Christmas on the Island Page 5

  * * *

  Around eleven o’clock, the girls started giggling again. Flora was back in the kitchen. God, how could she still be tired? She’d slept about nine hours the previous evening. She grabbed another coffee. Even though she was drinking decaf now, hopefully it would psychologically fool herself into perking up.

  She heard the heavy tread of male footsteps – and it sounded like a lot of them – clumping into the café, so she popped her head around the kitchen door.

  Standing there was a bunch of slightly awkward-looking young men. They all had razor-short buzz cuts and were wearing heavy great coats. They were all white, and many were tall and handsome, with high cheekbones. Isla and Iona were grinning at the front of the glass display cabinets, and even the Fair Isle group seemed to have put their knitting down for a second.

  ‘Hello?’ said Flora cheerily. The lead boy of the group stepped forwards, looking embarrassed. He was holding a hat in his hand.

  ‘We like . . . seventeen . . .’

  He pointed to the Christmas cake. Flora looked up at him. His accent was strong and suddenly she had an inkling where they were from.

  ‘Da, of course,’ she said, smiling. The young man looked surprised. ‘You’re Russian?’

  There was some huddled debating of the men among themselves in a language that was quite obviously Russian.

  ‘Da,’ said the man finally, reluctantly. Isla and Iona giggled their heads off while scooping all their Christmas cake into a large bag. Flora would have some disappointed customers come teatime.

  ‘Fishing?’ said Iona.

  They were so clearly not fisherman, Flora nearly laughed. They were all wearing military greatcoats for starters.

  ‘Da. Da. Fish,’ said the man, stuttering and growing uncomfortably pink as the girls giggled away.

  Flora nodded cheerfully.

  ‘Fishing it is,’ she said. She knew they’d be in serious trouble if anyone started prying into whether or not there were any nuclear submarines in the area. So best just not to ask.

  The handsome young man thanked them, paid and turned to go, when Iona, pink as a shellfish, ran up to him and thrust a leaflet for the Mure Christmas party in his hand.

  ‘What?’ she said innocently as she returned to Flora’s disapproving glance. ‘He’s gorgeous. They’re all gorgeous.’

  ‘They don’t speak any English!’ said Flora.

  ‘She wasn’t planning on talking to them,’ said Isla.

  ‘Shut up, Isla!’

  ‘Calm down, everyone,’ said Flora, as the click of the knitting needles started up again. ‘And, Iona, just try not to cause a major international military incident.’

  Chapter Ten

  Saif, as usual, was running late, trying to chivvy the boys up the hill. It was snowing properly today, with more flakes lying on the ground, so they were forcing their way into a blizzard. Mrs Laird had knitted the boys balaclavas so you could see almost nothing of their faces apart from Ib’s long eyelashes poking out, crystalled with snowflakes. He was going to be quite dramatically handsome.

  It was in Ash, though, that Saif saw a lot of Amena, his beautiful wife; the boy had the same heart-shaped face and high cheekbones, and that sudden, thrilling smile.

  It didn’t make getting them out in the morning anything less than a nightmare though. Literally the first full line in English they’d ever learned at home, rather than at school, was Saif hollering at them to put their shoes on.

  It was strange, Saif reflected, that they spoke English at home now. Neda, the social worker and counsellor who contacted them frequently to see how they were getting on, had stressed that they ought to speak Arabic at home and English at school, so the boys could keep their home ties.

  But somehow, it felt too difficult to Saif. Arabic was the language they’d spoken when they were a family – a full family. It was the language Amena had sung in when she had rocked the babies in the summer courtyard, with its contrasting scents of diesel from passing cars and the scrappy pomegranate bush they tried to keep alive in the corner, as they hung out tiny onesies to dry.

  It was the language of the cartoons they had watched together as babies; Ash constantly squirming as Ib sat, concentrating intensely. It was the language of their cousins; the aunties; all the people they did not see now; all the people they might never see again.

