Ruby #2
I walk down the road, passing Jamie’s bod, but his car’s not there and the rowing boat is pulled well up onto the beach, out of reach of the high autumn tides.
It’s a shame I still haven’t been able to get to know him better, I think, especially given what he told me yesterday.
I wonder whether he keeps his past shut away in some inner compartment, or whether he’s managed to work through it.
Perhaps, though, his remark about avoidance was really based on his own experience.
I’d like to be able to ask him more, but when he comes to visit the farmhouse, he’s there to see Hanna.
I still feel as if his friendship with her tends to exclude me.
Inevitably, my thoughts return to my own preoccupations.
The summer work has kept us so busy on the croft that I haven’t really had time to think, so from that point of view, my coming here has been a good thing.
But even without Donald Kilgour’s reminder the other day, I’m all too aware that, with winter on the way, I’ll be spending long hours indoors with plenty of spare time on my hands.
I’ll have my painting, of course, and there will still be the daily chores to do, as well as keeping an eye on Hanna.
But the thought of being alone through the long hours of darkness, with only myself for company, isn’t one I relish.
It’s not so much the loneliness I’m scared of, as the prospect of spending so much time alone with my thoughts.
As I round the bend in the road, Isobel’s house comes into view.
Getting to know her better is a welcome distraction.
Her croft house is as neat as a pin. A peat fire burns in the sitting room, and a plate of scones, still warm from the oven, sits on the table.
“Geordie’s awa’ out on a job today, so we’ve the place to ourselves,” she says, passing me the butter dish and a knife.
I ask after her children, who I know are both away at university in Aberdeen now.
“Lindsay’s settling into her new digs okay.
And Robbie’s getting on well with his placement.
He’s studying land management, wants to go into farming.
You’da thought growing up on a croft would have put him off.
His faither’s blyde he wants to carry on here when we’re done, mind. Our Robbie’s a chip off the old block.”
I love listening to her talk, Shetland dialect still creeping in even though she’s making a big effort to use English words so I won’t struggle to understand.
“How are things up at the farmhouse?” she asks. “Hanna seems to be doing well these days, since you’ve been staying.”
I’m surprised to hear she believes my presence has made a difference, and it must show in my expression, because Isobel laughs and says, “She’ll never tell you that, of course.
But having you here has helped her. She was that doon apon it afore you came, her family were worried sick.
Don’t you worry, my dear, you’re making a difference, that’s for certain, even if you don’t get much thanks for it. ”
In one corner of the room stands a spinning wheel and, once we’ve washed the buttery crumbs from our fingers, she shows me the yarn she’s produced on it, having cleaned, carded, and spun the fleece.
“This is three-ply, used for knitting jumpers and such-like. And this,” she says, holding out a skein of wool as fine as thistledown, “is the one-ply. It’s used for lace knitting. ”
Her work is breathtaking in its complexity. She shows me some of the pieces she’s made to sell in the shop. “There’s always been a tradition of knitting on these islands,” she tells me. “It was a way of supplementing income for crofters, to buy the things they couldn’t grow.”
It isn’t hard to see where the patterns come from. There’s a full-size lace shawl, its scalloped edges enclosing a design of cockleshells, and a smaller meadow shawl with a pattern of daisies, which makes me think of Hanna and her mother’s embroidery.
I ask Isobel if she knows whether there is knitting like this in Norway. “Not so much the lace knitting, but the heavier jumper designs are common to Norway, Fair Isle, and here. I guess maybe the Vikings would have brought them over.”
She takes a smaller scarf from the pile and gives it to me. “That one’s called Tree of Life. We don’t have many trees here, so we make them in other ways. Like the name of Hanna’s croft, it symbolizes life and hope.”
I trace the fernlike pattern with my fingertips, soft as gossamer and as light as air. When I pass it back to her, she lays a gentle hand on mine. “You keep that one, Ruby. You’ll be needing a bit of warmth when winter comes.”
“I love it. But can I give you something for it?” I ask, mindful that it would have been sold in the shop otherwise.
“Not at all. You brought me that jam and those beans. It’s a fair exchange.”
I know the scarf is worth far more than those offerings from the kailyard, but she’s adamant. I wrap it round my neck, touched by her generosity and the thought behind the pattern, and even though I turn away, I think she sees the tears that spring to my eyes at her kindness.
As she sees me to the door, Isobel says, “Don’t be a stranger now, Ruby. You’re welcome anytime. The house is too empty without Lindsay and Robbie about the place. And if you’d like to learn to knit, I’ll be happy to teach you this winter.”
As I walk back along the road to Igdrasil, the wind blusters with a keener edge than before. The soft warmth of the scarf around my neck keeps the autumn chill at bay, though, Isobel’s gift another reminder of the peculiar spirit of fragility and strength that characterizes this place.
Hanna seems quite pleased to see me back. While I cook lunch for us—a recipe I’ve made up using potatoes, kale, and eggs from the hens—my heart feels a bit lighter than it did before. Afterward, we sit by the fire and, as I know she will if I wait quietly, Hanna shares some more of her memories.