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  ‘Oh, really? That’s great!’ So, he’s still alive at least. His mate George hadn’t just been spinning me a yarn about him having ‘gone out to lunch’.

  ‘Yes,’ she goes on, ‘and, as you said, it looks like he just wants to step away from the business now.’

  I frown. ‘So, um … does that mean …’

  ‘It means we can start the process of him signing his shares in the company over to you.’

  ‘Oh!’ Ridiculously, I’m seized by a desire for a strong alcoholic drink and it’s not even 11 a.m. ‘Well, that’s good news,’ I manage, ‘isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s certainly a step in the right direction,’ Rosalind says. ‘I’ll email you now, so could you go through it all carefully and we can talk again later?’

  ‘Yes,’ I exclaim. ‘Yes, of course. Oh, this is …’ What is it exactly? I’m going to be the sole proprietor of an ailing distillery. I actually feel a little faint now, like a Victorian lady, requiring smelling salts.

  ‘Are you sure this is the route you want to take?’ Rosalind asks. ‘I mean, are you ready for this?’

  I take a deep, steadying breath. ‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘Yes, I am.’

  The tiny seed of hope inside me begins to swell. A cool breeze wafts through the open kitchen window and the lawn, which needs a cut already, is dappled in golden light.

  After her call, I pace about, letting her words settle. There’s no point in trying to write anything now. Instead, I make a cup of tea and sit in the garden as I drink it.

  It’s true, I decide; I am ready for this. I might not have had the kind of career where you rise through the ranks, like Belinda has, but I’ve always worked hard, and I’ve raised two kids to young adulthood and made a decent living of writing about dead people.

  Scout is gazing up at me with a look that seems so trusting, as if he knows I’ll take care of him and everything will be fine. And it’s clear to me now, what I need to do.

  I need us to be surrounded by purplish mountains and the glittering sea. We need to stride along that silver sand beach and breathe the crisp island air deep into our lungs.

  Scout and I need to go back to Sgadansay.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Two Weeks Later

  Ricky

  The ferry rolls and tosses in the choppy sea. It’s late afternoon on a stormy Sunday and the smell of soup and fried eggs hangs heavily in the lounge area. I’ve fetched teas for me and Meg (the café had no hibiscus), an Irn Bru and a Tunnock’s Caramel Log for Arthur – so shoot me – and I’m trying to maintain a cheerful demeanour as I chatter on about the numerous splendours that await us on Sgadansay.

  ‘The beaches are lovely,’ I tell Meg. ‘The one nearest Dad’s is called Silver Beach, and then around the headland there’s a lighthouse and a bit further on there’s a little cove that not many tourists know about. We call it the Secret Beach. There’s a cave there, isn’t there, Arthur?’

  ‘Uh?’ He flinches as if only just remembering I’m there. Meg, too, is looking less than enthralled. Her face is pallid and there’s a sheen of perspiration on her brow.

  ‘You know, the cave,’ I prompt him. ‘Remember we used to build a fire outside it? And play that pirate game?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he murmurs, looking bleakly out of the window. Of course, kids rarely appreciate being reminded of the things they used to enjoy. They’re too young for nostalgia. Still, he could show a bit of enthusiasm for our trip. He could give some indication that we’re on our way to somewhere fantastic – on a holiday – and not, say, jail.

  So far on the journey, he’s been immersed in playing a game on his phone. I realise that, at ten years old, he doesn’t really ‘need’ a mobile – but he’d gone on about everyone else having them, and when Ralph, Kai’s dad, had found one ‘going spare’ in their house and offered to give it to him, I’d relented. Whilst I didn’t relish the idea of Arthur being permanently glued to it, I’d figured that he does have his football, and I didn’t want to be the kind of parent who’s pointedly against phones.

  Meg, too, is gazing out of the window, although it’s mostly steamed up. ‘There’s a castle, too,’ I continue, quite the chirpy tour guide. ‘It’s a ruin – fifteenth century – and it’s been used in loads of films, like, um …’

  She turns and gives me an expectant look. Unable to remember the names of any of the films right now, I rescue the situation by neatly flipping into the role of TV weatherman: ‘The forecast is pretty good. I know it’s bad today but it looks like it’ll get brighter with some sunny spells, maybe a bit windy but by next weekend – by your birthday, Arthur – it should be pretty decent …’ I’m aware now that all I need to do, to round things off nicely, is to talk about projected precipitation levels, wind speeds and cold fronts.

