‘That won’t be necessary – it was entirely my pleasure to help.’ He waved a hand and climbed back into his truck. ‘Take care, Merina. Perhaps I’ll see you on Friday.’
Merry watched the road until he was nothing more than a speck in the distance. Then she climbed into the Mini with a weary sigh, noting that it was almost four-thirty and that the sun was dipping in the west once more. ‘So much for getting back before nightfall,’ she muttered, starting the engine.
But she couldn’t help smiling a little as she drove along the winding roads that led to the croft. The flat tyre had been inconvenient and expensive, but it had brought her an unexpected adventure with a stunningly good-looking and generous man. She’d just have to make sure Jess never found out that she had turned down the opportunity to get to know Magnús Ólafsson better.
Chapter Six
The next morning was wet. Merry spent a restless hour or so watching the rain patter against the windowpane, occasionally gazing beyond to the dull grey sky that barely differed in shade from the sea, avoiding her laptop and trying not to daydream about Vikings. Eventually, she decided enough was enough; if she didn’t get out of the croft soon, she might spontaneously combust. She flicked through the folder of tourist leaflets that had been thoughtfully tucked among the books, disregarding anything that sounded too outdoorsy. Finally, she found something that caught her eye: a printed webpage about a chapel built by Italian prisoners of war during the Second World War. It was completely different to the Neolithic monuments she’d visited so far. Perhaps that was what tugged at her imagination and made her want to go.
The chapel was on the uninhabited island of Lamb Holm, just off the southern tip of the Orkney mainland. It was accessed by driving across the Churchill Barriers, which Merry read had been built in the 1940s as a naval defence after a German U-boat attack. The barrier didn’t look much now, she thought, but at least it provided a road link between the islands – and meant she didn’t have to work out how to catch the ferry.
The sea was calm, despite the torrential rain, and that was something else Merry was grateful for: there were no crashing waves to contend with as she drove across the narrow strip of tarmac that topped the barrier. She’d have to keep an eye on things while she explored the chapel – the last thing she wanted was to need another rescue, especially since she didn’t think she could rely on Magnús to magically appear again.
The chapel itself stole her heart even before she’d gone inside. From the front, it was designed to look like an Italian church, complete with gothic pillars and a bell tower over the portico door, and if Merry hadn’t already known it was a façade attached to a pair of Nissen Huts, she wouldn’t have guessed. But it was the interior that really made her gasp. The rain, combined with off-season, had kept the tourists away and Merry had the building to herself, which allowed her to stop in the doorway and take in the scene laid out before her. The walls and ceiling were domed, following the rounded shape of the huts, and covered with intricate decorations: imitation brickwork that climbed into the illusion of a vaulted ceiling, frescos of angels and cherubim, and an altarpiece that showed the Virgin Mary cradling her infant son. A deep crimson carpet rolled down the centre of the chapel, flowing to the ornate ironwork rood screen and gates. Beyond that stood an altar, flanked by two trompe l'oeil stained glass windows. All that was missing was the heady scent of candles and incense that Merry usually associated with Catholic churches.
She walked forwards, shaking her head in wonder at the skill of the men who’d created such a thing of beauty using whatever they could scavenge from their immediate surroundings: corned beef tins and car exhausts and wood rescued from wrecked ships. It was an astonishing testament to the ingenuity and talent of the Italian prisoners, and the generosity of their guards, all so that they could practice their faith and be reminded of the homes they’d left behind to fight for their country. There was an almost tangible sense of peace here, similar to the one she’d felt in the burial chamber the day before and, to a lesser extent, in the shadows of the Standing Stones. Merry didn’t know whether it was the monuments and buildings that exuded calm, or the islands themselves, but the tranquillity was wonderful.
