by Jo Thomas
‘Hurry up,’ I say, opening my eyes slightly and seeing him reaching into his canvas bag. He turns back to me and I shut my eyes again, keen to get this over and done with.
‘Okay. Here. Happy Christmas,’ he says in his thick accent, like a low growl.
Suddenly there is something cold and wet in my hands. My eyes spring open and I shriek, but once again no sound comes out. I look down at the round closed shell that I’m holding.
‘What is it?’ I squint at it.
‘Breakfast!’ He smiles and pulls out more of the shells from his bag. ‘Or maybe brunch where you come from.’ He smiles more widely, his eyes dancing, then looks up at the sky. ‘Actually, lunch!’ He nods. ‘You see, I wasn’t stealing the family silver after all!’ It’s as if he’s read my mind.
I look down at the shell in my hands.
‘What’s the matter? You’ve never had an oyster before?’ He gives a deep laugh.
‘An oyster! Of course! Of course I have,’ although I’m racking my brains to remember when. It’s not a regular ingredient in my fridge. To be honest, I live off Super Noodles, cereal and toast most of the time. ‘I thought we were having a drink?’ I say.
‘We are,’ he says, and smiles. ‘Here.’ He pulls out a knife from his bag, and just for a second I blanch. ‘Tool of the trade,’ he says to reassure me, and takes the oyster gently from my hand. I watch as he places the point of the knife beside the hinge of the closed shell, pushes it in, gives it a twist and slides the blade around. Then slowly he prises the shell apart, revealing the flesh inside.
He hands it back to me, then opens another one expertly and tips it straight into his mouth, shutting his eyes, clearly luxuriating in the flavours. I follow, relishing the feel of the soft flesh, letting the flavours of a wild, windswept shingle shoreline imprint themselves on my memory. When I swallow and slowly open my eyes, he’s opening the gin.
‘And now, we drink.’
‘From what?’ I look around.
‘From these,’ he says, and holds up his oyster shell.
‘And are they from the sea round here?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘I picked them this morning. As fresh as you can get.’
He fills both our shells, then raises his in a toast.
‘To Hector and a happy Christmas.’
‘To Hector,’ I echo, and tip the shell up into my mouth again. This time I get a different taste sensation, but it’s still as if I’m drinking in the scenery around me. The gin tastes of the sharp, fresh seashore, of the crisp wind, the clear salt air.
‘Wow!’ I say, and look at the shell.
‘Wow indeed,’ he says, opening more oysters.
‘This is gin?’ I’ve never drunk gin neat before, or anything as fantastic as this. I never knew it could taste so amazing!
‘Uh huh,’ he says, lining up the oysters on a wide log. ‘Made right here.’
‘Here? On Winter Island?’
‘At the house. Teach Mhor.’ He hands me another oyster.
‘This is made here?’ I remember now that Fraser, the solicitor, said something about a distillery and gin and whisky and mince pies at Christmas time.
He shakes his head. ‘You really don’t know anything about this place, do you?’
‘No, I told you, I’ve never been here before.’
‘Why not?’
I swallow another oyster and look at him. ‘I don’t really know. But I’m not some selfish cow who just abandoned her dad’s father.’
‘Your grandfather,’ he corrects, and tops up our shells with gin.
‘I don’t know him as my grandfather. He and my father never got on, apparently, and so, well, we never met. He didn’t want anything to do with my dad or me after I was born. This was never part of my world,’ I say, holding out my hand as a flock of birds flies past.
Lachlan tips his gin into his mouth. ‘He’s not a bad man,’ he says. ‘He is unwell. But the Hector I know is not a bad man, whatever happened between him and your father.’
I have no idea what to think. According to my dad, his father was a bully and a tyrant and we were better off without him in our lives. I just sort of accepted that. I frown as I process what Lachlan is saying, but it’s just too much right now, and too late.
I change the subject. ‘What is he looking for all the time?’ I ask, as the flames from the fire lick higher and warm my face and hands, while the glorious gin warms me from the inside and makes me feel deliciously refreshed.
