Chapter 29 Tilda
TILDA
The cottage isn’t home. I never expected to end up living at Benruar House for as long as I did, and now the post-inspection comedown is hitting, it’s really jarring me that there’s a need to get this place – and my life – sorted.
Two hours later, I slam the boot of the van shut and it clanks as everything shifts inside – a mismatched cargo of cardboard boxes, chipped crockery, and a few broken bits of furniture stacked inside.
Flora’s riding shotgun in her little safety harness as we head to the far side of the village to discover the community skip.
It feels good to do something practical.
The skip site is deserted save for a lanky brown-haired boy of about twenty in a high-vis waistcoat who waves me to a stop as I bump over the cattle grid and into the fenced-off area where two huge metal skips are situated, hung with what looks like a very detailed sign about what goes where.
I do three runs back and forth to the cottage. By the time I’ve dropped off the last bag of recycling it’s late in the afternoon and I feel lighter – not fixed or settled, but at least I’ve done something useful.
On the drive back through the village I pass the little coffee shop where Hattie’s clearing away the tables on the pavement. She waves, calling something through the window which I can’t quite hear over the sound of Flora’s enthusiastic barking at a passing terrier.
By the harbour Dave the boatman’s coiling rope by the rail. He straightens when he spots the van, touching his cap with a grin.
“Inspection went well, I heard!” he shouts.
I give a thumbs up, not wanting to explain that ‘well’ might be optimistic. The island gossip network clearly works faster than my ability to process what happened.
Outside the village shop, Mhairi’s loading bags into her car. She spots me and hurries over.
“Tilda! I’ve been meaning to catch you. We’re doing a beach clean next Saturday and I wondered if you’d like to come and help? The bairns from the school are coming along. Flora would be perfect for the photos.”
“I’m not sure if I’ll—”
“Oh, go on, it’s only a few hours. Susan is doing soup after at the hall.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just pats me on the arm. “I’ll put you down. Lovely to see you, pet.”
She’s gone before I can explain that I might not be here by then. The thought sits heavy in my chest.
Maybe I should have mentioned that I’m leaving.
The tiny estate agent’s office sits on the corner of the harbour street, its window full of photographs of cottages and crofts. I’ve passed it countless times without going in but today – on impulse – I push open the door.
The bell gives a cheerful jangle and the man behind the desk springs up immediately, hand extended as if he’s been expecting me.
“You’ve caught me just before we close. Gordon Maclean’s lass, isn’t it?”
“Matilda,” I say, shaking his hand. “I was hoping you might come and value the cottage.”
The words tumble out before I realise what I’ve said.
His eyes light up. “I’ve been sitting on my hands since I saw the scaffolding go up. As soon as I saw that I thought, it’s only a matter of time. And here we are. When suits?”
“Any time,” I reply, already wanting to back out of the office and the spur of the moment decision. I really need to think these things through.
“Now?” He reaches for his jacket. “If you have half an hour, I can close up and come with you.”
I blink at him, my feet rooted to the spot. “Now?”
“No time like the present,” he says, and he actually rubs his hands together. “I’ll grab the paperwork if you want to meet me back there?”
Back at the cottage, I lead him through the rooms. He makes approving noises at the wooden beams in the ceiling and the slanting light that streams through the kitchen window.
“And look at that view.” He leans on the sill and nods approvingly. “You can’t beat that. Boats bobbing on the harbour, the sea like a millpond. You can eat breakfast and watch the boat come in and still make it to the mainland in time for work.”
“Why would you want to go to the mainland if you have a place like this?”
He gives me an odd look. “Not many jobs here on the island.”
I take him out to the garden where the grass has greened up after a second cut with my dad’s old mower.
“Plenty of promise out here, too. A little terrace, a table and chairs, you could sit at to have dinner in the evening.”
We walk around to the front of the cottage, and I find myself babbling on about the otters I’ve spotted on the rocks, and how you can walk down to the shore and see them at dusk, slipping into the water like shadows.
I explain proudly that the cottage is right on the edge of the village but still feels like you’re in a little world of your own.
As I speak, I feel a wave of something that I realise isn’t grief. It’s love – for the crooked little garden and the salt-stained windows. For the island that had shaped my father and somehow – without me noticing – had sneaked into my bones, too.
The agent scribbles notes, oblivious. “Very desirable property, this one. It’s ideal for a holiday let. What are your plans for the furniture?”
“I-I don’t know.”
He looks up and sizes up the old, tired sofa and the now-empty bookcases. “Don’t worry about that, I can get someone in later in the week. I’ll drop you an email with a time. I’ve got a man with a van. And I suspect I’ll have a viewer coming over at the same time.”
“I was hoping someone from the island would buy it,” I say, my face falling.
“Unlikely. The island way of life is dead in the water.” He takes his phone out and taps something onto the screen. “Don’t worry, I have a feeling I’ll have a buyer for you before very long at all. I need to make some calls when I get back to the office.”
I look out over the harbour where the sun is catching the water in flickering glimmers and chew my lip, frowning before I lift both shoulders in a shrug. I need the money, and beggars can’t be choosers. My phone vibrates and I pull it out.
“Excuse me a moment,” I say, seeing a message from Poppy. I’ve been avoiding her calls since I finally fessed up about Jack taking the money from our joint account.
Just checking in to let you know I’ve been working on something
I frown at the screen and tap a quick reply.
What kind of thing?
There’s a pause, and then a cryptic response.
There’s no point having a lawyer best friend if you can’t pull some strings from time to time…
“Everything alright?” asks the agent.
I nod and slip the phone back into my pocket, my chest tight.
“Okay,” I say, “where do I sign?”
My hand hovers over the paper. This is what I came for, after all. Sell the cottage, move on, start again somewhere else. But the words on the page blur as I see my dad’s garden, the herbs he planted as he made plans, and the view from the window over the water in the morning.
“Miss McLean?”
I blink and he hands me a pen. What else am I going to do? I can’t stay here forever.
Outside the office, I stand on the pavement with the signed paperwork in my hand and watch the ferry chug in from the mainland.
I could get on that boat, leave before I fuck this up, too.
Because that’s what I do, after all. I fuck things up.
I walked out on university, on job after job – even on the gardening, the only thing I actually got right – almost. I left Cambridge with nothing but a vanload of stuff and a broken business.
I’m thirty-four years old and I’ve been running my whole life.
And now here I am, finally, somewhere that feels like it could be home, and I’m doing it again.
But what’s the alternative? Stay on an island where my father reinvented himself while I believed he was a drunk? Work at a distillery for a man who hasn’t asked me to stay? Wait for the moment when Finn realises I’m too much chaos, too much mess, too much everything?
I learned a long time ago that it hurts less if you leave first.
I unhook Flora’s lead, and she leans against my leg. I bend down, burying my face in her soft ears.
“Come on,” I say into her fur, “let’s go home.”
The words are automatic, but the truth is, I still don’t know where home is, and sometimes it feels like I never will.