla should have responded.

  ‘Aye, she was a nice enough lassie, your mum. It’s a shame our Pamela is no’ well, she’d have loved to have seen you.’

  ‘Mmm,’ smiled Isla. The summer holiday she’d spent over here on the island had been painfully dull – Pamela, who apparently was keen to catch up and reminisce about old times, clearly didn’t remember the hideous night they’d all spent at the Winter Gardens disco, where Isla had had to keep watch whilst a game of Spin the Bottle took place, fuelled by bottles of illicitly acquired cider. By some silent agreement, Pamela and her friends had judged that Isla wasn’t eligible to join in – not, Isla remembered, that she’d
wanted to. A gaggle of gawky-looking boys who’d clattered up and down the promenade on skateboards hadn’t held any interest for her at all. The feeling had been mutual. They’d jostled their way past Isla, standing in her post by a rhododendron hedge, and knocked the book she was reading out of her hands.

  ‘Anyway, maybe now you’re spending some time here you’ll fall in love wi’ the place, see why we all enjoy it so much.’

  I think that is extremely unlikely, thought Isla, swallowing the last of her tea in a burning-hot gulp to get it over and done with. ‘Well, I’ve got eight weeks.’ And counting, she added silently.

  ‘Aye, I’m very grateful to you for it, as well.’ Jessie stood up.‘Right, if you’re absolutely sure you’ll no’ stay, let’s get you along the road. Just remember Calum’s here if you need anything, and I’m on the end of the phone, and the girls will keep you right until you find your way about, and . . .’

  The flat was directly above the salon, tucked down a little side street that led down to the seafront promenade (or, as Isla noted grimly, the pavement beside the harbour, as it could also be known). Next door was a boarded-up shop with a worn-out sign that read ‘JIM’S F SH’ in plastic letters. The letter I had been picked up and placed on the stone windowsill, where it sat accompanied by a left-over takeaway coffee cup and a fish-and-chip wrapper. Auchenmor had that much in common with Edinburgh, at least.

  ‘Here we are.’

  Jessie opened the door to the flat. There was a narrow staircase with a utilitarian blue carpet, and the whole hallway smelt very strongly of some kind of artificial flower scent.

  ‘Lavender and geranium.’ Jessie noticed Isla sniffing the air. ‘I love those plug-in air fresheners, don’t you? This place smells beautiful now. I’ve bought a load to take over for Pamela, hide the smell of the bairn’s nappies.’

  Isla refrained from responding that she thought she’d prefer the smell of dirty nappies to the chemical pong of whatever-it-was, and followed her aunt up the stairs.

  ‘It’s no’ been used for a good while, but I’ve given it a quick sort out. It needs a good clean, mind you, but if you’re OK with that . . .’ Isla’s Aunty Jessie stood back, arm open in a gesture of welcome, as Isla stepped forward into the flat that would be her home for the next eight weeks. It was hideous. The floor was covered in a nauseating green swirling carpet, and a stained wooden fireplace surround framed a dubious-looking old-fashioned gas fire. Brown floral nylon curtains hung at a window that looked onto the tiny castle, and down the street to the tired-looking amusement arcade Isla remembered from her youth.

  ‘A bit of fresh air and a bunch of carnations to cheer it up a bit, and you’ll have it looking like home in no time.’ Jessie beamed at her niece before leading her through to the bedroom. Isla closed her eyes. It was only two months. And maybe Pamela might turn out to have developed Wolverine qualities, and her bones would repair overnight. Please, thought Isla.

  ‘The view is amazing, isn’t it?’ The side of the bay window looked down a narrow lane and beyond to the sea. She could see the ferry sailing away, and with it any chance of escape for another two hours. Isla turned away, feeling despondent.

  ‘And this is the kitchen,’ Jessie called from across the hall. ‘Isla, are you there?’

  ‘Coming.’ She shook her head in despair and headed towards what should have been the heart of the home. Trying not to think of the sleek, metallic beauty of the kitchen in Hattie’s place, she stepped into a room that had been the height of fashion in 1984. Pale brown cupboards trimmed with fake wood handles, a brown sink (a brown sink? Isla didn’t even realize such horrors existed) and an under-counter fridge that hummed and rattled alarmingly.

  ‘I’ve made up the bed for you, and there’s a pint of milk and a packet of tea in the cupboard here.’ Jessie opened the cupboard where a tiny packet of PG Tips sat beside a packet of chocolate biscuits, some alarmingly orange pasta sauce, and a box of Cup-a-Soups.

  ‘Now, I’m away on the next boat to Pamela’s place. I’m going to give you the keys to the salon downstairs so you can open the doors for the girls, but if you want to have a wee nosey around and make yourself at home before tomorrow morning, that’s fine by me. We’re open until Saturday lunchtime, closed Sunday and Monday, and we do a half day on Wednesday.’

  ‘So many days closed? Is that normal?’ She was going to be climbing the walls with boredom.