  ‘That’s good,’ Meg says, with something like a cold front hanging ominously above her head. She turns back to the window and traces a shape in the condensation with a finger. From where I’m sitting it could be interpreted as a dagger, and I worry now that she’s considering fetching a knife from the café and stabbing herself. But it’s probably just a random collection of lines.

  ‘Down by the harbour,’ I witter on, ‘there’s little place called the Seafood Shack. They do amazing fresh mussels—’

  ‘Erm, Ricky?’ She turns to me again, looking decidedly peaky now as the boat continues to lurch like a child’s plastic toy. ‘D’you mind if we don’t talk about mussels right now?’

  ‘Oh, erm, yeah.’ Of course, what my girlfriend needs when she’s clearly feeling seasick is for me to start on about molluscs. ‘I’ll get you some water,’ I add, jumping up and marching back to the café.

  We’d been outside on the deck of the ferry for the first half hour, which is actually better than being trapped inside when the crossing is rough like this. I’d tried to explain that it’s good to be able to see the horizon (as well as breathe in fresh air instead of the cooking smells). That way, I’d mansplained, you avoid confusion between what the inner ear can sense, in terms of motion, and what the eyes can see. Because that’s what triggers nausea.

  She’d thanked me curtly for my explanation before adding, ‘I do know a little bit about human anatomy, Ricky.’ Of course, she ear-candles for a living. Arthur and I had followed her, mutely, as she’d retreated to the lounge.

  I hand her a glass of water and give Arthur the Caramel Log he’d requested. Meg glowers at it as I’ve just slid him a packet of cigarettes. When stuff like this happens – and I catch these gusts of disapproval – I can’t help wondering whether it’s going to work out for us after all. But then, mostly it’s fine and I try to avoid having those ‘where is this going?’ conversations with myself. We just have different views on things, that’s all. Things like oven chips and plastic tomato-shaped ketchup dispensers and whether I’m soft for not marching Arthur off to bed at 7.30 p.m. every night, as if he’s four years old.

  ‘How’re you feeling now?’ I ask as I sit back down next to her.

  She sips her water. ‘A bit ropey, but I’ll be fine. It’s a long crossing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Another hour to go. Sure you don’t want to go back outside and get some air?’

  She shakes her head mutely. As the weather worsens I silently curse it behaving in this way, as if it’s a child throwing a tantrum in a supermarket because it hasn’t been allowed a bag of Haribos. I’d willed it to be good today, for the sun to be shining and for Arthur to seem happy and excited about spending a week on the island like he used to. But he didn’t seem excited when we were packing, and who could blame him? We were on Sgadansay together just a few weeks ago, and right now he was meant to be with Kai’s family at that villa in Spain.

  Meg brushes a strand of hair from her face, seeming to gather herself as she smiles wanly. ‘Looking forward to this, Arthur?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says unconvincingly as if she’d said, Looking forward to having that massive injection, Arthur?

  ‘Not long till you
r birthday either,’ she adds. I will him to at least try to pretend to be cheerful.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says again.

  ‘It’s on Saturday, isn’t it?’ she carries on, gamely.

  ‘Yeah, not long to go now!’ I say unnecessarily because he knows what blinking day it is and how many there are in a week.

  ‘What d’you think you’ll do for it?’ Meg asks.

  He shoots me a quick look. ‘Probably just hang out and watch some stuff,’ he replies.

  ‘Yeah, we can watch movies,’ I say.

  ‘But Granddad doesn’t have Netflix.’

  ‘Erm, no, he doesn’t.’

  ‘Or a DVD player,’ he adds helpfully.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Meg says.

  ‘He does have a TV,’ I remark, ‘but it’s black and white and takes about forty-five minutes to warm up—’

  ‘Really?’ Meg says, looking shocked.

  ‘No, not really.’ I muster a smile. ‘He actually loves his telly nearly as much as the pub.’

  ‘So he does have hobbies?’ she asks, raising a brow.

