Wildflower Bay

by Rachael Lucas

  ‘I’ll be at the salon in person to pull you straight up here. Don’t make me come down there, you hear me?’

  ‘As if I would.’ Chuckling to herself, Ruth had headed out of the consulting room.

  Chapter Eight

  Isla had always thought being woken by silence was something that only happened in books. But as she lay in bed there was nothing – absolutely nothing – outside. The absence of cars and buses thundering past, the hum of people and noise and clattering and chatter that wove together to make the fabric of city life – none of it was there. The silence was huge. It was unnerving.

  She climbed out from under the duvet and pushed open the window, still waiting for the familiar sounds to fill the room. She’d always loved early-morning Edinburgh, before anyone else was up, but the city streets were never silent. Right now, back in the New Town, the road sweeper would be chugging by, the air brakes of early morning buses hissing in the emptiness.

  But here, there was nothing. Over a plate-glass sea a haze of low cloud – or was it mist? – rose to a pale blue sky smudged with thin wisps of cloud. The sunrise was beautiful, Isla admitted to herself. As she stood watching, she realized that where her ears would have been filled with the sounds of the city coming to life, here morning was announced with birdsong. It started with one melody that Isla had to strain to pick up; then there was another. Somewhere in the distance – it sounded like miles away – she could hear a dog bark. And there was the familiar call of the gulls, too, just like home. Before long the noise was deafening, the air filled with birdsong.

  And then the boat came into view. The hum of the engine came to her on the wind as she watched it slide across the water towards the mainland. Isla checked her watch – six o’clock. It must be going over to collect the first passengers. The first ferry over wasn’t scheduled until 6.45 a.m. – she’d checked last night when, filled with dread, she’d seen the harbour gate locked down for the evening and the ticket office closed.

  Isla sat, chin on her hands, watching the boat as it slipped across the water until it curved around the headland and out of sight. If she’d been on holiday here, she admitted to herself grudgingly, she might have quite liked the peace and quiet.

  Later on, another day at the salon negotiated without disaster – apart from Jinny turning up late again, explaining that her brother Mikey had refused to walk to school and lain down on the pavement, where he’d waited for ten minutes before getting up and trotting off quite cheerfully – Isla tucked her house key into her armband and set off running, down the narrow lane that led towards the ferry landing. Turning left, she glanced down at her watch. Six-thirty in the evening, and the sky was still bright blue, cloudless, seagulls whirling overhead. She ran on along the seafront road, past storm-weathered Victorian hotels and boarded-up shops. This place had nothing going for it, as far as she could see. Casting a dismissive glance over her shoulder as she turned right down the fork in the road towards the little village of Port Strachan, she pushed herself harder, the sound of her breath thrumming in her ears as she ran on. The rocky outcrops jutting out from the shoreline glowed in the evening sunlight. The road curved round, revealing the colourful houses of the little fishing village three miles from the main town. Port Strachan actually looked quite nice. Nice in a holiday postcard sort of way, Isla thought, but living here full-time must be the most mind-numbing thing on earth. She was still smarting from the thought that following her run there was no chance of popping into Yo! Sushi for something quick for dinner.

  Solid grey houses sat back from the roadside, secure behind sturdy stone walls. The gardens were neatly kept, many of them with hoardings outside advertising themselves as ‘B&B’ or ‘Guesthouse (rooms to let)’. Isla kept on running as the road curved round and the metal railings alongside the pavement stopped, until she was running beside the beach, which was strewn with seaweed-covered rocks freckled with limpets and tiny barnacles. She’d settled into a rhythm now, and her arms and legs were pumping along in time to the insistent beat of the music blasting in her ears. She couldn’t hear the sea, or the gulls that swooped overhead. The music was loud enough to block out everything.

  Isla didn’t want to think about the fact that the disturbing sensation she’d felt, watching the girls from the salon as they joked and teased their way out of the door at the end of the day, was loneliness. It wasn’t something she allowed herself to feel. Years of training at school, where the only way to survive was to create an impenetrable shell, had been the answer.

