Wildflower Bay

by Rachael Lucas

  But it was lovely to be able to chat to Shona, and see her face. She still couldn’t understand how video calls worked, but it was such a change from the years when calling her daughter in Melbourne had meant sky-high phone bills and conversations peppered with delays. Instead she just arranged a time (she was fairly impressed with herself for getting the hang of this Skype messaging lark, proving there was life in the old dog yet) and waited for the familiar ringing tone to begin – and there would be the face she loved, and hadn’t seen in real life for just over ten years.

  ‘Mum. How are you?’

  Och. The only trouble with this Skype business was seeing her own wrinkly old face looking back at her from the screen.

  ‘Hang on a wee second, my dear.’ Ruth pulled her chair a bit closer to the mantelpiece, then took a left-over birthday card and stuck it in front of the corner of the screen where the little box with her face in it sat.

  ‘That’s better. I can’t concentrate on talking to you when I can see my own face rabbiting away nonsense in one corner.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Shona laughed, eyes crinkling up at the sides in suntanned, well-worn laughter lines. It was hard to believe her little girl was fifty-three this year – but the evidence stood before her. Shona had a fair few wrinkles of her own, but she was just as beautiful as ever, her high cheekbones and fair hair highlighted by the morning winter sun that shone in through the kitchen of her suburban house.

  ‘How are you keeping, Mum? Taking those supplements I ordered you?’ There was a distinct Aussie twang to Shona’s accent now, not that she’d admit it.

  ‘Och, yes,’ lied Ruth. Shona, a health-food nut, had made an online order for some kind of wheatgrass and vitamin concoction that Ruth was supposed to take twice a day. The supplements arrived in the post, the size of horse tablets and probably far less palatable.

  ‘Great. And you’re getting out and about? I see you’ve been to the hairdresser?’

  ‘Aye. In fact I had it done by a top stylist, nonetheless.’ She gave her hair a pat. ‘Jessie Main’s daughter broke her arm, and her niece is watching the place whilst she’s away looking after the bairns.’

  ‘She’s done a good job. You’re looking gorgeous.’

  ‘It was very swish. I got a head massage, too. She’s a lovely girl – quiet, nothing like her Aunty Jessie – not that you’ll know her, do you? Anyway, you’ll need to give her a try if she’s still here when you come over.’

  Shona’s face was wreathed in smiles. ‘I can’t wait. I can’t wait to give you a great big cuddle and soak up the island and –’ she paused for a second, her expression clouding – ‘and – how’s the boy?’

  Ruth gave a slow nod. ‘He’s doing fine. Looking forward to seeing you when you come over.’

  If Shona knew Ruth was lying, Ruth reflected later, she did a good job of hiding it. They’d chatted about Shona’s plans to fly over to Scotland that summer, about the Australian grandchildren who were off out playing tennis and riding their bikes, and who had no time to talk to a grandma who was not much more than a name on a birthday card and a half-remembered face on a Skype screen to them. They had an Aussie life – their own Aussie granny, who was there every weekend and looked after them whilst their mum worked hard running her business. And now, at last, after a tough time when the business she’d set up had gone under in the recession, and things had been hard, Shona had enough money to fly home and visit for the first time in years. Ruth couldn’t wait to see her, hold her, and – she closed her eyes, thinking about it and sending out a silent wish – maybe, just maybe, mend some fences.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Lucien, darling, could you get down from the window ledge, please?’

  Isla could feel her shoulders seizing up more tightly with every passing second. After two days off work during which she’d found the tiny flat both lonely and claustrophobia-inducing, she was in desperate need of an aromatherapy massage, a hot bath, and some time alone with a book. The bad news was, she was only dealing with the first client of the day. Lily had arrived this morning in a whirl of expensive essential oil scent, drifting along in a pair of wide-legged, clearly extremely expensive linen trousers. Her toenails were painted aquamarine and she wore Birkenstock sandals. Jinny had wrapped her in a gown, protecting the long, gauzy white shirt that trailed almost to her knees.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Shannon called from the back room, where she was waiting for the kettle – now filled from the recently repaired tap, and not from the hair-washing sink – to boil.

