by Jo Thomas
‘Yes, good work, Miss Rubes.’ Hector is suddenly standing behind me, bolt upright, chest pushed out. He turns to Flora. ‘It’s a lovely place you have here. Please tell me if there is anything else we can do to support your work.’ Flora’s eyes widen. ‘My company likes to help out where it can. Perhaps we could send over a few bottles for the residents to enjoy on their bingo night. Make a note, will you, Miss Rubes? Better still, a visit to the distillery . . . Miss Rubes will organise it. She’s new to the job, but really quite efficient!’
‘Um, of course.’ I pull out the notebook and pretend to make a note.
‘Now, I really do think we should make tracks. It’s all go at the distillery at this time of year. The still’s never off. Great to meet you all. Interesting smell in here . . . pine, I think.’
‘It’s the disinfectant,’ says Flora.
‘Like the pine trees by the distillery. We always use pine in the gin. Gives it a unique flavour. Reminds me of my courting days when Mairead and I were teenagers.’
Pine! He just said that they used pine in the gin! It’s one of the five special ingredients, I realise.
As I stand and stare at him, it hits me like a brick. It wasn’t drinking the gin that brought back his memories yesterday. It was the music! The Ella Fitzgerald record I was playing when I asked him about the recipe must have triggered something in him, taken him back to when he was running the distillery. Just like on Christmas morning, when I put the radio on and he suddenly realised what day it was and panicked that nothing was ready. Oh, stupid me! Of course! I jump up.
‘Um . . . thank you so much for our visit,’ I say to Flora. ‘We need to get the ferry. We’ll be in touch soon.’
I run to the French doors.
‘Lachlan! We have to go!’
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘It’s Hector! He’s remembered . . . The pine! He used pine for the gin,’ I say, beaming.
‘What?’
‘It was the music . . . he responds to music.’
Lachlan beams. ‘You beauty!’ he says, and he picks me up and hugs me, much to my shock and surprise.
‘Ah, young love,’ says the old woman in the garden.
‘Oh, we’re not . . .’ I point between us. She just smiles dreamily. I remember what Lachlan said about going with the moment, wherever it might be. What does it matter if she thinks we’re together? It’s making her happy, and we could all do with a bit of happiness in our lives.
‘Right, let’s get back,’ Lachlan says. ‘We’ve got a pine forest to visit.’ He bids goodbye to his two garden companions and promises to come back soon.
‘Looks like that music malarkey of yours has some use after all,’ he tells me as we head back towards the ferry, all of us, by the looks of it, happier than when we left a few hours ago.
Chapter Twenty-three
‘Good trip?’ asks Isla as the ferry heads home – or should I say back to the island.
‘Very good!’ I tell her.
‘Good.’ She nods a lot, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Lachlan keeps his distance from her, and I can’t help but think there’s some kind of problem here. I wonder if he’s spoken to her yet about the bottles.
‘So, you’re staying on the island?’ she says, as if cutting to the chase of what’s on her mind.
‘Oh no.’ I shake my head, wondering why I get the feeling she wants me gone. Suddenly I begin to suspect there’s something going on between her and Lachlan, and I quickly glance at Gordan, who seems to be also watching us.
‘So, not staying,’ she says, nodding again.
‘No, just here until . . . Candlemas,’ I say, thinking on my feet but once again with no idea of how I’m going to break it to Joe. ‘To help with the business,’ I add. ‘I’m here to help with the gin business,’ I repeat, as if trying to make it right in my own head.
‘Oh, so you and Lachlan aren’t together?’ She seems almost relieved, which concerns me even more. Is this what keeps Lachlan here? Are he and Isla having an affair? I glance back at where he is standing looking out towards the island. Are they cheating on Gordan?
The wind stings my face, and I’m not sure if it’s that that hurts me more, or the fact that once again, Lachlan is not the man I thought he was.