‘Something he’s lost,’ says Lachlan, leaning on his knees. ‘Something I’m helping him to find.’ He looks up at me, his eyes lit by the flames. ‘That is, when I’m not foraging.’
I look at him, not quite understanding what he means.
‘I live off the land,’ he explains, raising his oyster shell.
‘Oh, I see.’
He laughs, realising that I probably don’t. ‘I forage for food, which I cook and sell to the shop and the pub. I also run workshops with the school here, teaching the kids to respect our island but also to work with it and live off it responsibly.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I repeat.
‘It’s always been that way out here. But it’s dying out. More and more ready meals are making it to the island!’ He practically growls again.
‘Like the ones in the fridge that you threw out?’
He nods. ‘Mrs Broidy thinks she’s helping out by bringing them in, but Hector doesn’t keep an eye on the eat-by dates. So I try and leave him his dinner every day.’
‘And you made the cheese scones?’
He nods again and pokes the fire. ‘You thought it was Mrs Broidy?’
‘I did. I’m sorry.’ I pick up another oyster and look at it.
‘Mrs Broidy is a dreadful cook!’
‘So Hector said.’
‘The ready meals make her feel as though she’s done something. I tell her not to worry, but it’s her way of looking out for him. We all look out for each other here.’
‘Was . . . Did you know my grandmother? Was she a good cook?’
He nods once more. ‘She taught me a lot of what I know.’
‘You grew up here?’
‘I did,’ he says shortly. ‘And you?’
I laugh. ‘City girl. Can’t get used to all this great outdoors!’ We both laugh, and then he holds up the bottle again.
‘Another?’
I’m undecided.
‘It is Christmas,’ he says, ‘and look, just like the Germans and the Brits in World War One when they played football on Christmas Day, we’ve managed that truce!’
‘You’re right.’ I find myself smiling. Maybe it’s the gin, or maybe it’s that mischievous grin, which is actually quite infectious now I know he’s genuinely trying to help. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I may have misjudged you. And . . . well, I suppose I should say thank you, for looking after Hector.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says, and tops up our oyster shells.
‘Here’s to new beginnings and safe travels,’ I say, feeling happy and warm now that my time here is coming to an end.
‘And where’s home for you?’ he asks.
‘Bristol. I live on my own at the moment, but I’m looking at buying a flat with my boyfriend, Joe.’
‘Your boyfriend? It’s serious, then?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Planning your life and who you spend it with is about as serious as it gets.’
‘And what does he think about you celebrating Christmas here on the island with a bunch of strangers?’
What would Joe say if he knew I was sitting on a beach drinking gin instead of going to get my voice fixed in Tenerife? ‘He’s . . .’ I nod, a lot, ‘he’s fine with it.’
‘He’s an understanding man,’ says Lachlan with a raised eyebrow. Joe is understanding, I think. He understands how
important my career and singing is to me. He supports me all the way.
‘What can you taste?’ Lachlan asks, looking at my face and nodding at my oyster shell.
‘Well, um . . . gin. And salt . . . Well, it tastes just like here.’
‘Go on,’ he says, and tops me up.
Buoyed up by the gin, I relax a little and smile. ‘Well, it tastes of the wind in my face, clean, crisp . . . like Christmas morning on the beach with a warmth in the background from the fire.’ I smile.
‘Any particular flavours?’
I put my head down and smell the gin. ‘Hmm, not really.’ I lift the shell again ‘To you; to pastures new,’ I say, feeling my spirits lifting.
He raises his own shell, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles.
‘Oh, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘What?’ I cough.
‘I’m helping Hector. I promised him. I’m not going anywhere until we’ve found what he’s looking for.’
Chapter Twelve
I’m dumbfounded, my dreams of getting on that plane tomorrow suddenly evaporating in front of my eyes.
‘And what exactly is it that he’s looking for?’ I say icily.
Lachlan picks up the gin bottle and looks at it; again it seems to take on the colours of the water, the shore and the grassy banks around it. He takes a deep breath.
