One Night on the Island(89)

‘And to you,’ I say, swallowing back tears out of nowhere because she’s my kindred spirit and coolest friend, the reason I was brave enough to stay.

She taps the Claddagh ring on my right hand. ‘It’s good to see Aunt Bernadette’s ring get a fresh airing,’ she says. ‘She was the island’s original wild child, pure crazy she was. I used to nag my ma something rotten to be more like her when I was a kid, more adventurous.’ She laughs softly. ‘I stuck her postcards from exotic places around the rim of my bedroom mirror, determined to follow in her footsteps as soon as I was old enough to escape this place.’ She glances across the bar towards Barney and her sleeping son. ‘I guess I’ve finally grown up and realized what really matters.’

‘You should tell your mum that,’ I say, knowing Dolores would love to hear it.

Delta barks out a sharp laugh. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Those words will never pass my lips to my mother’s ears!’

I hide my smile in my glass. Delta has her aunt’s thirst for adventure, Raff’s loyal streak and a good dose of her mother’s iron will. I look across the bar as the baby starts to cry and wonder what kind of child he’ll grow into, if he’ll give his mum much trouble as he gets older. Probably, if he’s half as spirited as Delta.

The door opens and Brianne comes in, a flurry of fur and sheepskin boots, followed by Cameron, who has to duck his head under the door frame. She makes a beeline for me as soon as she’s hung up her coat.

‘I’ve something for you,’ she says, quiet so no one overhears. ‘A package.’ She leans in so close she’s practically kissing my ear. ‘From America.’

She slips it from her pocket into my hands as if it’s class-A drugs. It’s about the size of a chunky letter, an inch or two deep. Okay. I only know one person in America.

‘Thanks,’ I say, my eyes lingering on it, wondering what’s inside. Mack and I haven’t been in touch since before Christmas. I sat for a while on Wailing Hill on Christmas Eve in case he was lonely and sent me a message, but nothing. I wonder if he sat alone and waited to see if I would make contact too, or if he’s making a good fist of putting us behind him. Maybe he felt obliged to send me something because I sent the scarf. I hope not. I’m glad Brianne had the sensitivity to go low key, I know Delta would be gagging to know what’s inside. I am too, in all honesty. I have another Old Cuban and a hold of the baby, but all the time my hand keeps sliding back to touch the package I’ve shoved into my bag. Did he take something of mine back to Boston by mistake? I haven’t missed anything, except for the sliver of my heart. I have a little rum-induced laugh to myself at the idea of opening the gift to find a pulsing piece of flesh inside it.

‘God, these cocktails are strong,’ I say, finishing my second.

Delta sighs into her cup of tea. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘At least you won’t have a headache in the morning.’

‘Yes I will, from lack of sleep. And sore boobs and a butchered lady garden.’

I hug her, patting her back. ‘You wouldn’t have it any other way.’

She rolls her eyes because I’m right. She might be battling the physical effects of being a new mum but she’s head-over-heels in love with the Elvis-haired child.

‘Time for me to go home,’ I say. ‘I need to get back over the hill before dark.’

She squeezes me hard. ‘Happy New Year, Clee,’ she says. ‘I’m so glad you stayed.’

‘Thank God I can knit,’ I say. ‘Your mother wouldn’t have let me otherwise.’

‘Don’t big yourself up too much there now,’ she says. ‘I saw that scarf, remember.’

We laugh, and I kiss and Happy-New-Year-hug my way slowly out of the busy pub, shrugging into my coat, meeting Brianne’s eyes last. She gives me the briefest of nods, her job done.

‘Hello, beautiful lodge,’ I say, pleased to see the glow of the fire still alive in the hearth. I’ve a Christmas tree too; Ailsa and Julia lugged it over the hill as a surprise a couple of days before Christmas, along with a box they’d put on the bar in the Salvation Arms for people to donate a decoration or so. I cried, of course. Being decent human beings seems to come easy to these islanders. Dolores sent a spare string of lights and Carmen wrapped a vintage silver star in newspaper to go on the top.

I haven’t missed London at all. The idea of rammed shopping streets and packed bars does nothing for me these days. I missed seeing my folks over Christmas, my mum especially, but on the whole it’s cathartic spending my days and nights alone here.

I make coffee, standing at the kitchen sink to watch the beach as I wait for the kettle to boil. I add a slosh of New Year’s Eve whiskey to my coffee and take it to the sofa with my squares blanket and the brown paper package from America.

I haven’t moved a muscle for the last hour. My coffee has gone cold and my face is damp with tears. Mack has sent me an album of our time together, an intimate record of us. The table set for breakfast for two, a jar of wild flowers beside the milk jug. Empty whiskey glasses on the coffee table by the dwindling fire. Our boots lined up beside the door. The infamous chalk line, his holdall on one side, my suitcase on the other. The roofline of the porch picked out by borrowed vintage rainbow bulbs on my birthday. My white dress hung ready to wear. And me. Image after image of me, some of them too personal to ever show anyone else. On the porch steps with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, coffee cradled between my hands. A black-and-white shot sitting up naked in bed, the sheet around my hips. I don’t think of myself as beautiful, but he’s made me beautiful in these photos. I linger over them all, taking the time to remember the circumstance of each one, the things we said to each other. He turned his lens on me so often I grew used to it, unselfconscious. I knew, probably, that I’d get to see the pictures one day, that I’d look back and remember him, remember us. It’s the most precious gift anyone has ever given me.