Chapter 21
21
‘Perfect timing,’ Lily trilled, coming out of the kitchen to find me taking off my muddy trainers. ‘Bases are rolled out, sauce is ready. All that’s left to do is choose your toppings.’ She turned to go, before twisting around again, as if she’d remembered an afterthought. ‘Oh, and Pip asked if you fancied helping at the Old Barn afterwards. What with chasing down the cows this morning, and waiting for the vet, they’ve not made much progress and Violet is feeling the pressure.’
I was tempted to decline, opting for a long bath and an early night instead. While I was used to physically busy days, so much emotional upheaval on top of a rubbish night’s sleep had left me drained and jittery. Richard’s cryptic comment had only added to the chaotic swirl of the milk jug, Mum, escaped cows, wedding plans, my future plans and the business that I’d temporarily abandoned at who knew what cost.
The reasons I chose to accept were firstly because I was clearly being blamed for them being so behind, and so helping out was the least I could do. Secondly, while the situation with Pip should have added yet another layer of stress and uncertainty, in reality, the thought of an evening clearing out a filthy barn of junk with him felt more soothing than a bath, or a glass of wine in the garden. I acknowledged that right then, I needed to be with a friend. And, perhaps more importantly, I ached for my mother’s steady presence. Spending time with the man who had loved her felt like the next best thing.
Cycling over to the farm after helping clear up dinner, I found Pip with Violet and Gabe, lugging a huge piece of machinery out of the Old Barn’s double doors.
I was hovering at a safe distance when Rosemary appeared at my shoulder.
‘Ach, Emmie, you really shouldn’t be here.’
I felt a stab of paranoid panic that she was angry about the gate until she nudged me with a twinkling smile.
‘This is your holiday. It’s bad enough that my family had the cheek to strong-arm you into cooking for a wedding – they forget that the rest of the world has those things you call “boundaries”. But dragging you over here to help with this mucky mess really is taking liberties. This surely cannot be your best offer for an evening out?’
I didn’t know how to answer that without either confirming that I was, indeed, a bit of a loser, or implying that their beloved island was somehow lacking in things to do. Instead, I mumbled something about repaying Lily for letting me stay. Rosemary shrugged, smiled and led me to a patch of the nearest wall of the barn, which was covered with – oh boy – about a thousand bird droppings, and pointed out a scrubbing brush and a metal bucket with a pair of rubber gloves draped over the rim.
‘Well, if you’re determined to help, then this is the safest job for a newbie. Make sure you wear the mask and gloves. You can catch nasty infections from breathing in the dust.’
I almost asked if you could catch them from drinking it in a mug of tea too.
The light was fading by the time I put down the brush, satisfied that the wall was now worthy of a wedding reception. I’d worn half the bristles off and refilled the bucket from an outside tap more times than I cared to count.
I pulled off the mask and gloves, wiped my grimy forehead and stretched out the kinks in my back as Pip walked over. Apart from a quick hello, we’d both been focused on our different tasks – or, in my case, at least pretending to be – so this was the first time he’d spoken to me properly since I’d arrived.
‘You must be ready for a drink.’
‘A cup of tea would be bliss.’
‘Will blackberry wine do instead?’ He held out a Coca-Cola sized bottle of dark liquid.
‘Needs must, I suppose.’
He clinked his bottle against mine, and we perched on the side of a rusty water trough that was almost as filthy as we were. Rosemary had disappeared to make Aster’s supper a while ago, and not returned. As Gabe went to help Richard check the chickens were safely abed, Violet came to say goodnight, grabbing a bottle from Pip’s bag to take with her.
‘Thanks for your help, Emmie. I cannot imagine how my little brother persuaded you to spend a Monday night scrubbing bird crap off a barn wall, but I’m very grateful.’
‘To be fair, I didn’t know scrubbing crap would be involved. But really, it’s the least I can do,’ I mumbled as she ruffled Pip’s hair and left.
‘Did you come and help because you felt obliged to?’ Pip asked, twisting around to face me. ‘When Lily invited you to stay, she didn’t expect anything in return.’
‘Maybe. But she didn’t expect me to injure one of your cows, either.’
‘That’s why you’re here?’ Pip asked, his forehead creasing with concern. ‘Emmie, no one blames you for what happened.’
‘That’s not true. They might forgive me, but your family definitely blame me. And I feel especially horrible about it because I know it wasn’t me.’
Pip looked at me steadily through the dusk. ‘Ah. I can see why that’s worse.’
Him not questioning my conviction, gently pointing out that I must be mistaken, because there was no other explanation, made my throat constrict. Being believed – trusted – gave me the courage to explain.
‘Growing up, forgetting something or making a mistake that proved I was unreliable – irresponsible – was nearly unforgivable. Mum would respond with this crushing mix of disappointment, disgust and bafflement. Like, “Why would you do this, Emmaline? I don’t understand why you chose to let us down. I thought you cared about Parsley’s”, or our home, or my education, or whatever else it related to. She’d not outright punish me, but I’d have to complete pointless, petty tasks until I’d “earned her trust” back. When I was about eight, she made me clean every black speck off all our huge oven shelves because I got absorbed in a book and the dinner burned. It took hours. Another time, I had to write out the instruction manual for our dishwasher by hand when I used the wrong setting. Scrubbing the barn wall would have been right up her street.’
‘So, you learned not to forget things.’
‘Yes. To listen and follow instructions to the letter. I have a lot of flaws. But saying I’ll do something and then a few minutes later not doing it isn’t one of them.’