‘The gin. He’s looking for the recipe for the gin. It’s somewhere in the house, that’s all we know. It’s Hector’s . . .’ He swallows. ‘He wants the gin business up and running again. After his wife died and he got ill, the business died too. It’s his final wish, to bring Teach Mhor gin back. So that he feels a part of him will always be here.’
‘But . . . the care home?’
‘He wants to be here,’ he says, suddenly gruff again. ‘He wants to die at home. He told me.’
He gets to his feet and begins to tidy up, tossing the oyster shells into the water.
‘Oh really? And you think he’s capable of knowing what’s good for him, do you?’ Suddenly the peace is shattered and we’re back in our trenches.
‘I know Hector. And I know what I’ve promised. I promised to stay until the gin recipe was found and the still was up and running again. Teach Mhor gin is going to be back in business.’
I look around at the big house and the outbuildings. Lachlan begins to walk along the water’s edge towards the grassy bank to the left of the cove. I follow him.
‘So . . .’ I say, my brain turning over. ‘You made a promise to help find the recipe and get the gin business up and running.’
‘I did,’ he says, starting to climb up the bank. Again I follow.
‘And you won’t move out until it’s up and running?’
‘Correct. I have an agreement with Hector,’ he calls back over his shoulder.
‘And we know the house is fairly worthless, being in the condition it’s in, here on a remote island. It won’t pay for him for long in the care home.’
‘Correct again,’ he says, still picking his way up the bank, until he reaches the highest point, looking out over the neighbouring sandy cove and across to the islands beyond.
Out of breath, I stand behind him chewing my bottom lip.
‘But with an up-and-running gin business, the place would be worth a lot more.’
‘It would.’
At that moment, one, two, then three grey heads pop up near the rocks and look around. Seals! I smile in delight, gazing at them as they bob up and down, disappearing under the water then reappearing elsewhere as if playing hide and seek.
‘And once the recipe is found and the still is operational, you’ll move out and the house can be sold.’
‘Correct. You have my word.’ He turns and holds my gaze. The wind whips his hair around his face, but he doesn’t react. ‘You have to know, going into a care home is not what Hector wants. He wants to stay here as long as he can. And while I’m here, I’ll make sure that happens. But I promise I’ll leave once the gin business is back up and running; that’s what matters most to Hector.’ Despite knowing nothing about him, there’s something about him that makes me take him at his word.
‘In that case . . .’ I take a deep breath, look at the seals and then back at Lachlan, ‘I’d better help you find the recipe. That way, we all get what we want.’
He stares back at me.
‘Just one thing,’ I add. ‘You do know how to make gin, don’t you?’
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. ‘I haven’t a clue.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘I know, it’s ridiculous!’ I’m talking to Joe on video chat, looking at his familiar face, reading exactly how he feels about this. ‘But he won’t leave until the recipe has been found. I just have to find it and get this still up and running, and then he’ll go and the house can be sold!’
‘Well, how long is that going to take?’ Joe frowns.
‘I don’t know. A week, maybe. Maybe more.’ I really don’t have any idea. I’ve never done anything like this before!
‘And what about the vocal retreat? What about your voice?’ He sounds really cross. ‘This isn’t just about you, Ruby.’
‘I know, I know. I’ll cancel for now and rebook as soon as everything here is sorted.’ I’m trying to make the situation sound better, as if it’s all in hand. But right now, I can’t worry about that. Right now, for some reason, what matters is getting the recipe found and the business up and running so we can all feel we’ve done the best we can for Hector. I’m not sure why it seems so important. I just know it feels right. And I’m sure it won’t take that long. I’ll be in that vocal retreat before I know it. This is just a blip, a delay. The quicker I can help find that recipe, the sooner Lachlan will move out.
I look at the screen. Joe is clearly unhappy. He’s rolling his lips in on themselves as he does when something’s bothering him. I try and distract him by asking about the gig again.
‘So Lulu did a good job standing in for me? Not too good, I hope!’ I try and joke, but it falls flat, and he sighs loudly.
