Chapter 2 Tilda
TILDA
Come on, Tilda.
I give myself a mental shake as I drive back past the harbour. A gaggle of tourists are being lined up alongside a very shiny bus by a woman with a clipboard.
Flora shifts in anticipation as I slow on the approach to the cottage. The houses on Harbour Road are freshly painted with pretty window boxes filled with colourful flowers, all except one.
Bayview Cottage’s white paint is shabby and peeling in contrast to the fresh pastel shades of the other cottages in the harbour while the front door is flanked with two empty pots.
Rust shows through the flaking paint of the metal gate and railings.
It’s worse than I thought, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Ah, the lassie with the wedding dress,” says a man’s voice as I’m climbing out of the driver’s seat. I bang my head as I straighten up to look at him.
The ferry man, still wearing his bright orange high-vis coat and tan work boots, says, “So, when’s the lucky lad arriving? I didn’t know we had an island wedding in the offing.”
“No wedding,” I say, pasting a bright smile on my face. “It’s a” – I fish around for an excuse – “an art project.”
“And there I was thinking you were a runaway bride.” He lifts his chin and looks at me suspiciously. “So, an artist, are ye?”
“Mm-hm.” Please go away and let me unpack.
“Well, that’s good news. We’ve got a fair few artists here on the island.
It’s the light, apparently. They go mad for it.
” He takes off his grey beanie hat and rubs his head thoughtfully, before pulling it back over his halo of red curls.
“No idea what they mean,” he adds with a conspiratorial wink.
“There’s daylight and nighttime, and they look the same every day to me. ”
I hum in acknowledgement, praying he’ll disappear. “Anyway,” I say, gesturing to the car stuffed full of bags and boxes. “I must—”
“Oh aye. I’ll let you get on. I’m no’ far if you need anything.” He starts to cross the road, then turns back. “Dave, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
Great. So now everyone on the island will think I’ve dumped my husband-to-be at the altar and headed north, when the truth is I never even got there.
The trouble with ADHD is it gets you into scrapes you never see coming. I bought the bloody dress on a whim, and now – because I was too disorganised to make it to the charity shop – I’ve got a whole new layer of crap to deal with.
The hinges of the gate squeal as I push it open and head up to the front door, lifting the tangle of dead Clematis montana that’s hiding the lockbox by the door.
I can’t forget the code – it’s my birth date.
Every time I think about it, I feel a sharp twist of regret, knowing that despite our estrangement, he never changed it.
I brace myself for two years of junk mail, my dad’s things strewn all over the hall, and the smell of mould and decay. I turn the handle, peering in cautiously, and blink in confusion.
There’s a stack of letters on the table by the stairs next to a pile of old hardback books and the place smells of something floral, not mildew.
I flick on the light and despite the fact I organised it with Scottish Power, I’m still surprised when the electricity is on. Ten points to me for good adulting.
It’s still recognisably my father’s house.
Piles of books still line the shelves, all the familiar things I remember are still in their places, but I was expecting empty whisky bottles on the drainer.
He’d walked out of the door for what he thought was a routine hernia operation, after all, and yet it feels like the place has been maintained all the time it’s been empty. It’s weird.
I’m expecting a stream of nosey islanders to appear as I’m ferrying bags and boxes from the car to the cottage, but there isn’t a soul to be seen. I take the offending dress and shove it in the cupboard under the stairs.
I feel the buzz of my phone as I’m bringing the last of the bags inside.
You’re at the cottage???
When I gave you my location, I didn’t realise you were going to be tracking my every movement
I tap a message back to Poppy, laughing. A second later she rings.
“Stalker.”
“I’m not stalking, I’m looking out for your wellbeing. Someone has to. Has your mum called to check on you?”
I lean back against the kitchen table and look out at the wilderness that was once a beautiful cottage garden. “No. It’s the middle of the night over there and she’s on some kind of spiritual yoga retreat, anyway.”
Poppy snorts loudly in my ear. “Right.”
“Yes, I know, I know.”
Poppy’s tone softens. “Oh, babe. It’s ever since the twins. It makes me realise how shit she’s been to you. If your mum isn’t going to check up on you, it’s my job.”
I feel a wave of love for my best friend.
She’s right, I guess. My mother wasn’t ever the maternal type, she pretty much dialled it in until I hit eighteen, then left the country.
She couldn’t get much further away than New Zealand, where she rents out yurts and does weird self-improvement stuff with Mystic Flame, her husband.
