I look at her, and say,
“Torran Island, you remember? I’ve shown you photos, every time you’ve come here, for the last month.”
“Ah yes. Torran! The famous homeland. But tell me again, I like it.”
“It’s going to be great, Immy—if we don’t freeze. Apparently there are rabbits, and otters, and seals—”
“Fantastic. I love seals.”
“You do?”
“Oh yes. Especially the pups. Can you sort me out a coat?”
I laugh—sincerely, but guiltily. Imogen and I share a sense of humor; but hers is wickeder. She goes on. “So this place. Torran. Remind me. You still haven’t been there?”
“Nope.”
“Sarah. How can you move to a place you’ve never even seen?”
Silence.
I finish my glass of Merlot and pour some more. “I told you. I don’t want to see it.”
Another pause.
“Uh-huh?”
“Immy, I don’t want to see it for real, because—what if I don’t like it?” I stare into her wide green eyes. “Mmm? What then? Then I’m stuck here, Imogen. Stuck here with everything, all the memories, the money problems, everything. We’re out of cash anyway, so we’ll have to move to some stupid tiny flat, back where we started, and—and then what? I’ll have to go out to work and Angus will go stir crazy and it’s just—just—you know—I have to get out, we have to get out, and this is it: the way of escape. And it does look so beautiful in the photos. It does, it does: so bloody beautiful. It’s like a dream, but who cares? I want a dream. Right this minute, that’s exactly what I want. Because reality has been pretty fucking crap for a while now.”
The kitchen is quiet. Imogen raises her glass and she gently clinks mine and says: “Darling. It will be lovely. I’m just going to miss you.”
We lock eyes, briefly, and moments later Angus is in the kitchen; his overcoat speckled with cold autumn rain. He is carrying wine in doubled orange plastic bags—and leading the dampened dog. Carefully he sets the bags on the floor, then unleashes Beany.
“Here you go, boy.”
The spaniel shivers and wags his tail and heads straight for his wicker basket. Meanwhile I extract the wine bottles, and set them up on the counter; like a small but important parade.
“Well, that should last an hour,” Imogen says, staring at all the wine.
Angus grabs a bottle and unscrews it.
“Ach. Sainsbury’s is a battleground. I’m not gonna miss the Camden junkies, buying their lemon juice.”
Imogen tuts, “Wait till you’re three hundred miles from the nearest truffle oil.”
Angus laughs—and it is a good laugh, a natural laugh. Like a laugh from before it all happened. And finally I relax; though I also remember that I want to ask him about the little toy: the plastic dragon. How did that end up in Kirstie’s bedroom? It was Lydia’s. It was boxed and hidden away, I am sure of it.
But why ruin this rare and agreeable evening with an interrogation? The question can wait for another day. Or forever.
Our glasses replenished, we sit and chat and have an impromptu kitchen-picnic: rough slices of ciabatta dipped in olive oil, thick chunks of cheap saucisson. And for an hour or more we talk, companionably, contentedly—like the three old friends we are. Angus explains how his brother—living in California—has generously forgone his share of the inheritance.
“David’s earning a shedload, in Silicon Valley. Doesn’t need the cash or the hassle. And he knows that we DO need it.” Angus swallows his saucisson.
Imogen interrupts: “But what I don’t understand, Gus, is how come your granny owned this island in the first place? I mean”—she chews an olive—“don’t be offended, but I thought your dad was a serf, and you and your mum lived in an outside toilet. Yet suddenly here’s Grandmother with her own island.”
Angus chuckles. “Nan was on my mother’s side, from Skye. They were just humble farmers, one up from crofters. But they had a small holding, which happened to include an island.”
“OK…”
“It’s pretty common. There’re thousands of little islands in the Hebrides, and fifty years ago a one-acre island of seaweed off Ornsay was worth about three quid. So it just never got sold. Then my mum moved down to Glasgow, and Nan followed, and Torran became, like, a holiday place. For me and my brother.”
I finish my husband’s story for him, as he fetches more olive oiclass="underline" “Angus’s mum met Angus’s dad in Glasgow. She was a primary school teacher, he worked in the docks—”
“He, uh… drowned, right?”
“Yes. An accident at the docks. Quite tragic, really.”
Angus interrupts, walking back: “The old man was a soak. And a wife-beater. Not sure tragic is the word.”
We all stare at the three remaining bottles of wine on the counter. Imogen speaks: “But still—where do the lighthouse and the cottage fit in? How did they get there? If your folks were poor?”
Angus replies, “Northern Lighthouse Board run all the lighthouses in Scotland. Last century, whenever they needed to build a new one, they would offer a bit of cash in ground rent to the property owner. That’s what happened on Torran. But then the lighthouse got automated. In the sixties. So the cottage was vacated. And it reverted to my family.”
“Stroke of luck?” says Imogen.
“Looking back, aye,” says Angus. “We got a big, solidly built cottage. For nothing.”
A voice from upstairs intrudes.
“Mummy…?”
It’s Kirstie. Awakened. And calling from the landing. This happens quite a lot. Yet her voice, especially when heard unexpectedly, always gives me a brief, repressed, upwelling of grief. Because it sounds like Lydia.
I want these drowning feelings to stop.
“Mummyyy?”
Angus and I share a resigned glance: both of us mentally calculating the last time this happened. Like two very new parents squabbling over whose turn it is to baby-feed, at three a.m.
“I’ll go,” I say. “It’s my turn.”
And it is: the last time Kirstie woke up, after one of her nightmares, was just a few days ago, and Angus had loyally traipsed upstairs to do the comforting.
Setting down my wine glass, I head upstairs. Beany is following me, eagerly, as if we are going rabbiting; his tail whips against the table legs.
Kirstie is barefoot, at the top of the stairs. She is the image of troubled innocence with her big blue eyes, and with Leopardy pressed to her buttoned pajama-top.
“It did it again, Mummy, the dream.”
“Come on, Moomin. It’s just a bad dream.”
I pick her up—she is almost too heavy, these days—and carry her back into the bedroom. Kirstie is, it seems, not too badly flustered; though I wish this repetitive nightmare would stop. As I tuck her in her bed, again, she is already half closing her eyes, even as she talks.
“It was all white, Mummy, all around me, I was stuck in a room, all white, all faces staring at me.”
“Shhhhh.”
“It was white and I was scared and I couldn’t move then and then… then…”
“Shushhh.”
I stroke her faintly fevered, blemishless forehead. Her eyelids flicker toward sleep. But a whimpering, from behind me, stirs her.
The dog has followed me into the bedroom.
Kirstie searches my face for a favor.
“Can Beany stay with me, Mummy? Can he sleep in my room tonight?”
I don’t normally allow this. But tonight I just want to go back downstairs, and drink another glass, with Immy and Angus.