She sat on the low wooden bench that lined one of the walls and listened to the silence. There were stories captured here too, moulded into the metal work and carved into the wood and painted onto the fabric of the building – labours of love that spoke of a deep longing for the familiarity of home, of the fear and isolation of being a prisoner in a strange land, and of the comfort that their faith could bring. Merry smiled softly as she looked around; it seemed as though everywhere she turned on Orkney, there was another story waiting to be uncovered.
The door opened and a woman of around thirty tumbled noisily inside, shaking an umbrella and muttering under her breath. She stopped when she saw Merry, her eyes widening in apology. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I thought I’d have the place to myself on such a miserable day.’
‘Don’t apologize,’ Merry replied. ‘I was just soaking up the atmosphere and thinking. It’s so peaceful here.’
The woman smiled. ‘That’s why I’m here too. Well, that and sweeping the floor. Unfortunately, God doesn’t believe in doing his own housework.’
Merry laughed. ‘No, I don’t suppose he does. Let me get out of your way, then.’
‘Och, don’t let me chase you away,’ the woman said in dismay. ‘Take your time, I’m in no rush. It’s nice to have the chance to sit down for a while, without the kids nagging for this and that.’
‘How many do you have?’
The other woman crossed the floor, pulling off her rain-soaked coat, and sat on the bench beside Merry. ‘Just the two, although it feels like more most days, especially since it’s just me and them. Do you have kids yourself?’
Merry shook her head. She and Alex had talked about raising a family someday but it had always been a distant plan, something they’d do eventually. And now she was glad of that distance, because the thought of single parenting on top of the pain and stress of breaking up made her shiver with anxiety. ‘I have nieces and nephews.’
‘That’s nice. All the fun and none of the fights.’ The woman gave Merry a sideways look and frowned. ‘You look a wee bit familiar. Have we met before?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Merry said, studying her in return. ‘I’ve only been here a few days. I’m Merry.’
‘Helen,’ the woman said. ‘But I’m sure I know you from somewhere. Have you got family on Orkney?’
Again, Merry shook her head. ‘No. I’m here for a few months to write a book.’
Or try to, anyway, she thought. Beside her, Helen snapped her fingers in triumph. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you before – there was a piece in the Orkney news about you!’ She fired an admiring glance Merry’s way. ‘The famous romance novelist, Merina Wilde.’
A bubble of laughter escaped Merry. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘You’re famous on Orkney,’ Helen replied. ‘I bet everyone you’ve met so far has known who you are, am I right?’
Merry cast her mind back to the day before and her meeting with Magnús. A rueful smile tugged at her lips. ‘Almost.’
Helen sighed. ‘Having an imagination like yours must be a wonderful thing. Where do you get your ideas from?’
‘From everywhere,’ Merry said, and waved a hand at their surroundings. ‘In fact, before you came in, I was thinking about the men who built this chapel – who they were, what they felt, what happened when they returned to their families after the war. There’s inspiration in everything, if you know where to look – I suppose writers just pay more attention than most people.’
‘My grandfather was one of those men,’ Helen said. ‘He was taken prisoner in Occupied France and brought here to help build the Barriers. My grandmother met him by chance when he briefly came ashore to the mainland and it was love at first sight, by all accounts, although they weren’t allowed to fraternize or even speak. But h
e was able to find out her name and, when the war was over, he wrote to her from Italy. Eventually, he came back to visit – they were married the following month and together for fifty-two years.’
Merry clapped her hands in delight, tears of joy stinging the backs of her eyes. ‘How wonderful! Oh, that’s exactly what I mean – there are love stories in the unlikeliest of places. They might not all end as happily as this one, but they’re there.’
Helen gave her a wry smile. ‘It certainly gives me hope that there’s someone out there for me, although I hope it doesn’t take a war for me to meet him.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ Merry said, and something rustled faintly inside her brain, trying to get her attention. She felt an accompanying stab of anxiety and forced herself to focus on Helen. ‘I’m sure there’s a good man for you just around the corner.’
