The Summer Seaside Kitchen Read online

Are they thrilled you’re back?

  Well this will cheer you up. Joel is concerned about what’s happening. He’s coming up.

  Get some sleep.

  Eventually Flora gave up on the shinty and went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She felt the slightly musty pillowcase under her head, the thin duvet, the sagging mattress, and wondered when was the last time anyone had slept in here. It wasn’t as if her father encouraged guests particularly. Why would he when everyone he knew in the world, more or less, lived within walking distance? And with a large family, the house had always felt full and lively enough anyway; if anything, too noisy.

  Now she could hear a tap dripping in a distant sink. She frowned, realising that it had dripped when she had lived here; that nobody had thought to fix it for years.

  She missed, suddenly, the noisy streets of east London: the shouting, the parties and occasional fights that erupted on hot nights, the sound of police helicopters whomping overhead; all the things that normally made her stressed and irritated now felt familiar. Here, there was so much silence, apart from that damned tap. A faint drift of wind in the sea grass. No cars, no neighbours, no music, no people. It felt completely empty, like the end of the world. She felt utterly alone.

  Oddly, it also felt like her first night in London had: starting a new life, everything strange. But then she’d felt enthused; full of possibility and hope and excitement. And even though she maybe hadn’t gone as far as she might have, she’d done it. She’d been building a life for herself; trying, working hard. Controlling her own destiny.

  Only to end up right back here where she’d started. She’d shed plenty of tears for her mother. But these ones were just for herself.

  She listened to the tap, hating it, and at 3 a.m. got up to try and turn it off, without success. As she tiptoed through the kitchen, the dawn already well under way, Bramble looked up hopefully with a flap of his tail on the flagstones. She paused for a second, checking the damped fire in the grate. When she headed back to the bedroom, Bramble got up silently and followed her, and she let him. She climbed back into the slightly chilly bed, and he crawled up on top of her and arranged his large bulk around her legs. His heavy warmth felt very pleasant, and as his breathing slowed, so did hers, and eventually she fell asleep.

  She woke up as though she’d been given an electric shock as the boys headed out for milking. Joel! Joel was coming!

  She had plenty of work to do but couldn’t settle. The house felt oppressive and the sun was shining; she wanted to make the most of the lovely day and get rid of some of her excess energy, so she called her old school friend Lorna. They weren’t the same school year, but that never mattered in Mure. There were only two classes: wee and big.

  And now Lorna had returned to become first a teacher and now headmistress at the local primary school. It was the school holidays, so she was free for once.

  Lorna, a sweet-faced, russet-haired girl who worked like a fiend, had been very good about the fact that Flora barely contacted her (apart from the occasional like on Facebook) while she lived her exciting London life, then expected her to be the receiver of all her woes when she turned up on the island. Flora had offered to buy the coffee, and Lorna prepared herself to listen politely to her complaining about how undrinkable it was compared to whatever fancy stuff she was used to in London.

  When she saw Flora, though, she was so shocked by the absence of her customary sparkle that she put all that out of her mind.

  ‘Come on!’ she said, grinning. ‘It can’t be that bad to be home!’

  Flora attempted a smile.

  ‘Everyone’s giving me sideways looks, like I’ve betrayed them,’ she said.

  ‘You’re imagining things,’ said Lorna. ‘And they’re worried about the boys, up there alone on that farm. It’s strange.’

  ‘It’s not my fault, though.’

  ‘I mean, you’d think one of them would be married off by now.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t marry Hamish,’ said Flora. ‘He can’t find his own head with both hands.’

  Lorna sighed.

  ‘I know. Shame – he’s such a hunk.’

  ‘And Innes gave it a shot.’

  ‘Have you seen Agot yet?’

  Agot was Innes’ daughter. He had custody at funny times, as his ex, Eilidh, had moved back to the mainland.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  Lorna smiled.

  ‘Why? What?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Lorna. ‘Can you ask Eilidh to send her to my school, please? The rolls are horrifying.’