  No. The only way to deal with this new life was to live in it. Ash’s fondness for baked beans; Ib’s enjoyment – of all things – of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, a show about which Saif found nearly everything incomprehensible, particularly the fact that it appeared to be about thirty years old.

  It kept the past at bay. Neda told them they were losing something. Saif felt bitterly that it was something they had to lose; otherwise, how could they move on? How could they exist, except in the day and space they lived in now? How could he deny them that?

  Except at night, when he would twist in his dreams in which Amena would be waiting at the door of their little section of the courtyard, and the boys could not recognise her, nor speak to her in the only tongue she knew, and he would wake up – Ash in his bed as often as not – curled around the sheets, bathed in sweat and wonder how long? How long?

  Then he would look at the beautiful form of Ash, and think of his other boy, sleeping peacefully at last in the great, gloomy bedroom next door, the stars bright, the moon distant and far away, watching over them in peace and safety, and think, It is for them you are here. Hold on. Hold on.

  * * *

  That morning there was something of a kerfuffle around the school gates. The other parents had at first been wary of Saif – not because they had anything against him personally, but because Ib, after his difficult experiences, had been, not to put too fine a point on it, a monster. He bit. He kicked out. He shouted in a strange tongue. He was invited to nothing.

  Things were starting to settle a little: Ib was a talented footballer player and, it turned out, as soon as they put a stick in his hand, a good shinty player too, and there was always a shortage when putting a side together on their small island.

  So he’d become a little more accepted, although he remained reserved and wary. Ash, with his undersized frame and appealing ways (not to mention his beautiful big eyes) had become a firm favourite among the girls, and was petted and indulged wherever he went. Saif wasn’t sure this was ideal – boys and girls hadn’t mixed much at the schools he’d been to – but things were different here, he supposed. At least he had someone to sit next to at lunchtime.

  The other parents went silent as he approached, but Saif didn’t really notice that kind of thing. Pinned to the board was a list and he gradually realised it was a cast list for something called a ‘Nativity Play’. Against the name ‘Joseph’ was Ibrahim Hassan, and against something called an ‘Innkeeper’, which he’d have to google, was Ash.

  Everyone was looking at Saif to gauge his reaction. He didn’t have the faintest idea what his reaction was supposed to be. He would have to ask Jeannie, the GP’s receptionist, but he knew she was a terrible gossip for anything she didn’t absolutely have to keep private, like the medical records. He so missed having Lorna as a friend.

  He missed her for a lot of reasons; he felt so strongly for her. But it could not be and that was that. It was hard. He was thirty-four; fit, young, healthy. And when the boys had gone to bed at night, he was so lonely, and sometimes, walking to work in the morning, would catch himself dreaming of her glorious red hair, her beautiful freckles, her warm laugh.

  But it was impossible. He was married. He had made vows. The fact that he was so attracted to her simply meant he must always stay absolutely away from her. For everyone’s sake. He could not give Lorna what she wanted from him.

  There was still no news from Syria; Amena’s own family had scattered, mostly in Turkey, and communication was difficult and brief. All he could piece together was that she had left one morning to get food for the boys, and never come home.

  Saif was a
scientist. He was trained in rational thinking. Occam’s razor – the scientific concept that the simplest explanation for anything is almost certainly the correct one – applied here.

  But there was always a chance. A tiny chance that Amena was still alive. And the tiniest chance of his boys having a mother; of his family being restored. He had to believe it. He had to.

  But he missed his friend very much.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was the normal row of old ladies waiting, some with their reluctant husbands in tow, when Saif got back to the surgery. He eyed them up. Diabetes management, hypertension, mood stabilisers and for Mrs Giffney – with whom he’d made a terrible mistake a month or so back when, being unable to think of anything to cure her mysterious side pains which didn’t conform to any pathology of anything vaguely dangerous and probably had more to do with her comfortable padding and habit of carrying her dog on one hip when it rained, which was always – he had suggested a traditional rubbing herb they used back home rather than expensive heat gels. This had apparently worked brilliantly (and coincided with a period of unusually dry weather) and ever since then Mrs Giffney had been convinced he was some kind of traditional shaman and told everyone to ask him for traditional remedies, which a surprising amount did.

