Coming Home to Winter Island

by Jo Thomas

  ‘No,’ my voice tightens, as do my lips, ‘not engaged yet. But we will be . . . soon.’ He raises that eyebrow at me again. ‘We’re just . . . we were waiting. Have been waiting.’ I look down at my plate.

  ‘Waiting for what?’ he pushes, still teasing, but interested too. I take a deep breath.

  ‘For the right time,’ I say, not expecting the sigh that follows it.

  ‘Take it from me. Waiting is never advisable. Grabbing a good thing when you have it is by far the better option. Just in case you lose it.’ He takes a slug of whisky. ‘What’s he like, this Joe of yours?’

  ‘Joe? Like I say, he’s great!’ I smile. ‘He works in PR and marketing, for a big company. But he also puts loads of time into marketing the band and trying to get us noticed.’

  I pick up my phone to show him a photograph, and notice the seven missed calls and the text message from Joe telling me to get in touch and let him know that I’ve got things sorted. I swallow and scroll through to my photos.

  ‘Wow!’ Lachlan says as I show him the screen.

  ‘Oh, not that one. That’s me getting ready to go on stage,’ I say quickly, and swipe back to one of Joe.

  ‘Very Jessica Rabbit,’ he says, and I blush, realising that this man has only ever seen me in knitted jumpers and hats and, at our first meeting, with shorts on my head and socks for gloves!

  ‘And where did you and Joe meet?’

  ‘At an open mic night,’ I tell him, putting down my phone. ‘He was trying to get a band together, but they realised they didn’t really have what it takes. I think they were trying to relive their childhood dreams of being rock stars. They gave up after that.’

  ‘And he started promoting you and your band?’ he says, putting more cheese on an oatcake and handing it to me. I bite into the tangy softness and the crumbling oatcake beneath.

  ‘Yes, he’s really supportive,’ I repeat. ‘Always there, always hoping our big break is just round the corner.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s hanging off your coat tails,’ says Lachlan matter-of-factly.

  ‘What? No!’ I exclaim. ‘He just wants me to succeed. I’ve worked hard for this, we all have. That’s why I have to get back there.’

  ‘You’re right. Sorry. Not my place to comment.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, putting his bluntness down to tiredness and worry. I can excuse it after what he did today. ‘Joe and me are fine. We’ve been together long enough to know what we both want in life.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ He lets his oatcake crack in his mouth and part of it falls onto the plate. Crumbs cling to his bottom lip before he licks them away, his eyes smiling.

  ‘Well, we were due to get engaged this Christmas. Once the band had secured the deal with the A&R person who came to see us.’

  ‘Sorry, but you’re talking gobbledygook now.’

  I start again. ‘Basically, we were hoping to settle with a manager, who would sort out a record deal and a producer. Joe and I were waiting for this to happen, and then we planned to get engaged and start looking at a flat together once the contract was sorted. But . . . then, well, this happened.’ I hold a hand to my throat. ‘My voice went, on stage. No sound came out at all. Years of training and it just . . . went.’

  ‘Ouch,’ says Lachlan. ‘That’s gotta hurt.’

  ‘Not just me, but the band and Joe too. He had all the marketing lined up and our lives planned.’

  Lachlan shrugs. ‘Like I say, what’s meant for you won’t pass you by.’ He tops up our mugs again. ‘But also, don’t put off what you can do today. If this Joe guy is the one for you, why wait?’

  I nod. He’s right. And I’m going to message Joe and tell him. Tell him it’s time to start celebrating. I look at Lachlan and feel a rush of gratitude and affection and . . . well, I’m not sure what else, but a real liking for this man. It’s like something inside me has shifted. He’s just trying to fulfil a promise, I think. Doing something for someone else. He’s not thinking about himself in all of this. But why?

  I ask the question he’s been avoiding telling me the answer to. ‘Why did you make the promise to Hector?’

  He stops chewing and puts his knife down on the wooden board, then looks at me, thinking.

