One Night on the Island(41)



‘I’d like that,’ I say. I warm to Julia straight away, just as I did to Ailsa. She has a splatter of pale-green paint in her dark hair and traces of different colours on her hands, as if she just put down her brushes and wandered over to the pub for food. I like that kind of casual.

‘Watch her, she’ll have you on her home-made wine,’ Ailsa warns.

‘Hell, I’d like that too,’ I grin.

‘You won’t,’ Raff says. ‘It’s like boiled goat’s piss.’

Julia doesn’t look particularly offended. ‘It all goes down the same way, eh?’

‘Careful, Mack. I only had her stuff once. I couldn’t feel my legs for two days afterwards.’ Delta leans in from the far end of the table, a feat given the size of her bump. ‘And I was only sixteen or so, I don’t know what they were thinking giving that kind of rocket fuel to a kid.’

‘You helped yourself, as I recall. My niece was the most badly behaved teenager this island has ever seen,’ Raff says to me, nodding towards Delta. ‘Julia’s moonshine was the least of your stunts, child. You ran poor Dolores ragged.’

The look on his face tells me that he didn’t actually feel the slightest bit sorry for his sister, and the laughter in Delta’s eye suggests that she and Raff are probably even more trouble together than apart. I’ve only met Dolores in passing, but Cleo tells me she’s a tough nut to crack. I’m reserving judgement. I know from experience that there needs to be a few straight men around, the designated driver, the safe pair of hands. It’s not always a choice to be cast in that role. It’s much easier to be the one who skips through life responsibility free, right? My father strolls into my head and I wilfully shove him to the back because he’s getting way too much airtime lately.

‘Do you do headshots, Mack?’ Raff taps my camera, rakish. ‘I need some new ones for my agent.’

‘You’re an actor?’

He frowns and lays a hand on his heart, suddenly serious. ‘You don’t recognize me?’

Everyone falls silent for a second and stares at me, and darts of panic shoot behind my ribs. I don’t want to offend these people just when I was starting to feel accepted.

‘I …’

And then they burst out laughing, and I realize the joke is on me. ‘You had me there for a minute,’ I say, shaking my head.

An old guy a couple of stools away eyes my plate. ‘You want that Yorkshire, lad?’

I look at it too. I do kind of want it. ‘I tried them for the first time last week,’ I say. ‘Cleo made some.’ The one on my plate doesn’t look anywhere near as good, so I nod for my neighbour to help himself.

‘Where is she?’ Delta asks. ‘She needs to wriggle her bum up here, I told her so.’

‘Back at the lodge, I think,’ I say, aiming for nonchalance. ‘We do our own thing.’

I don’t miss the way people flick glances at each other and not at me.

‘Pretty lass,’ Julia says.

‘Great hair.’ Delta slides me a look. ‘Bit Princess Leia.’

I frown a little, confused by the comparison.

My empty plate is whisked away and my empty glass replaced with a fresh pint even though I haven’t ordered one. Guinness is the island lifeblood. I tried to order a bottle of beer my first time in here, and Raff ignored my request and slid a pint of the black stuff across the bar at me. ‘It’s Guinness, Guinness or Guinness in here, fella,’ he’d said, and a quick glance around the other drinkers proved his point.

‘Delta!’ The girl behind the bar laughs and swishes her hands around like she’s holding a sword. ‘Don’t.’

I have the feeling I’m missing an inside joke.

‘The girls are wondering if you’ve been using the force over at Otter Lodge.’ Raff attempts to enlighten me, but it’s too cryptic. ‘Waving your lightsaber around, perhaps?’

‘Pay these eejits no heed,’ Ailsa jumps in. ‘Pick up that camera and take some photographs now, why don’t you? I expect you’re itching to catch this crazed bunch on film.’

Thankfully, the conversation soon moves on from what may or may not be happening at Otter Lodge, and I quietly fire off my camera, attempting to capture the warmth of community: Raff laughing with abandon, his head thrown back; Delta with a protective arm curved around her baby; Ailsa leaning in close to laugh at something Julia said, the blue tips of her hair brushing her wife’s cheek. These people are the descendants of my people, our history is entwined. I feel a sense of belonging, invisible roots snaking around my ankles. It’s kind of cool, but strange too, because I know where my place is – in Boston, with my family. I don’t see how you can truly belong to more than one place.

The journey back to the lodge is windy, my face battered by the cold even when I dip my head against it. I don’t usually struggle with the hill but, man, it’s tough going this time. I think back over the afternoon of Guinness and good company – or good craic, as they say here. They’re solid people, tight-knit, a real family. I’ve taken some images I’m pleased with today, I’m excited to get them on my laptop for a proper look. I can feel the foundations of something special taking shape here – every time I upload my daily shots I feel flickers of anticipation. They’re good. Better than good. I’m practised enough by now to know when a project is going well. The inhospitable land has somehow opened its arms to me and its strong people make fascinating subjects. I’ve honed my craft well over the years and it feels as if it has all been leading up to this time, this island, the professional highlight of my life. It’s a source of huge sadness that my home life needed to fall apart in order to send me here. Light and shade, as always in my life, personal and professional. I’m about to push on when my cell vibrates in my pocket; the wonders of Wailing Hill reception trump the weather again. I reach for it, focusing my eyes on the bright screen in the darkness. My stomach lurches when I see the name on the screen. Susie. My fingers fumble for the message. Susie never messages me. We agreed not to, unless it was urgent. My heart hammering, I tap to read the message.

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