Chapter 24 Tilda
TILDA
When five o’clock comes, though, I’m called down to the cottage to sign off the work by the roofers. I drive down to the cottage, with Flora sulking beside me on the passenger seat, having been dragged unwillingly away from her spaniel partners in crime.
I sign the papers, but frown in confusion when I see the works already cleared as being paid.
“Sorted, love,” the man says, snapping the lid on his pen. “Finn paid it over the phone earlier.”
I’m left standing with my mouth hanging open as he gets in the van and drives off.
The scaffolding has disappeared as quickly as it was assembled, and the house looks a little bit bare without it, startled, almost. Nettles have crept up again in my absence, and I pull down my sleeve to cover my hand and yank them up by the roots.
I unlock the door and the familiar smell hits me – damp plaster and old woodsmoke from long-ago fires, and a memory of my dad’s tobacco that I can never quite work out if I’m imagining.
“Right,” I tell Flora, who trudges inside, her claws clicking on the floorboards. She heaves a dramatic sigh and flops onto the sofa, looking up at me as if I’ve ruined her day. “You can stay there while I see how the land lies.”
It’s early summer, and every night stretches a little longer.
I can work until I run out of steam. I need to be practical and stop dithering – we’re running out of time, and I can’t keep staying at Benruar indefinitely.
If I get this place sorted, I can move back, paint one room at a time, and reclaim a bit of independence.
Something in my stomach contracts at the thought.
I never thought I’d see the day that I enjoyed being in the same space as Finn Kinnaird.
But whatever he said last night – and today – the reality is that my life isn’t here, and his is.
I can enjoy it for what it is and move on afterwards.
The spare bedroom – my room – seems the best place to start. The bed’s already covered with an old tarp after the storm, and it doesn’t take much to pull the chest of drawers forward away from the wall so I can get to work.
I pour emulsion into the tray and load the roller.
I know Finn would tape everything off and cover it all with plastic sheeting, but this is redecoration, Tilda-style.
The first glide of paint over the walls is satisfying as it covers the faded wallpaper.
The window’s open, and the sounds of the harbour drift upwards as I work – gulls squealing overhead, the splutter of a diesel motor, a burst of laughter as two people walk beneath the window.
Somewhere in the garden a blackbird is singing a love song in the hope of finding a mate.
My mind keeps veering towards last night. My chin’s scraped red from his beard, my mouth feels bruised from kissing and I hear his words over and over – I don’t make mistakes, I make decisions.
But what if I’m the mistake he hasn’t realised yet?
This is the worst timing. The very last thing I need right now is to be turning into a lovesick idiot over a man when there’s a house to sell.
I cut in neatly, unscrewing the cracked switch plate so I can paint underneath it. If I’m leaving, why do I care about clean corners? Because some stupid part of me wants to leave something beautiful behind. Something that says I was here. I mattered.
By seven the bedroom has a full fresh coat, and my stomach is growling.
I wander outside to the front step to take a breather, wiping my hands on an old tea-towel.
Flora leans against my shins, having forgiven me for my transgressions.
The daylight is still bright, and the wind blows a reminder of the coconut smell of gorse on the air.
Midges hover and I swat them away with an arm, glad when the wind blows in from the water and chases them away again.
I head back inside, circling one arm then the other. I’m going to ache everywhere tomorrow, but it feels good to finally make some progress.
I’m halfway through the second wall on my dad’s bedroom when a knock on the door makes me jump. Three brisk raps and I’m clambering over the island of furniture. The door swings open before I get there.
“Brought you some chips,” Susan announces, but somehow, she sounds as if she’s as surprised to find herself here as I am. “The door was on the latch.” She holds up a paper parcel which is steaming and spotted with grease, and there’s another smaller one tucked under her arm.
“And a piece of fish. They were doing a fresh batch, and I had a feeling you’d not have eaten.”
“Susan,” I say, looking at her with surprise. “You are an angel.”
She gives a brisk nod. “I knew you didn’t have any food in, and you came straight from the big house. So, I put two and two together, and when I went past and saw you painting—”
“I am really grateful.” My stomach groans in appreciation.
“If you don’t want them, say and I can heat them up for my dinner tomorrow.”
I shake my head vigorously. “I can’t tell you how hungry I am. Will you join me?”
She gives a little smile and leads me through to the kitchen, opening up packets so the room fills with a vinegary smell that makes my stomach rumble all over again.
I get some cutlery out of the drawer and pull out plates from the larder, sliding one in front of her before I sit down opposite.
“So, you’re getting on at last,” she says after a moment. “It must be nice to be back after being stuck up there with that Kinnaird chap.”
“Finn?” I spear a chip. “His bark is far worse than his bite.” I suppress a smile, thinking of his teeth grazing my neck last night.
