Chapter 3
THREE
It took a good five hours to drive to Skye from Edinburgh.
She’d landed in Scotland in the early afternoon on a sunny May day.
She’d forgotten what a beautiful drive it was.
For the last few hours of the trip, she followed the edge of Loch Lomond and then Loch Ness before following the road through the majestic mountains of Glencoe.
Loch Lomond went on for so long that it felt like driving next to the sea, banked with deep forests of pine and oak.
For three solid hours, everything she drove through was picture-postcard perfect: long stretches of glittering, glassy lochs that mirrored the bright blue sky and the green woodlands above them, so much so that it looked like there was a reversed, fairy world contained in the water.
The weather was warm yet crisp; it was a perfect day for the drive.
Yet, trepidation grew in Sorrel the closer that she got to the island she had grown up on.
She’d stopped for a sandwich and a coffee on the way at a quirky roadside café that she remembered stopping at as a child on numerous family trips.
They were good memories: Sorrel had stood in line at the old-fashioned café, looking at the plates in the glass counter in front of her, remembering the way that she and her sisters used to gaze at the slices of cake displayed there when they were young, and discussing which one they would have if they were allowed.
She remembered fantasising about having a slice of cake all to herself, and not having to share it; she remembered being put in charge of her younger sisters because she was the oldest, having to watch them in the gift shop and making sure no one accidentally put a pencil in their pocket and didn’t pay for it, or a fridge magnet or a keyring.
When her younger sisters messed up, it was always her fault.
She had been the good big sister, which made her parents’ betrayal all the more hurtful.
She had hurried her sandwich, and driven off from the roadside café with a knot in her stomach.
As she drove over Loch Alsh and over the scenic Skye Bridge that joined the island with the mainland, the sun had begun to set.
The knot in her stomach tightened as she made the transition from one to the other.
And as if it had been waiting for her, a rain cloud emptied itself on her car, suddenly and forcefully, as she reached the island.
Perfect, she thought. Ten years away. What a welcome home.
Sudden rain showers or changes in the weather weren’t unusual on Skye.
The island had its own unpredictable weather system, though rain was more or less a constant; the fact that Skye was frequently windy meant that the wind would blow weather around quickly, and if you were enjoying a sunny day one moment, there might be a sudden black cloud the next.
Still, it was never as cold as some of the more northerly reaches of Scotland, which Sorrel had always been grateful for.
In London, she’d missed the wide-open horizons of the island.
She’d missed the clean air, the sudden storms and the many, many gurgling waterfalls, craggy mountains and roaming sheep.
She’d missed the way that Skye didn’t house any big corporate shops or restaurant chains: everything was local and independent.
She’d missed knowing who everyone was, and them knowing her.
Driving onto the island, she watched as the road unfurled in front of her.
Some things were familiar; on the right as she drove along the main road, there had always been a weird statue of a horse wearing sunglasses standing in a field, at the edge of someone’s land.
Just behind it, there was a converted Gulfstream RV trailer, which was advertised to tourists as a place to stay.
Despite her trepidation at getting closer to home, Sorrel couldn’t help smiling to see it.
The horse possessed the slightly anarchic spirit of Skye; a place so far north – and still so fiercely independent – that the people who settled here were people who valued individuality, and could often be a little quirky.
Sorrel had missed the quirkiness. And there were other things that she’d missed. Other people.
A little further along the road, Sorrel passed a few new restaurants and shops she didn’t remember being there before.
One boasted speciality meats; one was a bakery.
She drove on, watching as the landscape opened up around her.
Cottages sat alongside the road here and there – sometimes alone, sometimes in little groups.
Sometimes, bigger farmhouses sat off the road, but as often as not, there were large stretches of moor with nothing on them apart from the wide sky.
More and more, she started seeing waterfalls everywhere: small ones, huge ones, cascading down the rocky, grassy mountains that towered above the road.
Until she’d left Skye, Sorrel hadn’t even thought that waterfalls were such a special feature.
She hadn’t thought that they weren’t everywhere else.
But they weren’t. Not at all. It had been so long since she’d seen one that she felt herself welling up.
She wound down her window and took in a deep breath of air: it felt like the first time she had taken a proper breath all day.
But there were some things that she hadn’t missed when she was away. Some things that ran too deep to heal.
The betrayal had come out of nowhere, and it had made it impossible for Sorrel to stay on Skye, the only home she had ever known. It had felt as though she’d had her heart cut out.
As she turned off the engine of her car in the small car park at the Balhennie Inn, Sorrel took another deep breath. She was home. But did she really want to be?
She had cut all ties to her family ten years ago. She had never intended to come back, but two life-altering things had happened that day. It was still the same day, she reminded herself, even though it felt like several days since she’d thrown Simon’s phone at the wall and left the house.
But she’d also come because Bluebell had begged her to.
Sorrel had never replied to her sister’s emails, but that hadn’t deterred her most resourceful sibling, who was ten years younger than her and possessed all the determination of a bull terrier. Bluebell continued to write to Sorrel, every month after she left, for ten years.
Sorrel had read every one of the emails: over a hundred of them, chronicling the ups and downs of the Balhennie clan.
She had steadfastly resisted replying, though she had wanted to.
But when the last one had arrived, she could read the despair in her sister’s words.
I wouldn’t ask, but we’re desperate. I don’t want to be in this caravan when the winter comes.
And we can’t lose the Inn. We just can’t.
Help us, please, Sorrel. Whatever’s keeping you away from us, please know that we love you. I know you still love us.
Sorrel stared up at the familiar stone walls and slate roof of the Balhennie Inn and felt the knot in her stomach tighten even further.
She knew every inch of that building: she knew how it smelt in the morning when her mother, Catriona, made coffee; she knew what the texture of the walls felt like when you ran down the stairs to breakfast, trailing your fingertips along the uneven pebbling of the whitewashed stone; she knew every point where the floorboards squeaked when you snuck down to the kitchen at night to steal a slice of cake from the larder.
It was strange to see the Inn again after such a long time: at once, a wave of love engulfed her heart, alongside the ache of loss. It was so good to see her home again, so right, that she felt breathless with it.
But it was also heartbreaking to know that she had lost this. She had been away for such a long time, and even though she was here now, it was just a short visit. Her life on Skye could never be what it was before.
She would help her family because she still loved her sisters.
She would be here because she needed to be somewhere far away from Simon.
But this wasn’t her home any more. It couldn’t be.
Sorrel took a deep breath, got out of the car and picked up her luggage from the back seat.
She turned around to see her mother standing at the gate to the garden.
‘Hello,’ Catriona Balhennie said, with tears at the edge of her voice. ‘It’s good to see you, Sorrel.’