Chapter 12
Chapter 12
S o did you tell him?”
Morag was lying on Gregor’s bed trying to pretend there wasn’t also a goat in the room, which wasn’t as easy as you might think.
“Yes.”
“But did you tell him why?”
Morag had not, in fact, told her grandfather the two reasons that she was moving out—one, his housekeeper was evil; and two, she wanted to bring her boyfriend over and have sex with him quite a lot. She’d just said it was something she wanted to do and Ranald, being of an understanding turn of mind, had guessed the second reason, if not the first, and given her his immediate blessing. Peigi had practically stood on the doorstep grinning and watching her leave, as if she’d won, and Morag was trying to be sanguine about it. She’d dumped her stuff in the flat, said hi to Gertie, who it seemed spent a lot of time in her room. After years of living in a very overcrowded, stuffed little house she wanted absolutely nothing on view and was therefore spectacularly tidy—which suited neat-minded Morag down to the ground. Gertie was mostly on the phone to her mum or the GP, checking Elspeth was okay, but Morag didn’t know that.
On Inchborn, where the early cool light was hitting the fresh sprouting hills full of daffodils, it had been a truly lovely weekend. Gregor was the kind of person who lost himself. He had exceptional powers of concentration—which was useful, as he was an ornithologist and ethnobiologist, charged with preserving and monitoring the wildlife on Inchborn, a tiny isolated island in the middle of the sea, dominated by its ruined abbey. When Gregor was busy doing something, he took his time, got totally immersed in the flow of it and the hours would fly by. This made him rather astonishingly good in bed, which you would not necessarily guess by looking at him, and a sensational cook, which you probably would.
Morag got up, put the goat out, and moved to the dilapidated sofa in the sitting room in front of the fire. It was proving to be an unusually cold spring but she didn’t actually mind, as she was wearing four jumpers and the fire was making the room cozy enough to take one of them off. Plus the view beyond the window of the sitting room was of the small garden, fiercely guarded by Karen the chicken, who roamed it pecking furiously at things, and her best friend, Barbara the goat, who had always rather liked Morag until Morag had more or less started spending all her time there holding hands with Gregor, and worse. Barbara was now furiously jealous and would instantly boot Morag’s hand out of Gregor’s if she saw them together. Morag absolutely understood the instinct, as she would feel the same if she ever saw another female with her hand in Gregor’s, but she found it easy to forget and sometimes had to move incredibly fast if they rounded a corner and Barbara was there. Right now she had moved back, and had her head ominously close to the window, eyeing them both up.
“Yeah... Erno’s picking me up. That goat wants to kill me,” said Morag.
Gregor smiled ruefully.
“Now you’re meant to say don’t be stupid, goats never kill anyone,” she went on.
“Yeah, well...”
“She used to love me!”
“She’s a very nice goat.”
“Well, she’s not now,” said Morag. “She’s following me around with her devil eyes.”
“She’s just jealous,” Gregor reminded her.
“Animals can’t feel jealousy!”
“ You’re an animal. Of course they do. Have you ever petted one dog and not another?”
“Yes, but... I mean, bees don’t get jealous of other bees, do they? The ones that make, like, yellower honey and stuff.”
“It’s entirely possible that they do,” said Gregor. Morag knew everything there was to know about mechanical engines, how to fix cars, boats, planes, anything you wanted. She was brilliant with a wrench or a welding iron and had made numerous improvements to his tumbledown house. She was, however, absolutely ignorant of the natural world, particularly for someone born in the Highlands of Scotland. “Can I let Barbara back in? Let her get used to you.”
“No! She smells and she just wants to cuddle up to you on the sofa, and then you smell.”
“Well, only of goat. What’s wrong with that?”
Morag smiled at him benevolently. “I must,” she said, “really love you quite a lot.”
He looked up from where he’d been sketching some apparently unusually large daisies he’d found off the northernmost cliff face.
“Yeah?” he said, looking straight at her in a way that Morag found it necessary to put the book down immediately. It was only some time afterward that he remembered to ask about her new housemate.
Morag wrinkled her nose. “Uh,” she said. “I hope she’s going to be okay. I don’t suppose I’m going to be there very much. She’s really quiet.”
Gregor frowned briefly, tracing a finger on her shoulder, still pink as they lay in front of the fire.
“Maybe she’s scared of you.”
Morag snorted. “Don’t be daft.”
“I’ve seen you strip a tractor,” said Gregor.
“How’s that scary?”
“Actually I found it a truly tremendous turn-on,” he admitted. “But you are quite intimidating.”
“I am not!” said Morag, then, seeing his face, sighed. “Am I?”
“You’re competent,” said Gregor. “That shouldn’t be seen as threatening in this world, in this day and age. But people are weird.”
“But she knew me at school,” chipped in Morag. “They used to call me Morag the Gro-bag!”
Gregor laughed. “That’s really stupid.”
“It was . And horrible. I was shy.”
“What did they call Gertie?”
“Moony Mooney. It didn’t really stick, but that’s what she was like.”
“Your school sounds awful.”
“Huh,” said Morag.
“What did they call Nalitha?”
“They didn’t. All the boys were in love with her and all the girls wanted her hair or were a bit scared of her .”
Gregor smiled.
“Anyway, Gertie’s never even been in a plane.”
“Really?”
“Really! I know!”
“Well, you should fix that then. Have you found anyone else for Nalitha’s maternity cover yet?”
“No. And Gertie doesn’t want to do it.”
“Maybe after a quick spin in Dolly she will?”
“And maybe she really really won’t.”
“Well, have you even had any more applicants?”
“Yes,” said Morag. “Two who didn’t turn up to the interview because they weren’t feeling it and one was Extinction Rebellion. Took ages to clean off the graffiti.”
Gregor smiled. “You know,” he said. “There are introverts in this world...”
Morag looked at his dear face. “You think I should be more encouraging?”
Gregor shrugged, as Barbara butted the window frame.
“Oh, she really wants in. Can I have her in the kitchen whilst I’m cooking?”
“Are you cooking goat?”
“Mor!”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Okay, just wash your hands.”
A square of bright sunlight hit the sofa. Sunshine, the fire, a good book, a Saturday afternoon on an island that had no internet, no shops, no other people, no distractions and nothing to do except take long walks—which they had already done that morning—eat good food, watch the sun set or rise depending on which way you were facing, with coffee or wine—depending on which end of the day it was—make love, and try and read through the thousand-odd old books that lined the old house. It was very, very hard not to be happy there; the only downside—that she ever had to leave.