Chapter 2 Tilda #2
I dropped out of university and found my place in the gardening world, and as I started a new life in Cambridge, my relationship with him dwindled away to very occasional calls, and dutiful greeting cards.
And by then my mother had met Dave – I mean Mystic Flame, sorry – and moved to New Zealand, so the family ties had loosened so much that I was unmoored, in more ways than one.
I was on a very rare visit to my mother when his funeral took place.
So now it feels really weird, like he disappeared from the world.
When the solicitor got in touch afterwards to tell me he’d left me the cottage and some money in his will, it came with a side helping of guilt and regret that I hadn’t tried harder to make things right. But maybe that’s what grief feels like?
So here I am. It’s clear the island of Benruar has moved with the times – the dingy little café is now a coffee shop, all exposed metal and white-painted brick walls, and a comfy armchair in the window.
The scent of fresh bread and vanilla hits me as a woman in a raincoat opens the door, a folded brown paper bag under one arm.
There’s a vet surgery with a mud-splattered Land Rover parked outside, and a gift shop with hand-painted cards in the window.
Even Benruar Store has had a glow-up as a cute hand-lettered sign swings by the side of the door. There’s a silver bowl of water by the doggy tie-up ring which I make sure Flora’s secured to, before heading inside as she sits down on the pavement to await a treat.
I’m greeted by a wooden shelf of freshly baked sourdough loaves in wicker baskets, and a noticeboard stuffed with flyers, business cards, and posters. There’s a colourful fresh produce section, and trays of local eggs in every shade from pale blue to dark speckled brown.
I grab some fresh tortellini from the fridge and throw a bottle of puttanesca sauce and some butter in.
Cheese, a bottle of elderflower cordial, a peanut butter dog treat for Flora…
oh and there’s some fancy-looking chocolate studded with honey-roasted nuts.
My stomach growls in approval. I’m throwing things in with no regard for the price tags when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Gordon’s daughter, isn’t it?”
I spin around to find a woman with grey hair pinned back in a neat bun and a pair of thin, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Mrs Ferguson,” she says, and then after a beat, “Susan.”
She doesn’t exactly look welcoming. In fact, the look she gives me makes me feel like I’m in trouble. I clutch the basket in front of me like a shield.
“Two doors along,” she says while I’m trying to place her.
“Oh.” I nod. “Of course.”
“I wondered when you’d be along. I’m sorry for your loss,” she adds. “Gordon was a good man.”
“I—” I begin and then stop. I don’t quite know what to say, and I feel a gnawing sense of guilt about leaving it so long, for not travelling back from New Zealand for the funeral… for all of it.
“We’re none of us without fault, are we?” She gives a brief smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Are you here long?”
Only long enough to make the place respectable enough to sell, then I’m out of here is what I’m thinking.
“I-I’m not quite sure yet,” is what I say.
“Well, you know where I am.”
“Thank you.” I hold back, feigning an interest in some hand-painted greeting cards so she can head off to the checkout, and I don’t have to carry on an awkward conversation in the queue.
I pick up a pretty postcard with a painting of the harbour.
It seems Benruar’s embraced tourism since the last time I visited, which has to be a good thing.
I can get the cottage halfway respectable with a spruce up, then sell it to whoever wants to take it off my hands.
I add some bin bags and rubber gloves into the basket, along with some fancy essential oil scented cleaning products.
Mrs Ferguson – Susan – has gone by the time I get there, but there are two girls of my age waiting to be served as an older man methodically places his shopping piece by piece on the counter.
I’m trying to look like I’m very interested in the contents of my basket and not eavesdropping, which I am, of course.
“Georgia, shush. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” says the shorter of the two, laughing in mock outrage.
She’s got brown hair cut in a smooth brown bob that curls neatly above her collar, and a muddy pair of those fancy long brown boots that country girls wear.
The tall blonde beside her pulls her hair back and knots it up in an untidy bun, pulling a scrunchie from her wrist as she talks. “Nobody wants two broken wrists, do they? One would be bad enough.”
“Can you imagine?” the first giggles. “I keep thinking about what happens when she needs to pee.”
“Oh god,” says the blonde. “Anyway, it’s put us in a bit of a predicament. It’s not like she can supervise from a garden chair.”
“I can’t see his lordship going for that.” Brown hair rolls her eyes.
“You know what he’s like.”
Both of them groan theatrically in unison.
“Anyway, I’ll tick a box and put this sign up, only to end up hiring someone from the mainland at vast expense.”
The man toddles off with a bag in each hand, and we all move a few steps forward.
“Oh, here we go,” says the blonde girl. “Angela, can I ask you a favour?” She pulls a printed notice out of her bag and slides it across the counter. “Can you stick this up on the noticeboard for me please?”
The woman behind the counter picks it up and rolls her eyes as she reads. “There’s fifteen hundred people on this island. If you have any luck with that advert, you can tell me the winning lottery numbers for this week an all.”
All three of them laugh.
“I know, I know.” The blonde girl gives a low chuckle. “But you know what old Fairfax said, ‘all jobs must be offered to island residents first before they can be advertised on the mainland’.”
I’m still trying not to look as if I’m listening.
“I hardly think that lot up at Glen Mhor are paying attention to that rule, do you?” The woman adjusts the collar of her polo shirt, mouth pursed in disapproval.
“Glen Mhor do whatever the hell they like,” says the brown-haired girl, tucking her smooth bob behind her ears. “Everyone knows that.”
