Christmas on the Island Page 18

  Flora sighed again and looked up a recipe for vegetarian stuffing. She felt awful. So far she’d got away fairly easily with everything – no sickness – but today she felt absolutely awful. The Seaside Kitchen had been absolutely mobbed the entire time, up to and including a team of carol singers who had sung ‘Paiste Am Bethlehem’ so beautifully that she had been unable to stop sobbing and so drowned them in cake which was all very nice but not particularly helpful to her bottom line.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  To be clear, Tripp had no idea it was going to be like this. Back in Texas, people were respectful but wary. They knew he was from an important family, and they were in awe of his (relative) money and known bad temper. People knew to mind their business.

  Here, he couldn’t get two steps without old ladies asking how Colton was, boxes of shortbread pressed into his hands, people giving him the benefit of the doubt because they all knew Colton and Fintan and all felt the awfulness of it. Flora wasn’t keen on him, but everyone else was incredibly welcoming.

  Day after day, as he wandered, he saw evidence everywhere of the esteem in which his brother was held. These people didn’t give two craps, as he saw it, for whether his brother liked boys or girls – or for his money either. He was just one of them; he had come and joined in, and that was all that mattered.

  And every day, when he thought about turning his back and going home, he didn’t. And as time went on, he realised that it would help his mom – a lot, he felt – if she knew that Colton was not with strangers. That he was loved, even though that was not a word Tripp thought very often.

  It helped that the village had become a fairyland. In the very depths of winter, when it was dark for so long you couldn’t believe anyone could stand it, there were lights everywhere – great icicles of light along the length of the buildings, strung-up bulbs between every gable and huge Christmas trees glowing and shining in every window. Out of the darkness, the little island had made itself a haven of the brightest, purest joy he could imagine – a tiny spot of glorious fortitude in the midst of a dark black sea.

  It never really got cold in Texas at Christmas time. The weather was the same all year round: hot in the winter, damn hot in the summer. The sun rose and set at more or less the same time every day. This astonishing world of freezing darkness – this was mighty strange to him.

  He thought he rather liked it.

  * * *

  Innes was doing his best to have a quiet pint which was frankly never easy on Mure, particularly the closer you got to Christmas. Farmers’ days were shorter this time of year and he and his cohorts could often be found in the Harbour’s Rest, craving a warm room, a friendly smile from Inge-Britt and a cheery word. They were less concerned about the cleanliness of the carpet than the warmth of the welcome.

  Tonight, he was trying to get a few minutes’ peace to think about his ex-wife, who’d been on the phone again. Of course, Flora and the lasses wanted them to get back together; as for Agot, she was loudly insisting on it as if it were simply a matter of obviousness. And now Eilidh . . . Well, he wasn’t sure . . . He’d asked Hamish, who hadn’t been much help. But it felt like she was almost hinting at them getting back together again.

  However, he still remembered the complaints: how much she had hated the draughty farmhouse; how the lack of a cinema or decent shopping made her want to visit the mainland more and more until eventually she hadn’t come back at all. It certainly wasn’t an unusual trajectory for island girls.

  If they had enough money, maybe to keep a wee flat in Inverness (which was to Innes’s mind the most cosmopolitan place he could imagine) . . . He sighed. If they ever got that dang hotel open . . .

  Lost in thought, he didn’t notice Tripp until it was almost too late. He was knocking on the window just above his head, looking frozen to the bone.

  Kindly, he popped his head around the door.

  ‘Do you think,’ said Tripp humbly, ‘you might ask that beautiful lady at the bar there to let me come in and take the weight off my feet for a moment?’

  Inge-Britt was staring straight at them. Innes raised his shoulders and Inge-Britt rolled her eyes.

  ‘Is he going to behave himself or be an arsehole?’ she said shortly.

  ‘I won’t be an asshole, ma’am, to the best of my abilities,’ came the plaintive, shivering voice from the other side of the door.

  ‘Can you vouch for him?’ said Inge-Britt.

  ‘No,’ said Innes. ‘But I’ll help you chuck him out if he gets mean again.’