Pip stretched out his legs, the movement causing his bare arm, still warm despite the night air, to brush against mine, goosebumps rippling up my skin.
‘Sounds like your mother could have made a good Siskin farmer. The punishment should not only fit the crime, but every other crime you might have committed.’
I flinched before I could catch myself.
‘Maybe if she’d been allowed to run things. Unlike me, she was far better at giving orders than following them.’
Pip pointed out the long-eared bats swooping in and out of the eaves above us, and the conversation eased into lighter topics. Mum had always scorned therapy as for the weak-willed, or attention-seekers. As I sat here, the relief of having shared something painful and personal with what I hoped was a genuine friend – as if a secret shame had been wiped clean – was what I imagined it must feel like.
As Pip walked me home – not because I might leave a gate open, he was clear to point out, but in case there were more tourists wandering about who might cause similar problems I could otherwise get the blame for – I couldn’t help wondering what else my mother had been wrong about.
I could have felt angry with her. I probably did, somewhere below the grief and the thrill of realising that I didn’t have to pretend I agreed with her any more.
Most of all, since I’d opened that box of letters, when it came to my mother, I simply felt sad.
4 April 1988
My sweet Nellie,
Another anniversary – two years I have had the joy of being your husband! – so time for another letter. While you’ve made it clear there won’t be any children who might one day get to read our love story, perhaps there will be nieces and nephews to enjoy these letters instead. And you mustn’t mind the comments from Da. Richard will inherit the farm – it’s his job to produce an heir! I chose you, and your happiness will always come first.
A lot has changed in a year, hasn’t it? Now you’re the one working every hour God sends, while I feel my way through the concrete and brick jungle that is Nottingham. I’m grateful for a few days of work, but for the most part, it seems the only person in this city who isn’t frantically rushing from one important matter to another is me.
It turns out I had taken for granted living in a place where everyone knows who you are and all about your business.
But listen to me moaning on more like a farmer discussing the price of beef than a grateful husband writing a love letter to his bride!
Let me try again:
The other night, you asked if I miss the island, and my immediate answer was of course, it was my home. But from the first time we met, my home has been with you, and you are more beautiful to me than a thousand Siskin sunsets. You are my family, now, Nellie. Our love is the land in which I cultivate a life I am forever grateful for. My harvest shall always be your smiles, your touch, your trust.
I will meet you from work this evening, if I don’t get lost on my way to the restaurant!
With faith, hope and love
G
I woke up on Tuesday morning to my first island rainstorm. I’d been vaguely planning on doing something touristy, like cycling to the smaller village, Lithin, or booking a slot on a boat that did whale-spotting tours. Instead, I spent the morning helping Lily assemble shelving units for the guest living room while Malcolm uploaded pictures of the completed lilac bedroom to the website and across their social media.
Either side of picking the children up from nursery and school, we peeled, chopped and sautéed enough parsnips for twenty pasties (just about every parsnip on the island, given the season) and prepared the rest of the vegetarian ingredients ready for the Stilton delivery on Wednesday. Lily was in almost constant contact with her sisters about the wedding. They were arranging the church service, entertainment and the other details as if they had all the time in the world and none of it really mattered anyway.
‘Oh!’ Lily exclaimed, after reading a message about borrowing wine glasses. ‘We forgot a hen do. Or, what do you call it? A bridal shower! Which one would be best, do you think?’
I looked up from stirring a giant pan. ‘I don’t know the difference. To be honest, I’ve never been to either.’
Lily looked to the other mainlander in the room, who beetled his eyebrows in thought.
‘The amount of alcohol involved, mainly. Alcohol, tacky props and the likelihood of a stripper turning up.’
‘Which one is that?’
‘A hen night.’
‘Right, let’s go for a bridal shower.’ Lily nodded vigorously before going blank again. ‘So not much booze, no props and no stripper. What does it have?’
‘Depends on the bride in question.’ Malcolm shrugged. ‘I think the only essential ingredient is cake.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘But really, the chief bridesmaid should be sorting all this out.’
Lily called Celine, who created a group chat, Bridal Parteeeee , and by the time we were washing up, ten women had accepted an invitation to meet at Lily’s old café, the Copper Pot, at seven that evening for drinks and desserts.
‘Violet says we need an activity,’ Lily read out. ‘But Celine is working until six so won’t have time to sort anything.’
‘We could do something crafty,’ I offered. ‘Make bunting for the barn, and the other decorations? It saves us trying to do them all.’
‘That’s perfect.’ Lily beamed. ‘You’re a wedding genius, Emmie. I’ll ask everyone to contribute fabric for the bunting. We’ve got that ribbon from the market, and plenty of sewing machines between us. We just need to make sure Fern has a different job, like serving the cake, because she can’t sew a straight line.’
‘What about bringing some fabric that reminds them of Iris, or will remind Iris of them?’
‘Oh, that’s even better! An old dress or something.’ She glanced at the pile of pots and vegetable peelings that used to be the kitchen. ‘We’d better get moving with all this if we’re going to be ready for seven, though.’
‘I don’t mind finishing it while you’re there.’
‘I’m going to pretend the brains behind this whole thing didn’t just suggest she might not be coming.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t know how Celine would feel about that.’
And I didn’t want to find a hair in my cake, or gob of spit in my wine glass. Even worse, I was paranoid about what nastiness I might discover when I got back here.
‘How Celine feels is irrelevant. This wedding is only happening because of you. And don’t worry.’ She patted my arm. ‘She knows I know what she’s up to. I’ll make sure she behaves herself.’