Christmas on the Island Read online

  He had never, ever, ever thought about having children. He didn’t know many – he worked with boys on the Outward Adventures, but only for a day here and there. Well, apart from Agot, who liked him precisely because he was utterly incapable of treating her like a child, and she didn’t consider herself to be one, just a small adult.

  He worried far too much about what his genes might unleash; what might come down from his father’s side, from his mother’s. The violence; the despair, the addiction.

  He had had to fight incredibly hard all his life against his demons, always threatening to take over. What if a child couldn’t do that? What if they were born under a darker star? He still didn’t know if he’d got out from under it; he wouldn’t put that on a child. Couldn’t.

  Flora would never understand. She was from a loving, slightly messy, but fundamentally normal family. But they’d never discussed children. He hadn’t given it any thought, always assuming . . . Well. He hadn’t assumed anything. He hadn’t thought about it. He’d just lived, for the first time in his life, for the moment. Getting to know someone. Opening up to someone in a way he never had before. Falling in love, even if love and being close to another person, open and vulnerable, as a concept was something that made him deeply and profoundly uncomfortable: he had rarely said the words to Flora. Although he did. Or rather he’d thought he did; or at least, he’d thought he might, maybe.

  Joel felt his heart rate speed up and his breathing become slightly tighter, and so did his best to relax, to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth the way Mark had taught him – to calm down, just in this moment – and the fresh, fresh air, bitingly cold, hit his face and he shut his eyes and stood still for a moment until he had a hold on himself.

  The noise of the wind was absolutely unbelievable as he looked out over the headland. You couldn’t see the lights of shore, or even the passing ships or distant oil rigs: the blizzard was up at full pelt, and it was like a living, moving thing, a swirl of a coat on the wind, a great, terrible giant striding over the world. Joel blinked, then turned around, suddenly frightened of the wildness of the strange place he was in, and then relieved beyond measure to see the lights of the Rock below, and stumbled down, his thoughts only on his frozen fingers.

  Flora wasn’t there. Some nights she let herself in; exhausted always from her early starts, he’d generally find her (unbeknown to him) having done her absolute best to arrange herself prettily (hair done, make-up on, wearing a pretty nightgown ordered from the mainland) to welcome him home cheerfully, instead nose-down diagonally across the bed, snoring gently, with TOWIE blaring on the TV.

  It was a huge and entirely comfortable bed, and Joel never minded; in fact he was always delighted and jolted to see her there, so at ease, and he would crawl in and wake her up and . . .

  Well. Anyway. She wasn’t there. Which was good. Except it wasn’t, because he needed to see her . . . No. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

  He shrugged out of his wet clothes and took a shower. He should go over, but then they’d all be in the farmhouse, all those boys who looked at him like he was an alien creature. He knew Flora’s brothers meant well, but their aggressively boyish teasing and farming ways reminded him a little too closely of some of the rural placements he’d had, and he knew he wouldn’t truly fit in in a million years.

  Flora seemed completely oblivious to this; she adored and argued with her brothers in equal measure. She seemed to have so much love, he thought, spilling out of her towards anyone she came across – baking it into bread, weaving it into the daily warp and weft of the life around her, where she knew everyone and everyone knew her, and despite people’s foibles and follies, you were accepted because you were at home.

  And he had so little. As if love were a tiny little pot, with the top screwed on, never to be opened or wasted, not a drop.

  He switched off his phone. He didn’t think he would sleep much, and he was absolutely right. What was he going to do? What were they going to do?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Flora, on the other hand, after going home to see her dad and spending the night in her childhood bed – she’d texted Joel but had got a very brief message back from him saying he had a lot of work on, which wasn’t unusual – had woken up in a good mood. She couldn’t help it – she was just sleeping so well. Joel was home and he’d been pleased to see her, despite the not wanting to live with her thing, but that was . . . Well. They’d work out the details.

