by Jo Thomas
I think back to the telephone conversation I had as I was about to leave the doctor’s surgery yesterday. I’d had a message through my Facebook page asking me to ring a number. At first I thought it was a scam, but there was something in the message that rang true. They’d used my full surname for starters, and said they needed to speak to me urgently about Hector Macquarrie. That’s my father’s father’s name. I dialled the number carefully, wondering what it was all about. I don’t use my full surname, and I’ve certainly never had any contact with any of the Macquarries. I don’t know anything about them, other than that my father came from an island in Scotland.
The phone was answered by a man with a strong yet soft Scottish accent. ‘Gillies Solicitors. Fraser Gillies speaking.’
‘Um, my name is Ruby Mac,’ I croaked. So much for saving my voice! ‘I’m not sure if it’s you who sent the message, but I don’t think you’ve got the right person.’
‘Ah,’ he said, and paused. ‘Ruby Macquarrie?’
‘Well, I don’t use—’
‘Your father was Campbell Macquarrie?’
‘Yes,’ I said cautiously.
‘And your grandfather is Hector Macquarrie?’
‘Well, I . . .’ I hesitated. ‘Um, I suppose.’
‘Is that a yes?’ he said, sounding out every letter in the yes, making it a much longer word than it actually was, the S sitting on the end of his tongue.
‘Um, yes,’ I said. It’s true, I suppose, even if I’ve never met him.
‘Good. I need you to visit your grandfather’s home on the Isle of Geamhradh – Winter Island. Your grandfather is in hospital. He’s been unwell for some time and this recent fall is a worry.’
I felt like I was in a parallel universe. I don’t have a grandfather. Never have. It was always just me, Dad and Mum, even though they were separated.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said as politely as I could, ‘but I’ve never met—’
‘As I say, your grandfather is unwell; dementia is a cruel thing. And as his next of kin and only relative,’ he said slowly and deliberately, ‘you’ll want to be involved in any plans we make now to get him the care he needs, which may not necessarily be in his own home.’
‘I see,’ I said, letting the information sink in. How bizarre, I thought, that someone you’ve never met can be in charge of your future care, just because they’re your next of kin. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to pay for it. I don’t have any money! ‘I’m sure whatever you plan will be fine.’
‘There is a nursing home,’ he continued in a slow, almost rhythmic voice, ‘where there’s a room with a view. Recently vacated, sadly. But of course the house would have to be sold to finance it.’
So he wasn’t asking me for money. I heaved a sigh of relief and then felt bad. But really, I don’t have any. ‘Well, that sounds perfect,’ I said, and then, ‘Thank you,’ because I felt I should.
‘So if you could come to the island and meet with me . . .’
‘Well I’m just on my way to Tenerife, as it happens. Could we—’
‘Excellent. Then you’ll be able to fly here first and discuss the matter, and go on from here.’
‘Oh, well . . .’ My voice had started to thin out, and was barely audible now.
‘I’ll make all the arrangements this end. I’ll let Teach Mhor, the big house, know you’re coming. There’ll be a room for you there. And you have my number. Ring me when you arrive and we’ll arrange to meet at my office.’
‘No . . . er . . . wait . . .’ but my voice was a whisper, having clearly used up any energy built up overnight in the reserve tanks. Rest was what the doctor had ordered, and it seemed she was right.
‘Let me know the moment you arrive,’ he said again, then he bid me a cheery goodbye and hung up. And that was it. Somehow, I had agreed to go to a remote island off the west coast of Scotland on my way to Tenerife! Had I not been so shocked by the loss of my voice and the sudden change to my immediate life plans, I might have been able to take control of the situation. I’m not used to not being in control. I like to have a plan and stick to it. But he’d caught me at a low moment, off guard. So now I have to visit this solicitor and sign whatever paperwork needs signing to agree to this care plan before I can be on my way.
Needless to say, Joe was not happy about it.
‘What? You don’t even know this man! I’ll ring the solicitor and get him to send over any paperwork,’ he said when I saw him that night.
I shook my head. I’d booked the flight for the next morning. And the ferry. It was just something I had to do, and then I could move on.
