by Jo Thomas
‘Right, well, we’ll crack on. Hang on to him if you see him!’ he says, moving towards the low door.
The light outside is fading fast. The sky is turning an inky blue.
‘I tried to give him a cup of tea,’ Lena calls after him, ‘but he just got up and left. I was about to ring your mobile.’
‘Okay. Call me if he comes back,’ Lachlan says over his shoulder. ‘We’ll take a drive around the island. He can’t have got that far.’
‘We’ll put the word out,’ says Lyle.
‘And he had the dogs with him. They never say no to a biscuit,’ smiles Lexie. ‘Nice to meet you again, dear,’ she says to me.
‘Um, and you.’
‘Hope to see you for Hogmanay.’
I don’t tell her that I won’t be here by then, and hopefully neither will Hector. Well, that might be wishful thinking, but as soon as we can find a buyer, preferably a cash one, he’ll be in his nice warm room at the old people’s home, and not wandering around the island. We just need to find him and get him back to the house right now, safe and sound. Anything could have happened!
Chapter Eighteen
We jump back in the old Land Rover and it starts with a chug and shake. It’s getting cold, really cold now. We need to find him. I know Lachlan is thinking exactly the same.
We drive first to the harbour and then to the church and graveyard. Each time we jump out with our torches and look around and call his name. Then quickly get back in the car.
We drive around by the beach near the house, and past a small croft that looks empty and dark, just on the outskirts of the distillery buildings. We drive from the bay across moorland and towards a small pine woodland nestling between two small hills. But nothing. We pass small cottages and crofts with lights beginning to go on and the smell of peat and woodsmoke in the cold evening air, and a field of small goats, where a short woman with a white bun flags Lachlan down. He gets out of the car and goes to talk to her. After a few minutes, he gets back in the car and starts it.
‘She saw him not long ago, heading this way with the dogs,’ he says, and veers the Land Rover off the single road we’ve been travelling along onto an uneven stony track leading up one of the hillsides. We arrive at a clearing and both jump out. I can hear a dog barking, low and gruff and rhythmic, and another yapping more erratically and excitedly.
‘It’s Rhona and Douglas!’ Lachlan says, and breaks into a run.
I follow him through some trees, and then – whoa! I hear it before I see it! The torch lights it up as I swing it around. There in front of me is a waterfall, crashing over big worn rocks, the water swirling in a pool below. Hector is sitting on the edge. The older dog is lying across his lap, no doubt keeping him warm. The other, Douglas, is running around barking, letting us know where to find his master.
‘Good boy,’ Lachlan tells him. ‘Good fella,’ and he pats the dog’s head. ‘We’re here to take him home,’ he reassures him, and the dog stops barking.
Hector is holding the bottle of gin, his legs swinging over the edge of the rock bowl, and my heart leaps into my mouth and bangs loudly. One false move and he could fall. I don’t want to startle him.
‘Come on, Hector, let’s get you home,’ says Lachlan matter-of-factly, even though I know he’s feeling anything but. He walks purposefully over the rocky moss-covered ground to where Hector is sitting, and I can hardly look.
‘Came here all the time,’ Hector says, and he seems to be humming to himself. ‘This is the place.’ He smiles. ‘This is where it starts. The water gathers and then runs all the way across the island, you know that?’
‘I do, Hector,’ Lachlan says kindly, not rushing the old man.
‘Across every bit of terrain and ending at the sea. It’s like the main artery, the lifeblood of the island.’
‘It is, Hector. Now, pass me the bottle and I’ll help you up.’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Hector. Rhona climbs off his lap and stands stock still at his side.
I have to do something. I step forward to help.
Hector wobbles as he attempts to stand.
‘Whoa!’ says Lachlan, and grabs hold of him.
‘Whoa!’ says Hector, thrusting the bottle in my direction.
‘Whoa!’ I say as I attempt to grab the bottle and it slips through my frozen fingers into the deep pool below.
All three of us stand and stare at it.