  ‘I know,’ said Flora.

  ‘Too many people are leaving. Going off to find jobs.’

  ‘I saw the empty shops.’

  Lorna grunted as they carried on down the path from the farm.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, gesticulating towards the harbour, where the seagulls were swooping to see if anything was left behind from the previous night’s fish and chips, and light was bouncing off the waves. The forecast had been ominous, but in fact a quick bout of rain had appeared to clear everything away. It was strange, but it sometimes happened like that: the mainland, all the way down to London, would be cold and grey, but the weather front missed them completely, leaving them in bright, clear sunlight. You wouldn’t swim in it, but you could definitely sit outside (in the sun, with a jumper on). ‘How bad can it be on a day like today?’

  ‘I know,’ said Flora. ‘Sorry. It’s just… you know.’

  ‘I do,’ said Lorna. She had lost her mother too. Sometimes, Flora thought, it was enough just to be with someone who understood.

  ‘How’s your dad?’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  Flora kicked a stone.

  ‘Argh. You know when they said I had to come here for work… honestly, I got such butterflies in my stomach. Such nerves. Because it’s here, all the time. And it’s turning me into a misery. I hate it. I hate being grumpy all the time. I’m sure I’m a fun person really. I’m sure I used to be.’

  Lorna smiled.

  ‘To be fair, you’ve always been quite irritating.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Lorna. ‘It’s okay, you know. It’s okay to grieve. You’re meant to. It’s a period of adjustment.’

  Flora sighed.

  ‘I like it in London. I’m too busy to grieve there. I don’t actually have to look around and see her all the time, or think about her or be interrogated about her.’

  They’d reached the Harbour’s Rest, cheerfully run by a tall Icelandic girl called Inge-Britt. It dealt mostly with tourists, didn’t have to worry about repeat visits and cleaned its cutlery accordingly. They ordered coffee and sat down in the shabby lounge.

  Lorna looked at Flora.

  ‘Is it really so awful being back here? I mean, plenty of us… we live here all the time. It’s nice. It’s fine. Some of us like it.’

  Flora stirred her coffee. A faintly grey scum rose to the top from the powdered milk.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean I’m different or special…’

  ‘Your mum thought you were.’

  ‘Everyone’s mum thinks they are.’

  ‘Not like yours. “Oh, Flora did this! Flora got this in her exams!” She always wanted more for you.’

  Lorna paused.

  ‘Are you happy down there?’

  Flora shrugged.

  ‘We should have had this conversation at night. With wine instead of… whatever this is.’

  ‘I’ll go halfers on a custard bun with you.’

  ‘Shall we ask for it without a plate? Might be cleaner.’

  Bun carefully divided, Flora thought again.

  ‘I feel I didn’t fit in here. Then I went away and I don’t fit in there. So I don’t know. Why is it so easy for you?’

  ‘Ha!’ said Lorna. She’d always loved teaching. She’d gone to teacher-training college on the mainland and had a wonderful time, then she’d been perfectly happy to come h
ome again where her friends and family were, eventually (to be fair, there wasn’t a lot of competition for her tiny posting) becoming headmistress of the island’s little primary school. Its falling roll was a worry, and she’d like to meet a nice man, but apart from that… ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘It’s no bad.’

  ‘I just feel sometimes that I’m not sure I belong anywhere.’

  Lorna tutted and stood up. Flora followed her obediently outside and across to the edge of the harbour.

  ‘Look,’ said Lorna.

  Flora didn’t know what she meant. It was just the same as usual, wasn’t it? Same old waves beating against the harbour walls. Same old boats bobbing around the place, same old seagulls clattering away at the bins, same old coloured houses, and round the headland, the farms and the fish processing plants.

  ‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘It’s just the same.’

  ‘No!’ said Lorna. ‘LOOK! Look at the clouds scudding across the sky. How much sky do you get in London anyway? When I went there, all I could see were buildings and more buildings and pigeons and that was just about it.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ said Flora.