  There was quiet in the barroom as Tripp stood outside, hoping for the best. Eventually, the heavy black studded door was thrown open.

  ‘One wrong move . . .’ warned Inge-Britt.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Tripp. ‘Uh, can I buy everyone a drink?’

  This went down rather well as far as apologies went, and he paid carefully for his beers with this strange-coloured money they insisted on using, and Inge-Britt only overcharged him a tiny bit more than was strictly necessary and was then almost embarrassed when he gave her a tip although, being Inge-Britt, was only almost embarrassed, and everyone raised their glasses and shouted, ‘Merry Christmas! Slàinte mhath!’ and Tripp found himself doing the same, even the weird bit.

  Tripp joined Innes in the corner, who tried his best not to sigh as he put aside his phone on which he’d been attempting to type the pros and cons of having Eilidh for Christmas, not really managing to get past the fact that Agot would be there, and Agot was the moon and the sun and the stars and everything else more or less came down to that.

  Plus a Christmas without children in a home without a mother was a sad state of affairs, everyone knew that, especially with Colton as he was and Flora moping about for some reason like a mumpy fish.

  ‘How’s Colton?’ said Innes. It was the first question everybody asked. Tripp harrumphed into his beer.

  ‘Well, he’s not real pleased to see me.’ He sipped the beer. It was awful. He tried another experimental sip. Well. Maybe.

  ‘Maybe that’s a good thing.’

  Tripp shrugged.

  ‘Here’s the thing . . . I was wondering . . . perhaps . . .’

  And Tripp told Innes his plan, and Innes sucked his teeth and attempted to be non-committal about it but failed miserably until they were interrupted by Mrs Laird, shaking a tin quite aggressively at them.

  ‘What’s this for?’ said Innes. There was always something – school roof, church hall, community play. The way it traditionally worked was that everyone would give ten pence and then Colton would make up the difference with a gigantic cheque and they would all bask in the glow, as he reached into his pocket cheerfully enough.

  ‘It’s for the nice doctor,’ said Mrs Laird. She sniffed. ‘I don’t think he’s going to celebrate Christmas.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right isn’t it?’

  ‘Only, och, I felt for the wee lads. It’s not their fault things are different. And they’ve been doing it all at school. And after what they’ve been through – I don’t think we need to call them Christmas presents. I think we can just call them welcome presents and that will be all right, don’t you think?’

  Before he’d come here, Tripp realised, he’d have had some very choice words to say on people of other religions. Not that he’d met many. Now, he watched Innes carefully consider this situation.

  ‘You could probably just say it was a passing gift,’ he said. ‘Just something we would do for every new child in the village?’

  ‘Aye!’ agreed Mrs Laird. ‘That’s an excellent idea. Call it a tradition! But not disrespecting anything they believe in – just for fun.’

  ‘Just for fun,’ agreed Innes. ‘Okay, here we go. What are you getting them?’

  ‘People are being really very generous,’ said Mrs Laird. ‘We might make it to a PlayStation.’

  ‘I think that’ll do it,’ said Innes, smiling and handing over some money. ‘Great. How nice of you to think of it.’

&nbs
p; Mrs Laird smiled back and moved on to the next table.

  ‘Eh, wait up there,’ said Tripp suddenly. Mrs Laird stopped and blinked politely. She knew who Tripp was but she’d also heard he wasn’t very nice.

  Tripp fumbled in his pocket.

  ‘Uh, I don’t really unnerstand the money,’ he said, proffering a huge red fifty-pound note. ‘Is this all right?’

  ‘Oh, don’t—’ started Innes

  ‘I’d like to,’ said Tripp, going an angry shade of pink. ‘We got money. We’re not here to take Colton’s money, no matter what you heard.’

  ‘Uh, of course,’ said Innes, sitting back and raising his hands. ‘Of course.’

  Mrs Laird accepted it cheerfully.

  ‘That’ll be some games too!’ she piped up.

  ‘I didn’t have you down as a gamer, Mrs L,’ said Innes cheerfully.