‘Sorry!’ I say, and grimace. ‘But there’s more, right? And now we know that Hector can remember things when he’s tasting the Teach Mhor gin.’ I smile. I think I have done some good here today.
Lachlan looks at me and slowly, very slowly, shakes his head.
‘That was the last bottle . . . saved for research purposes,’ he sighs. ‘Come on, Hector, let’s get you home.’
He guides Hector back down the stony path to the Land Rover and helps him in. We take off our coats and layer them around and over the old man. Shivering, I get in the back with the dogs, and Lachlan turns the big vehicle around and begins driving back down the hill.
‘Lovely day out, Mairead,’ Hector says over his shoulder.
‘Yes, Hector. Lovely day out.’ I sigh. Not only are we back where we started, but we don’t even have the gin to help us out any more, and it’s all my fault!
Chapter Nineteen
I sit at the kitchen table with the pen and pad I found in the dresser, chewing the end of the pen as I try to remember the list of basic ingredients Hector rattled off when he thought I was his PA, Miss Rubes. Joe has texted me several times wanting to know what’s happening. I’ll ring him later. Tell him I’ve decided we shouldn’t wait to get engaged. But first I have to try and remember this recipe, try and help put things right here.
Lachlan has taken Hector upstairs. He was leaning heavily on both of us when we came in, and I’m guessing his ankle is playing up. I couldn’t feel any worse if I tried. This is all my fault, and to top it off, the last bottle of gin has gone. Now we have no hope of guessing the recipe. I write down what I can remember, then throw down my pen and hold my head in my hands. If it hadn’t been for Lachlan, I find myself thinking, tonight could have turned out very differently. My phone beeps again. I know it’s Joe, but I ignore it.
‘He’s in bed.’ Lachlan’s deep voice jolts me and I lift my head from my hands and the pit of despair. ‘He’s a bit confused, but he’s had a bath of sorts. Takes ages for the water to heat up here.’ He drags the big cream kettle onto the hot plate. ‘I’ll take him up a hot-water bottle and a cup of tea.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I croak, going to stand.
‘Sounds like you could do with a hot drink yourself,’ he says, taking down a couple of chunky mugs from the hooks at the side of the range.
‘I’ll take Hector’s up first,’ I say, coming to stand beside him. He smells of outside; of the sharp, fresh, salty air. Not like back at home, where outside is full of fumes. I swallow, my throat tight. ‘I’m sorry about today.’ I look up at him slowly, feeling strangely shivery, even though I’m out of the cold. ‘And thank you for what you did out there this evening. I . . .’ My voice gives up on me. I want to tell him so much more. I want to thank him for what he’s clearly been doing here for a very long time. But also to tell him he needs to be able to get on with his own life. He shouldn’t have to wait here, looking after someone who isn’t actually a relative. Hector’s my relative, I think, but a stranger too. And judging from the illness, it looks like it will stay that way. My chance to get to know my grandfather has been and gone.
‘No problem,’ he says, and turns back to the kettle, which is slowly coming to a whistling, steaming boil.
He makes tea for Hector, and a hot-water bottle, and hands them to me.
‘You sure about this? I mean, you’re just here to sign the papers and move on, remember?’ he says with a twinkle in his eye,
and I wince but take it. I was just here for that. I didn’t expect to get emotionally involved. Of course I care; Hector’s an old man who could’ve died tonight thanks to my stupidity . . . still could! I think with a twist in my stomach. I press the hot-water bottle to it for comfort. But also, I realise, I want to know more before it’s too late – about Hector, about this place, about my dad growing up here. And it’s only Lachlan who can help me with that now.
‘I’m sure,’ I say with a nod, and turn to the door, still holding the hot-water bottle to my fizzing tummy. The dogs are in the kitchen now, getting treats from Lachlan, and as I walk out into the wide hall, I can hear him telling them what a great job they did tonight.