  ‘Of a kind, yeah. Mainly drinking beer and whisky and muttering at politicians on the TV. But I don’t think there are Scout badges for those.’

  Arthur gives me a faintly exasperated look, and I wonder now if it’s not the cancelled Spain trip that’s causing him to act this way, but the stage he’s reached: too old for hunting for cowrie shells and building fires on the beach to cook sausages on. There’s a collection of buckets and spades that he keeps at Dad’s. I guess they’re redundant now.

  As we settle into silence, I try to convince myself that once we arrive, everything will be okay; different maybe, but fine. My son’s growing up, that’s all. It’s just part of his development to edge away from me and realise I’m not so great after all, with my shabby attempts at putting on birthday parties for him with a bought cake. I’m sure Dad will be pleasant and welcoming to Meg, and I know he and Arthur will enjoy hanging out together as they always do. Dad seemed happy when I told him he was coming with us after all.

  I open the newspaper I brought for the crossing (Meg has felt too queasy to read it) and, out of habit, turn to the page I always go to first. ‘Why d’you read those?’ Arthur asks.

  ‘The obituaries? They’re just interesting,’ I reply.

  ‘But they’re about dead people, Dad.’

  ‘You can still be interesting when you’re dead,’ Meg remarks, glancing round briefly before turning back, morosely, towards the window.

  ‘They’re like a whole life condensed,’ I add, ‘with the dull parts missed out. It’s just the fascinating bits …’

  Arthur peers down at the page. ‘The fascinating bits about a jellyfish expert.’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ I chuckle. ‘That is fascinating, don’t you think?’

  He snorts in mock derision. ‘I s’pose so, Dad. If you say so.’

  ‘What about that animal encyclopaedia you kept borrowing from the school library?’ I remind him. ‘You were obsessed with the jellyfish part. They can clone themselves, you kept telling me. And they don’t have brains …’ I push the newspaper towards him. ‘You should read about this guy, he’s exactly your kind of person—’

  ‘I’m not that interested in them anymore,’ he announces.

  ‘Jellyfish,’ I remark with an eye-roll. ‘They’re so last season, drifting around in their brainless way—’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, finally cracking a smile. ‘It’s all about marsupials now—’ Now both of us are laughing. Thank Christ he’s cheered up. The weather has too. The sea has calmed, the sky has brightened, and someone’s opened a lounge door so the eggy smell is fading away.

  Across the lounge, a woman with long dark hair seems to be talking to someone down by her feet. I assume it’s a child at first, then notice her small brown and white dog who seems reluctant to come out from under the table. ‘Come on, boy,’ she says gently. ‘We’re almost there.’ Arthur, who’s noticed them too, nudges me.

  ‘That looks just like the dog we met on Silver Beach. Remember?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah, he does.’ We both glance over as she finally manages to coax him out from his hiding place. Pulling along a large wheeled suitcase with one hand, and clutching his lead in the other, the woman makes her way across the lounge, and out onto the deck, with the dog trotting along beside her.

  Arthur turns to Meg. ‘Dogs get seasick just like people do,’ he explains. ‘It’s that inner ear thing Dad was going on about.’

  ‘Really? Poor things,’ she says without feeling.

  He nods and wipes away a patch of condensation – and the dagger drawing – from the window. ‘Look,’ he adds. ‘There’s seals over there, lying on the rocks.’

  ‘Oh, yes, there are loads!’ She brightens at the sight of our welcoming party.

  ‘We see them all the time here,’ he adds, clearly aware that this is something of a novelty for Meg.

  ‘Really?’ she says. ‘What kind are they, d’you know?’

  ‘They’re common,’ Arthur replies.

  ‘Yes, but what kind are they?’

  ‘No, that’s what they are,’ he says, clearly enjoying knowing more about them than she does. ‘Common seal is the species and there are grey seals on the island as well.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ She sips more water and glances out again. ‘I can see the town pretty clearly now.’

  ‘That’s where Granddad lives,’ Arthur says.

  ‘His street’s probably the most photographed one on the island,’ I add.