  ‘I play Soldier of Fortune while I’m waiting for my bread to rise,’ she replied pertly. Innes gave her a look.

  ‘So it’s you who’s stealing all the internet.’

  She smiled cheerfully and headed off.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  ‘Is that bastard coming today?’

  You could see the pressure on Colton’s face, the sweat on his brow. Fintan grimaced. Yesterday he’d said that no, Tripp wasn’t available and Colton had relaxed, taken his medication and dozed off into a medicated sleep which was, Fintan knew, by far the best thing for him.

  And Fintan had wandered the empty corridors and rooms of the great Manse, the people who worked there quietly scattering out of his way, the thick carpet utterly silent under his feet, and he thought to himself, This is what it will be like. This is what it will be like when he is dead.

  So, selfishly, when Colton woke again and asked after Tripp, Fintan said yes, he probably would be coming today, knowing it would make Colton groan but heave himself up and take less of his medication so as to force himself to be alert and awake in the world even though now Fintan simply touching him caused him great pain.

  But Fintan could sit next to him on the bed – feel him there, a hair’s breadth away – even as Colton raged somewhat incoherently over his brother and he would nod and agree, even if deep down he knew this was futile – cruel even. So Fintan called Innes, telling him to send Tripp up.

  Today, however, Tripp sidled in looking almost ashamed of himself.

  ‘I got an idea,’ he growled, staring at the floor.

  ‘You’ve never had an idea in your life,’ said Colton. ‘Not one you didn’t get off Fox News and is a bunch of crap.’

  He coughed, and it felt like the fit would go on for a while. Fintan gave him a handkerchief.

  ‘No, listen,’ insisted Tripp. And Colton glanced at Fintan, who shrugged. Fintan’s mind was made up on this issue. He thought Tripp was right.

  * * *

  And so it was arranged. Joel went along because there was going to be some stuff he knew he was going to oversee. Fintan, obviously. Saif, just in case he was needed. And Tripp, so there was a lot of testosterone in the room.

  Colton had every new computer ever made so it was a simple case of taking it out of its box and setting it up. In despair at the island’s internet, he had also installed a large satellite dish so he had his own. Then he had so many people loitering on his property trying to download iPlayer programmes that he told Joel to get it sorted out in the village too. It was in hand. Frankly, though, Joel wasn’t rushing with it. He felt rather strongly that the ability to get lots and lots of work done and to be contactable every minute of the day and freely available in a million corners of the world that weren’t Mure was vastly overrated, so hadn’t exactly been all over it.

  Plus he’d had other things on his mind, such as the struggle between being ‘a selfish a-hole’ (Marsha’s words after two whiskies) and ‘a cold, distant, harmful father’ (according to himself at 4 a.m., staring out of the window), and his constant, agonising missing of Flora that happened every second. But the Flora who loved him, not the one who was furious with him. How could he be such a coward?

  Unable to sit still at the Rock, Joel arrived first and sat down on Colton’s bed. Fintan was busying himself with wires; Tripp was pacing nervously up and down the hallway.

  ‘Don’t . . . don’t tell Fintan about the baby,’ he said straight off.

  ‘Uh yeah, whatever, man,’ said Colton crossly.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ said Joel.

  ‘All the morphine in the world and a vat of Drambuie,’ growled Colton.

  Joel moved closer.

  ‘Getting tougher?’

  ‘Every fucking second.’

  A look passed between them.

  ‘Oh, it makes him happy,’ said Colton, meaning Fintan of course. ‘Every frigging morning. If I can say hi, he’s like a fricking spring lamb all day. That’s why my brother is around. Gives me the energy to be awake and hating that SOB.’

  Joel blinked.

  ‘I thought your whole policy was not to fight this thing.’

  Colton grimaced again.

  ‘I know. I know.’

  Joel tried to work out if he would endure so much pain for the love of Flora.

  He would. He knew. He just needed to sort out the next bit. He needed to get there.

  Joel sighed and didn’t realise he’d done so out loud.

  ‘Hey, what, you got problems?’ said Colton, squinting at the thirty-point options page Joel had brought him.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ said Joel. ‘Stupid of me.’