I climb the stairs slowly, thinking about the generations who have walked up these stairs before me, and wondering what happened. When did the clocks stop here? Because that’s how it feels. Like the clocks just ground to a halt one day and the heart of the house stopped beating. Was it when Hector’s wife, my grandmother, died? Or was it before then, when my father left? I think about the baby clothes, knitted but never worn, and the joy on Hector’s face when he talked about getting the bike out of the shed for the ‘wee one’ to play on; clearly my dad’s old bike, the one in the picture where he had such a look of pride and joy on his face. Before it all changed.
I stand outside Hector’s bedroom door and look at the chips in the paintwork, at the layers of paint – years’ worth, generations’ worth. Layers and layers beneath the outer coat. I wonder what will happen to it all once the house sells. Everything will be stripped back and any trace of the past will be gone for good. I knock on the door, but there’s no reply. I push it open gently, feeling the warmth of the hot-water bottle against me still, tucked into the crook of my arm. Then suddenly the dogs arrive and shove past me, wandering into the room, settling on the blankets on the floor by the bed. Clearly their usual place.
Hector is asleep. I don’t want to disturb him. I put the tea by his bed, just in case he wakes and wants it, and then, feeling a little intrusive but doing it anyway, I slip the hot-water bottle into the bottom of the bed and tuck the covers in. As I turn to leave, I take a moment to study him. My father told me Hector was a bully, which is why we never had anything to do with him. Well he’s not now, I think. He’s just an old man. An old man with no family around him. And I wonder briefly who will be there when I’m old, when my singing days are well and truly over, if they’re not already. Will it be Joe? When all the thoughts of recording contracts and record deals are done, will it be just Joe and me, sharing a life together? What will that life be like? And what are the memories I’ll hold dear? I think of Hector tonight, remembering the good times, remembering how important the waterfall and the stream have been to his life on the island. What will I remember of my own life? Will it be the day we finally got a recording contract? Or something else? I think again about the seals bobbing up in the water, and drinking gin from oyster shells on a beach on Christmas morning.
I turn to move away and creep out of the room.
‘Thank you, Mairead. Goodnight,’ Hector says, not opening his eyes.
‘Goodnight, Hector,’ I say, glad he’s safe and well and home.
Downstairs, Lachlan has put out hot drinks and a plate of cheese and oatcakes for us, home-made by the looks it.
‘Hot toddy.’ He hands me a mug. ‘You look, and sound, like you need one.’
‘Thank you,’ I croak, and sit at the table. In my head I can hear Joe telling me I shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, it’ll have an effect on my voice. He read it on the internet. I ignore him and breathe in the hot, alcoholic steam, feeling its restorative powers already.
Lachlan sits down opposite me. ‘Here, tuck in,’ he says, and hands me a knife and plate. ‘Nothing fancy. I expect you’re used to much more glamour as a singer, staying in fancy hotels.’
I shake my head and manage a tired smile. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. I might dream of fancy hotels, but that’s all it is until I get that record contract. If . . .’ I add, and sip the hot drink. ‘Whoa! That’s powerful!’
‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’ He laughs, a deep, relaxed laugh now that Hector is safe and all is well at Teach Mhor.
The lighting in the kitchen consists of a dim yellow glow over the table. On the wooden board in front of me is a soft white cheese wrapped in nettles, along with the home-made oatcakes and a jar of deep brown chutney.
‘Goat’s cheese,’ he says with a smile. ‘From the goats you saw this evening.’
‘The ones that arrived here on the island after the shipwreck,’ I say, my smile widening.
‘Exactly the same,’ he says, popping a piece of oatcake topped with cheese and chutney into his mouth.
I sip the hot toddy and am unsure whether to grimace or let myself just wallow in its strength. I take another sip and go for the second option. Joe’s disapproving voice in my head is practically a whisper now, like he’s in another room and I’m shutting the door.
‘Just one thing, Lachlan,’ I say finally, feeling bolder with the hot toddy.
‘Fire away.’ He smiles, and actually, as he does so, he looks quite attractive. Must be the lighting, I tell myself, and the relief of the day and gratitude for what he did out there.
