Christmas on the Island Page 16

  ‘I realise that,’ said Saif.

  ‘So is it anything else?’

  Saif coughed and – amazingly to Neda – a blush stole over his face. And she realised immediately. Of course. It made sense. She supposed it was natural. He was a young man. A young, handsome man. Put him anywhere, you were going to get trouble. And now he was feeling the full weight of guilt on his shoulders.

  ‘Oh, Saif,’ she said, sighing. ‘Is she nice?’

  Saif’s look of horror was almost comical. Neda leaned forward and patted his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Come on, Saif. It’s not the most surprising thing in the world, is it? You’re the biology expert. Honestly. You shouldn’t beat yourself up about it.’

  Saif shook his head, his face flooding with colour.

  ‘You don’t understand. It’s . . . She’s the boys’ teacher.’

  Neda screwed her face up.

  ‘Seriously? Come on! There must be at least . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘Well. A dozen girls on Mure, at least. Nine, maybe. Anyway. You picked the most inconvenient one!’

  Saif couldn’t speak.

  ‘Really.’ Neda was genuinely cross, but she could see how it happened.

  ‘She’s looking after your boys every day . . . Is it that girl with the red hair?’

  Saif simply nodded. He didn’t trust himself to say her name.

  Neda sighed.

  ‘Oh Christ. Is it . . . serious?’

  Saif stared at the floor.

  ‘I suppose I have to take that as a yes. Oh goodness, for one person you do seem to attract an enormous amount of trouble.’

  Saif didn’t answer.

  ‘And you don’t think you could . . . just finish it and stay there?’

  Saif shook his head.

  ‘Right,’ said Neda briskly. ‘I can pass it on to the right person . . . but you’d have to be sure.’

  Saif lifted his head finally. He felt like a man tossed on stormy seas. He couldn’t live like this, that much was clear. He couldn’t be torn between one woman whom he loved – and one whom he had adored since he was twenty years old, was married to, had a family with, and whose whereabouts he didn’t even know. Life was not giving him a choice. So the best thing to do was going to be to start over once again.

  ‘I’m not sure about anything ever,’ he said. ‘But it seems to me the best thing to do.’

  Neda sighed and snapped her file shut. ‘I’ll have to take a view on the boys,’ she said.

  ‘But being in a more mixed environment . . .’

  ‘Yes, you said that,’ she said, uncharacteristically snippy with him. She had been so proud of Mure; so proud of a community that had accepted the family; for a placement that had felt like a genuine, measurable success. And so proud of Saif for making a success of the job and for the way he had introduced the little scarred boys to the Murians. They had been a success. In Neda’s line of work she didn’t always see a lot of those. She thought moving was absolutely a dreadful idea. She looked at Saif’s face. It was clear he didn’t agree with her analysis at all.

  ‘Right . . . you should probably get moving. It’s a long journey back.’

  Saif nodded. It was.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lorna was rehearsing the lower class and wishing she was doing a better job of it. It was only ‘I Saw Three Ships’ which everyone loved because it was easy to sing, sounded so merry and struck the very small island children as entirely sensible that Mary and Joseph would have sailed into Bethlehem, since in the world they lived in, you had to sail to get anywhere.

  They were bellowing out the carol but all she could think of was where was Saif? Ash had told her that morning that he’d gone to ‘GAZZLE’ which she’d eventually realised must mean Glasgow. But why? What was happening? Why wouldn’t he tell her where he was going?

  She realised she thought she had some kind of claim over him and of course in fact she didn’t, which was upsetting enough in itself. Mrs Laird, huffing her way up the hill to collect them even though Ibrahim had complained bitterly that he was eleven years old and didn’t need a babysitter, something Lorna would have scoffed at if she hadn’t known that of course they’d had to depend on each other more than any children she’d ever known and were probably entirely competent, and so he huffed in turn on their way down the hill.

  Mrs Laird didn’t know any more than the boys did, only that their father been called away suddenly. A curious feeling clutched Lorna and she felt it in her stomach. The last time he’d been called away to Glasgow, he’d come back with his sons.