‘Well just make sure you don’t do any talking or singing. Definitely no singing!’ Joe instructed, then kissed me and got ready to leave.
‘Not staying?’ I croaked.
‘I said I’d meet Lulu, check she was happy with the song list.’ He stopped as he put on his coat. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I mean, if you do, it’s no problem, I won’t go. I’ll stay here with you.’
I shook my head. Of course he should go. This was my career he was saving here.
He leant in and kissed me. ‘Text me as soon as you’re on your way to Tenerife. Then we’ll have an idea of how long it will be until you’re back in the band. And in the meantime, don’t worry. We’ll keep things ticking over here.’
‘Thank you,’ I croaked.
‘Now get to bed, rest,’ he said, and kissed me again, and I couldn’t help but feel very sorry for myself, standing in my soft cotton pyjamas covered in musical notes and symbols that matched the little tattoo on the outside edge of my hand of a treble clef, reminding me of the thing I live for: music. Joe gets that. He knows that I live and breathe music. He guided me to bed, tucked me in, and even made me a hot lemon and honey drink before leaving, insisting I text him often and didn’t use my voice! I sent the band a picture of my steaming cup of hot lemon and promised I’d be back very soon.
And now I’m here, dipping and swaying as the ferry smacks into the waves, replaying the telephone conversation with Fraser Gillies in my head and wondering how Joe’s meet-up with Lulu went. Finally the ferry bobs into the harbour. The young woman reappears from behind the serving hatch, pulls on a woolly hat and a big coat and goes out on deck, presumably to help the passengers – i.e. me – disembark.
I stand slowly and look out of the window. We’re here. But where is here? The middle of nowhere out at sea, by the looks of it. And why am I here? What exactly does Fraser Gillies want from me? I just need to find out and then get out. I have a vocal retreat in Tenerife to get to!
‘It was a rough one, wasn’t it? You okay there, missus?’ asks a young crew member as I grip the handles by the exit, keen to be off the boat. I don’t bother to correct the ‘missus’.
‘You’ll get your land legs back in no time,’ says the red-haired woman, standing in the doorway, holding her face to the wind. She looks out at the little harbour and the hills in the distance and starts to smile. ‘You here for a holiday?’ she asks.
‘A holiday? No,’ I croak, then shake my head. Why would anyone put themselves through that and call it a holiday? I think to myself, my stomach churning like a washing machine. ‘I’m just here . . .’ I trail off, because really I have no idea why I’m here, other than a message from a solicitor asking me to come as a matter of urgency. ‘Just a bit of business,’ I whisper with a smile, hoping that makes sense. The young woman’s head tilts as if I’ve just said a buzz word, sparking her interest. But fortunately the boat bounces and lurches and it’s all hands to the deck and my bit of business is forgotten.
I thank the young crew member, Gordan the skipper and the red-haired woman as they finish docking and come to tell me it’s fine to go ashore now. I stand looking out at the relentless rain.
‘You’re lucky we ran it.’ Gordan grins and slings his arm around the young woman. ‘Even Isla here
found the going tough, and she’s never without her sea legs.’
‘It’ll be better next time.’ She attempts a smile. ‘One thing about this island, you can have four different seasons in a day!’ Her freckled face lights up.
‘Oh, there won’t be a next time,’ I croak, ignoring the notepad and pencil I’m supposed to be using; there is no way I’m letting go of the handrail to fish them out of my bag as I’m about to cross from sea to dry land. I say dry land; the puddles forming there are as wet as the sea. ‘The only time I’ll be travelling back this way is off the island. Do they do a flight, by any chance?’ I ask hopefully in my scratchy voice, putting my hand to the scarf around my throat, the rain already soaking through it.
Gordan shakes his head, his arm still slung around his red-headed partner, who is getting a little colour back in her cheeks now.
‘Sorry, this is the only way in and out, unless you have access to a helicopter, that is. Like I say, you’re lucky we ran. It’s pretty bad out there. This time of year, you never know. It could be a couple of days before we run again if the weather stays bad.’
