Chapter 15 Tilda
TILDA
I peel off halfway up the lane to the house, telling Finn I’m going to clear up some pots that have been blown over in the storm when really, it’s because I want to gather my thoughts and text Poppy.
How was the storm down there?
Mark is helping next door put their trampoline back where it belongs – it blew over the fence which the girls thought was hysterical. How are you bearing up?
I bite my lip. Ever since school, I’ve shared everything with Poppy.
She’s the closest thing I’ve got to family besides my—well, including my mother.
She hasn’t been in touch since I got to the island, because she’s still on her healing retreat somewhere in Thailand.
But Pop’s called and texted pretty much every day, checking to see how things are going with the job (which I can answer honestly – pretty good, tbh) and the cottage renovation (less said about that the better, and now it’s got water damage to add to my list of things to do).
And yet somehow, I hesitate, because staying at Benruar House feels… loaded.
Not too bad. A bit of a leak in the roof but I’m getting it sorted
I hit send and shove my phone back in my pocket.
Back at the house, I’m relieved to see Malcolm leaning against the wall chatting to Finn.
“I hear you had a spot of bother with the roof.”
I nod, looking out of the window. “Luckily, it’s nice and sunny, so I should be fine to head back to the cottage tonight.”
Finn raises his brows and Malcolm shakes his head.
“That roof’s been threatening trouble for years. We’ve more rain forecast for tonight, so unless you want to wake up soaked in your bed, I’d take Finn up on his offer of a bed for the night again tonight.”
“Generous of you, Malcolm,” says Finn, laughing.
Malcolm shoots him a look.
“You’re no’ going to see the lass without a bed for the night.”
“One might think you’d known me long enough to know that I was joking.” Finn shakes his head in mock dismay. “I’ve spoken to Kenny, he says he’ll try and get there tomorrow and take a look, so until then you and Flora are stuck here. Can you cope?”
“I’ll manage,” I say, making a tortured face at Malcolm.
“Keep you out of mischief,” he says to Finn.
“I’ve no time for mischief. I’ve got plans to make.”
“I might go in and get cleaned up,” I say, brushing down the front of my jumper. It’s covered in pieces of twig and dried leaves and I’m damp and in need of a very long hot shower.
I head upstairs, leaving Flora lying happily in front of the Aga.
“Don’t get used to that,” I warn her. “There’s no way we can ever afford one.”
I return half an hour later, showered and feeling slightly more human.
I peek inside a door – there’s a cosy sitting room with books lining the walls and a huge black woodburning stove in the fireplace.
It’s not lit, but it must be gorgeous there in the middle of winter.
Outside, I can see the clouds are gathering again, and I say a little prayer for my things back at the cottage.
God knows how much it’s going to cost to repair the roof.
I’ve no idea how I’m going to pay for it unless he’ll let me wait until I get the place sold and take the money then.
I follow the scent – warm garlic and something sharp and citrus – into the kitchen, where the door’s propped open. Finn is standing at the counter in a grey T-shirt and jeans, a knife flashing as he chops with expert speed.
All three dogs are stationed in a semi-circle around his bare feet, and Flora doesn’t even give me so much as a glance when I walk in. The traitor.
I clear my throat, and she flicks me a quick glance before returning her focus to Finn.
“If you want to earn your keep,” he says, “you can chop those without setting fire to the place or causing any other devastation.”
I bristle automatically. “Chop? I would have thought you’d rather keep sharp objects out of my reach.”
His mouth quirks, but his gaze stays on the fish he’s cleaning. “I’m living dangerously.”
I roll my eyes but step forward. There’s a pile of muddy carrots on the board by his side and I take them to the sink and scrub them clean before returning and peeling them.
“It’s a safety peeler,” he remarks, and passes me the knife.
“I’ve spent the last two weeks clearing your land with industrial tools,” I say crisply. “I think I can manage a kitchen knife.”
I start chopping, conscious of his eyes on me.
He doesn’t say a word about my technique, even though I’m sure he’s dying to.
But the silence between us feels different – it’s not as prickly.
Almost… companionable. Our elbows brush once, as light as static.
Neither of us moves away. My knife thunks against the wooden chopping board, and he moves about with quiet economy.
The dogs follow whoever looks more likely to drop something edible first.
