Chapter 12 Finn
FINN
The smell of the oncoming storm crackles in the air like static.
It’s threatened all of Saturday, and by late afternoon the air is pewter grey, and the wind is howling down the passageway between the stillhouse and the stockrooms. Fairfax’s old brass barometer has dropped like a stone – one of those steady drops means business.
I’ve done the rounds twice, circling round to tick everything off, not rushing but being careful and methodical, as always.
An image of Tilda’s face, her bright eyes sparkling as she teases me, pops into my head, unbidden – those bright hazel eyes sparkling as she teases me about being a control freak, the way the ready smile curves across her open face.
The look on her face when our fingers brushed the other day.
I close it down, hard. This is not the time.
The pagoda vents are lashed, the warehouse doors barred. All the tarps have been re-tensioned, so they stop flapping.
Georgia appears from nowhere, sticking her head around the stillhouse door as I’m checking the spirit safe.
“What are you doing here?”
“Charming.” She grins. “I’m on my way back from the farm shop. They’ve closed early because of the forecast. Coastguards pinged the WhatsApp. Did you see it?”
I’ve been too busy to be checking my phone, but I’ve lived here long enough to know when a storm means business.
“Gusts up to sixty by midnight. You all battened down?”
“Twice.” I close the brass and wipe a fingertip along the warm window of the safe and then turn as the dogs bark a warning.
Georgia peers out of the window. “Did you know Tilda was here?”
“For fucks sake.” I blow out an impatient breath and cross over, looking over Georgia’s shoulder. “What is she doing up here?”
Georgia stands on tiptoe and cranes her neck, looking up toward the courtyard. “She’s got a roll of twine. I bet she’s trying to tie down the planters before the photographs are taken on Monday.”
“Home,” I say to Georgia, pointing up toward the courtyard. “I’ll sort this.”
Georgia pulls her hood up around her face, clutching it as she runs up the hill as the first fat drops of rain land. I secure the door and head up toward the house where the passageway between the stables is like a wind tunnel.
Tilda’s in the middle of it, dark curls loose from their clip, trying to wrestle a whisky barrel planter into a more sheltered corner.
“Leave it,” I call over the wind. “It’s not going anywhere.”
“I don’t want my plant babies blowing away in the wind.” Her cheeks are scalded pink with the cold as wild curls whip around her face. She’s soaked through already, her jumper clinging to her curves in a way that makes me look away quickly. Even bedraggled and stubborn in a storm, she’s—
I stop myself.
“Wait there.”
I head back to the warehouse and find a couple of the smaller tarps and some bungee ropes.
“We can tie this over the top and it’ll shelter them from the worst of it,” I explain, passing her one end of the rope.
A gust of wind hits hard enough to send a broom skittering across the cobbles.
Tilda grabs for it, fails, and lurches to one side.
I reach out reflexively to right her, my hands closing on her arms. She’s solid under my grip, warm despite the bitter cold of the rain.
For a second, we’re close enough that I can see the gold flecks in the green of her eyes and count the freckles across her nose.
“Sorry,” she says, pushing the hair back from her face, but it blows straight back.
I let go faster than I should.
“Inside,” I say, my voice rough as I secure the final edge of the tarp under the bungee. “It’s not safe to be out in this.”
She shoots me a defiant look. “I’ve barely started. I need to fix the wicker trellis I put in for the sweet peas.”
“It’ll wait.”
Lightning forks over the moor and a split-second later thunder cracks loud enough to make her jump.
She flinches, and for a moment the defiance drops, and she looks younger and vulnerable.
The dogs dart across to the doorway of the house.
Jess paws at the door, her claws scraping on the freshly painted wood.
Another flash of lightning. She flinches again and something in my chest contracts painfully. Then her chin tips up in the defiant expression I’ve come to recognise – half defiance, half challenge – and I have the most inappropriate urge to pull her inside and keep her safe.
“I’m going home.”
I point towards the yard gate. “Take the fork at Kirranmuir and go into the village that way. If the burn breaks the road’ll flood at the crossing.”
“I’ll be fine,” she snaps, and stomps off towards her car, soaked to the skin by the time she reaches the door. She opens it and the wind whips it out of her hand almost immediately.
I hesitate for a second and she climbs inside, pulling the door closed and heading out of the courtyard, wet gravel spitting out from under the spin of her wheels.
I swear under my breath and get back to work.