‘What?!’ I rasp. ‘But I have to leave again really soon!’ My voice sounds like it belongs to a stranger, like I’ve been in some kind of Freaky Friday body swap, making me feel as though I don’t even recognise myself.
‘We’ll run again as soon as the weather allows,’ he smiles. ‘In the meantime, enjoy yourself.’
I pull my phone out and go to ring Fraser Gillies, but I can’t get a signal.
‘Mast has probably been damaged in the wind,’ says Gordan. ‘It can happen.’
No phone signal! Not only can I not get hold of Fraser Gillies, but how on earth am I going to tell Joe I’m safe and sound . . . well, that I’m on the island at least? It’s dark now. I think I’ll go straight to the house where I’m staying and message them both first thing in the morning. With any luck, the mast will have been fixed.
‘Could you point me in the direction of a taxi?’ I ask the woman, Isla, as she stands by the door at the top of the gangplank.
The corners of her mouth turn down. ‘No real taxis, so to speak. You could try at the pub. Someone there might be happy to give you a lift. Where are you heading?’
‘Um . . . not sure. Teach something?’ I think about the note on my phone.
She laughs and raises an eyebrow. ‘Could it be Teach Mhor?’
Ah, I realise, so that’s how you say the name of the house: Tack More. Not Teach as in teacher and Hoor.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ I say.
‘Stop at the pub. They’ll point you in the right direction. It’s not far. You can’t really get lost around here. ’ She puts out a hand to steady me as I step shakily out of the door, desperate for dry land and fresh air. The young crew member puts out another helping hand.
‘Just watch out for the—’
As I step out, dragging my case on wheels behind me, I am immediately hit by a blast of wind, rain and salty seawater. It feels like a slap in the face from a cold, wet fish.
‘The weather!’ Isla shouts over the howling gale.
‘Okay!’ I try and smile and give her a thumbs-up, pulling up the collar of my coat as I make my way down the gangplank onto dry land. I step straight into a dirty great puddle of water and wish I’d worn something more practical than smart, sensible court shoes. They’re my only pair. But I’m here for a formal meeting, after all. I thought smart would be appropriate. I didn’t expect to be helping Noah build his ark.
I head towards the Portakabin that must be the way out, and the lights in the distance that hopefully mark the pub. The water from both the sky and the waves that intermittently hit the harbour wall and splash over it leaks and seeps into my shoes, slowly filling them. I’m wet and very, very miserable. The sooner I’m out of this place, the better. I can feel Isla’s inquisitive eyes following me as I squelch my way miserably down the harbour towards the pub. I put my head down as I walk, and water pours from the top of it like an overflowing gutter.
Eventually I arrive at the front door of the pub, and my spirits lift ever so slightly from their position lying prostrate on the floor. I just need to get to the house, introduce myself to the carer or whoever, get the paperwork signed and pray that the ferry is running tomorrow so I can get on my way to Tenerife. There is no way I want to be here any longer than I need to be, no matter how friendly Gordan and Isla were. I’m not here to enjoy myself. It’s not like this place, Winter Island, has ever been part of my life, and thankfully, it never will be. I shiver as I look around at the dark, bleak island – or maybe it’s a shudder.
I push the pub door open, letting in the cold, damp air. There are a few drinkers at the bar. They all turn to look at me.
I go to pull out my notepad from my handbag and it dissolves in my hand, soaked through. Oh sod it! I’ll be resting my voice as soon as I get to Tenerife, I think.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a taxi,’ I say huskily.
‘Where do ya need taking?’ asks the man behind the bar.
I rack my brains to try and remember what Isla said. ‘Tack Hoor?’ I say tentatively and thinking I’ve got it wrong. They all look at me, and then the short woman behind the bar laughs.
‘You’re looking for the big hoose, are ya?’ she says.
‘Um, yes. Hector Macquarrie’s house,’ I look down at my phone, which is now dimming and threatening to run out of battery.
‘It’s no’ far,’ she says. ‘You visiting?’ Clearly she’s hoping that I’ll tell her exactly who I am and what I’m doing here. But frankly, I have barely an idea myself. ‘Not seen you here before,’ she presses.