Chapter Twenty-four
‘I can drop you off at the house if you like,’ Lachlan says as we drive off the ferry. I emerge from my musings about him and Isla and realise I’m enjoying the familiarity of being back on the island. He’s watching me in the rear-view mirror and seems to understand that I have things on my mind. ‘I want to see if Hector can remember where they foraged for the pine, although I have a fairly good idea.’
‘The what?’ says Hector from the passenger seat.
‘The pine you use in the gin, Hector,’ I say over the rattle and shake of the old red Land Rover.
‘Pine,’ he repeats, the memory seeming to evaporate in front of our eyes.
‘Yes, you remember, Hector.’ Lachlan is looking from Hector to the road and back again as we swing and sway our way up the single track around the island. ‘The pine in the gin. Teach Mhor gin!’ Even he is getting frustrated now.
The sun is low in the sky, casting a bright light over the island as we drive up through the village. To the right is the water’s edge, with white horses riding the little waves, and to the left, the distant mountains. Suddenly the herd of deer are running almost parallel with the Land Rover over the rolling moorland, as if welcoming us home, glad that the travellers are back in the fold, making me feel I can breathe again after the claustrophobic heat of the nursing home.
‘Pine,’ Hector says vaguely again, shaking his head, and the memory is almost out of reach now.
‘You know . . .’ Lachlan waves one hand, keeping the other on the wheel, ‘Daisy, Daisy . . .’ He looks at me, urging me to help.
‘What? Oh, I can’t . . . My . . .’ I hold my throat.
‘It’s not the effing Albert Hall. I’m just looking for a bit of support here!’ he growls. ‘Do you want to get this distillery up and running so you can go to your healing retreat or not?’
I swallow. He’s right, of course. I open my mouth, but can’t quite seem to take the step to see if I can let out the first few notes.
‘No.’ Hector shakes his head. ‘Can’t remember any pine.’
‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do . . .’ I suddenly blurt out, no idea whether it’s in tune or not, and not even caring. ‘I’m half crazy, all for the love of you . . .’ I’m nodding, and so is Lachlan, who sings along, roughly but boldly. And then we both smile as Hector joins in merrily.
We look at his beaming face at the end of the song.
‘So the pine forest . . . where you collect it for the gin?’ Lachlan asks, and we hold our breath.
‘Ah yes, used to go there all the time when I was courting Mairead. Proposed there! Well, proposed lots of times actually, until she finally gave in.’ He chortles. ‘It’s just up the way. Best pine ever. Brilliant idea to put it in the gin. Gives it a real wintry, fresh flavour.’
And as we both breathe a palpable sigh of relief, he points us towards the part of the forest he and Mairead used to come to.
‘Course, gin originated in the Netherlands,’ he says informatively. ‘Known as genever. Was invented as a cure-all; anything from stomach upsets to the plague!’ He laughs heartily. ‘Then of course it was given to English soldiers fighting the Anglo-Dutch wars. That’s why it’s called Dutch courage, didn’t you know?’
When we arrive at the forest, Hector is still humming the tune of ‘Daisy, Daisy’ over and over. We all get out of the Land Rover and walk towards the trees as the sun starts setting across the vast expanse of sky. As we step onto the needle-strewn floor, I breathe in deeply. I can taste the gin on my lips again, the taste of the
pine forest.
Hector suddenly stops walking and humming.
‘You okay, Hector? Is this it? Is this where you come for the pine?’ I ask.
He’s looking straight ahead, then he holds out a hand and steps forward to a tree trunk. We both look to where he’s reaching. There in the trunk is a heart, with two initials gouged into it.
‘This is the place,’ he says quietly. ‘This is where she said yes!’ His eyes fill with watery tears, and the most contented smile I have ever seen sits on his lips as his fingers trace the heart carved into the trunk. That, I think, is enduring love. Will that be me and Joe one day? Will there be somewhere that reminds us of the moment our lives became intertwined? Tears spring to my eyes. What will be the memory I will hold on to? But to my frustration, I can’t think of anything. I can’t think of a time when our lives together haven’t been about the band and my career. Will they be the only memories I have of us being together? Isn’t there anything else to our relationship?
