Now she could hear a tap dripping in a distant sink. She frowned, realizing 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 seagrass. No cars, no neighbors, 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 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 elementary 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’s 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 toward the harbor, 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 gray, 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 sweater 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 Harbor’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 gray 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.