‘No,’ I reply, and don’t elaborate. ‘Um, a taxi?’
‘Sorry. But it’s no’ far. Just out of the pub, past the shop and café and then the school. After that, it’s just a wee way and you’ll come to a track on the right. Take that towards the bay and you’ll find it. You can’t get lost. You’ll always end up where you started. A bit like life!’ She smiles. ‘Let us know if you need anything else. They are expecting you, are they?’
‘Oh yes, they’re expecting me.’ I try and smile.
‘Well, there’s plenty of room there,’ she says with a twinkle in her eye.
They’re definitely expecting me, I tell myself; I was asked to come as soon as possible. But if that’s the case, why did no one bother to meet me off the ferry? I’m starting to feel a bit put out, though that could just be because I’m cold, tired and very wet . . . and hungry too, now that the seasickness has passed.
Let’s hope the woman here is right and there’s a warm bedroom and a meal waiting for me when I arrive. Fraser Gillies obviously knows I’ve come a long way. Yes, they’ll definitely be expecting me.
I stand looking up at the old wooden door. It’s dark, and it’s still pouring with rain. I can barely make out the outline of the house, other than the fact that it is indeed big.
I look at the worn door handle and wonder whether I should feel some sense of connection with the place. This is where my father was born and grew up, after all. But I don’t feel anything. This island was never part of my history. It wasn’t somewhere my dad talked about either. I realise that I do feel nervous, however. I take a big breath, from the buttocks, and look for a door knocker. I can’t see one. I spot a long metal pole and take hold of it with my wet, cold hands, pulling it hard, twice. A bell rings out in the depths of the house.
I am chilled to the bone now. Rain like razor blades is pounding down on me as I wait and wait. There’s no reply. I stamp my freezing, painful feet and then pull on the handle again. Still no reply. I have no idea what to do. I have nowhere else to go right now. No other option. I press down on the big metal latch and it clicks, letting me know that the door is unlocked. Well, at least this way I’m going to be out of the pouring rain and the cold, I think. I give the door a little push, t
hen a harder shove, and it opens.
‘Hello?’ I call out huskily. ‘Hello?’ My throat feels tight and dry. They’re expecting me, I remind myself. I’ve been asked to come. I push the heavy door wide and step inside.
I can’t see a thing in the pitch dark. I pat my hand around and eventually find a light switch and turn it on with a clunk. A dim overhead light comes on in the big hallway. My eyes are immediately drawn up the sweeping dark-wood staircase in front of me. The front door shuts behind me with a bang, making me jump. No wonder no one could hear me. This place is huge! There are spaces on the faded wallpaper above the wood panelling in the wide hall suggesting that pictures might have hung there once. On the floor are threadbare rugs with the remnants of patterns that were probably once bright and vibrant. The blackened fireplace is empty and cold – it might even be colder in here than outside. A single bauble hangs from a stag’s antler, suggesting Christmas was once celebrated here, but clearly not now.
‘Hello?’ I walk down the hall, pushing open doors, hoping to find a light on, a fire lit, the smell of something cooking, waiting for my arrival. There’s a big living room with two huge windows overlooking what I assume is the garden, but there’s no one in there. I finally arrive at the back of the house, in the big kitchen. But there’s no light, no sign of anything cooking. Everywhere just smells musty and damp. The chill in the air tells me that if they are expecting me, there’s no warm welcome awaiting me.
Chapter Three
Having checked all the rooms off the long hallway, only to be met by cold, empty darkness, smelling of neglect, I walk back to the foot of the wooden staircase. I look around at the mottled, dusty panelling on the walls. The musty smell of the place is just as strong here, and it tickles the inside of my freezing nose, making me want to sneeze. I take hold of the wobbly newel post and start to walk slowly and hesitantly upstairs. My feet squelch inside my soggy shoes and the stairs creak with every step I take. The wind whistles under the front door and rises up the stairwell to meet the draught coming down it, creating a sort of wind tunnel. The bedroom door handles rattle in the breeze and I shiver with cold. I just want a hot bath and a warm bed. Hopefully a bed has been made up for me. They’re expecting me, after all. I just need to find it.