  And they’d all woken to the most amazing world: the wind had dropped, the air was clear and snow blanketed the ground, reflecting the setting moon.

  It was incredible. Snow didn’t often settle on Mure; too much wind on their little rock. But here it was – Narnia outside their windows, pure and clear, the sheep snuffling around (they’d need taken in, and in fact she could see that Hamish and Innes had already taken off).

  The old flagstone tiles were freezing under her feet as she scampered to the stove, and Bramble was disinclined to go and fetch the paper, having sniffed at the snow, attempted to eat as much of it as he could find, then changed his mind and decided to flop back in front of the stove.

  But the kettle whistled merrily enough, and the boys hadn’t had a bath yet, which meant she got first shot at the hot water – a joy in itself, even when she had to make the leap from shower to bedroom. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her breasts were definitely fuller. She pushed out her stomach. It was truly amazing. To imagine. Growing in there. Her baby. Joel’s baby. She swallowed hard.

  And yet even that went out of her mind with the sheer joy of the landscape that fine morning. She crunched untrodden snow under her heavy lace-up boots, the barn dogs scuffling and playing, even as Innes whistled from yon high field. The low sun, which would barely creep above the horizon all day, nonetheless showed the promise of pink across the snow-deadened silence. Mure didn’t have a lot of cars or planes, but it had tractors and cows that wanted milking and wind and crashing waves and seagulls and great fields of waving barley. It was never quiet.

  This morning, though, it was like a world anew. The only sounds were the occasional high bird making enquiring noises and the shock of Flora’s boots when she stamped through the fresh puddled ice in the farmyard. The chickens were still roosting; too cold and dark for them even to pad out to see what was going on.

  Warmly wrapped in three jumpers and the beautiful Brora cashmere hat and scarf Joel had bought her in London, all covered in a down coat so big it was a little like getting inside a sleeping bag, Flora couldn’t help find her mood lifting as she thought of the dusted cinnamon rolls they were planning that morning, that had been proving half the night and would make the entire place and in fact most of the street smell like absolute heaven. They were a bit of a faff to make by the time you’d rolled them all out, but they absolutely made their money back because it was basically impossible to walk down the street and not want one as soon as you’d smelled them. She made a mental note to add extra hot chocolate to the menu as they’d be overwhelmed by children if the snow held: they could slide down the hill all the way to the main street and be there, ready and waiting to dive in, cheeks aglow, eyes wide.

  Would that be her baby? she thought. One day? Eyes glistening. Joel’s dark eyes or her pale ones? And where would their daddy be?

  She chided herself. They would sort it out. And here were Isla and Iona, swathed in so many scarves and hats it was hard to tell who was who, all bubbling over about the Russian sailors – who of course absolutely were not Russians or sailors and absolutely were not going to meet them down at the Harbour’s Rest to play cards which apparently you could do when you didn’t share a common language. There were almost certainly some other things you could do, thought Flora, but didn’t mention them, and laughed aloud while bringing the tea urn to boil as Isla related accidentally trying to introduce Anatoly to her Auntie Jean while they were both a) pretending he wasn’t Russian and b) rolling drunk on some wallpaper-stripping vo
dka he’d acquired from somewhere, and was topping up their Irn Brus with it while Inge-Britt played Candy Crush.

  And that is how Joel found her, after his restless night tossing and turning in the huge empty bed at the Rock – her head thrown back in laughter, her cheeks pink, her hair shimmering down her back. Truly, he thought, she had never looked lovelier. There was a . . . He wanted to curse. Didn’t they say that about pregnant women? A glow?

  He remembered their conversation about moving. Of course she wanted to move. Of course she did.

  It struck him that she could have easily demanded that he buy her a house; she knew he had money. Or that they get somewhere big and fancy. Instead she’d suggested going halfers on her best friend’s cheap, tiny (to Joel’s eyes) flat. Classic Flora. So even now, he couldn’t think of her without smiling.