The other woman sighed. ‘Maybe. God knows I’ve met a few bad ones along the way. But listen to me blethering on and taking up all your time. I’ll go and find something else to do while you do your thinking – the sweeping can wait until you’ve finished.’
‘No need. I think I’ve got everything I came for.’ Merry got to her feet and smiled. ‘It’s been so lovely to meet you. And thanks again for sharing the story of how your grandparents met – you have no idea how much it helps to be reminded that, sometimes, love does conquer all.’
There must have been a hint of heartbreak in her voice, because Helen gave her a long look, then pressed a hand to her arm. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, the words warm with sympathy. ‘If you want to know any more details, you’ll find me here every Tuesday and Friday around this time. I’m afraid I can’t come to your event at the library – I’ve no childcare in the evenings.’
‘I understand,’ Merry said, making a mental note to bring a signed copy of a book for Helen the following week. ‘But I have a feeling I’m going to be a regular visitor here over the next few months. It’s so calming.’
‘Well, that’s something to look forward to, although it might not be so quiet next time,’ Helen said. A squall of rain rattled against the metal exterior of the chapel. ‘Mind you don’t drown on your way home!’
*
The rain died off by mid-afternoon, giving way to blue skies and sunshine, so Merry decided to take Sheila’s advice and try exercise as a way to shift the anxiety she felt about Friday’s event. Usually events like this were easy and fun, almost like having a chat with a friend that just happened to have an audience, and she always enjoyed meeting readers afterwards. But the knowledge that she had to write something to read aloud gnawed at her stomach like a nest of rats. And the overwhelming sense of pressure made her head spin.
The wild beauty of the cliffs helped, along with the bracing sea air. By the time she returned to the croft, windswept but glowing from her exertion, she felt calmer, and settled on the sofa with one of the novels from the bookshelf. But she found it hard to concentrate on the words – an image of the Italian Chapel kept drifting into her mind; the almost-tangible sense of tranquillity, coupled with the genuine delight she’d felt when Helen had told her the story of her grandparents, gently tugged at her imagination until she knew she’d have no rest unless she did something to settle her thoughts. Her laptop was still on the coffee table but even the thought of opening it made her flinch. Instead, she rummaged in her case for the half-filled notebook she’d brought from London in the hope that one of the old ideas inside might inspire her. Turning to a blank page, she began to jot down some notes about the chapel. That was straightforward enough. Encouraged, Merry added the other places she’d visited so far, and the people she’d met. But the moment she started to try to think of things in terms of a narrative, her brain baulked and ground to a halt. Facts were okay, it seemed. Fiction was not.
Even so, she battled against the block for the best part of two hours, carving out sentences with her pen as best she could. Most of them were about Magnús – she seemed to be able to write endless sentences describing him – but many were about Skara Brae and the other ancient monuments she’d seen. Maybe that was what she should write – a travelogue detailing her thoughts and impressions of Orkney so far. Her nose wrinkled in disgust, picturing the bewildered faces of the audience as she described sights they’d been seeing their entire lives. But it was better than nothing, she reminded herself. She couldn’t cast any spells from a blank page.
She was about to call it a night when her phone vibrated on the coffee table. Expecting to see a message from Jess, she opened the screen and checked the name.
It wasn’t Jess. The number didn’t have a name attached but Merry recognized it immediately. It was Alex.
Immediately, Merry started to shake. Nausea rolled up from her gut and she found it hard to breathe. Alex, after all the months of silence. What on earth could he possibly want?
There was only one way to find out. With trembling fingers, she swept the screen.
I hear you’ve moved to the other end of the country. Hope you’re happy x
It was the kiss that caught her eye. In all the years they’d been together, on countless Valentine’s Day cards and birthday cards and texts, she’d never known him to add a kiss. It wasn’t his way, he’d said, when she’d asked him once, and she’d never questioned it again. And here he was, adding kisses where they shouldn’t be. What the hell did it mean?