  She bit her lip and smiled at Mrs Laird and told Ash for the ninety-fifth time to practise the difference between his ‘B’s and his ‘D’s, and as usual he flashed that dazzling grin at her and said, ‘YIS, MISS LORNA,’ and skipped off and did absolutely nothing about it.

  Maybe it was nothing. Paperwork. But to be called away so suddenly like that . . .

  She couldn’t let her imagination run away with her. And she ought to change the sheets, she knew. But she couldn’t bear to. She felt every single hour as he got further and further away from being with her. She missed him like she’d miss a limb. Rather than spoiling the dream she had of him – the crush, like some teenager with a crazy, idealised view of another human being – this had done exactly the opposite. The way they had been together was way beyond her wildest dreams. Was like nothing she’d ever known in all her years. She blushed every time she thought about it. She thought about it all the time. She wanted to see him like she wanted to breathe air. And all she could do was wait.

  Why couldn’t he just text? Just to see if she was okay? Why wouldn’t he do that? It nagged at the back of her mind. Why wouldn’t he just drop her a line?

  She didn’t know that Saif had never dated. His parents had known Amena’s parents and, while strictly speaking it wasn’t an arranged marriage, they were certainly highly encouraged to spend lots of time together, which hadn’t bothered Saif in the slightest as Amena was beautiful, clever, fun and liked him too, and what more, he truly believed, could anyone want out of life? And when the children had arrived he had realised, almost to his surprise, that he loved her very deeply indeed.

  It had never even crossed his mind, before he got the call, to text Lorna. Rather, he’d tried to put the problem to the back of his mind – to deal with the two completely contradictory impulses in him of staying a loyal family man or loving Lorna – as far back in his mind as possible in the forlorn hope that somewhere, somehow, a solution would present itself.

  And it had. It was not going to please Lorna.

  * * *

  The odd thing, Saif thought in retrospect, was how much he had thought she would understand. It had sounded so clear in his head. That he had thought the boys’ mother might be alive – how could anyone argue with that? And it had proven not to be, but reminded him of his responsibilities.

  And that he was needed elsewhere. That he was being moved to another community; that it was out of his hands. He lied. He would spare her that, at least.

  So there he stood, by the schoolhouse door, the boys out throwing snowballs in utter delight (it had snowed in Damascus, Ash had informed Lorna solemnly, but he hadn’t had any ‘glubbs’), their cheeks pink, and he had stood back as if he was having a perfectly normal professional conversation, and while they were in full view of the playground, there was absolutely nothing Lorna could do, even if she wanted to kick him and kiss him all at once, her heart cracking, as he told her.

  He sounded so clinical about it. And clearly she was expected to say she understood. And she did. But she didn’t. Her entire body yearned to scream, ‘NO!’ at him, damn it all to hell. Life was short and loss was long and if anyone could find a bit of happiness – a tiny bit – they had to cling onto it like a lifebelt thrown to a drowning man, because she knew – she knew – she was never going to have anything like this ever again, and she had felt . . . she had felt so sur
e that Saif had felt the same.

  If Saif had had any doubts about whether he was doing the right thing by leaving, they were assuaged by her face. Her sadness and disappointment in him were clearly etched there. And the agony of knowing that he could change that in a moment by doing the thing he most longed to do: taking her in his arms, kissing her, holding her, telling the rest of the world to go to hell.

  He’d been to hell. It wasn’t worth it.

  But it took everything he could, staring at the ground, to end the conversation. All he wanted to do was talk to her for ever. And every second with her was torture. Oh God.

  ‘I have to go,’ he muttered, calling after the boys, who ignored him.

  Lorna nodded stiffly, trying to calculate how long it would take her to get to a quiet space to have a cry. The stationery cupboard, maybe? Just lock the door for a little bit. There were other parents – there were always, always other parents – but she nodded and excused herself for a moment, then dashed inside and sobbed her eyes out into a pile of exercise books and HB pencils. Normally there were few things she liked better than the smell of exercise books and HB pencils, but from that day on, she always found it very difficult.

