Chapter 23 Tilda
TILDA
“Come on, Flora.”
She digs in her paws at the door of the house, eyes on the spaniels as if I’m trying to tear her away from her new pack.
Finn has gone to turn the barley with the boys from the village and Georgia’s working hard on some social media stuff and making calls.
So, I slip away, taking a reluctant Flora, ostensibly to pick up some milk and lunch things from the shop but really because I want to gather my thoughts.
I take the road to town. The rain-sun-rain of the last week has brought everything into full bloom and the hedgerows are frothing white with blossom.
The lambs in the fields are round and brave, leaping around on the spring grass in little gangs while their mothers graze peacefully.
I pull up outside the village in the little parking spot at the viewpoint, looking down over Benruar and the harbour.
The coconut smell of the gorse flowers drifts on the breeze.
The sea is dark blue under a bright and cloudless sky, and in the far distance I can just make out the shape of the mainland on the horizon.
I watch as the ferry slowly turns in the water, the huge shape moving slowly as it manoeuvres itself and then heads back to collect another load of tourists and visitors who’ll make their way to Glen Mhor and overlook our little place and all the hard work we’ve done.
Our place. I realise the words I’ve said a moment later and blow a long breath out. I came here to sell the cottage so I could move on with my life. And now here I am, somehow caught up in someone else’s story, working my fingers to the bone for – what?
What happened last night felt weirdly inevitable, but I’m not sure if it’s something that should happen again.
I need to get the cottage sorted, start making plans, put out feelers and think about where I’m going to go next.
I turn the key and edge out of the parking spot, heading down to the village.
The wind has dropped, but there’s still a salt tang in the air as if the sea hasn’t quite settled.
I catch the smell of woodsmoke from a chimney as I follow Flora down the beach path, letting her stretch her legs.
I pause at the metal rail, watching as she navigates the stone steps with her stumpy little legs.
“Good time to find sea glass on the shore, if you like that sort of thing.”
I turn to find Malcolm standing behind me, one hand on the rail, having appeared out of nowhere.
“Oh,” I say, frowning in confusion. “Is it?”
He nods but there’s a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. “Your dad used to come down here and collect it for Susan after a storm.”
“He did?”
“Aye. Ask her, I’m sure she’ll show you. She’s got a bonny pot of it in the window. Catches the light, she says.”
I scratch my head. “For Susan?” I repeat.
“She was a good friend to your dad. Before and after.”
I cock my head in question.
“Aye, I knew him when he first came to Benruar as well. Two different men, really.” He pushes the cap back slightly, running a finger under the rim at his forehead.
I wait, the breeze blowing the curls around my face.
“Came here in no state,” Malcolm continues, “but after the first few months he made a choice. Got the boat every week to the AA meeting on the mainland and didn’t touch a drop after that.”
“AA?” I blink at him in confusion.
“Aye. Joined the walking group, helped out down at the pier when they were renovating, kept himself to himself. I’ll say this for him – he never judged anyone, no matter what state they were in. Said judgement kept people drinking.”
“But I thought—”
Malcolm’s mouth twitches slightly. “I worked side by side with him for years. He was proud of you, lass.”
I bite down on my lip. “My mother said—”
He nods. “People tell themselves the story that helps them live with it. Your mother needed to believe she’d saved you by keeping you away. Maybe she did, at the time.”
I take a long breath in, looking out at the dark blue of the horizon.
“But the man I knew hadn’t touched whisky in near fifteen years. Spent his evenings in the cottage, books everywhere, listening to his jazz CDs.”
I smile at that.
“And doing the garden, of course. Said he wanted to keep it nice, just in case.”
My eyes sting and I drop my head, willing myself not to cry.
“I thought he stopped caring. That he chose the drink over me.”
Malcolm shakes his head slowly. “Never said a bad word against your mother. He hoped one day you’d come back north and see the place through his eyes.”
I look up at the storm-washed sky. The same light my dad had seen every day. The same ever-changing sea. All those years I carried the story around like a scar and it wasn’t even true. I swipe at my eyes.
Malcolm gives a brisk nod, clearly embarrassed by my tears. “Aye, well, he’d be glad you’re here now.”
I’ve timed it perfectly – the baker has just arrived at the shop with her delivery of warm bread and trays of chocolate brownies.
I inhale the smell of fresh baking and my stomach growls despite the toast I ate earlier.