  ‘Take a breath,’ said Lorna, stepping up onto the wall. The air was fresh and clean, tinged with salt; the wind whipped her hair. ‘Taste it! The last time I was in the city, I thought I’d choke from the fumes. This is awesome.’

  Flora grinned. ‘You’re nuts, you are.’

  ‘BREATHE! There are so few places in the world where you can breathe like this. It’s the freshest air in existence. Breathe it in! Take your stupid yoga classes and shove them up your bum! Nothing’s better than this.’

  Flora was laughing now.

  ‘SERIOUSLY!’ Lorna was wobbling across the top of the wall now. ‘You’re mad, Flora MacKenzie. It’s awesome here.’

  ‘But it’s freezing!’

  ‘Buy a bigger coat. It’s not rocket science. Look! LOOK!’

  Flora followed her up on to the top of the wall, where they used to sit when they were teenagers, eating chips and swinging their legs. She followed Lorna’s pointing finger. Below them she could see the elongated neck, the extraordinary beauty of a tall heron. It stood on one leg, poised like a ballerina, as if totally aware of how lovely it was, a halo of sunshine around its head; then, as if waiting for them both to be watching, it spread its glorious wings and sped, fast and low, over the bouncing, gleaming waves, the echo of the other, coarser birds yelping off the walls of the brightly painted pastel buildings behind them as the bird headed for the white horizon.

  ‘You don’t get that in London,’ said Lorna.

  And Flora had to admit, as they watched the heron scoop a glistening fish from the sea without so much as slowing down, that Lorna was right.

  As they stood together gazing out to sea, Lorna leaned over towards her.

  ‘It’s going to be okay,’ she said quietly, because she was the very best type of friend to have, the type who could never hold a grudge; and out of the blue, Flora found herself blinking back tears again, and cursed herself. She realised, suddenly, that that was the first time anybody had said that. Her father couldn’t say it, because it wasn’t true for him. He’d lost everything; things weren’t going to be okay. But the boys: they all seemed so trapped. And the island seemed to think she barely deserved to come back.

  ‘Do you think?’ she said, with a quiver in her voice. Lorna looked confused.

  ‘Of course it is!’ she said. ‘Of course it is. It won’t be the same – it’s never the same. You’re in a different world when you lose a parent.’

  ‘I should have done more,’ said Flora, turning suddenly.

  Lorna shook her head. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You weren’t to know. Nobody does. Not until you cross that river. Not until you live in that world. Then you understand.’

  ‘And it gets better?’

  ‘It does.’

  The heron had stopped on a rock, gazing fervently at the horizon. It was so still and perfect, it looked like a photograph. Flora stared at it as she blinked her tears away.

  ‘So,’ said Lorna. ‘What are you going to do today?’

  Flora sighed.

  ‘Do you know what the boys could really do with? A proper home-cooked meal.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Lorna. ‘Your mum was the best cook I ever knew. She taught you, didn’t she?’

  ‘She did,’ said Flora. ‘I’m very rusty, though. God, the food in London —’

  ‘DON’T START!’ said Lorna. ‘I was just starting to like you again.’

  Chapter Ten

  Margo popped her head round the door. Joel had pulled an all-nighter working on another case, and there were shadows under his eyes. She did wonder about him sometimes. She saw his emails; took his incoming calls. Apart from the occasional distraught girl who’d thought she was on to something, there was nothing personal. Ever.

  Of course, that didn’t mean anything. But sometimes she wondered if his rudeness was covering something else. And sometimes she just thought he was a tool.

  ‘Coffee?’

  He shook his head irritably.

  ‘Are you going to get to Scotland today?’

  He twisted his face.

  ‘Do I have to go? Really? Can’t I just deal with it from here?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Colton seems very fond of the place. So it might make sense for the future, if you’re trying to get him on-side.’

