Chapter 8
Logan is a sensitive soul; brave too, determined and fearless both in the face of loss while striving for success. I wish more than anything for him to be happy.
Extract from Joy’s journal
The painting propped against the hallway wall had been bugging Logan ever since he’d wrapped it the day he’d arrived in Mull.
He’d never quite understood what his aunt had seen in Ivor, but their relationship had endured the years, both as neighbours and then friends.
Although their personalities were completely different, they had much in common: both widowers and lonely without family living on the island.
The real reason he was putting off taking the painting to Ivor’s was his history with Màiri. He should have shoved the painting into Ivor’s hands when he’d knocked on the door the other evening, but the old man’s anger had taken him aback and he hadn’t thought about it.
Tilly had gone out to do a food shop and the weather was dry and clear.
He had no excuse to put it off any longer, plus he needed to get out of the house.
Even another argument with Ivor would be preferable to boxing up Aunt Joy’s life.
He’d been too young to go through the process when he’d lost his mum.
His father had taken over, packing away Logan’s mum’s personal items, then shipping him off to boarding school in England so he could focus on his lucrative career as an investment banker in Zurich without having to deal with a grief-stricken thirteen-year-old.
Logan had to grieve in a new place surrounded by strangers; it had only been Tilly’s kindness and understanding that had got him through a challenging period, while his aunt had done what she could from afar.
Tilly being here now to help him reminded him of that time more than ever.
Pocketing his phone and keys, he whistled for Barney.
He managed to tuck the painting under his arm so he could carry it with ease.
With Barney on his heels, they cut across the garden to the lane that skirted Ivor’s field, where sheep and their lambs grazed.
Ivor’s side gate was rusty and wedged open, and the dirt drive was sprouting weeds.
The house looked storm-battered, the once-white walls stained grey, and the painted window frames were peeling.
As Logan got closer, he noticed more things that needed repairing.
A buddleia was sprouting from the guttering and a downpipe had come adrift from the wall.
A forest of tangled brambles and weeds obscured the downstairs windows.
Logan took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Barney sniffed about in the overgrown border, then had a wee on a purple-leaved hebe.
‘Ivor?’ Logan knocked again and peered through the living-room window.
‘I’m coming!’ a distant voice shouted.
Damn it. Logan felt mean thinking it, but part of him had hoped Ivor wouldn’t be in, despite knowing that he would be because he was a creature of habit. He did his weekly shop on a Monday, went for a morning walk each day and had tea and cake with Joy on Sundays.
Logan gulped back a wave of sadness as the door swung open and Ivor appeared stooped and frowning up at him.
‘Just you is it?’ He raised a straggly grey eyebrow and glanced behind Logan.
‘Yep, me and Barney. Can we come in?’
With a grunt, Ivor stepped back and Logan squeezed past him with the painting.
Barney trotted behind as Ivor led them through to the kitchen and gestured for him to sit at the battered wooden table.
Logan leaned the painting against the wall, and Barney settled between his feet, his head tilted as he watched Ivor put the kettle on and get two mugs from a cupboard.
The kitchen was smaller than Aunt Joy’s and cluttered, but it was clean and less of a mess than the outside.
Ivor turned to him. ‘That woman’s left, has she?’
‘No, and her name is Tilly and she’s my friend. Here to help.’ Logan stroked Barney’s ears and tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
‘She’s a bad influence,’ Ivor grunted and opened the fridge, which Logan noticed was well-stocked.
That was something, at least. Ivor looked unkempt, though, and in need of a haircut.
His jumper was worn with a hole in the elbow and loose threads on the cuffs.
It was clean, so perhaps it was just well-loved.
‘What Tilly does for work has nothing to do with what I will or won’t do with the house and cottage,’ Logan said with a sigh.
‘She does have the skills that will help me to get the place into shape, while I go through all the other stuff…’ He trailed off.
Sorting through his aunt’s belongings had been what he’d wanted to escape from, believing that visiting Ivor would be preferable.
He was beginning to regret his decision.
‘I cannot bear to think of someone else living next door,’ Ivor said gruffly as the kettle came to the boil.
Logan wondered if he was included in that statement.
As Ivor turned back to the counter to make the tea, Logan took the opportunity to thumb a quick message to Tilly to let her know where he was. He put his phone face down on the table.
‘Ivor, you do understand it’s up to me what I decide to do with Joy’s house?’
Ivor grunted and added milk to the two mugs.
‘My life is in Edinburgh…’ Logan didn’t know where he was going with that train of thought, when Mull had always felt like home. ‘Tilly’s here to help me sort the few things that need doing before—’
‘You sell the place to make money, then up and leave again!’
Logan gritted his teeth. It always came back to this.