There’s always more to secure when the weathers like this – stray lids, loose lines, and the metal sign that’s been swinging drunkenly on the wall for months.
Any one of them could cause damage we can ill afford and not only from a financial point of view.
With Jennifer on the warpath, the last thing we need is windows patched up with scraps of plywood and promises of repairs that take twice as long here on the island.
By the time I make it down to the mash house, Malcolm’s already there in a bright yellow oilskin, the cap pulled low over his craggy face.
“A right hoolie,” he says, looking delighted. He’s a man who loves the challenge of a storm because it gives him the chance to prove his weatherproofing is up to scratch.
“You’re not wrong,” I say, running a quick eye along the ventilation louvers. “Did you button the south shutter on the warehouse?”
“Aye.” He gives a brief nod. “I see the lass came up to make sure things were squared away. That’s Gordon’s girl, alright.”
The wind seems to drop away to nothing for a split second.
“What?”
“I thought you knew she was his lass.” His white brows arch upward before he speaks. “She’s the image of him about the eyes. You’ll not remember, she used to come up here to Benruar sometimes in the summer holidays, although that was before you—”
“MacLean.” I press two fingers between my brows. “I didn’t register.”
Gordon’s daughter. Christ. How did I not see it? That stubborn independence, the way she squares her shoulders before an argument, the flash in her eyes when she’s riled. It’s all him.
And now she’s staying in his cottage, trying to make it work with nothing but determination and bloody-mindedness, like he would have.
Just like I did, when I came here.
“Gordon would have been proud,” Malcolm says quietly, watching my face. “The way she’s tackled that garden. He always said it needed someone with vision and grit.”
My throat tightens as I nod, wordlessly.
I owe Gordon more than I could ever repay. Which means I owe Tilda, too.
“Mind the burn if you’re going into town,” says Malcolm, giving me a sideways look. “The flooding’s something chronic down at the—”
I raise a hand to stop him. “I’ve work to do here.”
It’s fifteen minutes before I cave and get the keys to the Land Rover. The rain’s horizontal as I head down the rutted track towards the road, the dogs on the back seat braced like sailors. The wipers smear water across the windscreen, making little impact.
Water pours down the side of the road down to the village, tumbling down the rocks and forming streams that cross the tarmac. The village is deserted, only the glow of lights in windows, evidence anyone is present.
Harbour Approach is a strip of black glass. Waves crash against the sea wall, blowing up into spray that rises ten feet over the metal railing. The fishing boats in the harbour lurch up and down on the waves like corks.
The lights in the window of Harbour View Cottage flicker as I approach. I knock but there’s no response, so I batter hard on the door with my fist.
Tilda opens the door, her wet hair matted, and clinging to her scalp. Her cheeks are bright pink. Her too-big jumper is slipping off one shoulder, and I have to drag my gaze away from the soft curve of her pale skin.
“What is it?”
“Oh nothing,” I say, as a stream of water trickles down the back of my neck from the leaking gutter overhead. “Just thought I’d pop by.”
She looks at me and blinks in confusion.
“One might argue that it would be an idea to invite me in.”
“Oh.” She steps back and waves her arm distractedly. “Sorry. Been dealing with a bit of a leak.”
I walk inside and the lights flicker again.
“Do you need a hand?”
“Maybe?” She rubs her forehead. “I’ll get some more saucepans.”
A moment later she returns from the kitchen with a stack of pots and pans, handing them to me and then returning a moment later with a couple more.
“If you don’t mind,” she says, gesturing to the staircase, “we’ve got a bit of a leak.”
I follow her up the stairs.
“That might be an understatement,” she adds, reaching down to pat a damp looking Flora, who is standing guard at the top of the stairs. The basset hound looks at me with such a doleful expression that I bark out an unguarded laugh.
“She’s not impressed,” Tilda says, looking up at me through damp lashes. “But we’re fine, honestly.”
There’s another crack of thunder overhead and then silence, punctuated by the steady plopping of water landing in an assortment of receptacles all over the carpet.
“I could do with another one of those tarps for the bed,” she says, putting one of the saucepans down on top of a damp circle on the duvet. The lights flicker for a third time.
“You’re not staying here,” I say, putting saucepans down underneath a dark seam on the bedroom ceiling. “Where’s your mains switch?”
“Cupboard under the stairs. Why? I need electricity, I can’t—”