  She actually sank to her knees – she’d thought people only did that in films. And she tried to swallow the horrible choking noises coming out of her. Then she slid into the bathroom and threw freezing water on her face to try and make it look like she hadn’t been crying, nearly started again but managed to grab it back. She still had parents to see and little bits of admin to do. She glanced out of the window. Amazingly, all the parents were still there. Oh God. What was up? Had someone fallen over? Was there a fight?

  Still scrubbing frantically at her face, she tried to plaster a smile on as she left the building. Everyone was shuffling in the cold but looked pleased to see her. Gwen – the mother of the feral Ferguson children who had arrived from England, their parents’ intention to let them have a free and natural childhood and be home-schooled having fallen by the wayside by the end of the first winter, and her husband having scarpered back down the length of the country to his cosy centrally heated triple-glazed bungalow in Guildford, leaving Gwen to cope alone – stepped forward. She had never forgotten that it had taken a lot of help from Lorna to manage her life on the island.

  ‘Um, we . . .’ She gestured the other parents. Saif had left. Of course he had, thought Lorna viciously. Of course.

  ‘We just wanted to say thank you. For everything you do for us.’

  Normally Lorna was used to a mixed bag of presents at Christmas time: lots of handmade pictures and bits and bobs from the children which was nice but not entirely useful; lots of bath salts (ditto) and the occasional gem of a parent who’d sneak a bottle of fizz in. But Gwen was holding out an envelope. She took it, frowning.

  ‘We thought . . . we thought you work so hard, you might like . . .’ Gwen’s voice trailed off, and Lorna opened the envelope. Inside was a voucher for two nights at a swanky hydro on the mainland, famous for its hot pools and a spa.

  ‘Oh!’ said Lorna, completely overwhelmed. ‘I didn’t . . . I didn’t . . . I mean. This is a bit much!’

  Gwen shook her head.

  ‘We had a whip-round. You do a great job,’ she said, and all the parents clapped at which Lorna nearly burst out crying again, particularly when Gwen leant over and whispered, ‘Also, one of the parents – I won’t say who – gave us an incredibly large donation. I think they might be sweet on you!’ in a confiding way, and Lorna felt all cross and weird again. Fortunately her tears were interpreted as grateful surprise and she hugged them all and the children too, and everyone in the playground felt that happy sense of satisfaction you get when you give someone something they obviously really, really want, except for Lorna, who was fully conscious of the fact that she had just lost the only thing she had ever wanted and didn’t want to speak of it or think of it ever again.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Joel kept thinking a solution was about to present itself; that it had to be nearly there – like in a complicated legal case, all he had to do was work a little harder, concentrate a little more and everything would become clear.

  The problem was, it kept not doing that. Sometimes, he thought, he could just about imagine it being all right – them living somewhere nice, such as in Lorna’s flat, a little . . . screaming thing . . . there all night and all day . . . wailing, demanding something from him that he didn’t know how to give . . .

  How could he love – become enslaved by – a tiny thing? And what if . . . what if he gave it everything he had: the pain, the anxiety, the worry?

  It will be like Flora, he thought. Warm and safe and loving and kind. Then he thought, It will be like my parents: cold and addicted and frenzied and dead.

  He stared at the sea, but he couldn’t find any answers there. It felt for the first time that the island, instead of being a safe harbour, a haven from the harsh vicissitudes of life, was instead a prison.

  He couldn’t even speak to Mark and Marsha any more. He knew how kindly they meant, and what they thought would be best: it was in the tone of their voices. He was dreading their visit.

  And indeed, he thought bitterly, who would understand? The lovely girlfriend, the beautiful island. What did he have to be unhappy about?

  But the fear was so strong. So very strong.