He used to be called Dave, but we’re not supposed to talk about that.
“I think we both know she’s not exactly a nurturer.” That’s an understatement. “Luckily, I’ve got you in my corner.”
I hear Poppy sigh.
“I’d have been happier if you’d stayed with me and Mark a bit longer. We could have helped you get the business set up here in Glasgow.”
After I’d left Jack, I’d turned up at Poppy and Mark’s place, still fizzing with fury over the way he’d behaved. They’d plied me with wine and sympathy and told me I could stay as long as I wanted, but the truth was I had to pick myself up sometime.
“I know. But the cottage isn’t going to sell itself.” I pick up a cloth and wipe the sink, the phone tucked between ear and shoulder.
Poppy makes a little noise, somewhere between agreement and disapproval. “Any word from Jack?”
I groan at the thought of my ex, who’s probably in bed with one of our clients as we speak. Or maybe he’s actually doing some gardening, now he doesn’t have me to do the spade work, literally.
“Hardly. I blocked his number, remember.”
“I swear to God, Tilda, I want to drive down to Cambridge and chop his bollocks off. All that time you were working he was sleeping with the clients, and somehow, he ends up walking away with the business and you end up with nothing?”
“I didn’t end up with nothing,” I huff. “I’ve got my inheritance and my pride.”
Poppy snorts down the phone. “This is true. At least you didn’t marry the fucker.”
I scratch my nose. “I had a feeling when I bought that dress it wasn’t ever going to happen.”
“Why did you buy the dress?”
I push a hand through my hair and settle back against the kitchen counter. “We were on a job in Chipping Norton, and they had a closing down sale on the high street. We’d been out for lunch and it… seemed like a good idea at the time after two glasses of wine.”
“Did Jack ever actually—”
“Propose?” I laugh. “No. But we talked about it, and he said it looked pretty when I tried it on and…”
“And the next thing you know here we are. And you’re on the island of Benruar.” Poppy’s voice drops slightly, her tone gentle. “So, how does it feel being there? Are you okay?”
I nod, wandering across the kitchen to brave the larder cupboard, bracing myself. “Yeah, it’s… weird? I half expect to walk into the sitting room and find my dad snoring on the sofa with a half-drunk glass of whisky in his hand.”
“Is it as bad as you expected?”
I open the larder to find the shelves bare, and feel my shoulders drop in relief as I’m hit with the same rose scent, and not the tell-tale scent of empty bottles.
“Nope.” I close the door. “The shelves are clean, the fridge has been propped open, it’s all spotless. Like the cleaning fairies have been to visit.”
I rub my forehead in confusion.
“Maybe your dad was tidier than you remember.”
“Not likely. Mum was always pretty clear.”
My mother believed in expressing feelings openly, which was all part of her whole hippy-parent thing. Mostly that meant whenever she disappeared into the garden with one of her “herbal cigarettes” she’d start ranting about what a deadbeat my father was, and how I was better off without him.
“People change?” Typical Poppy, always looking for the good. “It’s years since you saw him.”
“Yeah,” I say off hand. “Maybe.”
“I dunno,” Poppy continues, “all I’m saying is maybe you should be open to what else you might find.”
I feel my brows rising in disbelief as I give a non-committal hum. I love her, but my life experience has taught me that you can’t expect too much from people, especially parents.
“Anyway, I better go. Love you!”
I blow a kiss down the phone. “You, too.”
We hang up and I look out at the garden which hasn’t had the same treatment. It’s untidy and overgrown with weeds, the skeletal remains of last year’s growth still in place. It all reminds me how little I knew about my dad.
Who came into his house and cleaned it after he died? It doesn’t make sense.
Flora has settled herself on the sagging green sofa and is sprawled across it, snoring after her seal-spotting adventure. She opens one eye and looks at me from her throne of cushions.
“I’m going to the shop,” I tell her. I need to get some things and work out a plan. I also need a new notebook. “Want to come?”
We head outside, walking down the street that’s somehow strange and familiar at the same time. It’s like stepping into a memory, and I don’t know how I feel about it.
When my parents divorced, I was only eight.
My dad headed as far north as he could, to Benruar.
To begin with, I visited in the school holidays, but then it seemed to tail off, and by the time I was old enough to start asking questions, the relationship was pretty much done.
Mum made it clear she didn’t want him around, and there are only so many times you can hear that someone’s a deadbeat drunk before you start believing it.