  ‘Well, we’ve only got our regulars and they know the days they want to come in. There’s a lassie who does mobile hairdressing for the people who can’t get out and about so easily, and the young ones all seem to want to go off the island to have their hair cut for some reason.’ Jessie sniffed disapprovingly. ‘And of course nothing is open here on a Wednesday afternoon. Half-day closing,’ she explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Which it was, Isla reflected, in 1975, which is where this godforsaken hole seemed to be stuck. She shooed her aunt out with words of reassurance, grabbed the keys and headed at speed towards the Spar round the corner. There was only one thing for it – she was going to have to gut the place and scrub it from top to bottom before she unpacked a single thing. God only knew how long it had been since the place had seen a duster, never mind a bottle of bleach.

  By the time she’d finished later that afternoon, Isla had used the best part of a bottle of Mr Sheen, three dusters and six J-cloths. It had been absolutely no surprise to her to discover that the bathroom was also nauseatingly green in colour, nor that the tiles were ingrained with several decades’ worth of holidaymakers’ fingerprints and grime. She scrubbed the last of the walls with a final flourish.

  The bedding she’d been left with was clean, but spark-inducingly nylon and covered with bobbles. It’d do for a night, she decided, but then she’d have to make another trip back off the island to Glasgow to get something decent to sleep on – that, or order something online. That was a thought – she hadn’t actually found out whether the place had broadband. Somehow, it seemed unlikely.

  She searched the sitting room for a phone socket. Lying under a curtain was a yellowing plastic dial phone from the mid-seventies that was plugged into the wall. It had a dialling tone, at least. Maybe she could ask Jessie to sort it out. In the meantime there was always the library, or an internet cafe, or – well, someone somewhere must be online, surely? The salon must have some kind of internet connection. She opened the door that led downstairs to investigate. She’d been determined not to look until she’d finished cleaning the flat – there was only so much grimness that one person could take.

  It was everything she had expected – and more. So much more. The chairs hadn’t been replaced since the dark ages, and there were old-fashioned helmet hair-dryers, 1950s-style, in the corner of the room. On wheels. The sinks sat in a neat row (at least they looked clean, and the taps sparkled) with a line of shampoo behind them – not the luxury aromatherapy stuff that she was used to, but the cheapest, most chemical-saturated products available from the wholesaler. Isla shuddered. That stuff was on a par with washing-up liquid. It would strip everything from your hair – and worse. She’d have to order in some stuff from the supplier, get it couriered up before Tuesday. The juniors’ hands would be red raw, washing hair in that stuff all day long – and she wasn’t going to subject anyone to that.

  She withdrew from the salon and climbed the stairs back up to the flat above. There was no need to sort everything out in one go, and she was suddenly absolutely ravenous.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. Pulling out her hairbrush and her powder compact, she tidied herself up. It might be the middle of nowhere, but she wasn’t going to let her standards slip. She applied a slash of Chanel red to her lips, swept a top-up layer of mascara onto her lashes, and patted some powder on her nose. With a final sweep of the brush ensuring her glossy bob had not a hair out of place, she headed down Kilmannan’s main street.

  It was every bit as grim as she’d remembered. There was a charity sho
p, a tired-looking newsagent’s, a bakery with the shutters already drawn closed (Isla checked the time on her phone: half past five. The supermarket was probably shut already) and the Spar on the corner. She pushed the door open. Stacked in the corner in a bargain bin were a pile of calendars, reduced to 20p. Who on earth would want a calendar in June? Isla had a sudden thought, picking one up and popping it into her shopping basket. The choices for dinner were pretty depressing fare. She picked the least wilted-looking packet of pre-packed salad, a vegetarian lasagne, and a pot of yoghurt from the fridge, adding them to her basket. She wasn’t going to drop her standards and start eating crap. If the food selection was going to be this awful she’d take the car back on the ferry to Glasgow and pop to M&S once a week. It was unbelievable that people actually lived like this.

  Back at the flat – Isla realized with a grimace that she wasn’t going to allow herself to call it home, in the hope it would make it more bearable – she hung the calendar from a hook in the wall. Then she got a marker pen out of her handbag, circled every single day that led up to the end of eight weeks, and scored through the first one.

  Chapter Five

  ‘I’m sorry, the reception is terrible – you’re breaking up.’

  Finn MacArthur headed out of the front door, and took the narrow stone steps two at a time. He crossed to the other side of the road, which overlooked the little harbour. The signal was far better there than it was in his little Victorian flat, where the thick stone walls kept everything out.

  ‘Give me two seconds – you want how many wooden what?’

  ‘Phallic totems.’ The voice was slightly husky, with clipped public-school vowels. ‘Penis sculptures. I was told you were the man for that sort of thing in these parts.’

  ‘And you want six?’ Finn wrinkled his brow in confusion.

  ‘Yes, please. Quite urgently, actually.’

  An elderly couple were walking towards him. He didn’t dare move, though, and risk losing reception – and a lucrative commission – at the same time. He lowered his voice.