  ‘Yeah yeah yeah. Well, let me know when he calls. I want to stay out of the godforsaken hellhole for as long as possible. Have you seen where it is on a map?’

  Margo shook her head as he showed her how far north of the British mainland it was.

  ‘If they’ve got more than one eyebrow between them, I’ll be amazed,’ he said. ‘God. Right. I’ve changed my mind about that coffee.’

  Margo scuttled off.

  Flora stomped around the very small supermarket, feeling exasperated. She’d had plans to make something different for dinner, something they wouldn’t have normally, that wasn’t like the food her mother used to make. She didn’t think they were ready for her mother’s recipes yet.

  She thought back, briefly, to when she and Hugh were dating, and they’d go down to Borough Market, just next to London Bridge. It was a foodies’ paradise, and extraordinarily expensive, and they’d dally there on a Saturday morning, planning something wonderful to make that night – squid ink risotto or hot and sour Thai soup – and trying lots of things she’d simply never tasted before: kimchi and ceviche and all sorts of other delicacies. She was still a traditional cook, but Hugh knew a bit about food and he’d pushed her taste buds.

  She was thinking that for that night she’d make some little chive dumplings with a spicy chicken broth, and some garlic and chili kale. Perfect for the boys if they were hungry coming in from the fields; the day was bright and clear, but there was still a wind coming down from the north and it would be good to have something warming inside.

  ‘Hello,’ she said to old Wullie, who worked, as far as anyone could tell, about twenty hours a day running the island’s only grocery shop. He might not even be that old. He might actually just be a very tired thirty-five.

  ‘Flora MacKenzie,’ he grunted. Flora felt oddly disgruntled. She’d have quite liked someone to have taken a look at her smart clothes and nice boots and gone, ‘Flora MacKenzie! Look at you!’ But nobody had.

  ‘Hi there!’ she said. ‘I’m back! Well, for work, you know. I work in London.’

  Wullie stared straight ahead without interest, as he always had.

  ‘Aye,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Um. Have you got any… rice wine?’

  ‘Neh.’

  ‘Lemon grass?’

  He looked at her and blinked slowly.

  ‘Soy sauce?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, and pointed out a tiny, very dusty, sticky-looking bottle.

  ‘And what about vegetables?’ she said brightly. Wullie gestured at a shelf full of tins and F
lora felt very cross. They grew all sorts of good stuff on the island: carrots, potatoes, tomatoes that loved the long summer evenings as long as you could keep them warm enough. Why was none of that here?

  ‘Isn’t there a farm shop?’ she said.

  ‘A waut?’ said Wullie with a faint air of menace in his voice.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Flora, scampering away.

  In the end she made it, out of all things, from an old Pot Noodle sachet and some harsh local onions she found in the pantry at the house. In her anxiety – as well as trying to clean the filthy kitchen at the same time – she horribly overboiled the chicken on the unfamiliar Aga, and the dumplings were hard as bullets.

  Innes regarded the food carefully when they came in from the fields, washing up at the big sink.

  ‘Is this a feminist position?’ he said as they took their familiar places at the table: Innes and Hamish on the window side, Flora and Fintan on the other, her father nearest the range. ‘Is being terrible at cooking all the rage in London these days?’

  ‘Well, we could pebble-dash the barn with it,’ suggested Fintan, poking at his plate dubiously.

  ‘Or there’s that dry wall needs putting up,’ said Innes. ‘We could use it for putty.’

  ‘Stop complaining and just eat it,’ said Flora.

  ‘But it tastes like dishwater,’ said Innes, in what he clearly thought was a reasonable tone.

  Flora wanted to throw a plate at him. She knew it was ridiculous – the whole thing was absolutely horrible – but she felt incredibly embarrassed and angry at the same time. She was so rusty about everything up here.

  ‘I like it, Flora,’ said Hamish, who’d practically licked his plate clean. ‘What is it, please?’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Hamish,’ said Fintan. ‘You’re worse than Bracken and Bramble.’