  Her face turned towards him as he dinged open the door: she was both happy and – he saw now though he hadn’t noticed it before – with a hint of wariness around the wide, clear eyes.

  ‘Joel!’ she said, beaming but blinking too much at the same time. ‘The tea is just boiling. Would you like some lovely clean water delicious fresh tea or that nasty coffee you like?’

  Joel had retained a taste for burnt American coffee since his days of pulling all-nighters in law school. Flora pretended they had it in the back of the shop for lots of customers. They didn’t; Inge-Britt had been throwing out an old burnt coffee machine and Flora had persuaded her to hand it over. The only person who ever drank from it was Joel. Flora kept it on all the time.

  Joel shrugged. The two girls who worked there giggled as they always did whenever he came into the shop. He had absolutely no idea why. (In reality they thought he looked like someone from an American TV show – they’d never met many people who wore suits every day – and both fancied him madly.)

  Joel didn’t want to cause a scene. Not here, not now. Not ever in fact. He was utterly allergic to scenes, which was one reason why many of his ex-girlfriends had no idea he’d actually dumped them until after he’d done so.

  But this . . . He looked at Flora. And she looked at him. And she knew at once that he knew.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The stupid thing, Flora said, trying – and failing utterly – to turn it into a funny story for Lorna later – was that they couldn’t even go outside as it was minus two degrees and filled with people out exploring the snow. The girls were in the Seaside Kitchen. Neither she nor Joel had their cars. They couldn’t go to Flora’s. It was, in fact, very difficult to have a private conversation on an inhospitable island with a small amount of people on it, all of whom know you and are also unbelievably nosy.

  ‘Can I borrow you for a minute?’ said Joel, and they went outside. The ice crackled beneath their feet, the cold a shock on their exposed skin. The sun was thinking about coming up further, but wouldn’t for ages, so it was still half light at 8.30 in the morning. It was like being on the deck of a ship. Joel looked around, frustrated. Then he saw the ancient red telephone box. It just about still worked, but it was more there for tourists to get their pictures taken hanging out of it, and teenagers to get into mischief in, a fact that wasn’t lost on Flora as he bundled her into it. In fact, for a single wistful moment she’d rather hoped that’s what he had in mind.

  Then she saw his face. He had purple shadows under his eyes which she knew to take for a warning sign. She checked to see about spotting those with Mark. He’d told her: make sure he doesn’t lose any weight. Don’t let him spend too much time on his phone. Keep him at home.

  He pulled her gaze back up.

  ‘Have you got something to tell me?’ he said simply.

  Flora felt like she’d been punched in the gut. She swallowed hard. This much anxiety couldn’t possibly be good for the baby.

  ‘Do we have to do this here?’ she said. The phone box did not smell brilliant, to be honest. It still had the phone book chained in, though it had to be fifteen years old. Her mother would still be listed, Flora found herself thinking wildly.

  ‘We have to do it now,’ he said, his face tight.

  Flora looked up at him, blinking back the tears.

  ‘Joel . . .’

  She couldn’t figure it out. Lorna wouldn’t have told him, would she? Surely not – she wouldn’t have seen him. So would Saif let something slip? But Saif was so careful, so professional. She trusted him absolutely.

  ‘How did you . . . ?’

  ‘Coltan told me.’

  Flora shut her eyes. Of course. Exactly what Fintan had been saying. Since Tripp was here, Colton had bucked up; had become more alert.

  And of course this was the result.

  ‘I thought . . . I thought he wouldn’t . . . it was when he wasn’t really talking . . .’

  ‘So that makes it better?’

  Flora realised how angry he was, how tightly he was trying to control himself. She no longer felt the cold in the small space.

  ‘I was trying . . . I was trying to find the right time. Joel, I knew . . . I knew you’d react like this. I was just trying—’

  ‘React like what?’ he said immediately, and Flora knew she’d said exactly the wrong thing.