  Isla shot her a warning glance. She’d tried – thinking it was best to start as she meant to go on – to instil a sense of decorum in the salon, pointing out that it would be lovely if clients could feel that their visit was a little oasis of calm in their day. Shannon, pulling out her gum and tossing it in the bin (her concession to sophistication), had raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  ‘Reckon if anyone’s gasping for a cup of tea, they wouldn’t care less whether I shout it from the back room, or hold up a sign with six-inch letters,’ she’d replied. To give her her due, Isla thought, as she stood waiting for Jinny to finish shampooing, Shannon was trying to remember. And half the time she did. The rest of the time, though, the clients were jarred out of their relaxing head massage (Jinny, who was a real sponge for anything new, had loved learning how to do that, and had turned out to have a really good feel for it, which pleased Isla) by a fishwife screech over the sound of the bubbling kettle.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have peppermint?’

  ‘Oh aye, we’ve got all kinds of fancy stuff now.’ Shannon turned back to attend to the drinks, flashing a cheeky smile at Isla, who raised her eyebrows reprovingly in response. Shannon had beetled off to the supermarket to buy a range of herbal teas, and between waves of her natural cynicism, seemed to be embracing the salon’s move into the twenty-first century. And it seemed they were bringing in some new clients: this one had wafted in without an appointment, a wicker shopping basket under one arm, long hair knotted back with a clasp.

  ‘All right, Lily, if you could just come over here, we’ll get started.’ Isla smiled at her, taking her elbow as Jinny stepped back, having wrapped the towel carefully around Lily’s head, turban-style. In the waiting area Lily’s small, sturdy-legged son had retreated from the windowsill and was drawing peacefully in a colouring book, a box of crayons in one hand.

  ‘Lucien, sweetheart?’ He carried on scribbling, completely ignoring his mother. ‘Mummy is going to have a quick haircut now. And then we’re going to go to Little Acorns for playtime.’

  Lucien looked up briefly, catching Isla’s eye. Was that a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth?

  ‘I really just want the tiniest of trims. Just the ends off.’

  Isla held back a sigh. In the last few days she’d done so many blue rinses, set so many ‘this’ll do me over the weekend’ hairdos, trimmed countless fringes for grubby straight-out-of-school children, their harassed mothers juggling prams and baby carriers, piles of school book-bags lying on the floor creating a health and safety hazard that made Isla twitchy with discomfort. And now – another quick trim. At this rate she was going to forget everything she’d ever learned – or become a world expert in old-lady hair.

  Isla had just begun combing through Lily’s shoulder-length hair when she felt something hitting her leg. She turned round in surprise.

  ‘Hyahhhhh!’ yelled Lucien, thwacking her again with the cardboard tubing from the rack of hair products by the front door.

  ‘Lucien, sweetheart,’ said Lily, in a placatory tone. ‘We don’t hit. Weapons are destructive and damaging. You remember what Mummy told you this morning after we had our quiet time in the relaxation room?’

  ‘Ow!’ Isla’s leg buckled as he hit her squarely behind the knee.

  Shannon, who had finished making the tea at last, appeared, a cup and saucer on the tray with a small wrapped biscuit on the side.

  ‘All right, wee man,’ she said, grinning at Luc
ien. ‘You want a biscuit?’

  Lily whirled round in her chair so the strands of hair that Isla had just begun combing neatly into place, ready to trim, flew wetly around her shoulders.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucien, reaching out with one pudgy hand, wiping a green blob of snot from nose to sleeve with the other.

  ‘No,’ said Lily, simultaneously. ‘Lucien, sweetie, you know we don’t have refined sugar. Just a moment.’ She stood up, leaving Isla standing behind an empty chair, scissors in hand, and headed for her huge, expensive-looking handbag. She pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it to Lucien, who took it sullenly, still looking longingly at the plastic-wrapped biscuit in Shannon’s hand.

  ‘You sit over there and eat your rice cakes, and see if you can make a picture for Lizzy at nursery.’

  Isla began combing through Lily’s hair again. It was fine, and there were several knots – the sea wind had a habit of whipping hair up in the air and tangling it. She’d recommend a leave-in conditioner to Lily when the cut was completed.

  ‘So are you on holiday here?’ Isla realized as she asked that if the demon child was attending nursery, that was pretty unlikely.