  ‘Let’s just say Hector was there when I needed somebody. When he thought I might fall, he was there to catch me. Anything I’ve done for him is payback.’

  I wait, but I think he’s told me all he’s going to. What I do know is that he’s repaying a kindness, and that whatever Hector did doesn’t sound like the actions of a bully to me. Maybe, just maybe, my dad – and my mum for that matter – had this all wrong. What if there is more to the situation? I need to find out. And the only way I can do that is by helping Lachlan set up the gin still.

  ‘I don’t know anything about business,’ I tell him, ‘but I do know about needing money to do the thing you love.’

  ‘And?’ He picks up his knife again.

  ‘Well, there was this singer. He had a bit of success and then the record label dropped him.’

  He raises an eyebrow; clearly he has no idea what this has to do with the gin.

  ‘So he crowdfunded his next album. Put on a special event for fans who bought it upfront.’

  ‘How does that work then?’

  ‘Crowdfunding? You build the business up with the help of investors. In our case, gin drinkers. You offer them something special in return for putting up money. For pre-ordering.’

  He looks at me thoughtfully.

  ‘I mean, what do you need money for?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, ingredients, running costs, bottles and packaging. In the past, the bottles were made on the island. A family-run business. But they went under when the gin business did. Isla used to work with her father hand-painting them, but she runs the ferry with her husband now.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve met Isla,’ I say, thinking about how she practically blanked me in the shop and on Christmas Day. I thought she was lovely when I first met her. I wonder what changed. ‘But essentially we need enough money to put down a deposit on the place in the care home, just until the house is sold. Agreed?’

  ‘So you say,’ he says. I look at him, and this time it’s me who raises an eyebrow. ‘Okay,’ he says reluctantly. ‘So . . . this crowdfunding. How does it work?’

  ‘I’ll get my laptop.’ I go to stand, and realise the whisky was indeed strong. But when I return with the laptop and put it on the kitchen table and we start to look up crowdfunding pages, Lachlan sploshes more whisky into the mugs and I don’t complain, and the deal is sealed.

  By the end of the evening, the whisky has taken control of my lips and my legs and indeed my voice too, which seems positively perky. It’s clearly time for bed. Feeling happier than I have in a long time, I say goodnight to Lachlan and make my way up to my room, where I find the fire lit and a hot-water bottle in my bed. I photograph the fire and send it to the band, who all want to know where I am and what’s happening. I send a smiley face, then look back at the flames, which seem to be warming me from the inside out. It could only have been Lachlan!

  Chapter Twenty

  The next morning, I think back to the phone call I had with Joe last night before I went to sleep, and cringe. I was trying to tell him about Hector and the gin and the waterfall, but I have no idea what words actually came out. And something about not letting it all pass us by and that we should get engaged straight away, whether my voice came back or not. I can’t remember his reply. But I don’t remember him cheering for joy. In fact, I seem to remember the call finishing rather abruptly. If only I could remember what I actually said, and what he said, and where he was for that matter. I remember there was loud music.

  I ring him again.

  ‘It’s very early, Rubes! Especially after your late call last night!’ he says grumpily. ‘You’re supposed to be on voic
e rest, for goodness’ sake, not going out and getting hammered.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I croak, and my head bangs.

  ‘I mean, I’ve been working hard here to make the best of this situation. I’ve managed to get a couple of women’s magazines and a Sunday supplement interested in your story: “My road to recovery”, covering your time at the vocal retreat. If it works, it’ll definitely help get a label interested again. I’m going to try and get you on some medical phone-ins. And it would be good to book a big gig. A comeback event to really give the story some weight.’

  Joe’s enthusiasm is great, but right now all I can think of is tea. A big mug of tea.