“Aye,” says the checkout operator, “and there’s nobody can stop them, either. How’s your mum doing, Georgia?”
I turn then, hearing an all too familiar ear-splitting howl fill the air.
Both girls turn around, looking in the direction of the sound with puzzled expressions on their faces.
“My dog,” I mutter in explanation, putting the basket down on the ground. “I’ll be back in a moment, sorry.”
“Oh wow, the basset hound?” The blonde puts a hand to her chest and closes her eyes. “Oh my god, she’s so cute.”
The not-very-cute yowling increases in volume.
“And loud,” I say, heading for the door.
Flora’s outside, nose pointed to the sky, singing the song of her people.
“I’ve been gone five minutes.”
She quits howling and looks up at me with reproachful eyes as I squat down and reassure her.
“I’ll be back as soon as I’ve paid, Mrs High Maintenance,” I say, ruffling the top of her head. “I know this is a lot of change for one hound in one day. It’s a lot for me, too, but I’ve got you a peanut butter treat.”
I swear she looks mollified at that.
“Do not move,” I say, pointing at her with a warning finger. “And no more howling.”
“Oh my god she’s so cute,” says the dark-haired girl as they emerge from the shop as I’m going in. “Can we pet her?”
“Please,” I reply, relieved. “She might let me pay for my shopping in peace that way.”
I head back inside, pulling my purse out of my bag.
“Sorry about that,” I say. I put the basket on the counter, and the checkout operator starts loading things into a bag. I’m watching the total rising and rising with a mild sense of panic. I might have been in holiday shopping mode, but I’m supposed to be on a budget.
“That’s thirty-seven pounds exactly.” The woman doesn’t look up, rifling instead in the drawer under the counter.
I tap my phone on the side of the payment box, and it beeps. I pick up the bag and turn to leave, but she puts a hand out to stop me.
“Oops,” she says, “that’s not gone through. Do you want to try again?”
I hold my phone out again, but the machine makes the same sound.
“That’s weird,” I say. “Let me just—”
I open the banking app and look at the screen.
Available Balance: ￡0.00
I feel something in my stomach swooping in panic.
“So sorry,” I say, looking up and trying to look blithe. “Not sure what’s going on.”
“Happens all the time,” she says, taking four pins out of a little plastic box, and putting them down on the counter beside the notice she was given by the girl ahead of me in the queue.
There’s three hundred pounds left in my savings account. I transfer it over, thanking the universe that Benruar seems to be blessed with good mobile service, and try again for a third time.
“Soon be payday,” says the woman with a knowing wink.
I give an embarrassed chuckle and grab my things, thankful there’s nobody else around to see my flaming red cheeks.
Outside, Flora is sitting as if butter wouldn’t melt, looking out over the harbour with an innocent expression on her face.
“Come on,” I say, unhooking her lead so we can head back to the cottage. “It’s lucky I love you.”
I throw the groceries on the kitchen table and hand Flora her peanut butter treat, leaning back against the wall as I log on to the bank again, my fingers shaking.
It can’t be right. It’s probably some kind of glitch in the app.
Available balance: ￡0.00
He can’t have.
I click on the statement and it’s there in black and white.
Withdrawal: ￡5348.07 - April 1 08:31
I close my eyes because the room feels like it’s spinning and breathe a long slow exhale out through my nostrils.
I can hear Poppy’s voice, nagging me to get it sorted. It was on my list of things to do, and I—
“Jack, you absolute fucking arsehole,” I say loudly. Flora pads through from the sitting room, the dog treat hanging from the side of her mouth like a cigar. She looks up at me with a lugubrious expression.
“I’m an idiot,” I tell her. “And Poppy is going to kill me.”
I don’t know how to tell her that despite her reminding me about eight million times, no, I didn’t move my inheritance money out of the joint account I shared with Jack.
I meant to, but I couldn’t remember the login for my own account, and the email thing expired, and then stuff happened, and two months passed, and I guess I thought he’d forgotten.
Or maybe he was biding his time.
Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter now. Because the money that was my inheritance, the few thousands my dad had in the bank, the money that was going to be my cushion until I sold the cottage and could get back on my feet, is gone.
I turn the phone over in my hands. I could call Poppy, but no. I can’t. I know what she’d say.
Come back. Stay here, we can sort it.
I’ve done that already. I stayed with her and Mark for nearly six weeks. I feel like I’ve ping-ponged from one disaster to the next, and almost-marrying Jack only for him to clear me out and leave me jobless and pretty much penniless, is the icing on the bloody cake.
I take out my notebook and grab a pen from the pot on the table. A list.
1. Sort house
2. Sort life
3. Money???
That doesn’t help, so I head upstairs to see what’s waiting for me there.
I open the door to the little room overlooking the sea that used to be mine.
Inside, I find the bed is neatly stripped, and inside the drawers, folded sheets are interleaved with tissue paper.
I catch the same rose scent as the jar that’s sitting downstairs in the hall.
My old books are still there on the bookshelf, along with a pile of the games I used to pester my dad to play – chess, snakes and ladders, and scrabble.
I run a finger along the shelf – barely any dust. You wouldn’t think this place had been sitting empty for two years.
It doesn’t make sense.
Whatever it is, I’m grateful.
I make up the bed, feeling numb and sick, and head back downstairs.
Flora’s made herself at home on the sofa, and I curl up beside her, switching on the TV for company. Outside, a sea wind has picked up, and I hear the first spatters of spring rain against the window.
One step at a time, Tilda, I hear my dad’s voice saying so clear in my head that it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. You can do it, love.