  ‘Me?’ Lily laughed. ‘No, I’ve lived here for a few months. We’ve taken over Meadowview House.’

  Jinny, eavesdropping, sidled a little closer. ‘You’re the one doing the meditation retreat thingy.’ She stood coiling the flex of a pair of straighteners around her hand, looking thoughtful. ‘You don’t look like a hippy. I kind of thought you’d be dirtier.’

  Isla flashed her a warning look. ‘Jinny!’

  ‘Soz.’ Jinny gave a cheeky grin. ‘Y’know what I mean though, eh?’

  ‘I think it’s possible to embrace a holistic lifestyle and still keep in touch with a modern style,’ said Lily, unruffled and apparently completely devoid of any sense of irony.

  ‘Aye, but I thought you were all naked dancing round trees, and that.’

  Isla felt Lily shift slightly in her chair.

  In an attempt to get her out of the way, Isla said, ‘Jinny, could you just get me the spray-on conditioner, please?’

  ‘There’s some there.’ Jinny, implacable, pointed to a bottle on the shelf, just out of Isla’s reach. Was she being deliberately obtuse?

  ‘A new one.’ Isla gritted her teeth.

  ‘Shannon only opened that one yesterday.’

  Isla fixed Jinny with an unmistakable glare. Jinny uttered a little squeak of recognition and scuttled away, realizing she was being dismissed.

  ‘I’m quite into all that spirituality stuff myself.’ Shannon, who’d remained silent until now, ripped open the biscuit wrapper and ate it, sitting behind the counter of the reception desk. Opposite her in the little waiting area, feet up on the chair, Lucien looked at her with undisguised loathing, his currant eyes narrowed in his pale, round face. He bit into one of the rice cakes, chewed a mouthful, then spat it onto the floor.

  ‘’Gusting.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Jinny exclaimed.

  ‘You’re not in the mood for rice cakes, Lucien?’ Lily turned back towards her son, whipping her hair out of the way once again. Isla inhaled quietly, gritting her teeth. The customer is always right, she reminded herself for the thousandth time in her career. She smiled tightly at Lily’s reflection. Jinny giggled.

  ‘Lucien is very mature for his age. He’s got a very sensitive palate. Loves olives, don’t you my darling?’

  ‘Yuck.’ Lucien poked at his teeth, pulling out another piece of rice cake, before smearing his wet finger onto the fabric of the chair. Isla watched Jinny mouthing gross at Shannon, unseen by his loving mother.

  ‘So, are you offering residential retreats?’ Isla worked carefully through another tangle.

  ‘Yes. We’re going to be offering everything from shamanistic drumming through to yoga meditation weeks, as well as primal femininity gatherings where we’ll be making offerings for the red tent. We’ve got several residents already. They’re on a longer-term stay basis, doing some wonderfully creative work with the trees.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful.’ Isla kept her expression neutral. She wasn’t quite sure what a primal femininity gathering was, but if it was anything like the coven of witches who used to hang out in the school toilets at break time, she didn’t want to know. Groups of women still made her uneasy. When she was back in Edinburgh, she’d always escape at lunchtime to the bookshop cafe round the corner from Kat’s salon and sit there for an hour in blissful silence, uninterrupted by anyone. But the difference then, she now realized, was that she’d had familiar surroundings around her. The streets and the beautiful buildings of Edinburgh had been like kindly old friends, ones she’d known since childhood. With so much time alone in the holidays when she was growing up, she’d spent long hours riding around town on buses, exploring all the hidden delights of the city, sitting by the Water of Leith eating an ice pop and watching the river. Her dad would have gone spare if he’d known. But now she was here on the island, and the whole place was like a new and unfamiliar haircut. The streets didn’t fit right, everyone seemed to know everyone else, and she felt horribly conspicuous.

  There was a screech of metal on flooring as Lucien somehow managed to slide between the two waiting chairs, plopping onto the ground with a squawk of surprise.

  ‘I wonder if perhaps we could pop Lucien up here on the chair beside me?’ Lily motioned to the empty seat beside her where Shannon’s cutting kit sat in the trolley, waiting for her 11 a.m. client.