“So Malcolm says. He keeps himself to himself, though. Not to his benefit, from what I can see.”
“In what way?” I’m intrigued to hear her thoughts on the distillery.
“Well, that lot,” she hitches a thumb in the general direction of the southern end of the island, “they could do with being taken down a peg or two.”
“I won’t disagree. I went to their big award thing the other day. It doesn’t seem very—” I pause, trying to find the right words. “Island-ish?”
She chuckles. “That’s a very good word for it. Spoken like a true local.”
“After we’ve had the inspection visit, I’ll be thinking about moving on.” The words feel strange in my mouth.
Her eyes dance as she looks at me, mouth pursed in thought. She reminds me of a little bird.
“That’s what people say, until they don’t.” She pats the paper wrapping flat, smoothing it out with her hand before she looks up again. “Benruar has a habit of casting a spell on people.”
We eat in a tiny lull which isn’t quite comfortable, but isn’t quite awkward, either. Somewhere outside a car door slams and a child shrieks with a burst of excited laughter, making us both smile. Susan watches me steadily.
“You know,” she says at last, her voice softer, “there was more to your father than you knew.”
My fork pauses in mid-air, then I put it down in front of me, looking at my paint-splattered hands.
“My mother didn’t—” I say, then stop. I rub my nose, thinking as I had the other day that it had been ages since I’d heard from her, and that I hadn’t exactly been overwhelmed with the urge to reach out to her, either.
“We didn’t talk about him much. We don’t—well, we don’t talk that much, full stop. ”
Her brows lift slightly. “Oh?”
“She wasn’t—she’s not… exactly maternal. She always used to joke she preferred dogs. Only I think we both knew she wasn’t joking. She left for New Zealand when I was eighteen, the first term I went to university.”
“Yes,” Susan says with a gentle nod. “I remember.”
“You do?”
“Your dad kept me up to date. Well, as much as he could.”
I feel a stab of guilt for the perfunctory cards I’d written and the occasional calls I’d made, all out of a sense of duty.
“He was proud of his work at the distillery,” she says, pushing her knife and fork together and standing up suddenly. “Easier, sometimes, to keep a story tidy, but nothing is ever black and white, is it?”
My vision blurs and I look down at the half-eaten plate of food. I take in a breath that tastes of vinegar and salt and look up at her, my hands pressed down on the edge of the table.
“That’s what Malcolm said to me the other day.”
She nods and walks over to the sink, washing her hands as if she lives here, taking a tea-towel from the drawer and drying them before she hangs it on the rail of the oven.
“I’d better get on, anyway.”
I get up to see her out, blinking away a sudden sting of tears.
After she’s gone, I head back upstairs, rolling on paint, my mind working overtime.
I can hear my mother’s voice, sharp in my head, the familiar script I heard from childhood. He was a drinker. He chose whisky over you. I’ve given up everything to do the right thing.
But Susan’s words have unpicked the knot and now the thread won’t pull tight again in my mind. Maybe there were two stories, and I’ve been living with one all these years. I pick up my phone and look at it for a long while before I type a message to my mother.
How are things?
I see the three dots dancing and look at the time. Shit, it’s the middle of the night in New Zealand.
Sorry, did I wake you?
No, I’m up early because we have a golf tournament today. How’s Jack?
She never changes.
I have no idea. We broke up, remember?
Oh yes, sorry. Forgot about that! What are you up to? Keeping busy?
I get better conversation out of the woman at the village shop.
I’m in Benruar, sorting out Dad’s cottage.
There’s a long pause.
Surely you could have sold it without trekking all the way up there.
I can already imagine recounting this conversation with Poppy.
I’ll tell her it’s my mother’s way, and she’ll tell me she has less empathy than a sea anemone.
I watch the dots dancing on my screen and wonder if my mother’s going to prove Poppy wrong by writing something kind and thoughtful about how she imagines it’ll be tough, or have I got anyone with me for moral support or…
Make sure you get a decent price for it. Better go, the coffee is ready.
Okay, Poppy, you win this one. I roll my eyes and put the phone back down on the table.
I paint until the edges of the room go soft with the last of the light and my arms are aching with the effort. I crack the window wider to let some fresh air in, and lean against the sill, breathing in the cool salt air, the breeze lifting the hairs on my forearms.
I head downstairs. Flora’s fast asleep on the sofa, legs twitching as she chases dream-rabbits. Her nose twitches and she lets out a little yelp of excitement, waking herself up.
I came here to sell a cottage and move on with my life, and I tell myself I will. But when I close the door behind me, heading back to Benruar in the pale evening light, the word that sits heavy in my chest isn’t sell.
It’s stay.