Ruby
The psychologist has a room at the GP’s surgery, and the car park is busy when I pull up, the windshield wipers swiping ineffectually at the pouring rain.
I squeeze into the only available parking spot, next to a Land Rover.
The wind snatches at the hood of my coat as I get out, and I suddenly realize the car next to mine is Jamie’s.
This is going to be a bit awkward, I think.
Maybe he’ll be sitting in the waiting room, and we’ll have to try to make polite conversation, all the while studiously avoiding asking anything about what each of us is here for.
There’s no time to hang around, though. I dash through the driving rain to the entrance. To my relief, the receptionist tells me to go straight upstairs and to knock on the first door on the left.
My relief is short-lived. The door is opened by Jamie, and I blink as I wonder what on Earth he’s doing visiting the psychologist when I have an appointment. And then the penny drops. He is the psychologist.
The question of what he does for work has never come up.
I’ve always assumed he simply does what all the other crofters do to get by: a bit of fishing; lending a hand when his neighbors need it; odd jobs here and there around the islands.
But now I see his relationship with Hanna, which has so often made me feel a little excluded, is partly that of a doctor and his patient.
And no wonder she needs help. My concerns pale in comparison with everything she’s been through in her life, her daily struggles with the legacy of the trauma that still threatens to tip her into darkness at any moment, leaving her shaking and terrified.
He must have been supporting her professionally all along, in a kind and carefully discreet way.
I’ve witnessed how he gently helps her and remember how he drew her back from the precipice of her memories that night on the island.
“Hello, Ruby,” he says, standing back to allow me to enter.
I’m flustered as I take a seat on one of the plastic chairs beside a low table, bare apart from a box of tissues.
“Well, this is awkward,” I stammer. “I had no idea it was you I’d be coming to see…. Isn’t this a conflict of interest or something, since we know each other?”
“In an ideal world, you’d have a choice.
But I’m afraid I’m all that’s available at the moment.
My colleague retired a while back, and we’ve not been able to find a replacement yet.
It’s hard enough getting the funding, let alone finding anyone who’s prepared to move to a place as remote as this.
So you’re stuck with me. Of course, if that’s a problem for you, then you don’t have to talk to me.
But I can promise you, everything we speak about here is confidential, and I keep my work totally separate from my home life. ”
I hesitate, still trying to adjust to seeing him in this new light.
No wonder he’s been reticent in talking about himself.
He must always have to be mindful of his profession.
Perhaps helping others has helped him exorcize some of his own demons, but at the same time, his work must also isolate him, I think.
“Ruby,” he prompts me, his voice gentle, “is it a problem for you, talking to me?”
I meet his gaze. His expression is calm and steady, and I realize I should very much like to talk to him.
In fact, knowing him a little could be an advantage.
Having lost his own brother, he—of all people—can understand.
And because of the times we’ve worked side by side on the croft, I know how calm and dependable he is.
Having him to confide in might be easier than opening up to a complete stranger, in spite of what I’d previously imagined.
“No,” I say. “I think it’ll be fine.”
And so, for the next hour, I tell him about losing Lucy.
I explain about the genetic mutation that makes me so much more likely to develop cancer, how living with that risk has already affected me, shrinking my life, trapping me behind a wall of fear that’s becoming so high I can hardly see over it anymore.
I set out the options I’ve been offered: to take the risk, living from test to test, or to have the surgeries, which will give me peace of mind, but which will take from me the chance of having children of my own someday.
And would I even want to have children, in any case, running the risk as I do of passing the genetic mutation on to them in turn?
He’s easy to talk to, prompting me here and there with a quiet question and pushing the box of tissues closer when I need another.
And while I haven’t reached any decisions by the time the hands of the clock—which is the only adornment on the walls of the room—tick round and my hour is up, I feel a lot lighter for having been able to tell someone about it.
We make another appointment for a fortnight’s time, in the week after Christmas, and I think how much I will look forward to that.
As I get up to leave, Jamie says, “I hope you won’t feel awkward, seeing me around the croft.
When our paths cross, I won’t mention anything we’ve talked about today.
But please don’t think that means I don’t understand how difficult this is for you.
In this room, I’m a doctor. But at Igdrasil, I’m your friend and neighbor.
And I’m always happy to chat on that basis. ”
*
The rain has stopped by the time I get back, the wind tearing the clouds apart and pushing the tattered remnants westward, allowing a few scraps of clear sky to appear.
Hanna is down by the shore with Pip at her heels, making the most of the brief and precious hours of daylight to get in a little more beachcombing.
She returns my wave, and I stand watching for a few moments as she picks her way across the pebbles, stooping every now and then to examine more closely some new piece of treasure washed up on the tide.
I carry a bag of shopping into the farmhouse kitchen and begin to prepare lunch for us.
In the supermarket, Christmas songs had been piping on repeat, and the shelves had been filled with gift packs of bath oil and aftershave, reminders of the festive season that now looms large.
I’ll be staying in Shetland with Hanna, even though she’d told me I was welcome to go home to see my parents if I wanted.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say she’d seemed happy when I’d said I’d be staying here, but she hadn’t objected.
In fact, anyone looking closely might even have interpreted the little nod she gave as a sign of approval.
When I talked to Mum and Dad about it, they completely understood.
This is going to be a hard time for all of us, our first Christmas without Lucy.
I don’t think any of us can face being at home without her there, so my parents are coming to Shetland.
Perhaps it’ll be a welcome escape for them, too.
They’ll be staying in a holiday cottage nearby.
I can’t wait to see them, to feel their arms around me and be able to hug them back.
And Hanna has insisted we all gather at the farmhouse for Christmas dinner, when Jamie will join us, as well.
I glance across at the assortment of beachcombings on the windowsill.
We are like that, I think. A random collection of flotsam and jetsam, washed up on these wild shores by storms. But there’s something beautiful and poignant about Hanna’s collection.
She’s careful in the way she places every shell and pebble and piece of sea glass, creating an oddly pleasing harmony out of these tattered, weathered remnants, each one important in its own way.
As I put away the jars of spices, the bags of flour and sugar I’ve bought, planning on doing some Christmas baking, I hear the front door open, and Pip bounces into the room, his tail wagging enthusiastically as I pat his head in greeting.
Hanna follows, pulling a piece of rose quartz and a plastic bottle from the pockets of her coat.
She sets the quartz on the windowsill between two striped pebbles, then shows me the bottle, which bears writing in a foreign script.
“Russian, I think,” she grunts, before throwing it into the bin. “Bloody plastic, there’s more and more of it coming in every day.”
While she washes her hands, I set out bowls of soup and a plate of cheeses on the table, along with a box of oatcakes. In doing so, I realize how much more comfortable we are in each other’s presence, how easily we move around each other these days.
I understand how important it must be for Hanna to be able to speak to someone, how privileged I am to be one of those who are able to listen.
Once we’ve finished our meal, we’ll take our mugs of coffee and settle ourselves in the easy chairs on either side of the fire.
I’ll throw another peat onto the bed of orange flames and, when she feels ready, Hanna will begin to tell me a little more of her story.
And although she is safe now, in the sanctuary of Igdrasil, as the wind blusters around the walls of the house and the winter darkness begins to close in on us again, I am dreading what I know must come next.