  ‘Why’s that?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s a terrace of fishermen’s cottages and each one’s painted a different colour. Dad can just about tolerate tourists standing on the other side of the road, getting the whole terrace in,’ I add, gathering together the newspaper and a selection of unread books and magazines in preparation for arrival. ‘It’s when they come up close and want to get all the details – the window boxes and door knockers and stuff – that his blood starts boiling.’ I stop, wondering what’s possessed me to portray him as an embittered old man when my girlfriend’s about to spend a week with him.

  ‘Really?’ Meg exclaims.

  ‘Yeah, he’s got a furious temper,’ Arthur says gleefully as the ferry docks at the quay.

  Chapter Twenty

  Suzy

  Although the Cormorant Hotel isn’t particularly picturesque, it is dog friendly and that’s what matters. Crying out for a fresh coat of whitewash, it’s set a few streets back from the harbour front. But something about its cosy granny’s-front-room vibe feels comforting as I check in, especially after the choppy ferry crossing, when I’d sat close to a family who hadn’t exactly seemed enthralled about their trip either. Poor man, I’d thought as he tried to cheer up his partner and son – or maybe stepson – by enthusing about the island’s castle and beautiful beaches. At one point, the woman looked as if she might throw up. A few of the passengers already had, as I’d heard some noisy retching behind closed cubicle doors in the loos. I hadn’t been feeling too perky myself.

  My hotel room is plainly furnished, with a single bed, and is tucked away up in the eaves. I hadn’t been able to find a cottage or apartment to rent; at least, not in town with reliable Wi-Fi and a mobile signal. I’d wanted to be within walking distance of the distillery too, as I plan to immerse myself in every step of the processes this time. I hope the team will tolerate me being around and help me to understand how things are done.

  Although I’d been keen to relocate to Sgadansay immediately, Rosalind had persuaded me to hold fire for a couple of weeks. At home in York, she’d pointed out, I’d be within easy reach of her office. In fact, I suspect she was worried that hotfooting it to the Outer Hebrides before I was fully prepared wasn’t exactly the wisest thing to do. We had a follow-up face-to-face meeting at her office (the pot plant appeared to have not been watered in the interim) where she explained that my initial meetings with the creditors would happen via Skype or Zoom. Was I c
omfortable with that, she’d asked?

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I’d fibbed. It was like when the dentist asks if you’re ‘okay’ while she descales your teeth with her pokey implements and blaster machine. Yep, I’m having a lovely time, thanks, while you tear at my gums! ‘You’re used to them, with your work?’ she remarked. Perhaps she’d forgotten that I’m a writer of obituaries. What did she think I did? Skyped the dead?

  However, I’ve got through them so far, and felt that I was at least making some progress as I dropped off a set of house keys to Dee, who’ll ensure that my houseplants are tended and keep an eye on the place. I’ve booked in here for a week initially, and left my return ferry ticket open as I’m not sure how long I’ll stay. Everything feels vague and open-ended but that’s the way it’ll have to be.

  ‘Take things a step at a time,’ Rosalind counselled just before I left, ‘and don’t do anything rash.’

  I look down at Scout, who’s conducted a preliminary sniff-around of our room. I won’t be alone, I remind myself. As long as he’s with me I am never truly alone. ‘Fancy a walk?’ I ask him. His ears prick up, and he wags his tail; of course he does. He doesn’t care that it’s drizzling when we step outside or that the sky hangs over us like a grey tarpaulin. He’s probably just grateful to be off the ferry where, again, he cowered and trembled the whole journey.

  It’s late afternoon and most of the shops on the main street are closed. It’s Sunday after all, and this is how Sundays used to be, and on Sgadansay there’s a strong sense of being propelled back in time, to when life was gentler and slower. They even have half-day closing on Wednesdays like in the olden days! Paul could hardly believe it.

  We head for the harbour where the fishing boats’ masts chime soothingly. A lorry pulls up at the quayside and a man unloads crates with a clatter. The drizzle peters away and, as if the tarpaulin sky has been torn apart, a shaft of bright sunshine beams down upon us. I catch the scent of shellfish and remember that I haven’t eaten since that bowl of soothing vegetable broth on the ferry, which partly settled my stomach. My taste buds seem to tingle as we march towards the emerald green hut with its wonkily hand-painted Seafood Shack sign.