I wander the now-familiar shelves, collecting some bits and pieces for lunch as well as bread and cakes.
Behind me in the queue, two women stand chatting, their voices too loud for me to ignore. I try and look as if I’m very interested in the contents of my basket, but I can’t help overhearing.
“That’ll be another coachload for Glen Mhor. Tom’s away off on the boat to pick them up.”
“Aye, I heard their big do last night was a hit. My niece Kira was working as a waitress.”
“She’s never old enough for that?”
“Sixteen last month. It’s a good little job, gives her a bit of pocket money.”
“I heard they weren’t hiring on the island.”
“Aye, they’re bringing in people from the mainland for the big jobs. They need people that know what they’re doing.”
She sounds like she’s peddling the party line, as if she’s drunk the whole glass of Glen Mhor Kool-Aid and gone back for more.
“Aye, well, the island’s no’ exactly overflowing with talent, is it?”
They both laugh.
“Well, there’s Malcolm up at Benruar,” one says, and I freeze, my hand gripping the wicker handle of the basket.
“He knows everything there is to know. But he’s getting on a bit.
And there’s Lord Kinnaird” – I hear the sarcastic emphasis on the name – “but they’re not exactly welcoming up there, are they?
“No’ when you compare it to Glen Mhor. They’re the whole package.”
“Times change,” says the other woman and they both laugh.
“Aye, that Fairfax had a good heart, right enough. But times change. Tom says that Benruar is dead in the water. They can’t compete with Glen Mhor.”
“Morning,” says the girl behind the counter, looking up at me with a smile.
The words are stuck in my head as I force my feet to move, set the basket down on the counter, and watch as she puts everything through the till and bags it up for me.
I paste on a polite smile, pay, and step out into the bright spring air.
A white fishing boat is chugging out of the harbour, a man in a dark sweater and cap standing at the tiller. My cheeks are burning. Dead in the water.
The words churn inside me as I unhook Flora’s leash from the ring outside the door. Even the islanders feel that way. I feel a surge of fury at the injustice of it all. I’m not going to let that taffeta-wrapped nightmare get her way. Jennifer Ross has us to reckon with.
I pause at the now-painted gates, admiring the freshly painted sign.
Welcome to Benruar Distillery, it proclaims. It’s not underlit and flashy like the Glen Mhor one, but it looks warm and inviting.
The wisteria hangs around the gate and now the driveway’s been topped up with gravel by the farmer, we can drive down towards the house without bumping up and down over potholes.
The words are still buzzing around my head like wasps in a jar. I’ll give her dead in the bloody water.
I pull up and let Flora out of the passenger door, grabbing the shopping from the back seat and marching into the kitchen.
Jess and Poll greet Flora as if she’s been gone for months, circling and sniffing her with delight as she stands four square with her feet planted on the stone floor, her tail whipping back and forth in delighted wags.
Georgia gives a wave, she’s got the phone pressed to her ear and points at it, eyes wide as she nods.
“Yes, absolutely,” she says, scribbling something in her notebook.
Finn’s nowhere to be seen, probably still out with Malcolm. My stomach flips as I have a flashback to last night and press my thighs together, closing my eyes at the memory of Finn standing there naked in front of me.
“I don’t make mistakes,” he’d said. God, I need to call Poppy and have a debrief. Of all the times for her to go on holiday. Normally, I’d be texting furiously, but she and Mark are having a child-free break and the last thing she needs is me angsting down the phone about my bad decisions.
I’m not even sure it was a bad decision.
I stack the milk and the rest of the shopping in the fridge, trying to keep busy while Georgia finishes her call, but the fizz of irritation won’t settle.
As soon as she hangs up it bursts out of me.
“Bloody women in the shop,” I say, folding my arms. “I don’t know who they were, but they were cheerfully discussing the fact that Benruar is pretty much over, and Glen Mhor is the future.”
“Over my dead body,” Georgia says, picking up the notebook and waggling it at me. “I have plans. I’ve asked Finn if we can have a strategy meeting at four.”
“Okay, I’m in.” I glance up at the clock. “But I need to go and make some inroads in the greenhouse first. I’ll see you later.”
The greenhouse is warm, and smells of fresh compost and sunshine. Condensation still gathers in the corners of the windows by the wooden staging, dripping water down onto my newly planted seedlings.
I’m halfway through filling a pot with compost for a little rosemary bush I’ve rescued when the door creaks open behind me.