I try and think of one thing we’ve done together, one romantic gesture that hasn’t been about the success of the band. And suddenly I feel very empty inside. I love that Joe is so supportive, that he wants me to succeed. And then, just for a moment, I wonder . . . Is it me he loves, or is it my career? Is it so he can hold his own with his family, his successful parents and brother? What would happen if my voice never came back? Would he leave me? Is that why he’s so keen for me to go to Tenerife?
I shake my head to try and dispel the nagging voice of doubt, and find myself looking over at Lachlan, who seems to be brushing something from his eyes too. And I wonder who his tears are for.
‘We’ll gather the pine from here, Hector,’ he says with a catch in his throat, and pats the tree as if reassuring it that a little bit of the love that Hector and Mairead shared will be in there in the special edition gin. ‘Best we come back in the morning,’ he adds. ‘Looks like a two-man job. Pine can be tricky to get at.’ He points up to the treetops. ‘We’d better get you kitted out properly!’ He nods to me and I go to protest, but close my mouth, suddenly finding myself wanting to be part of the pine picking, and to be here, close to the family I’ve never known. ‘We’ll bring a ladder!’
‘Come on, Hector, let’s get you home. Soup, bread and cheese do you for supper?’
‘Hmm, lovely,’ Hector says, and lets Lachlan lead him back to the Land Rover.
As we drive back to the house, dusk draws in, and the huge expanse of sky turns purple and pink with the setting sun. Something in me shifts. These are memories I will take with me forever. These are things I want to remember when I’m old.
There’s a smell of peat smoke in the air as we climb out of the Land Rover. We guide Hector to the wooden front door.
‘Looks like we’d better launch that crowdfunding page,’ Lachlan says with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. ‘Teach Mhor gin is going to be back in action. The recipe was in the house all along . . . in Hector’s head. Now that we have the key, we just have to unlock it.’
And I can’t help but feel that something inside me has been unlocked too; an empty box that is now filling with memories.
Chapter Twenty-five
‘Well, if you’re going to come collecting pine needles, we’d better find you something more suitable to wear!’ Lachlan says with a smile the next morning.
Last night we uploaded photographs old and new to the crowdfunding page. ‘We can give the history of the place.’ I pointed to the screen. ‘You’d better do that. I have no idea about it.’ I listened in fascination as he told me all about Winter Island, the people, the local legends, the flora and fauna.
Afterwards, we toasted the project with another tot of whisky, after hot soup, fresh bread and more of the creamy goat’s cheese beside the huge fire in the living room, with Hector in his favourite chair and the dogs on the floor beside him.
I briefly turned my phone on to find a number of more and more frustrated, even cross, messages from Joe asking why I hadn’t been in touch. Was I on the way to the vocal retreat? I messaged back and told him I was fine. Then – and I can’t believe I did it – I told him I was finally on my way, and that I’d been informed there were no phones allowed at the retreat, so I wouldn’t be in touch for a while. I quickly shoved my phone away, feeling a sense of light-headed relief and, well, freedom.
I feel bad lying, but I know the truth really doesn’t make much sense. I was brought here to agree to a care plan for a relative I’d never met, and now I seem to be involved in crowdfunding a project to safeguard his future. I know I could leave at any time, but there’s something stopping me. I have to see this through. Not to mention the fact that I want to find out more about this place, about my dad and the family he left behind. It’s never bothered me before, but the island has started to work its way under my skin. I want to find the piece that seems to be missing in the jigsaw of my life.
I also texted the vocal retreat to tell them I’d been held up, and they cancelled my booking, telling me to rebook when I was ready. There was a text from Flora too, who said how much she’d enjoyed meeting us and that she hoped Hector would be able to take up his place by Candlemas, gently reminding me that she’d have to let it go to someone else if not. It didn’t seem the right time, in amongst the fun of preparing the crowdfunding page to ask Lachlan what was going on between him and Isla. Seeing Hector in the forest had been a very special moment, and I wanted to savour it.