  Saif believed the time and attention complementary methods could bring you were enormously helpful; the actual ingredients themselves rather less so, otherwise he would happily co-opt them into his medical practice. But there was no convincing Mrs Giffney, nor any of her cronies who had taken to turning up and asking if he didn’t have a poultice or any herbs instead of the statins he was suggesting. He’d admitted defeat eventually, bought some dried coriander from the internet and suggested taking a pinch with the actual medicine he’d given them, being emphatic that it would only work if his instructions were carried out to the letter.

  ‘What is “nativity”?’ he asked Jeannie as casually as he was able. He knew the story, more or less, but was unclear as to what was going on in the school.

  Jeannie smiled broadly.

  ‘Oh yes, they’ve taken the leads, haven’t they! Just swanned in apparently, snapping up all the good roles because of being from the Middle East?’

  Jeannie always knew everything.

  ‘Is this bad?’

  ‘I’m only teasing,’ said Jeannie. ‘It’s the highlight of Christmas. The children do a nativity up at the school. Then there’s a big party at the MacKenzies’ farm.’

  She frowned, seeing his worried face.

  ‘Don’t you want them to be in the show?’

  Saif squared up.

  ‘We are in a new place,’ he said, wondering if the authorities would want to know if they’d joined in. ‘We will do . . . whatever . . . is required.’

  ‘It’s usually not considered a chore,’ said Jeannie. ‘It’s usually considered great fun. But it’s not compulsory.’

  Saif sighed. ‘No, no, it’s fine.’

  ‘Christmas is going to be hard for you,’ said Jeannie sympathetically. She meant because he’d be alone. Saif thought she meant because he’d never done it before. They both nodded their heads gravely, and he took up the day’s set of notes and headed off to his consulting room.

  Chapter Twelve

  Joel hated New York. He hated all cities. Even at its twinkliest, snowiest, most beautiful best, the air was still full of exhaust fumes and hot dog smells and people shouting and cars honking, and out-of-towners trying to cross Midtown.

  Colton was doing what doctors called ‘getting his affairs in order’, which in Colton’s case was rather a lot, and Joel was there just to make sure everything was watertight. Ready. Colton wanted to be ready. All of his money was earmarked for charities, except for the Mure properties: the house and the Rock hotel would pass to Fintan to look after. It was a simple straightfoward process, and therefore everyone was going absolutely apeshit about it.

  But there was another dimension too – it was a testing. Joel had undergone a minor breakdown in the summer – so this was an adjustment, as Mark liked to say, to his new, calmer way of life. It had been tough on all of them. But if he was still to work a little, he needed to test himself. He was there for three days, staying with Mark and Marsha so he wasn’t by himself in a hotel room, and they were keeping him away from spending too much time by himself.

  The first night he’d arrived, though, he’d been amazed by how calm he’d felt. He’d sat with Mark in their beautiful top-floor pre-war apartment on the Upper East Side, the fire blazing in the little parlour, the windows closed against the city noise outside.

  ‘I like it more with snow blowing,’ he’d observed. ‘Feels more like home.’

  ‘Yup, that’s New York,’ Marsha had said, kissing him. ‘Always freezing or boiling.’

  ‘It’s like this all day every day at home,’ said Joel, smiling. ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘Did you just use the “h” word?’ said Mark, coming in wearing a huge jumper that made him look like a Greek Santa Claus.

  Joel smiled more broadly.

  ‘Thanks again for last summer,’ he said.

  Mark shook his head. ‘Oh, it wasn’t us,’ he said. ‘Thank that girl of yours.’

  Joel rolled his eyes.

  ‘Well,’ he said. The couple looked at him expectantly. ‘What?’