“I’m assuming you like salmon,” he says, clearing up the worktop after putting the coral-coloured fish in a shallow dish with some herbs and oil of some sort. There’s a pile of bright yellow lemon zest and some red strips of chilli waiting on the wooden board.
“I do.” My stomach growls and I step aside to make space for him to wash up in the sink.
“Good.” He’s rummaging in the cupboard next to the Aga when his phone rings. He wipes his hands and answers, his face softening slightly when he sees the name on the screen.
“Dervla.”
His voice drops and his expression changes, a frown crossing over his features before he pushes a hand into his hair and nods.
“On the road? Yeah, not surprised after last night. Sure, I’ll be there in ten.” He hangs up, and heads for the door, pulling on his heavy work boots. “There’s a seal on the road down by Arranvoy. You can wait here, or—”
I shove the last of the carrots into the metal pot and push the chopping board away. “Can I come?”
He gives a brief nod. “You’re getting a proper taste of island life with all this.”
I grab my coat and run upstairs to find some socks. By the time I get back downstairs he’s in the courtyard, loading a battered crate, gloves, and some tarps into the back of the Land Rover.
“A seal on the road?” I ask as we bump down the drive.
“We need to get this resurfaced,” he says, almost to himself as we slow up at the gateway. “And get these gates painted.”
I wait for my question to register. He turns right and nods.
“Storm will have lifted it. It’s more common than you think especially at this time of year.”
Dark is falling as we drive down to a part of the island I haven’t visited in years.
We rattle over a cattle grid and onto scrubby moorland, then turn down a steep hill that leads to some fields surrounded by dry stone walls, punctuated by the occasional dark shape of a tree.
A pink haze of the sunset hangs over the hills to the west, and a sliver of crescent moon has risen in the strange half-light.
When we pull up, I spot Dervla and Mhairi in their bright coats, and a couple of men – one in a pair of work overalls, another in a dark waterproof coat. They’re carrying torches and the same boards I recognise from the last seal rescue.
“Do you want me to wait here?”
“No point coming all this way to sit in the passenger seat.”
I follow behind him feeling sheepish, but then Dervla spots me and rushes over, surprising me with a kiss on the cheek.
“Lovely to see you again. Seals are like buses,” she adds with a chuckle. “You wait ages for them and then two come along at once.”
I look down the road as she points and spot the seal by the stony verge – a grey shape on the dark tarmac, looking out of place. My heart squeezes in sympathy.
“Right then,” says Finn, and everyone snaps into focused work mode.
I watch as they all position themselves, clearly practised – everyone has a place to be and a job to do.
“Easy now,” says one of the men. “Don’t crowd it. Tom, you hold the crate steady. Finn, you ready?”
He gives a brief nod then passes me the torch he’s been holding and steps forward. I hang back until he glances over his shoulder.
“Shine it here for me, please, Tilda.”
I step closer, holding the beam steady. They close in on the seal, and it thrashes in panic.
My breath catches, but they keep moving in, slow and measured.
With the tarps and some sort of witchcraft they, somehow, manage to ease the animal into the crate.
The door slams shut, and everyone exhales at the same time.
We load it up on the back of the Land Rover and drive down to the beach, bumping across the rocks until we get as close to the shore as possible.
The sky is darkening now, and the first stars are starting to appear.
They slide the crate down the metal ramps and onto the sand, and then on Finn’s signal, they unfasten the crate door and the seal lurches forward, heaving itself across the shingle and rocks before plunging into the water.
A cheer goes up, it’s quiet but full of relief.
I take a breath, trying to gather myself. The air smells of damp tarmac and the sharp seaweed tang from the rocks. My throat feels tight and I swipe at my eyes before anyone notices.
“Gets me every time,” says Dervla in her soft Irish accent. She puts an arm around my shoulders. “You need to get this one home for a hot toddy,” she tells Finn, turning to him, and waggling a finger.
We drive back in silence, Finn one-handed on the steering wheel. The silence feels companionable rather than uncomfortable.
Back at the house the dogs greet us as if we’ve been gone for hours.
“Right then,” Finn says, tossing his gloves and waterproofs on the armchair by the door. “Shall we get washed up and try again with dinner?” He says it as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to be interrupted midway through cooking dinner to rescue a stranded seal.
He lifts one lid of the Aga and slides the pans of vegetables onto it, pouring hot water from the ready kettle at the back of the stove.