  It was going to have to hold her together here, too. There was something strange about this place. Everywhere she went, there was a feeling that everyone was talking about her behind her back, that the whole island knew exactly who she was and why she was there. It was unnerving, and she didn’t like it one bit. She’d gone into the bakery that morning, thinking she’d have a coffee and a sandwich as an early lunch break. The lunch itself had been surprisingly nice, but the feeling of sitting, awkwardly, eating her lunch whilst pretending to read her magazine as the girl behind the counter looked at her, had been uncomfortable. A man had come in then and sat down at the table across from her, spreading himself into the space, filling the whole room. Legs akimbo, sitting back against the wall, he’d sat waiting for his coffee, checking his phone.

  ‘A’right James?’

  ‘Aye.’

  A younger man had come in, hooking his dog to the post outside. He’d picked up a pre-ordered roll for his lunch and stepped back outside, tapping his forehead with a finger in a salute: ‘James, how you doing?’

  ‘No’ bad, herself?’

  This had gone on and on. Everyone who walked in through the door knew this mythical James, or knew his wife, or – it was suffocating.

  She upped her speed, pushing herself harder, faster. She could feel her calf muscles aching as she pounded forwards, making a split-second decision to fork left, up a narrow single-track road. The incline was punishingly steep but she forced herself to maintain the pace, heart thudding against her ribcage. When she reached the top, she’d stop.

  There was no space to think about anything. Everything was white with effort and pain, and then with a gasp, slowing down gradually as she crested the hill, she began to catch her breath, bending double, hands on hips, breathing through the stitch that had been niggling her the whole way.

  ‘Shit!’

  There was a screech of cycle brakes, and a crash. Isla threw herself sideways on instinct and therefore missed being taken out completely by a lunatic cyclist, who had lurched off his bike and now lay flat on his back, hands gingerly checking his ribs for breakages. His bike lay across the middle of the road, the front wheel spinning. The back wheel, however, was a different matter.

  ‘My bloody wheel. Bollocks.’ Pushing his helmet off his nose, the cyclist looked up at Isla from his prone position. He gave a broad, slightly dazed smile.

  ‘Are you – OK?’ She wondered if he might be concussed, or something. It wasn’t normal to be grinning like that when you’d just gone flying through the air on a bike.

  ‘Yep.’ He pushed himself up with his hands. ‘Yeah – ow.’ He gasped, before continuing, ‘Fine.’

  Isla recoiled slightly, feeling awkward. She reached out a cautious hand, hoping that he wouldn’t take it. His hands were filthy, his face spattered with mud. He took her hand with another smile and hoisted himself up with his own weight. Isla let go and stepped backwards.

  The cyclist wiped a sleeve across his face, revealing a deep, outdoorsy tan (which, Isla couldn’t help thinking, looked like he hadn’t set eyes on anything with a sun protection factor for at least a decade) and blue eyes beneath fair, extremely muddy brows.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ He narrowed his eyes for a moment, frowning.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Isla shook her head.

  He cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtful. ‘Yes, I do. I do. You’re Recycling Girl.’

  Isla raised her eyebrows. ‘I think you’re con
fusing me with someone else.’

  ‘Nope. I never forget a face. Well, only if I’ve had a few, but let’s face it, we’re all guilty of that, aren’t we?’

  He gave her a rueful smile, one that clearly expected something in return. This guy was well aware of his good looks. He had a cockiness that Isla recognized. Hours of people-watching at work had taught her the art of reading people – not just through their words, but through their manner. And this one was sizing her up, working out his next line. Even covered from head to toe in mud, she had to grudgingly admit he was pretty handsome in a slightly pleased-with-himself, Ewan-McGregor, rugged sort of way. And he knew it. He smiled at her, and went on, ‘You’re looking after Jessie Main’s place whilst her daughter is sick, aren’t you?’

  Isla made a vague noise of acknowledgement, shifting from foot to foot in her running shoes. She was starting to get cold, standing here like this after running up the hill so fast, and if he was OK, she was just going to . . .