‘Even if we can find the recipe, how do you plan to actually get the business up and running again? Surely,’ I swallow, ‘surely that’s going to take a fair bit of cash. And I’m presuming that if the house has to be sold, there isn’t some slush fund there to help launch it.’
‘No. You’re right.’ He waves a knife, as if to tell me he’ll carry on speaking when he finishes his mouthful. Then he picks up the whisky bottle and sloshes some into each of our mugs, neat this time.
‘I mean, would it be enough just to find the recipe and make a small batch of the gin? Would you have fulfilled your promise?’ I smile hopefully.
He shakes his head. ‘I promised Hector I’d get the business going again. I don’t run out on a promise.’
I sigh. ‘I thought not.’ I sip the whisky and blanch. ‘So . . .’ I say through the fumes and the burning sensation. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘Well, I thought . . . seeing as you’re back here now helping out . . .’
‘Just until the house goes on the market so Hector can move into the home,’ I remind him.
‘Just until then,’ he confirms, putting more cheese on an oatcake and handing it to me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. I don’t think anyone has ever put cheese on an oatcake for me before. I look at it. Joe would just have told me that cheese is no good for my voice, along with the alcohol. It’s such a small gesture, but, well, so thoughtful.
‘What?’ he says. ‘You have to eat! Everyone has to eat!’
And it seems that that is exactly what Lachlan is: kind and thoughtful. This is a man who puts others’ needs before his own. He’s not here to rip Hector off, I know that now. I have to trust him.
‘So, I was thinking . . . perhaps you have some money you could put up,’ he says flatly.
I look at him. Is that why he’s being nice to me? He thinks I have money? I look at the cheese and oatcake. But that wasn’t a game; that was just instinct. This guy is not trying to rip me off.
I shake my head. ‘Sadly, no. I don’t have a bean. I’ve spent the last of my savings on the retreat in Tenerife!’
‘Oh yes, the healing retreat!’ He gives a little laugh, and there’s a hint of cynicism there.
‘What?’
‘Healing comes from where you are in here.’ He points to his heart and his head. ‘Not jetting off to a hot country.’
‘Says you. You know about these things, do you?’
He looks at me. ‘I know healing can take time. It’s about being in the right place, taking time for the things you love.’
I think about this. Where is the right
place for me? What is it I love? It’s always just been about the singing, and if I don’t have that, what do I have? I have Joe, I tell myself. I must ring him and tell him I think we should get engaged straight away; enjoy what we have rather than waiting for everything to fall into place. I find myself wanting to tell him about today. About this place. I want to tell him about Hector suddenly becoming lucid, thinking I was his PA; talking about the gin. I want to tell him about the deer and goats. The fright we had when Hector went off, and finding him by that amazing waterfall.
Joe is who’ll be with me when I’m old. We’ll share stories of places we’ve been and how we got there; the early days with the band, happy times touring, sleeping on friends’ floors and in the van. And now this. I want to share this with him too. When Jess and I started out, it felt like we had all the time in the world for our dreams to come true. Now, though, time is running out. I need to grab those dreams with both hands and make them happen.
Lachlan cuts into my thoughts. ‘So . . . no money,’ he says. ‘That’s a bummer.’
‘If I get my voice sorted and get this record deal that’s been on the cards . . . if Joe and I can get a mortgage, then maybe I could help out, a loan perhaps . . .’
‘Well, that’s a lot of ifs,’ he says flatly, hitting the truth on the head again as he seems to have a habit of doing. ‘What’s the story with you and Joe? Have you been together long? Engaged? You haven’t really said much about him.’
I bristle. Why would I tell him about my personal life? We’ve only just met. And we weren’t exactly on friendly terms when we did. But then a small voice in my head says: Why haven’t you mentioned him more?
‘Joe’s great. Really great. He’s really supportive of me. We’re travelling the same path in life. Want the same things. That’s what a good relationship is all about, isn’t it?’ I smile.
‘But you’re not engaged or married?’ he says, knowing he’s hit a raw nerve, and that teasing twinkle lights up his eyes once more.