  ‘We were just wondering how it’s going,’ said Marsha. ‘Not that it’s any of our business of course . . .’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Flora was baking spice cookies and thinking maybe she should just phone Joel. No. Maybe she could ask Fintan for advice, take his mind off things. No, that wouldn’t work either. The more people who knew before Joel, the worse this was going to get, and that was absolutely a fact.

  She was hemming and hawing about this, ignoring the girls completely, when the bell rang out front again. At first she thought it was the Russian sailors back to see Iona, but this man wasn’t of military bearing at all: he was large, wearing blue jeans with a big belt, his belly spilling over the top. He also had a check shirt on and an odd blouson jacket affair, unzipped, which seemed unwise in this weather. He had heavy eyebrows, a high colour to his skin and looked to be in his fifties – and not ageing particularly well.

  Flora pasted a smile on. A tourist, making the completely correct assumption that Christmas in the islands might be an unusual experience and something to tell their friends, but failing to read the small print about the weather.

  ‘Hello,’ she called out. ‘Can I help you?’

  The man narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Hi.’

  He was American, as she’d guessed the second he came in.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said again, still smiling politely. He didn’t smile back, which wasn’t particularly American of him; normally people from the USA were delighted just to be there, and felt the need to explain that their great-grandmother had either come from the island, or somewhere quite nearby, or Ireland which was the same thing, wasn’t it, sweetie, well, never mind, but they were on some kind of a package tour deal.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ he said in a slightly overdramatic way. Flora imagined a piano player stopping playing the piano in an old-timey Western bar.

  ‘Oh yes?’ she said carefully. However much she’d been away, and however far she’d travelled, she was a Mure girl through and through. She knew everyone on this island and they knew her and she didn’t know this guy. So she kept smiling politely, but felt a little wary.

  The man moved closer. He glanced around the Seaside Kitchen as if he didn’t think much of it, which put Flora on edge even more.

  He looked up at her; his eyes were a grey-blue, and reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t quite work out who.

  ‘I’m looking for Colton Rogers,’ he said, and it was almost a growl.

  Flora blinked. There was just something about him she . . . she couldn’t say what it was. Maybe it was heightened senses. Maybe being pregnant made you more careful
of people, she thought. Or maybe he just . . . didn’t look very nice.

  ‘Would you like a tea or a coffee?’ she said.

  The man glanced disdainfully at the big clanking coffee machine.

  ‘Nah,’ he said.

  Flora wished the café wasn’t quite so quiet this morning. There was a dense freezing fog outside too, which added to the slightly sinister atmosphere.

  ‘So, why are you looking for him?’ she asked politely.

  The man sighed, and suddenly looked very tired.

  ‘He’s my brother,’ he said.

  Flora realised why his eyes had looked familiar. They were the same steely colour as Colton’s. Although Colton’s softened when he smiled and had a network of wrinkles around them . . . Well, they used to. It was the strangest thing: ever since he’d got sick, his face had slackened – from the medication she supposed. And his wrinkles had gone – it was almost completely smooth. And as he’d lost weight, he looked bizarrely young, like a child.

  This man looked different, but you could see it. If you concentrated. Flora, though, couldn’t imagine him throwing his head back and laughing. At anything, really.

  She busied herself clearing up.

  ‘Does he know you’re coming?’ she asked.

  The man snorted.

  ‘No. Colton isn’t interested’ – it came out as ‘innerested’ – ‘in nothing to do with us. After all, we’re just his blood family.’

  Flora blinked.

  ‘Well, I can’t . . . I mean. Have you spoken to Fintan?’

  The man’s brow creased.

  ‘Who?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the end, Flora smiled as well as she was able, excused herself, then went back into the kitchen and called Fintan immediately.

  Fintan’s voice was hushed but he got up and moved, saying soothing words to Colton as he went. Flora heard the heavy door shut behind him.

  ‘How is he?’ said Flora.