  ‘Won’t be long before you’re back. Once we get that contract signed, we can start living life like we planned it. We’ll be in that plush apartment. I can be the house husband and bring up the kids while you do what you’re good at. Just like we talked about.’ There’s no mention of my suggestion that we get engaged and find somewhere to live straight away, with or without the contract, and I decide it’s best not to bring it up again. ‘Just need you to get to that retreat,’ he says firmly. ‘I mean, like I say, I can’t do it all, and I’m doing this for us, Rubes. I want to give up working at the office, be your backup team. Maybe take on a few select clients, but nothing that will interfere with what you do. But we need to strike while there’s still interest in the band.

  ‘Surely you’ve done what you need to do there by now? You don’t even know this man,’ and just for a moment I wonder if he’s talking about Lachlan or Hector. ‘He’s not part of your life. It’s not like he was there while you were growing up. You don’t owe him anything. Look, tie up any loose ends and tell whoever, the solicitor and the carer bloke, that you have to go.’ So I must have told him about Lachlan last night! My cheeks heat up and I have no idea why. ‘It’s down to them to get more help in if they need it, not you!’

  I stare out of the window and don’t say anything. I spot a group of deer running across the moorland, and feel a moment of envy for their freedom to roam wherever they like.

  ‘Okay. Good. Don’t talk. Keep resting your voice. I’m off to work. Message me later when you’re on your way. Love you,’ he says in his usual way, and finishes the call.

  I think about Joe’s plans for our future, with him working part time from home so that I’m freed up for recording sessions and going on tour. It’s what I’ve always wanted too. So why, as I look out over the bay and the mountains towards the low golden sunlight emerging on the skyline, am I thinking about nothing other than the big gin still and how crowdfunding actually works and whether the seals are there again this morning? I lift my phone and snap a picture of the view and send it to the band group chat, and then reply to their concerned messages, telling them I’m fine and hoping to be at the retreat really soon.

  I pull on my jumper and hat and follow the cooking smells rising up through the house from the kitchen.

  ‘How’s Hector?’ I ask, my head thumping with each syllable.

  ‘Alive, and demanding breakfast!’ Lachlan laughs, standing by the open door of the big cream range. He turns up the heat, checking the gauge to see if it’s responding, and then shuts the door firmly, making my head bang. ‘Better than you by the looks of it,’ he adds. His curly hair bobs cheerily as he stirs bright yellow soft scrambled eggs. ‘From the croft down the road,’ he says when he sees me looking. ‘She keeps hens. I swapped her a batch of scones for them. Want some?’

  My rumbling stomach and watering mouth tell me I would very much like some. ‘Yes please. They smell delicious,’ and I smile tentatively. At this rate we might even become friends, and my stomach flips happily over and back again at the thought.

  He serves up the fluffy eggs beside thick slices of home-made wholemeal bread. I help myself to hand-churned butter from the dish on the table while he takes Hector his breakfast in bed, and I’m suddenly feeling very much better.

  ‘And you’re sure Hector is okay?’ I ask when he returns, through a mouthful of crunchy brown bread softened by the salty melting butter.

  ‘He’s fine. Just thought he should rest his foot. He’s happy to stay in bed, which isn’t really like him, but he doesn’t remember a thing about last night.’

  ‘Which is the problem,’ I say gently.

  Lachlan stares down at his plate. For a moment neither of us says anything, and I can tell he’s worried.

  ‘He really will be warm and safe in that home,’ I say. He puts down his knife and fork with a clatter. ‘You’ve done so much for him. But you can’t do it all on your own. What if something like that happens again when you’re not here?’

  ‘I’m not on my own,’ he says. ‘You’re here. Not that you’re much help,’ he tries to joke. ‘More trouble than you’re worth!’ He picks up his knife and fork again and begins to eat.

  ‘I’ll be leaving as soon as we have the gin sorted, though. Talking of which . . . no more delaying tactics! We need to crack on.’ I try and jolly him along, but he’s deep in thought. ‘This is the right thing to do,’ I say, and without thinking, I put my hand on his forearm.

  He looks up at me as if considering what I’m saying, then swallows and says evenly, as if trying to keep emotion at bay, ‘Even if he wants to die at home?’

  ‘Yes. He could’ve died last night!’ I feel for him, but the care home is the right thing to do.