‘It was great!’ He sounds really grumpy. Then he says, ‘Look, Rubes, I’m not being funny, but Lulu is good, really good.’
I frown.
‘I mean, not as good as you,’ he says quickly. ‘But, well, she’s here and doing a decent job. And, well . . .’ He sighs again and my heart starts quickening and my mind racing.
‘What are you saying? Do you think the band are going to replace me?’ My voice tightens and thins.
He says nothing.
‘Joe?’ I ask anxiously.
‘All I’m saying is, the quicker you can get back here the better. Lulu’s good and I’d hate for them to think she was more reliable than you. It’s your career I’m thinking of, Rubes. You need to get to that vocal retreat as soon as possible.’
I nod. I know he’s just thinking of me. ‘I will,’ I croak.
‘So,’ he says after a pause, with a hint of disapproval in his voice. ‘Will there be turkey and all the trimmings?’
I look around at the bleak, empty house. I’m not here out of choice, I want to tell him.
‘No, no turkey and trimmings,’ and for some reason, I don’t tell him I’ve just eaten oysters and drunk gin out of their shells by a bonfire on the beach, and I can still smell the woodsmoke on my clothes and taste the clear, fresh spirit in my mouth. Or about the seals we watched playing in the water. I don’t want him to think I’m on some kind of jolly holiday. The band need me to get well and back in the saddle! Back to how things were. I don’t want them to think I’m having fun, or jeopardising my voice.
‘Well, as long as you’re keeping warm. Hot drinks, a scarf, and not talking too much, and definitely no singing!’ Joe instructs, confirming my decision not to tell him about the oysters and gin. It was quite something,
though, an experience I’ll never forget. And with different company, it could have been amazing! ‘So, no Christmas jollities for you?’ Joe breaks into my thoughts.
‘No. I’m going to start on the cupboards. The house could probably do with a good sort-out anyway before he goes into the home. It’ll save me another trip up here,’ I say, looking around. Because once I do leave here, I know I won’t be back, no matter how much Fraser Gillies thinks this place can get under your skin.
‘So, Scottish island life isn’t for you, then?’ Joe gives a tight laugh. It’s nothing like Lachlan’s laugh, which is deep and relaxed and laid-back.
‘No! It’s cold, wet and a million miles from anywhere!’
‘Well, don’t waste your voice talking to me. Go and rest it. The more you rest, the quicker we’ll get you back. Take care,’ Joe says.
‘Oh, Joe? Did you hear back from the A&R woman? Will she come and see the band again?’
There’s another silence. ‘Jess has left messages,’ he finally says. And what he doesn’t say tells me everything. My spirits plummet into my three pairs of socks. I look out of the window towards the bay and wonder if the seals are still there. Then I hear voices in the background at the other end of the phone.
‘Who’s there?’ I ask, looking at the screen, seeing the minute tree in a pot that I bought for Joe.
‘Just the guys, the band. We’re having a curry. Bought it last night on the way back from the gig. Just got to heat it up.’
There are gales of laughter, and suddenly they’re all there waving at me, wishing me happy Christmas and telling me to get well soon. Even Lulu is there, behind Joe, and she never usually joins in on band get-togethers.
‘Don’t enjoy yourself too much!’ I joke, and just for a moment I wonder if Lulu wants to fill my shoes in Joe’s life as well as in the band. Then I scold myself for being overdramatic and ridiculous.
‘Okay, nor you!’ he jokes back. No chance of that, I think, looking around.
‘Happy Christmas. Love you guys,’ I say. ‘Love you—’ But I seem to have been drowned out by the noise at the other end of the phone as they all blow kisses and shout Happy Christmas again. Then the line goes dead and the picture is gone. And suddenly I am very, very homesick. I hold the phone to my lips, hot tears in my eyes, and wish I was there, back in my flat. No, I correct myself. I want to be in Joe’s flat. I want to be where Lulu is right now! Actually, I want us to be in our flat, the one we plan to buy once I get that recording contract. I want to go home.