Ivor was generally mad at life, and with good reason.
He’d lost his wife when they’d both been in their early sixties, but unlike Aunt Joy, who’d managed to find beauty, peace and happiness in forging a life on her own despite being so young, Ivor had become embittered.
Even though he was grieving his wife, he’d developed feelings for Joy, but they hadn’t been reciprocated beyond friendship.
Joy made him happy, while he was an old miser around anyone bar his daughter and his son who lived abroad.
But the way things had ended between Logan and Màiri was why he was in Ivor’s bad books, particularly when his ex-girlfriend had been none-too-pleased with his friendship with ‘property developer’ Tilly.
That made her an enemy too. He wouldn’t win this argument; it was probably best to hold his tongue and take the verbal flaying.
‘Joy was happiest when you lived here with her, then you broke her heart, Màiri’s too when you upped and left all for that woman.’
Logan cringed. Ending things with Màiri had been the right thing to do, but he did have regrets over his timing, and Ivor wasn’t wrong to be annoyed, even if his anger was harsh.
He focused on stroking Barney’s soft fur rather than his confusing swirl of emotions.
‘I didn’t break Aunt Joy’s heart and you know it.
Yes, she was upset when I left but only because she was sad to see me go.
She understood that I had to live my life. I left with good reason.’
‘Try telling that to Màiri.’ Ivor dumped one of the mugs in front of Logan, sloshing tea onto the table.
Logan ignored the cutting remark. ‘I didn’t come back to Mull because I ended up pursuing a passion which I turned into my business in Edinburgh, which I promise you Aunt Joy was more than happy about.’
‘Well, I don’t like her.’ Ivor sat down and blew on his mug of tea.
Logan sighed. ‘Are you talking about Tilly again?’
Ivor’s glowering look said enough.
‘You do realise she could give you a hand here – out in the garden, sort out the front of the house—’
‘No doubt charging me an arm and a leg for the privilege.’
‘She wouldn’t, and I’m talking about us both helping out.’
‘I don’t need help. I live simply. Don’t need much. I have a cleaning girl who comes once a week. Màiri insisted.’
That explained why the inside of the house was in a surprisingly decent state.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Does Màiri visit often?’
Ivor studied him with watery eyes and a touch of disdain.
‘She left because of you. Left the island heartbroken. Said she needed a new start and to find her purpose in life, or some such nonsense.’ He sighed deeply.
‘But aye, she comes over when she can. With her brother even further away, she’s the only family I have and it’s been a wee bit difficult for her recently. ’
Logan didn’t ask why; he didn’t want to invite a longer conversation that would lead to the inevitable argument about why Logan had broken her heart. He knew the truth though, that Màiri had been desperate to leave Mull because she’d hoped to move to Edinburgh with him until he’d ended things.
He took a large gulp of strong hot tea. ‘She’s, um, coming over for Joy’s celebration, though?’
‘Aye, on Saturday. She wishes to pay her respects.’ His voice cracked and he covered his emotion by blowing on his tea.
A wave of discomfort washed over Logan; he wasn’t the only one grieving. Aunt Joy had been a positive influence on Ivor and her loss must have been brutal.
‘Talking about my aunt,’ Logan said, trying to sound as upbeat as he could, ‘she left you this.’ He gestured to the painting that was leaning against the wall. ‘Would you like me to unwrap it?’
‘Do what you like.’
Logan shifted Barney off his feet and pulled the taped bubble wrap away from the painting. Lifting it up, he turned it round so Ivor could see.
His gasp made Logan swallow a lump in his throat. He set the painting back down against the kitchen wall close to Ivor.
Barney padded over and sniffed it.
‘She loved this painting.’ Ivor’s rheumy eyes were brimming with tears now.
He ran shaky fingers across the oil paint.
The colours and textures captured the view across Loch Na Keal to where Loch View House and Ivor’s farmhouse were hidden among the trees and shadowed by the mountainous backdrop.
It was a view Logan knew well and a landscape he loved, painted by an uncle he’d never met.
Ivor looked up at Logan with tears running down his weathered cheeks. ‘She left this to me?’
‘She did.’
‘Robert painted it.’
Logan nodded, his throat hurting from the tears he was struggling to hold back. ‘She cherished it and wanted you to have it.’
He’d never seen Ivor look anything but grumpy unless he was around Aunt Joy, much less full of such complex emotions.
Logan swallowed his discomfort and sadness with another gulp of tea. ‘I can put it up for you now if you know where you’d like it to go?’
Ivor nodded, still looking dumbstruck as he swiped the back of his hand across his damp cheeks. ‘Above the fireplace in the living room,’ he said softly. ‘Pride of place.’