SMALL CROWD
SMALL CROWD
I sland life is stranger than I imagined. So are the people I’ve met so far. But maybe this level of isolation does that to a person? There are no phones, no internet, no social media, no news apps, no cinemas, no museums, no art galleries... being this cut off from society and culture must have an impact. Either way, at least they seem friendly enough. Sort of. I can’t think of many people who would invite a stranger to dinner in this day and age; it was a kind thing for Sandy to do. Maybe I can learn to live without birds.
Sandy tells me to “hop in the back” of the truck just like earlier, so I do, with Columbo sitting by my side. I stare out of the window as we head off, but it’s too dark to see anything except the ghostly silhouettes of trees whizzing past. There are no streetlights, or signs, only the same narrow winding road dimly illuminated by the truck’s headlamps. Sandy grips the steering wheel and I notice that she is wearing a very distinctive ring on her right hand. The intricate design incorporates a silver thistle, and I’ve never seen anything like it before. I look back at the road and start to feel a little carsick when we take another bend at breakneck speed, so it’s a relief when Sandy hits the brakes.
“Here we are, the House on the Hill,” she says, sounding cheerful again. “I was born in this house and my family were the sort of folk filled with kindness but lacking in imagination. The house is on a hill, so that’s what they called it.”
I climb out of the truck and am surprised by what I see. The “house” with its gray stone walls covered in ivy is enormous, by far the biggest I’ve seen on the island. It should have been called the Big House on the Hill. And it’s more than just a house. There are stone turrets on either side of the double-fronted facade, making it look like a mini castle. With neat, formal flower beds lining a path to the entrance it’s a little intimidating.
“Not what you were expecting?” Sandy asks with a smile.
“Well, no, if I’m honest.”
“Only you know if you’re honest, pointless asking me.”
Sandy does not look, sound, or behave like someone who is wealthy—and I wonder whether I have misjudged her. We walk side by side and I’m reminded how tall she is. She’s dressed in what looks like the same clothes she wore yesterday: jeans (presumably extra-long), a white shirt, and her giant yellow coat. No makeup, no nonsense. She doesn’t look like a lady of the manor or a queen of the—albeit miniature—castle.
The place is impressive at first glance, but it’s a bit run-down, with paint peeling off the window frames and doors like burned skin. The closer we get, the more imperfections I see; tiles missing from the roof, dead plants in the window boxes, cracks in the walls. It’s an unhappy-looking house. Once picture-perfect, I imagine, but now tired and unloved. The windows look like eyes, and I feel as though they are watching me. There is also a strange-looking metal tower behind the house at the very top of the hill. It looks like a phone mast.
“What is that?” I ask, over the sound of our footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway. “I thought there was no mobile phone signal on Amberly.”
“There isn’t. Although I’m told someone once managed to get one bar by the Standing Stones. What you see there is the old radio tower. Such an ugly thing, but this is the highest point on the island where it could be easily accessed for repairs, so here it is. We don’t need mobile phones—nobody does if you ask me—but we do need radio. Can’t do my job without the shipping forecast, for one thing. The tower is also how these work,” she says, taking a walkie-talkie from her pocket. “Everyone on the island has one.”
“I don’t.”
“They’re only for permanent residents, people who are part of the community, and they’re only really supposed to be used for emergencies.”
There’s that word they all seem to love again: community .
Sandy turns off her walkie-talkie before putting it away, which seems like a strange thing to do if it is for emergencies when she is the island sheriff.
“Your home is very impressive,” I say, but Sandy shakes her head and a strand of shiny short black hair escapes her ponytail.
“It used to be a bonnie pile of bricks when I was a child, but big old places like this require a lot of maintenance, which requires a lot of money. It will cost more than I earn to return her to her former glory, but I’m working on it.”
A large front door opens before we reach it and I see my wife standing there.
I stop and stare, blink a few times, and when I open my eyes again I realize it’s not her.
It never was.
Never is.
A petite woman in a loud floral dress stands in the entrance. She waves and smiles at me like I am a long-lost friend. “This is my sister, Midge MacIntyre,” Sandy says. Midge is as short as Sandy is tall, and has an immaculate blond bob of hair that doesn’t move when she does. They look a similar age but they do not look like sisters.
“Come on in out of the cold; you’ll catch your death,” she says, ushering me inside, which is far more welcoming than the exterior. The place smells of scented candles, home cooking, and an open fire that I can hear crackling and spitting somewhere in the distance, and everything, and I do mean everything , is covered in tweed fabric. The chair in the hallway, the lampshade, the cushions, the curtains, the walls, the draft excluder. Everything.