  ‘No, I mean it. Distract me from it please. If I have to be conscious, I don’t want to be thinking about it.’

  It would, Joel realised, be a huge relief to talk about it.

  ‘Flora’s baby . . .’

  Colton winced and indicated to Joel to pour a little whisky into the tumbler by the table and feed it to him. Joel did so.

  ‘So, a baby. What’s your problem?’ he said when he’d gulped it down, winced, then – after a moment or two – looked slightly happier. ‘I’m not paying you enough?’

  Joel shrugged.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I just . . . I mean . . . it was just a bit of a shock, that’s all. I don’t think I’m dealing with it very well.’

  He paused.

  ‘No, I am definitely not dealing with it very well. It’s just . . . it’s come as such a shock.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘When were you thinking would be the right time exactly?’

  ‘I never thought about it at all . . . Are you giving me advice?’

  Colton strained to lift his head up a bit and made a throat-clearing noise that might have been a laugh.

  ‘No, man. No.’

  ‘Well, could you?’

  Colton stared down at his withered left hand. It was trembling; it couldn’t be stopped.

  ‘I would have loved a kid,’ he said. ‘One that looked just like Fintan. But was smart like me. Would have loved it.’

  Joel sat quietly.

  ‘I know people talk a lot of crap about seizing the day, Joel. I have never heard so much crap spouted at me as I have in these last few months. Man alive. If I ever see that homeopathy woman again I will shoot her. Also Captain “Bananas cured my Second Cousin”. I have had every piece of crap advice under the sun and it all sucks ass at the end of the day, I can tell you that much.’

  Joel smiled ruefully.

  ‘But,’ Colton went on. His voice sounded cracked and painful, like he was dragging it over gravel.

  ‘If you can’t enjoy having a motherfucking baby with the motherfucking woman you love, fuck you, son. And also. Fuck you.’

  His energy gave out and he collapsed back on the pillow, wheezing, covered in sweat. Then he turned around.

  ‘Oh. And you guys need to live here. Fintan hates it. He wants to go home to that cruddy farmhouse. I forgot that. Write it down.’

  ‘What?’ said Joel, but Colton had taken on a deep and prolonged coughing
fit and didn’t seem to be able to stop.

  ‘What can I do?’ said Joel, rushing over and looking around for the nurse.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Colton grimly, eventually managing to control himself. ‘If I go back on the morphine, I nod out again and apparently we have shit to do today, and Fintan will be all sad puppy dog face . . .’

  Joel put a hand on Joel’s arm.

  ‘I’m saying this as your lawyer,’ he said. ‘But also as your friend.’ He paused. ‘You can choose when you want to go.’

  Colton squeezed his eyes shut. But he didn’t say anything. Eventually:

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I think Fintan would hate to know what it’s really costing you.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Colton.

  ‘Just . . . don’t lie to him about the pain. Tell him about the pain. Nothing good comes of shutting up pain,’ he added, a little ruefully.

  ‘Huh,’ said Colton again. Then he tried to lift a wizened hand to pat Joel’s, but he couldn’t make it.

  ‘I’ll get the nurse,’ Joel said. ‘Want me to get Saif too?’

  Colton waved a hand that could have meant anything. Joel took a few steps towards the door to tell the others to come in. Then he turned back.

  ‘We’re not calling it Colton,’ he said.

  There was a silence.

  ‘Good,’ came a hoarse growl. ‘It’s a crappy-assed name.’

  And Joel called Tripp and Fintan up, and retreated to the corner.

  * * *

  Joel sighed. And then he vowed. Yes. He would. He would go over there. Straight after what had to be done here, he would go over. He would. He would pick her up, grab her out of the café – hell, shut the damn café. He would fall on his knees, beg forgiveness for being such a terrible idiot. Hope against hope that it was clear why he had needed time; why it had been a shock. It occurred to him too that it had also been a shock to her, and he immediately felt guilty that he hadn’t been there for her; couldn’t have made her happy right from the start. And they would take over that tiny little flat and start living.