  It was his day for helping Charlie and Jan’s charity, helping out with the boys who came from the mainland. As an ex-foster child himself, he didn’t see that he had much choice, even if he was pretty limited to helping put up tents (not terribly well) and cooking sausages. But apparently it was very helpful.

  Jan’s large face was uncharacteristically beaming.

  ‘She told you then?’ she announced once he had hiked up the hill to where they made camp. The boys, from somewhere called Giffnock, were wearing basically all the winter gear available as far as Joel could see. They were just small pairs of eyes peering out of balaclavas. He smiled as cheerfully as he could manage. In fact, after the blustery cold of yesterday, today was fine: bright blue skies and a piercing breeze blew the light snow cover around until the flakes looked like they were dancing. Marching up the hill had woken him up, at least, after a characteristically poor night’s sleep. The freezing air was so fresh, it felt like it cleansed your entire system, washed out your lungs. He still felt wretched, but at least he was awake. He stared at Jan in confusion.

  ‘Yeah, hi?’ he said, rubbing condensation off his glasses.

  ‘Did she tell you?’ said Jan gleefully, then clocked his face. ‘Ooh, she didn’t. I wonder if she’s jealous. She’s always very jealous of me, Flora.’

  ‘Shall I start the kettle boiling?’ said Joel, still totally mystified and hoping for a cup of coffee. ‘Hi, lads.’

  The boys clustered round him as they usually did, particularly when they found out he was American, something they seemed to find as exotic as he did them.

  Jan whispered conspiratorially, ‘About the baby!’

  And Joel’s mouth fell open.

  After a pause he said, ‘So, does everyone know?’

  ‘Well, you know what the island is like,’ said Jan, giggling, and Joel felt a momentary flash of anger at – once again – his supposed girlfriend’s inability to keep things to herself. He didn’t want to share her with the world, and as far as anyone was concerned around here, Mure was the world.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said.

  ‘So are you pleased?’ said Jan, startling him. It really wasn’t her business. ‘I mean, it’s going to mean more work for you.’

  He stared at her, then simply stomped off to check the kettle.

  Charlie came out of a tent as Joel approached.

  ‘Ach, aye, hey there,’ he said. He was still a little shy around Joel.

  Joel grunted rather rudely, but he was still utterly taken aback at how upfront Jan had been. Flora was only just pregnant, after all – you couldn’t just discuss things like that.


  ‘Did Jan tell you . . . about the baby, aye?’

  Joel blinked.

  ‘About my baby?’

  ‘Your baby?’

  Charlie burst out laughing. ‘No, Christ. No. Ours. Why? What baby?’

  ‘No baby,’ said Joel quickly, astounded at how he’d managed to get himself into this mess. ‘I just didn’t . . . Sorry. It’s early. I didn’t sleep well.’

  Charlie just stood there grinning.

  ‘Oh . . . and congrats. That’s great.’

  Charlie beamed even wider.

  ‘I know. We’re just . . . I mean, I know you expect it after a wedding, I suppose . . .’

  I suppose you do, thought Joel sadly. Why did everyone else in the world find it so straightforward? The expectation that it would be nothing but joy; a new beginning for everyone. But he himself felt like he had barely begun.

  Suddenly he felt something flung around his legs. He glanced down. It was a wide-eyed boy. He knew this cohort was at least ten years old but this chap looked very much younger. He had dark curly hair, a quiet countenance.

  ‘Hey, Luke,’ said Charlie equably. ‘Hands off, please. You know the rules.’

  ‘I’m just saying hello.’

  ‘Not like that. Come on.’

  Joel smiled at the boy as Charlie unpeeled him – they weren’t really allowed to touch the lads at all – and said, ‘Hey there. What’s up?’

  Luke stared at him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s just . . . Och, you don’t want to know the story to this one.’

  Joel knew all those stories.

  ‘Just needs affection, that’s all. Not exactly sure how to get it.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Joel. ‘Hey, Luke, I need some help to make lunch, are you up for it?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Luke. ‘Are you really American?’

  ‘No,’ said Joel. ‘I just watch a lot of movies and pretend.’