Overly tactile people tend to make me uncomfortable, but I don’t mind too much when Midge hugs me. Perhaps because I have forgotten what it is like to be embraced; my only source of affection these days is the dog. When my new floral friend has finished patting me, she starts stroking Columbo, who is instantly taken with her.
“I couldn’t believe it when Sandy said another author had come to stay on our little island! We’re a small crowd, just twenty-five permanent residents, but a lot of them love books. Including me. The news really has made my day!” she says in a thick Scottish accent. It’s a beautiful sound. Close up, I can see she’s a smidgen younger than Sandy beneath all the makeup.
“Are you here to write a book?” she asks. “Most writers who visit the island seem to find it great for inspiring their creativity.”
“Well, yes, actually. I am here to write. Do you get many authors coming to Amberly?”
“A few, and we all miss Charlie, of course. Perhaps you could be our new resident writer? Wouldn’t that be lovely?” She links her skinny little arm through mine. “Now come on into the kitchen so we can have a wee glass of the good stuff and you can tell me all about yourself. And your books, of course.”
The kitchen is also decorated in tweed, a mostly pink pattern in here. And the good stuff, it turns out, is some homemade alcohol that Midge calls “poutine” served in miniature glasses. It burns my throat and tastes thoroughly unpleasant.
“It’s good,” I tell her.
“A little taste of yesterday’s rain to help prepare you for tomorrow,” she says.
I do not know what that means, but three tiny glasses of yesterday’s rain later, I feel more relaxed than I probably should. I notice that Midge keeps refilling my glass but barely touches her own. I also notice that she is wearing the same ring as Sandy on her finger, silver with a thistle. It must be a family thing. She leads us through to a candlelit dining room—tweed in every shade of green in this room—and serves something . I’m not entirely sure what.
“I hope you like lamb,” Midge says.
“It looks...”
Inedible.
“...delicious,” I tell her.
All of the rooms have open fireplaces and they all appear to be lit. I suspect it must be difficult to keep a big old house like this warm, but they’ve done a grand job of making it feel cozy. I can feel myself start to unwind for the first time in a long time.
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of you or your books,” Midge says as I stare at my plate.
The relaxed feeling disappears. It’s a comment that never fails to sober me up and dampen my mood. Being a bestseller doesn’t mean people will know who you are. Being an author, even a moderately successful one, is an invisible sort of life. It used to be one of the reasons why I loved my job—I’ve always been shy, happy to stay out of the spotlight—but these days I just feel unseen. Past my prime. Forgotten.
“She doesn’t mean to be rude,” Sandy says before I can answer.
“I’m not being rude , just honest. I run the island library so—”
“When she says island library , what she means is the old red phone box next to Saint Lucy’s. It’s not been used for making calls for months—it got struck by lightning, hasn’t worked since, and we’re still waiting for someone to come from the mainland to repair it—these days the old phone box is filled with secondhand books.”
I thought Cora said a fishing trawler took out the cable on the ocean floor.
“Are you okay, Grady?” Midge asks, a look of concern on her face.
“Yes. Sorry. I have a bad habit of daydreaming, one of the drawbacks of my job. I stumbled across the phone box earlier today. Thought I heard it ringing actually.” They both stare at me as though I might be crazy. “But it was just my imagination.”
“I imagine that must be another downside of being an author,” Sandy says, pushing some more food around her plate. “Constantly living inside an imaginary world must make it difficult to tell truth and fiction apart sometimes.”
“Sometimes.” I take a large gulp of wine from my glass, which is on a tweed coaster.
“Have you written many books?” Midge asks, and I retreat inside myself a little bit more.
“A few,” I say, desperately trying to think of some way to change the subject. A deep reservoir of sadness supplies my moods these days and it never runs empty. Sandy seems to pick up on my discomfort, and I am grateful when she moves the conversation along. Something about the church roof leaking and costing too much to repair. I tune out for a while and wallow in the depths of my own self-pity; it can be hard to drag myself up when I feel this down.
Is a writer still a writer if they can no longer write?
I have tried since Abby disappeared. I just can’t.
Something got broken, and until I know what happened to her I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write again.
That’s why stealing someone else’s book and pretending it’s my own is such a good idea.
It’s also the only one I’ve got.