This morning, Hector has emptied the kitchen cupboards of herbs and spices and is now sitting in the big living room at the back of the house with a cup of tea and the dogs at his feet, watching a flock of black and white birds with long orange beaks on the sandy bay shore. For a moment I picture the nursing home and its small, well-tended garden, and think how different Hector’s outlook will be there.
‘Here!’ says Lachlan, handing me a coat and boots he’s found in the newly tidied cupboard under the stairs. ‘You’ll be fine in these. You look to be your grandmother’s size.’ It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about Mairead. My grandmother. I roll the word over in my head. ‘Now let’s go and pick some pine,’ I say, hoisting up the step ladder leaning against the wall and carrying it out to the car.
We drive out towards the forest where we were last night, with Hector wrapped up against the cold in the back seat with the dogs. Lachlan and I agreed it’s best we have him with us to keep an eye on him.
‘You have to be careful what kind of pine you pick,’ Lachlan tells me, as if teaching a group of students, and I don’t think I’ve seen him look this alive since I arrived. ‘The right sort can add great flavour, but the wrong type . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Really we’d be better leaving it a bit, until the spring and the new growth, but . . .’ He looks sideways at me.
‘We have a deadline,’ I say firmly. ‘Candlemas. We need to complete the crowdfunding by then and put down a deposit to secure the room. That means finding the recipe and making the special edition bottles.’
He harrumphs, but good-naturedly, I think, making me smile as I turn away and look out of the window at the passing hedgerows and moorland, which is covered in a white frosting. The long grasses at the edges of the stream we’re following are coated in frosted patterns like crystals. Across the golden glen deer are running, and once more it takes my breath away. Lachlan glances at me as we bounce along the single-track road.
‘There are more deer than people on the island, you know,’ he tells me, and again his face is lit up.
‘And goats . . .’ I add, and he laughs.
‘Look up there,’ he says suddenly, and points up to the sky. I peer up at what looks to be a lone dark cloud in the sky, and then realise it isn’t a cloud.
‘Whoa! What’s that?!’
‘A sea eagle. They completely died out but were reintroduced in the seventies. We have a couple of nesting pairs here.’
&n
bsp; ‘Wow,’ I say, watching the huge bird circling above us in the cold, clear air.
I feel the car slow down.
‘Oh no . . .’ says Lachlan.
‘What’s the matter?’ I look away from the eagle. Lachlan is pulling on the handbrake.
‘There.’ He points up towards a rise on the glen. Two deer are facing off, and then start to lunge at each other with their antlers, like jousters. ‘Mating season is over, but those two just keep goading each other.’
‘Why are they fighting?’
‘They’re father and son. They’ve locked horns many a time and it’s a heck of a job to untangle them, I can tell you! They’re stubborn. Won’t let each other be. There’ll be no winner here.’ He looks at me, and then at Hector, wrapped up warmly in blankets in the back of the Land Rover with the dogs lying over him. ‘No good will come of it,’ says Lachlan. ‘Someone will get hurt, unless one of them gives in.’
He puts his hand on the car horn and holds it there in a long blast. Then he does it again, and the two stags finally jump away from each other and run off in different directions, dipping their heads, shaking them, and then lifting their heads and their front legs high. Neither has bowed to the other. They have both saved face.
Lachlan winds down the window. ‘Get over it, fellas!’ he calls, watching the two stags strut off proudly across the golden moorland. He shakes his head and puts the Land Rover into gear. ‘It’s really not worth it in the long run,’ he says quietly, looking back at Hector in the rear-view mirror.
‘Right, time to go and find some pine needles. And let’s hope they’re less prickly than the locals!’ He’s made a joke, I think, and smile widely. An actual joke! Relations must be thawing!
Hector walks slowly through the forest with the dogs, leaning heavily on his stick. He’s looking more sprightly than I have seen him since I’ve been here, I think.