She closed the message and dropped her phone onto the sofa, staring at the flickering flames of the fire. It was obvious that meeting Jess had prompted him to get in touch, but she wasn’t sure why. Was it simple curiosity? Or a subconscious fear that maybe Merry was finally starting to get over him? If he was a character in one of her books, Merry knew which one it would be. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Jess was altogether more forthright with her feelings and she fired back instantly:
WHAT A KNOB. He can’t bear that you might be happy without him.
Although she knew exactly what Jess would say, Merry responded with:
What should I do?
Her reply was almost instantaneous, exactly as Merry had predicted:
Delete it. Do not reply. I say this as your friend, because I love you – no good can come of this xxx
She was right, Merry knew; there was no way she could continue to get over Alex if the possibility of messaging him was there. It would eat away at her thoughts until she persuaded herself that one little message couldn’t hurt. And then she’d be back to square one, staring at her phone and wondering why he hadn’t replied.
Another message from Jess popped up.
Have you done it?
Merry couldn’t help laughing. Jess knew her too well. Taking a deep breath, she brought up Alex’s message and pressed the delete button.
Done x
GOOD! I’m proud of you, babe. Keep on keeping on x
It felt good to reclaim a little bit of power from Alex, Merry discovered. In fact, it felt better than good – it felt great. Smiling to herself, she reached for her notebook once more and read over what she’d written. Then she pressed her pen against the paper and started to write again.
Chapter Seven
‘I hope you packed some sturdy trainers when you left London.’
Merry stared at Sheila, who was standing on the doorstep of the croft in full waterproof running gear with an expectant look on her face. ‘Sorry?’ she managed after a few seconds had elapsed. ‘I mean, yes, but why do you want to know?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Sheila said, with unconcealed impatience. She waved an arm at the pale blue sky and gentle glow of sunrise. ‘It’s the perfect day to start your running journey.’
‘Oh no,’ Merry exclaimed, taking a step back into the living room. ‘I’m sorry, Sheila, but no.’
The older woman walked forwards, herding Merry backwards like an errant sheep. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, with steely determination. ‘You couldn’t ask for a more beautiful morning. Besides, I need you.’
The indig
nant refusal that had been forming on Merry’s lips died as she gazed at her neighbour. ‘What do you mean, you need me?’
Sheila let out a huff of irritation. ‘My daughter thinks I’m too old to run on my own. She thinks I need a . . . a babysitter to make sure I don’t fall over and graze my knees, like some kind of toddler. And she’s roped in the doctor.’ She fired a grumpy look Merry’s way. ‘So I’m afraid you’ve really got no choice in the matter. You’re coming running with me.’
Merry couldn’t help it: she laughed. ‘Well, since you asked me so nicely . . .’
The old woman had the grace to look a little embarrassed. ‘Ach, you’re right. Let me start over. Merry, it would be a great personal favour if you would consider keeping me company on my run today.’ She paused and wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Because I’m obviously so elderly and infirm.’
‘It was going so well until that last sentence,’ Merry said with an amused grin. She studied Sheila for a moment and her amusement faded. Underneath the prickly exterior, she thought she detected a quiet desperation and she cast her mind back to Monday, when her neighbour had talked about the way running helped her mental health. And then Merry thought about how she might feel, if something she loved doing was suddenly snatched away, and she gave an inward sigh. ‘Okay. Give me some time to get changed.’
It only took a few minutes of running before Merry realized she’d made a terrible mistake. Not only had Sheila set off at a blistering pace, she was also keeping up a stream of constant conversation and questions that required Merry to snatch an already elusive breath to answer. Even so, she did her best to keep up with both the running and the chat, until her thudding heart forced her to concede defeat. ‘Sheila, slow down!’
Her neighbour stopped and turned around, a look of crafty surprise on her face. ‘Oh, I thought a young thing like you would have no bother keeping up. Sorry.’
Broken Hearts at Brightwater Bay Page 7