  ‘Only because you started giving him gin and then wandered off and left him! Hector . . .’ He swallows again. ‘Hector was there when I needed him. He’s been like a father to me. I want to do the right thing by him.’ I can tell he’s conflicted, on the one hand wanting to do as he promised, and on the other maybe seeing that Hector really would be better off in the home, because he is only going to get worse. ‘It’s what we all want, isn’t it?’ he says quietly. ‘To be looked after by people who care about us, in a place we love.’

  This time it’s me who swallows. I’ve never really thought about it. Never thought about what happens further down the line. I’ve spent so many years chasing the record label dream, I’ve never considered what happens when we’re old; where we’ll be, what we’ll be doing. What will I have when my days as a singer are over? Will I be like my mum, never settling? Still looking for gigs on cruise ships, trying to ignore the passing of time until the phone stops ringing and the gigs stop happening. What then? Will I be in a place I love? And who will be there to care for me? Will it be Joe?

  ‘I’ll come back and visit,’ I say to Lachlan.

  ‘What, for Hector’s funeral?’ he says with a tilt of his head, and I don’t know if he’s still cross with me over Hector disappearing last night, or if he’s just stating a fact. But the sad part is that he’s probably right.

  ‘We need to get this gin made!’ I say, clapping my hands, making my head thump again, refocusing on the matter in hand and trying to push out all the other worries, including my phone conversation with Joe and the fact that he thinks I’m leaving today and I have no idea how to tell him that that isn’t going to happen. I wish he would understand that this is something I have to do before I move on.

  ‘You’re right,’ Lachlan says. ‘The still needs to be up and running. Hector needs to see it. I’m sure it will help him . . . stay as well as he can.’ I can tell he’s worried that Hector seems to be getting worse. ‘And I’ve been working on that. On your laptop. I hope you don’t mind?’ he says.

  I shake my head, surprised. So he really is going to do this. He’s not stalling.

  ‘I’ve been reading up on the basics of making the gin.’ He shows me diagrams that are frankly far too confusing for me. ‘I’ll deal with all of that,’ he says. ‘Years as an engineer, I can do this side of things.’

  ‘An engineer?’

  ‘Yes. Went off to college on the mainland. Got a good job in an engineering company. Hated every minute of it. But I was too proud to come back. Un
til . . . well, until I had to and realised everything I’d ever wanted was right here.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘Not quite,’ he says quietly. ‘So,’ he moves the conversation on, turning the computer round. ‘I’ve been thinking about the crowdfunding page . . . We need to sell this many bottles, at this price.’ He points to the page, where he’s done graphics of bottles of gin. ‘We offer everyone who invests the chance to buy a special edition of Teach Mhor gin . . . or better still, six bottles. We describe the gin here, and what’s in it.’

  ‘And what do they get in return?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing we need to think about. They get the special edition and become stakeholders in the company; we pay them their annual dividend in gin, rather than money.’

  ‘Great! And we have to sell all that gin for this to work?’

  ‘Uh huh. If we don’t make the target, we don’t get a penny of the money that’s pledged.’

  ‘Maybe we should do something . . . a party or something when we reach the target,’ I say. ‘A tea party, so people can see the place in daylight, see where the product’s made. We can serve them gin and tonics and scones and shortbread!’ I add, suddenly warming to the idea.

  ‘I’ll get in touch with Isla about the bottles, get some special edition designs maybe. She may still have some of the old artwork, or better still, some of the bottles themselves!’

  ‘The ones that look like the sea?’

  He nods.

  I think about Isla eating ginger biscuits and looking as sick as I felt after the crossing from the mainland. ‘She doesn’t seem to like working on the ferry very much,’ I say.

  ‘She’s always loved it. She loves everything about the island. Been riding that ferry all her life.’

  ‘We could invite her and Gordan over to talk about the design. Or go to the pub,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Maybe show a picture of it on the crowdfunding page. We could all talk it through if you invite them.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’ll see Isla when I go to the village at some point.’