  ‘Well . . .’ she started timidly.

  ‘I’m reacting,’ he said, ‘to the fact that you didn’t tell me about the single most important thing that might ever affect my life. That in fact you told other people before me. I have absolutely no idea how you thought I might react, but I can assure you, being left in the dark about something like this would probably elicit a pretty strong reaction in almost anyone. How long have you known?’

  Flora hung her head.

  ‘Six weeks.’

  Joel was completely speechless.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘How far gone are you?’

  Flora’s voice was quiet, steam coming out in the freezing cold.

  ‘Ten weeks, eleven maybe?’

  Joel blinked.

  ‘Were you ever going to tell me?’

  Flora gulped.

  ‘I . . . I tried to talk about maybe moving in, but you didn’t even want that. I mean, I thought that was a start . . .’

  Joel was silent. He was thinking as fast as he could. Flora took it as hostility, as rejection, and she felt herself go red.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ she said, suddenly flaring up. ‘I didn’t mean to get pregnant. I wasn’t trying to trap you or whatever the hell you think.’

  ‘A baby,’ he said, almost not hearing Flora at all. Neither of them was listening to the other.

  The glass of the phone booth was becoming steamed up.

  ‘I mean, YOU should have been more careful too,’ yelled Flora.

  There was a silence.

  ‘Should I?’ said Joel, still feeling oddly, terribly detached from the situation.

  Flora stared at him in disbelief, then suddenly choked up with a vast, tearing sob, and before he could stop her, she pushed open the door and charged out of the phone box.

  She ignored the early dog walkers and the incoming fisherman, and as she moved, Joel saw the tiniest hint of a belly under her layers and wondered to himself how he could have been such a blind idiot. He wanted to run after her but something stopped him – the idea of her being so furious at him. What had he done? What could he do?

  Joel didn’t register how upset he was. Emotions churning, almost without realising it, he picked up the receiver of the phone, and dashed it, hard, repeatedly against the metal call box, and when he looked up, she had completely vanished.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Flora stumbled away, blinded by tears that thank goodness could be hidden by the sting of the sleet on her face and the scraping cold. She rubbed her eyes, then opened them again, staring out to sea. The clearness of the sky in front of her – in contrast with the weather over the island behind her – meant you could now see tiny dots on the horizon that she knew were massive container ships of one or two hundred metres long, vast football fields full of Maersk crates. />
  It struck her as she stood on the harbour wall: how many women had also stood here, a baby in their belly, waiting for news, waiting to hear if their men would come home from sailing the seas? She was the cliché now, she realised, watching the waves pound the walls as the tide would come in and the tide would go out and nothing on the island would change very much. The seasons came and went, the lambing started, the cows were milked and babies were born – you made the right choice or the wrong one. That was just life.

  But her life . . . her life was going to be different. She’d wanted everything, she supposed. And one mistake was going to ruin everything.

  ‘COO-EEEE! Is that you?! I thought that was you!’

  Flora didn’t hear the voice at first, then when she did, she thought for a single excited moment that it was Joel’s but of course it couldn’t be. She went on ignoring it just for another second more, shrinking into the biting cold, in the hopes that she could escape – but that was one thing about Mure. Not a lot of escaping went on. For the first time since she’d returned two years ago, she missed the endless, overwhelming anonymity of London’s overcrowded streets.

  ‘FLORA! How are you?’

  Flora blinked. It was Jan, Charlie’s wife. She was wearing the largest, most neon yellow all-encompassing parka Flora had ever seen. It made her look like a lifeboat.

  ‘Um, hi, Jan, how are things?’

  As usual, Charlie was right behind her, smiling shyly.

  ‘We were just coming to get some cake to celebrate!’

  ‘Um . . . well, follow me,’ said Flora, suddenly conscious of how freezing she was. Also maybe Iona or Isla could serve them so she could vanish into the kitchen and try and keep her tears out of the fruit cake.