  ‘Go for it,’ said Shannon, pulling back the chair. ‘On you go, wee man. I’m away to post that package for my mum, Isla, OK?’

  Shannon grabbed her purse and ducked out of the door before Isla had time to respond.

  Lucien skidded across the floor in his socks (Isla was almost certain he’d had shoes on when he came in) and leaped into the chair, which hurtled along the wall, crashing into the hair-colour display rack and knocking down a pile of boxes.

  ‘Destruction Powers: Activate!’ he roared at the top of his voice.

  ‘He’s in a very physical phase of his development,’ Lily explained, smiling beatifically at Isla in the mirror. Lucien jumped down from the chair and began wheeling it back and forth across the floor, making motorbike noises. He scratched his head, then started removing Shannon’s neatly stacked rollers from the trolley, loading them onto the chair and whirling it round so they flew off, centrifuge style, landing on the floor. Shannon was going to go mad. Jinny was scooping them up as quickly as he fired them across the salon.

  ‘Would you like me to cut in some layers, Lily, or are you just looking for a blunt trim?’ Isla kept her voice neutral. The sooner they got Lucifer the demon child out of the salon, the better.

  ‘Just a blunt trim should be fine.’

  Isla began combing again.

  ‘I think I may have a bit of a problem with a sensitive scalp,’ Lily said, as Isla used a Tangle Teezer brush to try and fight her way through a knot that was as tight as a dreadlock.

  ‘Really?’ Isla carried on brushing.

  ‘Terribly itchy in the evenings.’

  Isla felt her blood run cold. She slowed down her combing, looking down at Lily’s hair for a moment, trying not to make her sudden suspicion apparent.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘God, yes. I’ve tried eucalyptus oil and bathing my hair in cider vinegar – I read in Holistic Health magazine that was supposed to help – but it’s just getting worse. What do you think of this “no poo” idea, where you don’t wash your hair at all?’

  ‘Poo!’ shouted Lucien, delightedly. ‘Arse bum willy big fat POO.’

  ‘That’s not outside language, darling, now, is it?’ said Lily, smiling benignly at her demon child, who was now wearing three of Shannon’s crocodile clips as hair decorations.

  ‘But you say fuckybloodybloody when you’re angry.’ Lucien looked at her challengingly.

  The child was possessed. And what was worse, he was probably infested.

  ‘I
’m just going to –’ Isla hurried into the back room, where she searched through Aunt Jessie’s box of supplies. There was bound to be one in there, in the – there it was.

  ‘Is that a special sort of hairdresser’s brush?’ Lucien looked at Isla with interest as she returned, holding the tiny fine-toothed metal comb tucked discreetly in her palm.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Jinny, who’d already worked out what was going on. Isla watched as Jinny sidestepped across to the front door, casually flipping over the ‘WE ARE OPEN!’ sign to ‘SORRY! WE’RE CLOSED’.

  Isla ran the comb through one lock of Lily’s hair and flinched slightly.

  ‘Lily, I’m awfully sorry –’ her dad always said she got posh when she was embarrassed – ‘but I’m afraid we’re going to have to stop here for now.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Lily’s face fell. She lowered her voice. ‘I know L-u-c-i-e—’

  Isla interrupted her. ‘No, it’s not Lucien at all – he’s absolutely fine.’ Jinny’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. OK, he was anything but fine. He was clearly left over from a remake of The Exorcist but, thank God, he wasn’t her responsibility.

  ‘But I’m afraid you’ve caught a little case of – your head’s itchy because—’

  There was a crash as Shannon shouldered her way in through the door with a crate of cans of Irn Bru. ‘Special offer in the Co-op. There wernae many left, so I thought I’d get one whilst I was passing the Post Office.’

  Which is on the opposite side of town, thought Isla, inconsequentially.

  ‘Why’re we shut?’ With a shift of her head, Shannon indicated the sign on the door. In the same moment she caught sight of the comb in Isla’s hand, and of Lucien, who had a finger up one nostril and was now scratching at the crown of his head, furiously.

  ‘Jesus. No’ the nit invasion?’

  Lily jumped up from her chair in horror. ‘Head lice?’ She pulled the towel and gown off, throwing them across the floor as if they were infectious. ‘Oh God, no.’