  ‘Yeah . . . you’re the recycling criminal. Didn’t recognize you for a second, without your six-inch heels on. We take that stuff very seriously around here, y’know.’ His teasing tone belied his words. He gave a groan, rubbing his side. ‘Ow. I think I might’ve bust a rib.’

  Isla looked at the bike. It was unrideable, even if he had been up to cycling home.

  ‘Do you want me to call a –’ She began untangling her phone from the armband and headphone wires.

  ‘No reception this part of the island. Well, at a push you might get one bar with a following wind.’ He moved in slightly closer, looking down at the screen. ‘Nope, as I thought.’

  Isla tried to disguise the irritation in her voice. ‘Would you like me to push the bike back for you? Can you walk?’

  He shook one muddy leg, then the other. He was obviously pretty fit – beneath a down of fair hair, muscles stood out tautly. ‘Yeah, they’re both working well enough. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d really appreciate it.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  He gave a half-smile. ‘You do a pretty good impression of not fine, for someone who’s OK with it.’ He reached out his hand again. ‘Finn MacArthur.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Isla, unnecessarily. She shook his hand awkwardly and reached for the bicycle, pulling it into an upright position. At least it was still capable of being wheeled, even if it was a bit wonky. ‘You ready?’

  Finn nodded, and together, slowly, they headed down the hill.

  ‘So, Jessie’s place.’

  Finn was holding his arm across his torso now, clearly in some discomfort. Chatting would at least take his mind off it for now.

  ‘Yes.’ Isla could make polite conversation with anyone who walked through the door of a salon. As soon as she stepped over the doorstep and into the room, she was on duty. It was a perfect performance. Elderly women were charmed by her interest in their pets, young girls by her impressive knowledge of the latest music and YouTube videos. But outside, she wasn’t ready for conversation. She fished around, trying to think of something to say. There was something about the way this Finn looked at her, his blue eyes penetrating, that was slightly unnerving. ‘It’s a bit – different to my last salon.’

  ‘That doesn’t come as a huge surprise.’ Finn laughed. ‘Jessie’s lovely, but that place is like something from 1967. Mind you, you’ll have noticed half this place is preserved in aspic. Have you seen the shop with the yellow plastic in the windows?’

  Isla laughed. ‘I think that place was here when I last visited fourteen years ago.’

  ‘It’s been there since I was at school, and I’m pushing thirty-five.’

  He looked sideways at Isla again as they walked. ‘So, you can’t be planning on hanging around here for long?’

  ‘Six weeks and three days.’ Isla said aloud the words she’d been chanting in her head all day.

  ‘Not that you’re counting.’ Finn was amused.

  ‘Well, this place isn’t really my sort of thing. I’m not exactly an island person. Too much countryside, not enough – well, not enough anything.’

  Finn gave a scoffing noise, laughing. ‘Not enough anything?’

  ‘I was at the little corner shop after I finished work this evening and two American tourists came in, asking where the nearest shopping mall was. I felt as sorry for myself as for them when the woman behind the counter said “one hour and a boat ride” in response.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ Finn looked at her, disbelieving. ‘You’re not serious.’

  Isla raised an eyebrow. ‘Deadly.’

  He shook his head, laughing again. ‘Well, I reckon we’re going to have to do a bit of work to persuade you this place isn’t all bad, then, eh?’

  Isla snorted. ‘You’ll have a hard job. I like to be within striking distance of a Pret a Manger at all times. The nearest thing I’ve found to that is a bacon roll from the bakery.’

  They were passing through the little fishing village Isla had run through earlier. The journey back seemed much further when walking slowly with a squeaking bike.

  ‘Give it a chance. It’s not for everyone, but I reckon it might grow on you.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Isla nodded non-committally.

  ‘This is me, here.’ Finn lifted an arm to point, wincing again as he did so.

  On the opposite side of the road, looking out across the water to the distant hills of the peninsula that reached out from the mainland, was a stone-built villa with a neatly kept garden outside, the gate flanked by two pots full of pansies.

  ‘You’re a bit of a gardener?’

