Chapter Thirteen
Iris sat in her usual wicker chair in the conservatory, a half-drunk mug of tea cooling in her hands.
She couldn’t help but chuckle when she thought about Flora and Brodie and their initial interactions with each other.
She knew Flora was still wary of Brodie and the work he was promising.
In the short time she had known him, Brodie had always been a quiet and unassuming young man who was used to immersing himself in work without any distractions.
Yet now Flora was here as a huge one. Iris could tell there was a spark between them even though they maybe weren’t yet aware of it.
She sensed it from the way that Flora fiddled with her hair and looked away when he was talking to her.
She could tell from the way Brodie snatched glances at her when he thought nobody was watching.
Iris had noticed the way his gaze would drift to Flora and how he listened intently to every word she said.
‘Maybe they’ll fall in love,’ she said aloud, realising that Sidney had settled himself next to her on the seat.
‘Maybe they’ll fall in love,’ said Scrumpy who fluttered over to sit on her lap. ‘I love you.’
Iris giggled. She always did love a good romance and it made her think about Frank.
Meeting him might have been a long time ago but she would never forget the way being with him made her feel.
Iris closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her cheeks as she thought about their first date in Inverness all those years ago.
They had gone to the cinema, or the pictures as it was then called, and she had been so nervous she had almost been sick.
She wore her best dress, a red one that she had made herself, and borrowed her mother’s navy handbag.
Her hands were trembling as she applied a light dab of pink lipstick that night.
But when Frank had collected her from her parents’ house, he immediately put her at ease by cracking a few jokes and clasping her hand tightly.
Even though her skin tingled at his touch, she felt safe.
It was as though they belonged together and that was something she had always cherished. She had never let his hand go.
How she missed him. Iris didn’t think she would ever get used to him not being around.
Frank had died ten years ago after suffering a heart attack, but his spirit was very much here with her in this old boathouse where they had spent most of their married life, having moved from Inverness, with Frank’s work, shortly after their marriage.
Their memories were an integral part of the cottage.
They were here in the conservatory where they had read the newspapers together and she helped him with the crosswords.
They were part of the floorboards that they’d spent days sanding and varnishing together when money was tight and they’d to do as much as they could themselves; and their memories were tucked into each of the rooms. Iris couldn’t go into the study without thinking of Frank and his love of books.
In the lounge she could still hear him tinkling on the old, rickety out-of-tune piano that sat in the corner.
She saw him in the garden, playing football with their son James, when he was little, and watering the vegetables in the patch he’d created that had become so overgrown in recent years.
Even now as she sat here, she could hear him call from the kitchen to let her know that he’d made a pot of tea.
It was a place that they had loved and the home that they had shared together. Their little family of three.
Iris knew she was lucky to have had that kind of love with Frank and she hoped it was something her beloved Flora would also experience.
Love wasn’t guaranteed for anyone. It was a gift to be treasured.
Then she pictured her own mother, who used to always stand at the window and stare out, watching and waiting.
It was only later that Iris understood that her mother was watching and waiting for someone who would never come back.
Sighing, she opened her eyes and saw Scrumpy had now moved onto her lap next to Sidney and was looking up at her.
‘Are you okay?’
She lightly stroked his feathers. ‘I’m okay, thanks.’
‘Maybe they’ll fall in love,’ said Scrumpy.
‘Sssh. You will get me into a whole heap of trouble if you say that out loud.’
‘Sssh,’ he repeated back. ‘Sssh.’