Chapter 8 Tilda
TILDA
I’m almost at the end of my first week working at Benruar, and Flora and I have started a little morning ritual.
The spring mornings bring an early sunrise here which shines in through the curtains of the bedroom window, waking me at dawn.
After coffee in bed, we get up and dressed and head out for a walk along the shoreline, when there’s nobody else around – nobody but the wildlife, that is.
In the few days we’ve been doing it we’ve spotted a huge red deer stag standing up on the crags above the stony beach, antlers outlined in silhouette as it stares down at us, silent and unmoving for a long moment before it turned and bounded away.
We’ve sat on the little wooden bench and played “rock or seal” trying to guess, and almost always getting it wrong, as what looked like an immovable object suddenly slips out of view, only to reappear a few metres away as if teasing us.
And this morning I don’t know whether Flora or I was more surprised to see a sleek otter dancing across the seaweed covered rocks and down to the shore.
A haze of sea mist still hangs in the air, and the air smells of seaweed and of…
something I can’t explain. It’s cleaner than any air I’ve breathed before, and the silence is huge and all encompassing.
I feel like I’m on the edge of the world and all the problems and politics that I’ve read about on my phone are a million miles away.
In the distance a little fishing boat chugs out to sea and a gull wheels overhead, letting out a sharp call that makes Flora look up in surprise.
The waves slap gently on the stony sand.
Ahead, a bumblebee buzzes around a clump of pink clover and I tread carefully, skirting the close-cropped grass which edges the shoreline.
On the other side of the island the croft houses sit overlooking the machair, which will soon be a carpet of wildflowers that draws visitors from all over the world.
I feel a sudden jab of something in my chest – regret, maybe?
– and I can see why my dad fell in love with this place.
I always thought what he did was about running away, but I never thought about what he might have been running to.
I turn to head back to the cottage and pick up my things. I’ve been careful to arrive early and leave exactly on time, because after the hose incident I don’t want to step out of line. My stomach contracts when I think about it.
Flora and I head back up the lane from the beach, her underside damp and sandy from wading into the water in pursuit of a piece of seaweed floating in the water.
As we approach the cottage, I spot Susan in a smart coat with a leather bag hooked over her arm. She looks up at me with a small smile and a nod of greeting. She smells of Elnett hairspray and she’s wearing a bright splash of pink lipstick.
“Your father always said the island’s best before anyone else is awake. Nice to see you out and about at this time of day.”
I feel a jab of discomfort in my chest. “Did he?” I manage after a moment.
She nods. “I’m sure he’d be glad to see you proving him right.”
I bite down on my lip, not quite sure how to take that or what to say.
“I’d better—” I say motioning to Flora, who has reached the end of her lead and is pulling in the direction of the cottage door.
“Of course. Anyway, I’m off to catch the early boat to the mainland,” she says, then a second later, “you might want to come in for a cup of tea some time.”
“Thanks,” I say and give a wave as Flora pulls, the lead tightening against my fingers.
“Have a nice time on the mainland,” I add but Susan has already turned and is bustling down the street towards the harbour.
In the distance the white shape of the ferry is turning, ready to collect the morning passengers.
I head into the cottage and remember that I need some lunch things.
“You wait here,” I tell Flora, grabbing my purse.
A woman with red hair tied back in a loose plait is unloading fresh loaves of bread from the back of a people carrier when I get to the shop. Inside, it’s busy already with a little gaggle of villagers waiting impatiently for the sourdough delivery.
“How’s it going?” The man from the ferry gives me a wink as he joins me in the queue. “Back for good, are you? You didn’t mention you were Gordon’s lassie.”
I open my mouth, not sure which question to answer first.
“And you’re doing the garden up at Benruar.”
I nod. “Just for the—”
“You need a wee busman’s holiday to get your dad’s garden spruced up a bit. He was going great guns on it until he—” he pauses, face solemn. “Aye, well, anyway. I’m sure he’d be pleased to know you made it here in the end.”
I feel a horrible weight of guilt settle in my stomach and try and force my face into a polite smile. So much for my plan to fly under the radar. Now everyone knows I’m Gordon MacLean’s daughter.
I’m heading back to the cottage when my phone pings with a message.
I hope you’ve had more sleep than I have. Still waiting for the video tour of the cottage, btw…
I stare at the message, standing in the middle of the pavement with a bag of shopping in one hand.
The image I suspect Poppy has in her head – a sweet little island cottage, a fire crackling in the grate, and me tucked up on the old sofa with a pile of books and some candles burning on the mantelpiece – could not be further from reality.
The truth is that there’s still a suitcase yawning across my bedroom floor, half my clothes are lying in a heap, and the coloured pencils are still strewn on the coffee table.
I could tell her the truth, that by the time I’ve got back from work, so determined to prove myself worthy and create something that will make a lasting impact on my gardening CV, I’m completely exhausted.
I haven’t got the energy to get anything organised.
I need to make another list, or set a timer, or something.
Incoming, I promise. I’ll get it done at the weekend.
There. I’ve given myself a deadline. That’ll make it happen.
The truth is it’s easier to throw myself into work. Easier to pull strings of ivy off the walls and shovel compost than it is to open the drawers where my dad’s neatly folded sweaters are waiting for me to work out what to do with them.
My phone pings once more – Poppy, again.
I can’t wait. I bet it’s gorgeous.
I shove my phone back in my pocket without typing a reply.