  Finn followed her gaze, realizing with a laugh what she was seeing. ‘God, no, that’s Ethel, my downstairs neighbour. I live in the flat upstairs. I can’t keep weeds alive.’

  Isla checked both ways (thinking, as she did so, that she hadn’t seen a single car pass by in the whole time she’d been out running) and wheeled the bike across the road.

  ‘Just stick it in the close there, I’ll give it a look tomorrow when I’m feeling better.’

  Isla looked at him dubiously. If his rib was broken, he’d be in no state to fix anything for a good long while, and definitely not tomorrow.

  ‘I’ll wheel it round out of sight, shall I? You don’t want it getting stolen.’

  ‘Round here?’ Finn called after her as she propped it against the side wall of a wooden shed in the garden. ‘Who’d nick a bike? They wouldn’t get it off the boat, and if they started riding it round the place, word would be back to me in five minutes flat. This place is like that.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Isla, who’d spent the morning listening to her customers gossiping over the latest goings-on ‘up at the big house’, could believe it.

  ‘Thanks for helping me back with it.’ Finn gave her another smile, looking directly into her eyes. His looked tight with pain, she noticed, but he hadn’t lost his manners.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Isla turned to leave.

  ‘One thing.’

  She spun round, looking at him standing on the path, filthy.

  ‘You didn’t tell me your name.’

  ‘I thought you island people knew everything about everyone.’ Surprising herself, Isla turned on her heel and walked away. Once she was out of sight, she found herself grinning at her comeback.

  Chapter Nine

  Ruth had woken – as seemed to be routine, these days – at half past four in the morning. She’d shrugged her cosy pink quilted dressing gown around her shoulders, slipped her feet into furry slippers, and made herself a cup of tea. Hamish, after a quick pop outside, was more than happy to make his way back inside and join her in bed, where she’d sat listening to the early-morning radio.

  Sitting, propped up by pillows, she thought back to her appointment with Doctor Lewis yesterday morning.

  ‘Now, Ruth, you can’t argue with technology.’ He’d turned the screen around, showing her what he could see.

  It wasn’t anything she didn’t already suspect. Sometimes, doctors just took the mystery out
of life. She sighed.

  ‘Right, well, we can have a chat about lifestyle adjustments, and what we can do to make things easier. There’s medication, and –’ he paused.

  Ruth leaned forward, placing a hand carefully on his desk as if for emphasis. Everything on there seemed to be sponsored by some drug manufacturer or another. No wonder they were so keen to shove as many pills down your throat as they could.

  ‘I’m not rattling around with a pillbox like some hypochondriac.’

  Doctor Lewis shook his head slowly. ‘Nobody is suggesting you should.’

  ‘Right, well, that’s a start.’ Ruth gave a nod of satisfaction. She inhaled slowly, taking a moment to think. This place smelt like hospitals and cleaning fluid and plastic and – she didn’t want to end up stuck in a bed in some geriatric ward.

  ‘I don’t want you saying a word to anyone about this.’ A finger lifted in warning.

  ‘Of course not.’ Doctor Lewis widened his eyes. ‘I can’t discuss your condition with anyone unless you give me explicit permission.’ He paused for a moment, raising his glance skyward, rubbing his temples. ‘However, it might help if we could perhaps share the care plan with a family member, let them know what medication you’re supposed to be taking, that sort of thing. We find it often helps if you’re—’

  Ruth pursed her lips, and fixed him with the same steely glare that her late husband had always referred to as her no-messing-about look.

  ‘It’s my heart that’s failing, not my mind,’ she’d said, crisply. Taking her walking stick and the prescription slip he’d printed, she’d made her way out of the consulting room with her head held high.

  Later that afternoon, Ruth balanced her new iPad on the mantelpiece, wedging it in place with the doorstop in case it fell off. She’d been given it as a present, but it was still a bit of a mystery to her. She could watch the news on television, and she far preferred to read from a newspaper than from an ever-scrolling, lights flashing, high-tech thing, no matter what the rest of the world thought. There was something quite comforting in deciding that she was too old for this nonsense.